Captain of Rome

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The rough hewn hawser dipped and raised with the even stroke of the Aquila’s oars, the sea-water dripping from the fibres of the rope with every pull, creating a cascade that fell in time with the drum beat of the trireme. Atticus leaned over the aft-rail and took a grip on the rope, testing its strength, feeling the tension within. He looked back along its length, following the lines as it fell to the sea and then rose again to the bowsprit of the transport ship fifty yards behind. A crewman stood on station there and he waved across as he noticed he was being watched, a wave Atticus returned before turning away once more.

Lucius approached him from the helm. ‘Cape Ecnomus,’ he said pointing over the starboard rail. ‘We’re about eight hours out from Agrigentum.’

Atticus nodded in return and then turned his attention back to the line of his galley. The Aquila was near the centre of the long line of triremes that stretched from the shore, each one towing a transport ship, an ignominious task ordered of the third squadron the day before when the wind suddenly dissipated, becalming the sail-driven transports. Now only the command ship of the third squadron, the Orcus, was without a tether, Varro’s quinquereme sailing a full ship-length ahead of the line as if in an effort to distance itself from the trireme dray-horses.

‘Eight hours out,’ Atticus said as Septimus approached from the main deck, a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, a wooden training sword loose in his hand, a weapon he had been rarely without over the previous week as he trained his new men to full battle-readiness.

‘Still no sign of Marcus?’ Septimus asked, indicating the transport ships behind.

‘No, I haven’t seen him,’ Atticus replied. ‘The Fourth must be on one of the ships on the flanks.’

Septimus nodded, ‘He’s there somewhere,’ he said, his eyes scanning the decks of the ships nearest to the Aquila. Each deck was crowded with red-cloaked legionaries, many of them leaning out over the rails, their sea-sickness staining the hull, their faces pale and drawn from the week long passage down the east coast of Sicily.

‘Signal from the first squadron,’ Corin shouted and Atticus looked to the