Captain of Rome

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Even from his vantage point on the aft-deck of the Alissar, Hamilcar could see that something was wrong. The patrol galley was returning early, an hour after dawn instead of noon, and she was making at least seven knots, battle speed.

‘All hands, prepare to get underway!’ Hamilcar shouted, his order repeated to the galleys surrounding the Alissar in the middle harbour of Tyndaris. The drum beat of standard speed shattered the early morning calm, its repetition across the fleet creating a staccato beat that blended to somehow signify the urgency created by Hamilcar’s unexpected command.

Hamilcar steered the Alissar to intercept the incoming galley, his heart racing as his mind flashed to the possible explanations for the patrol’s early arrival. Belus was now two days overdue, a thought that was never far from Hamilcar’s mind. A storm had rolled over Tyndaris two days before, bringing heavy rain and a strong on-shore wind. In the confines of the harbour the wind had merely unfurled the banners and set them racing. Out at sea that same wind could have caused Belus to sail close to shore, lengthening his journey considerably although Hamilcar was forced to admit that even so, his old friend should have returned some twenty-four hours before.

The patrol galley slowed to steerage speed as she came upon the Alissar, the quinquereme mirroring her speed to allow the two galleys to pass alongside each other. Hamilcar moved to the side-rail, his eyes ranging over the approaching deck, searching for the captain. He spotted him instantly on the aft-deck, the captain’s agitation palpable even at a distance of fifty yards. The final gap was closed within a minute and Hamilcar watched with dread creeping through his stomach as the captain finally caught sight of his commander and ran the length of his galley to stand opposite Hamilcar across a distance of ten yards.

‘Enemy ships approaching!’ the captain shouted, pointing over his shoulder to the open sea beyond the mouth of the harbour and a sudden anger rose in Hamilcar as he sensed the captain’s naked fear.

‘How many?’ Hamilcar roared, his anger now mixed with a deeper fury that his plan, so close to fruition was in danger of exposure.

‘Near twenty!’ the captain shouted. ‘At least half of them quinqueremes.’

‘By Anath…’ Hamilcar whispered. He glanced at the galleys flanking his own, thirteen of them in total and all of them triremes except his own. They were completely outmatched.

‘Battle speed!’ Hamilcar suddenly roared, his crew, shocked by the news that all had heard, taking valuable seconds to respond.

Hamilcar drew his sword, the distinctive sound shattering the trance that seized the men around him and they ran to their stations, the order repeated to the slave deck, the Alissar again coming to life but this time with a fierceness in her pace that drove her ram deep under the swell with every oar-stroke. The Romans were not yet within sight but Hamilcar could see them in his mind’s eye, could see their approaching hulls, their decks crowded with armoured marines. It was a sight that struck determination into this heart, a sight that tensed his sword arm in anticipation of the fight to come.

‘Battle formation!’ he roared and this time his order was repeated without hesitation, the spirit of their commander infusing every man on board the Alissar with a battle hunger that could only be sated with Roman blood.

‘Enemy galleys ahead!’

Varro looked along the length of the Victoria and beyond to the mouth of Tyndaris where a Carthaginian fleet was emerging at battle speed. He tempered his elation at the confirmation of Albinus’s report, keeping his expression hard and neutral.

‘It seems your Roman Captain was right, Varro,’ Regulus remarked beside him and Varro turned and nodded a simple affirmation, remaining silent, savouring the unspoken approbation.

‘Order the Captain to increase to battle speed,’ Regulus commanded and Varro nodded again, this time walking away from the consul to the captain stationed at the tiller.

‘Thirteen galleys!’ the masthead lookout shouted. ‘A quinquereme in the van, the rest look to be triremes.’

Varro took in this information as he passed the consul’s order to the captain. If this was the sum total of the Carthaginian defence then the Roman fleet had a considerable advantage. He walked back to where Regulus was standing and stood once more at his shoulder, a privileged position that had been afforded to Varro ahead of the tribunes of Regulus’s staff. With this confirmation that the enemy did indeed control Tyndaris, it was a position Varro was determined would remain his.

He felt his confidence rise with a sense that victory was there for the taking and he smiled at how inexperienced he had once been, how the Carthaginians and the men who were supposed to be under his command had tricked him at Thermae. In the battle ahead Varro would ensure that Carthaginian slur was reversed. His courage was bolstered by the formation spread out behind the Victoria. The Roman ships were larger. They outnumbered the enemy nearly two to one. There was no trap this time, no hidden forces to overwhelm the Roman fleet and in leading the consul to Tyndaris, Varro had ensured his name would be associated with the victory.

The Aquila was positioned on the starboard flank, her speed a shade over her normal battle speed in an effort to keep pace with the larger quinqueremes in the centre of the Roman line of attack. Atticus kept his gaze locked on the approaching enemy, now less than a mile away, a lone quinquereme holding the centre line with six triremes flanking her on each side, a desperate sight given the superiority of the Roman forces. Atticus sensed the deck shift slightly beneath him but he kept his eyes on the enemy, trusting any changes Gaius might make to the Aquila’s course to keep her in formation.

‘Any chance you’ll stay on the aft-deck this time?’ Atticus heard and he turned to see Septimus standing behind him.

He gave the centurion a quizzical look, not understanding the insinuation.

‘That wound,’ Septimus said, a half-smile on his face but an underlying seriousness in his voice as he pointed to Atticus’s chest. ‘I don’t want you spilling more blood on an enemy deck.’

Atticus smiled, perplexed at Septimus’s request that sounded very much like an order. He was tempted to point out why, on the last occasion, he had been on the enemy’s deck in the first place. ‘I doubt you’ll get a chance this time either,’ he replied, nodding to the centre of the Roman line. ‘Those quins will see all of the action.’

Septimus followed Atticus’s gaze and then looked across to the approaching enemy.

‘Unless one or two of them attempt to break out?’ he ventured.

‘Any trireme will be easily run down by one of our quinqueremes,’ Atticus said, but the prospect did leave him with a lingering thought and he turned to discuss the point with Gaius. If a trireme did attempt to break out, he wanted the Aquila to be ready.

‘Attack speed!’ Hamilcar roared and his voice carried clearly to the two triremes immediately flanking his own ship. They increased speed immediately and the order was carried down the line with an alacrity born of experience and age old naval discipline.

The enemy ships were less than four hundred yards away and Hamilcar’s professional eye began to take in every detail. The quinqueremes were almost identical to the Alissar, no doubt copies of the Melqart that was seized at Mylae although with one glaring difference, a hideous deformity that marred the foredeck of each, the cursed boarding ramp behind which unseen ranks of Roman legionaries lay in wait.

The sight sobered Hamilcar and he realised that his order to sail headlong into battle was rooted in frustration. The fleet was near full strength in Carthage and he had planned to order it to Tyndaris in less than a week, to firmly establish the supply depot and base of operations his invasion plan so vitally needed, and await the infantry who were currently fighting their way east, a force he would be free to release to the invasion once Hiero switched his allegiance to secure Hamilcar’s flank.

Now the Romans were poised to expose and destroy his preparations at Tyndaris and thwart his plan at the moment of its fruition. The thought enraged him once more and for a second he was filled with the same abandonment that roared at him to ram his galley down the very throats of the enemy and be damned, to drench his sword in Roman blood as he had at Thermae and die honourably in defence of his city. Again his mind cleared, this time at the thought of Carthage. If he was to fall this day then his city would be at the mercy of Hanno, a man who would abandon two hundred years of settlement on Sicily without hesitation.

There was still time. He could disperse his ships and flee from the Romans. They would give chase but with thirteen targets sailing in different directions the confusion would allow at least half to escape. If battle was joined then all would be lost, including the Alissar. As proximity increased the sound of Roman war cries, Hamilcar realised what he had to do; realised he had to commit a dishonourable act that only an honourable commander could undertake.

Hamilcar took his gaze off the approaching enemy and turned his back on them, walking slowly to the helmsman.

‘Order the triremes on the port and starboard to tighten in against the Alissar,’ he ordered and the signal was immediately relayed, the galleys minutely adjusting their course to bring them as close as possible to the quinquereme. Hamilcar nodded as the manoeuvre was completed. The captains on the triremes would no doubt be perplexed by his order, a risky manoeuvre at attack speed but they had followed it nonetheless, their loyalty unquestioning. It made his choice all the more difficult to endure and although he had made the decision he knew to be right, Hamilcar couldn’t stop the foul bile of ignominy rising in his throat.

Varro roared with the rest of the crew as the Victoria accelerated to attack speed. She was a behemoth in comparison to a trireme and Varro felt invincible, standing on the same deck as the senior consul of Rome, a hundred marines formed in tight ranks behind the corvus, the beat of the rower’s drum pounding out sixty beats a minute. The enemy galleys were a hundred yards away, their own decks packed with warriors, a host of spear tips and shields, impossible to count.

To the left and right the other quinqueremes were keeping pace, their hulls dipping and rising with each oar stroke, their blunt-nosed rams crashing through the white horses, creating a fine mist of spray that fell across the entire deck. On the extreme flanks Varro could see the triremes were falling behind, unable to match the gruelling pace set by the larger galleys, powered by the might of two hundred and seventy rowers.

Varro looked ahead once more. Eighty yards. He could see individual Carthaginian faces, many contorted in defiance, screaming challenges that were caught and whipped away by the wind. Fifty yards. A flight of arrows shot across from the Carthaginian galleys. Cries of pain and anger split the air. A centurion roared in command and a swarm of spears flew forth from the main deck, striking the Carthaginian force, a hail of carnage on the packed deck. Thirty yards. Varro braced his legs against the blow to come, his hand tightly gripping the hilt of his sword, the power of Rome surrounding him.

‘Now!’ Hamilcar roared. ‘All stop! Come full about!’

The Alissar immediately broke ranks; her speed cut away until her bow was clear of speeding galleys on either side and the helmsman threw the tiller hard over, the Alissar turning away from the line of attack as the order was given for battle speed.

Hamilcar kept his eyes firmly on the enemy line, less than thirty yards away, visible through the narrow gap the Alissar had left in the line, a gap that no quinquereme could thread at attack speed without striking the oars of the triremes that had flanked the Alissar, a clash that would foil their own and break their speed.

Seconds later the air was filled with the crack of tortured timber and shattered wood as the two forces collided, the cacophony followed a heartbeat later by the lesser sound of a dozen Roman boarding ramps plunging down, a death grip for every Carthaginian trireme. War cries of anger and hate swept over the Alissar as she came full about, the din of battle now firmly in her wake and Hamilcar turned his back to stare straight ahead into an empty sea. An order rose to his lips, a command to turn once more into the fight, his warrior instincts roaring at him to join his doomed countrymen in the forlorn battle. He swallowed the words, the taste of them foul in his throat. He had sacrificed a dozen ships to make his escape, not to save his life but to save the life of Carthage; to save her fate from lesser men. As a commander the order was his only choice. As a warrior, the order desecrated his very soul.

‘Three points to port!’ Atticus shouted. ‘Swing around their flank!’

Gaius responded immediately, the Aquila maintaining her attack speed even as the other triremes on the right flank slowed their speed and held station, the battle joined in the centre was an obvious mismatch that would soon be over.

Atticus’s gaze was dragged to the melee that was the collided lines but as the Aquila reached, then rounded the southern tip of the line the open waters revealed a sight that caught the attention of all on board.

‘Enemy galley on easterly course!’ Corin shouted.

‘The quinquereme,’ Atticus muttered, the galley plainly visible a half a mile away.

Septimus approached him on the aft-deck. ‘What do you make of her?’ he asked.

‘The command ship, no doubt about it, centre of the line, the only quinquereme.’ ‘So why is she running?’ the centurion asked.

Atticus was silent for a moment, then he suddenly turned to Septimus. ‘We have to catch her,’ he said and he turned to the helmsman. ‘Gaius. Intercept course. Lucius!’

The second-in-command ran across the aft-deck.

‘Orders to below. Maintain attack speed. Bring up the reserve rowers.’

Lucius nodded and was away.

‘You want to attack a quinquereme?’ Septimus asked sceptically.

‘Why is she running?’ Atticus asked, his eyes darting from Septimus to the enemy galley dead ahead and then to the line of the Aquila’s course. ‘One point to starboard!’ he shouted. He turned back to Septimus.

‘Because she faces certain defeat,’ the centurion answered.

‘Then why commit to battle in the first place?’ Atticus asked.

Septimus thought a moment. The Carthaginian’s actions were bizarre. The quinquereme could have turned anytime before now, in fact the whole Carthaginian line could have turned and yet the quinquereme had led them into battle only to flee when every other Punic galley was committed.

‘A coward?’ Septimus ventured without conviction.

Atticus eyebrows raised in question. ‘Have you known many Carthaginian cowards?’

Septimus shook his head slowly. Then it struck him; ‘By the Gods, Atticus, whoever is commanding that galley has sacrificed the other ships to make his escape.’

Atticus nodded, ‘Which means it’s someone important.’

Septimus looked to the quinquereme once more. She was less than four hundred yards away and a half-mile from the line of battle, with no sign of any other pursuit.

‘With only thirty men fit for duty, the best we can do is take the aft-deck and hold it until reinforcements arrive. There’s no way we can push the fight to the entire ship.’

Atticus nodded again. He had surmised as much.

‘Then we’ll attack over the stern rail,’ he said, knowing the odds of stopping the quinquereme to be near naught. ‘Maybe we’ll get lucky and take out her rudder,’ he added, knowing only Fortuna could grant him that.

The Carthaginian galley was now less than three hundred yards ahead, the Aquila coming up on her starboard stern quarter, a course that would put her in the quinquereme’s wake within minutes. Atticus looked to the battle once more. None of the Roman quinqueremes had broken through yet. The Aquila was alone.

‘Roman galley still on an intercept course!’

Hamilcar turned and looked out over the stern rail for the fourth time. The enemy trireme was now directly in the Alissar’s wake two hundred yards behind.

‘Shall I increase speed?’ Hamilcar turned to find the captain standing beside him.

‘No,’ he replied. ‘Maintain battle speed. Order the archers to the aft-deck and have fifty men brought aft.’

The captain saluted and left Hamilcar to look out once more at the Roman galley. He was sorely tempted to increase his pace but the rowers would only be able to maintain attack speed for fifteen minutes. After that they would be spent and the Alissar would be dead in the water and with the battle line only a mile behind, there was still time for a Roman quinquereme to emerge and give chase, a far more deadly foe than a mere trireme. Her ram would be useless against the Alissar, not only because she was a heavier built galley but also because the Alissar was travelling at eight knots away from the line of attack which meant the ram would strike her with a momentum of no more than five or six knots, not even enough to scratch her back. The only vulnerable point on the stern, and Hamilcar’s only concern, was the rudder, but again, with an open seascape before him the Alissar could run a straight course without the rudder long enough to take her out of danger.

Hamilcar nodded to himself. The odds favoured maintaining battle speed and allowing the Roman to approach. But then, Hamilcar vowed, he would unleash fury on the impertinent trireme and release some measure of the battle lust that he and his crew had been forced to contain.

‘Fifty yards,’ Corin yelled.

‘Shields up,’ Septimus ordered at the call. ‘Prepare for incoming.’

Moments later the first arrows struck home, many on a flat trajectory that plunged the arrows deeply into the weathered timbers of the Aquila, others lofted high to fall like deadly rain on the upturned shields of Septimus’s thirty men formed up behind the corvus. Sporadic cries of pain rang out as exposed flesh was pierced by the murderous assault, Septimus registering the fall of one of his men behind him as he grimly stared ahead through a gap in the shield wall, measuring the distance between the converging galleys, now forty yards, now thirty.

‘Pila!’ he shouted and the legionaries emerged as one from under their defensive cover, their eight foot long spears held at the ready. The onslaught of Carthaginian arrows intensified, striking down another legionary, then another, their exposed ranks easy prey for the fury of Apollo. Septimus held firm, suppressing the urge to let fly and throw up his shield, his eyes judging the pitch and roll of the Aquila’s deck, waiting for the perfect moment.

‘Loose!’ he roared and the legionaries roared with savage revenge as they unleashed their spears. The pila seemed to hang in the air for a heartbeat, suspended over the water immediately behind the Carthaginian aft-deck before crashing down into the massed ranks of the Punici. Cries of pain and death washed over the foredeck of the Aquila as the spears wrought a brutal carnage, the iron shanks tearing through leather, finding the gaps between shields to impale and maim, the force of the deadly fall nailing men to the timber deck.

Atticus watched and heard the opening blows with a dispassionate stare, his mind totally focused on the aft-deck of the Punic galley, his raised hand making barely discernable gestures that triggered Gaius’s hand on the tiller. All around him and on the main deck the crew of the Aquila continued to work stoically amidst the random fall of arrows, the hand of Pluto ranging over the galley to strike down the ill-fated, each casualty eliciting a shouted order from Lucius for the man to be taken below.

‘Ten yards,’ Gaius said aloud, cursing the corvus anew for robbing him of a true line of sight to the enemy rudder. ‘We have her.’

Atticus nodded but kept his silence, uneasy about the bitter fight that faced Septimus and his men. Minutes before, a hundred yards out, Atticus had felt that the Carthaginian might yet run but he had dismissed the idea almost before it was fully formed, trusting his earlier deduction that the Carthaginians would try and stave off the smaller ship rather than run. That meant a desperate fight awaited Septimus, a fight that would only be relieved when reinforcements arrived.

‘Steady, Gaius,’ Atticus said almost to himself, the words allowing him to refocus his thoughts on the attack, the line of the Aquila’s ram and the enemy’s rudder. ‘Steady.’

‘Now!’ Hamilcar roared and the deck almost reared beneath him as the helmsman threw the tiller hard over a heartbeat before the Roman galley struck the stern of the Alissar, a manoeuvre that threw the rudder out of the path of the blunt-nosed ram. Hamilcar felt the strike of the ram against the hull through his feet but he smiled savagely, knowing the blow had done little damage and he screamed a war cry in defiance, a shout that was taken up by his men ranged across the aft-deck, a defensive line against the storm to come.

A flurry of grappling hooks flew across the narrow gap between the galleys, the men in the front line ignoring them, their eyes instead locked on the sight of the massive Roman boarding ramp that towered over the foredeck of the smaller enemy galley. A Roman command was heard above the roar of battle and a moment later the ramp began to fall, slowly at first as if a mighty hand was staying its course but then accelerating suddenly, the weight of its thirty-six foot length an unstoppable force and the front line waivered as the threefoot-long spike stabbed down into the deck.

Hamilcar screamed the order to advance even as he watched a massive centurion charge up the slope of the ramp, the unequal heights of the two galleys doing little to slow the momentum of the Roman legionaries. The Carthaginians surged to the ramp and the two forces collided at the head, the centurion and then many more legionaries punching into the Carthaginian line with their massive shields to create a bridgehead on the Punic aft-deck. Hamilcar remained still, his crew rushing past him as he stood immobile, his steady gaze absorbing the Roman attack, the simple brilliance of the ramp and the savage courage of the legionaries. He stepped back, briefly looking over his shoulder, searching for the captain, finding him instantly at the head of the aft-deck, his eyes locked on Hamilcar. The Carthaginian commander smiled again as he turned once more to the melee only yards away. The Romans had a dozen men across, now fifteen, their bridgehead expanding, the Carthaginian defence descending into a vicious futile assault against an ever-advancing Roman wall of shields. Now they were committed. Hamilcar turned. The captain was staring at him as before. Hamilcar shouted the order, knowing his voice would not be heard above the noise of battle but also knowing the captain was waiting for this one command and Hamilcar wanted to roar out the death knell for the Roman legionaries.

‘Attack speed!’

Atticus was thrown to the deck as the Aquila suddenly jerked forward, his instincts causing him to immediately look to the stern rail, expecting to see an enemy galley rammed into his own.

‘By the gods,’ he heard Gaius shout and he looked to the helmsman, the colour drained from his face as he stood transfixed. ‘She’s re-engaged her oars!’

Atticus could hardly comprehend Gaius’s words and he spun around, looking once more to the quinquereme, the fury on her aft-deck now forgotten as he stared at her oars.

The Aquila jerked forward again, this time coming up to speed as the initial inertia of the seventy-ton hull was overcome and within seconds she was accelerating even as her oars remained raised.

‘Lucius!’ Atticus roared, running forward to the main deck. ‘Attack speed now!’

From the corner of his eye he saw the second-in-command run to the slave-deck hatchway, saw him mouth the shouted command. Atticus swept aside his fears that the Aquila’s oars would not hit the water in unison. It was a tricky manoeuvre, beginning an oar-stroke while the ship was moving. One oar out of sequence and a whole section could foul, knocking the galley off course, but it had to be done. The Aquila had to get up to speed under her own power.

Atticus swept men up as he ran towards the corvus, the crew instantly drawing their swords, ready to follow their captain into the maelstrom. He fanned them out across the base of the corvus, readying them to defend the Aquila should the Carthaginians counter-attack. They roared in answer to his command, but their shout was cut short as the deck once more shuddered beneath them and for the first time Atticus heard the scream of tortured wood. He looked to the mounting pole of the corvus, almost seeing the deflection of the six-inch diameter spar as the stress of maintaining the link between the two galleys took its toll. The Aquila bucked and shuddered again and a grappling rope snapped cleanly with a loud retort, the thick hemp rope whipping back, striking the hoplon shield of one of the crew, knocking him to the deck.

‘Sweet merciful…’ Atticus muttered and he felt the icy hand of panic slide up his spine as he looked across to the legionaries. The two galleys were going to break apart, the unequal stresses too great, the different oar stroke and sequence creating unequal acceleration even if the speeds were equal. The corvus was strong enough to carry men into battle, strong enough even to hold a trireme stationary in the water, but it was never designed to hold back a galley weighing over a hundred tons and travelling at twelve knots. With a realisation that struck Atticus to the core he saw that the ramp was going to fail and when it did, any Roman left on the Carthaginian galley would be slaughtered without mercy or remorse.

‘Steady the line!’ Septimus ordered and his men responded with a roar of affirmation, a war cry mixed with the firm resolution that not one step back would be taken. Septimus leaned into his shield once more, angling his body against the press of the enemy, his sword striking out through the gap to return with fresh blood, the deck beneath his sandaled feet already running red with only his hobnails giving him purchase. The noise around him was deafening, cries of pain and anger, of death and fury unleashed, of hatred driven to near frenzy as men hacked at each other with sword and shield. To his left he could hear Drusus ordering the line to hold firm and he nodded to himself, confident that his optio would not allow the line to fail.

The Carthaginian before his shield fell and Septimus was given a brief respite as he held ready for another assault. His mind triggered a forgotten thought, a minutes-old memory of the deck moving suddenly beneath him, a sensation he had felt but had ignored in the first desperate moments of the attack. Now he sensed that movement again, as if the quinquereme was moving through the water and not firmly impaled and held fast by the Aquila. He was tempted to look to his side, to confirm his suspicion, but he held fast, his warrior’s instinct warning him to stay focused and as if in confirmation an axe hammered against his shield, knocking it back against his shoulder. Septimus’s sword arm reacted before conscious thought, striking forward as he pushed back his shield, his blade striking iron as the Carthaginian parried the blow. He reversed the strike and thrust again, keeping his shield high and in formation, continuing his attack as the line remained steady.

‘Baro,’ Atticus shouted, drawing his own sword for the first time, ‘tell Lucius I want ramming speed now!’

Another grappling line shot apart as Baro ran off.

‘You and you,’ Atticus indicated. Two crewmen stepped forward. ‘Go aft and bring up more hooks and lines! The rest of you hold firm here.’

Atticus turned and ran up the corvus, his eyes searching the backs of the Roman legionaries, immediately spotting Septimus in the centre. The ramp suddenly bucked beneath him and he fell to his knees, instinctively stretching out his free hand to break his fall. He cursed loudly and put his weight on to his hand to push himself up but he recoiled instantly, the timber planking moving beneath his palm and for a second time he felt panic. The corvus was failing fast.

Atticus took off at a run again and gained the Carthaginian aft-deck within a second. He jumped off the corvus and immediately looked down at the head of the ramp. The iron spike was still embedded in the deck, however it was now preceded by a two foot long tear, the origin of the gash marking where the corvus had first struck. Atticus spun around, looking for Septimus again. The deck was strewn with the bodies of a dozen Carthaginian slain, their open wounds still spilling blood onto the deck, their lifeless features still screaming out the final defiance and rage that had marked the end of their existence. A half-dozen red-cloaked legionaries lay amongst them; at least two of them were still alive, but their wounds were grievous.

The Roman line was ten feet beyond the head of the boarding ramp, its furthest advance after no more than four minutes of vicious fighting. The line was fifteen men across, two deep in places and Atticus saw that they could advance no further; the Carthaginians were too numerous, too tightly packed to give way under such a thin Roman line. Atticus ran to Septimus, standing at his left shoulder, clear of his sword arm that flashed back and forward at an implausible speed. Atticus waited a precious few seconds for the moment when the centurion would not be directly engaged.

‘Septimus!’ he shouted above the roar of war cries. Septimus glanced over his shoulder, his mask of determination showing a flash of surprise and then another emotion, anger, as if Atticus’s presence had defied him somehow.

‘The Carthaginian galley is breaking free! The corvus is going to fail.’ Atticus shouted and watched as his friend’s expression changed again, this time to one of dread. Septimus looked beyond Atticus to the ramp, his eyes rooted to its head, as if he expected to see it disappear at any moment. His hesitation lasted only a second longer.

‘Make ready!’ Septimus bellowed and again his men shouted in affirmation, confirming that they were awaiting his next command.

‘Fighting retreat…!’

Septimus held them steady for a heartbeat longer, vying for the perfect moment to begin the retreat, knowing that the Punici would surge forward at the first sign of weakness.

‘March!’ he shouted and the line stepped back as one, each man careful not to stumble over the men who lay dead and dying behind them.

The Carthaginians roared in attack as their enemy gave way, reclaiming their deck step by step.

Atticus ran back behind the line, stopping once more at the head of the corvus. The tear along the deck was now three feet long with only a final foot of planking remaining before the aft-rail. Two more grappling ropes had given way in the thirty seconds Atticus had been on the Carthaginian galley, but as he watched four new lines were thrown and he quickly secured each one before signalling his men to pull them tight. He looked down the length of the ramp, whispering to his Gods as he saw the corvus buckle once more under the strain and the outer planking on one side suddenly gave way, splintering violently with a tormented crack.

Septimus kept the pressure on his shield and stabbed wildly through the gap as he stepped back, shouting constantly to his men to remain steady and slow, needing to contain any semblance of panic that might cause one of the men to flee. A hand suddenly grabbed his leg and he looked down to the agonised face of one of his hastati. His other hand was clutching his groin, blood surging between his fingers with every beat of his heart. Septimus watched him mouth his name, a plea lost in the clamour of battle. There was nothing Septimus could do, no second line of legionaries who could gather the wounded in retreat, no way he could help the younger man without breaking ranks and threatening the cohesion of the line. Septimus marched on, dragging his gaze from the fallen legionary as he did, torment filling his soul as he heard the soldier’s scream for mercy. The Carthaginian front line stepped over him, swallowing him whole, his cries lost amidst the enemy horde.

A legionary fell, then another, the Carthaginians pressing home their advantage with terrifying ferocity, making the Romans pay for every inch of timber. The line contracted to form a defensive ring around the corvus, Septimus front and centre, Drusus by his side. The line was now two deep, some eighteen men strong, a bristling semi-circle of defiant steel and shield, the Carthaginians pressing in on three sides. Atticus chose two legionaries as the line compressed further, ordering them back across the corvus. They hesitated to run, to leave their comrades but Atticus shoved them on, needing to stave off a fatal bottleneck. They stepped onto the corvus and turned to descend, walking resolutely across the precarious ramp. Atticus watched them go but as he turned to select two more, the men suddenly fell from the ramp, each man struck by arrows shot from Carthaginian archers who had gained the aft-rail on the flanks. Atticus watched in horror as they fell, both soldiers striking the bow of the Aquila, one of the men screaming in agony, before they fell into the sea to be swept under the hull of the trireme.

‘Archers!’ Atticus roared across at his own crew, his fury knowing no bounds. The sailors responded instantly, letting loose on the enemy archers, drawing their fire away from the corvus.

Atticus grabbed three more legionaries, warning them quickly before sending them across, the three men descending backward, their shields raised in defence against arrow strikes. It was a slower retreat and Atticus waited impatiently before he turned once more to the fight. There were ten legionaries left, the semi-circle now crammed against Atticus shoulder. He grabbed two more men, the second turning defiantly, his sword raised in a trance-like rage, but he stayed his blow as he recognised the captain. Atticus pushed them onto the corvus, the legionaries backing down as the others had before, their shields taking strike after strike but the men protected.

Sudden whip-cracks filled the air and Atticus saw the remaining grappling lines fall, severed by Carthaginian axe blows at the aft-rail of the quinquereme. The corvus tore left and buckled, its laboured timbers now the only link between the galleys. The two legionaries immediately lost their balance, one falling quickly to the sea to be crushed by the Aquila, the other instinctively dropping his sword and shield as he grabbed onto the edge of the ramp and hung precariously over the murderous chasm between the ships. Atticus never hesitated, running unguarded down the corvus, throwing himself onto his stomach as he grabbed the forearms of the legionary. He held him there, the wound in chest driving shards of pain through his mind. He gasped as he bent up his arms, lifting the soldier to give him a chance to swing up one of his legs. An arrow stuck the planking beside him, then another and Atticus heard his own crew shout warnings as they intensified their rate of attack to protect their captain. The legionary swung up his leg onto the ramp, grunting heavily as he lifted his own weight and Atticus released him, coming to his feet again as he pushed the legionary ahead of him down the ramp.

Atticus turned as he got to the bottom, looking back up to the remaining five men standing, Septimus and Drusus still among them. The corvus was beginning to break up, the outer timbers snapping and falling away. There was no time.

‘Septimus!’ he shouted, watching as his friend’s head suddenly jerked sideways, an unconscious acknowledgement that he had heard Atticus’s warning.

Septimus screamed through the burning pain in his arm as he shot his sword forward once more, the press of the enemy never ceasing, never abating. He felt the leading edge of the corvus against the back of his foot, felt it slide across his flesh as it struggled to hold its grip. Atticus’s call rang in his ears, the urgency in his warning. Septimus struck out once more, twisting his blade savagely to release it quickly from the sucking flesh of his enemy, an enemy that had taken nearly all of his men and given nothing in return. He had to save the rest, the men who stood beside him, the men he had led on a damned attack.

‘Legionaries!’ he shouted, ‘Full retreat on my order.’

As always they shouted in affirmation, but the calls were without vehemence, the exhausted soldiers knowing the disintegrating ramp behind them was a treacherous path to deliverance.

‘Now!’ Septimus roared, and he sensed rather than saw the soldiers to his left and right turn and run down the ramp. He stepped to his right, taking the centre line at the head of the corvus, stepping up onto the ramp but never turning, willing to commit the last seconds of his life to save the lives of his men by giving them time to reach the Aquila.

A sudden void was created by the retreating Romans and a Carthaginian rushed into the gap before Septimus, his sword raised in mindless attack, the last of the Roman defenders standing firm. Septimus hammered out with his shield, parrying the untargeted blow before striking out with his own sword. The tip of the blade deflected off the Carthaginian’s armour but Septimus continued the lunge, running the sword edge across the Carthaginian’s exposed side, slicing the muscle deeply, putting the man down. Septimus recovered in an instant but was already too late to fend off the next attack to his left, his balance off-set, his shield too high. His mind registered the oncoming Carthaginian, screaming at his body to react quicker, to turn into the attack but there was no time and Septimus knew his fight was over.

The Carthaginian suddenly fell, his face twisted in agony and surprise as a blade ended his charge. Another rushed forward in his wake but a red-cloaked legionary stepped into the fight, protecting Septimus’s flank. It was Drusus.

‘Get back, man!’ Septimus shouted as more Carthaginians came forward, hammering on the shields of the two men. ‘The corvus is about to go!’

Drusus didn’t answer, but held firm beside Septimus, repelling the attack of two Carthaginians, striking out methodically with his sword, half a life’s training commanding his arm. He put his sword arm in front of Septimus’s shield and pressed him back, both men stepping up onto the corvus.

‘Drusus!’ Septimus shouted, feeling the ramp move violently beneath him, the final death throes of the corvus, ‘I’ll hold them. Get back to the Aquila!’

The optio continued to fight, ignoring his centurion; ignoring an order for the first time in his life as he held the Carthaginians off with the strength only a legionary could command. He turned to Septimus.

‘We go together,’ he shouted, his tone that of an order.

Septimus nodded in reply.

‘Run! Now!’ Drusus shouted and he lunged suddenly against the wall of attackers, his shield pushing the enemy back momentarily, throwing them off balance, creating a vital second needed to escape.

Septimus grabbed the collar of Drusus’s armour and wrenched him from the fight, pushing him down the corvus. He hesitated for a heartbeat longer and then followed, his shield dropping away, his legs pumping beneath him, his feet finding the remnants of the boarding ramp even as the air was split by the sound of snapping timber, the spar on the Aquila finally giving way at the instant the spike was torn from the quinquereme. Drusus jumped onto the foredeck as Septimus desperately threw himself forward, his gaze filled with the cutwater of the Aquila and the ram beneath, his left hand flailing, his right never letting go of his sword. The air was suddenly blown from his chest as he struck the forward rail of the Aquila, the galley’s ramming speed saving him from falling short and steady hands grasped his forearms and shoulders and hoisted him over the rail onto the deck.

He stood up uncertainly, pushing away the hands that helped him, spinning around to gaze at the escaping quinquereme, ignoring the Carthaginian arrows that continued to strike the Aquila’s foredeck as the enemy crew screamed curses and taunts across at the vanquished Romans. The Aquila’s speed was dropping, any pursuit futile, the rowers already spent. The quinquereme began to pull away. Septimus watched it go, his gaze fixed to the aft-rail of the enemy galley. He turned suddenly to his remaining eight men, nodding to Drusus, the optio returning the gesture before looking to the enemy once more. Septimus continued to stare at his men. Eight legionaries left from the thirty he had led across the corvus no more than ten minutes before, the survivors’ expressions a mixture of anger and shame at having lived while others fell.

Septimus looked away to the quinquereme again and suddenly, with all the strength of his body, with all of the rage filling his soul, he flung his sword after the Carthaginian ship, the blade soaring through the air before striking the stern of the galley, the tip hammering into the timbers. Septimus looked at it for a second longer, then to his empty hand before turning and brushing past the men of his command. In the distance, two miles behind the Aquila, the sound of trumpets heralded a Roman victory.

Varro reached out from the skiff and climbed up the rope ladder on the top deck of the Victoria. He adjusted his scabbard and then strode purposefully to the aft-deck and the waiting figure of the senior consul.

‘Well?’ Regulus asked.

‘The jetties as you can see can accommodate some one hundred galleys,’ Varro began, gesturing over his shoulder to the shoreline of Tyndaris, ‘while the shallows have anchor points for at least another hundred.’

Regulus nodded, his gaze shifting to the land beyond the shore, behind the line of jetties from where Varro had just travelled, ‘And?’ he asked, indicating the unseen terrain.

‘A supply-dump large enough to stock a significant fleet and quarters for at least twenty thousand troops.’

Regulus shook his head slowly, amazed at how close the Carthaginians had been to fulfilling their plans, how ready they were, how their surprise land-attack west now made sense, their ultimate destination revealed. And what of Syracuse? Hiero was certainly complicit in some way, allowing the Punici to use his port. An alliance of convenience or maybe he was fully aware of their plans. Either way Regulus vowed the king of Syracuse would answer to the charge.

‘What news of the Alissar?’ Varro asked, interrupting the consul’s thoughts. The name of the Punic quinquereme and the identity of her commander had been ascertained soon after the Carthaginians’ capitulation at the point of a sword and Regulus had immediately ordered two quinqueremes in pursuit. Varro had seen that they had returned as he made his way to the Victoria moments before.

‘She has escaped,’ Regulus said regretfully. ‘Her lead was too great.’

‘And so Hamilcar Barca, the Carthaginian supreme commander in Sicily, has escaped our grasp,’ Varro added, twisting the knife of that loss in order to bait the consul.

Regulus stared at Varro, annoyance in his eyes that Varro should see the need to mention the obvious. ‘The Alissar could not be stopped,’ he said. ‘She was already two miles ahead when the first of our quinqueremes broke through the line.’

‘One galley should have stopped her,’ Varro added, ‘but they failed.’

‘The Aquila?’ Regulus asked sceptically. ‘Everything they could have done, they did.’

‘Even still,’ Varro persisted, ‘the chance to capture Barca was lost and the Captain of the Aquila should pay the price of that loss.’

Regulus waved his hand dismissively, ‘You are too harsh, Varro. The match was too uneven, a trireme against a quinquereme and the crew of the Aquila were badly mauled. I am satisfied they did all they could to stop the Alissar.’

Varro nodded, deciding not to pursue the point, knowing that his argument was not strong, content to know that he had already achieved a great deal in only the past two days.

As if reading his thoughts Regulus turned to Varro. ‘You have done well, Titus,’ he said. ‘If you had not revealed this plan, Rome herself could have been threatened.’

Varro straightened his back at the compliment, knowing it to be well deserved but expressing nothing beyond humility on his face. ‘It was my duty to Rome,’ he said modestly.

‘Yes, you are loyal,’ Regulus agreed. ‘But you also demonstrated abilities far beyond my previous expectations, capturing the pirate galley and releasing the Roman captain. It is only because of those actions that Barca’s plans lie in ruins.’

Varro nodded in gratitude, knowing now his fortune had changed irrevocably for the better.

Regulus nodded back, silently making the decision he knew to be just. ‘Inform the captain, Tribune Varro,’ he said. ‘We sail for Rome immediately.’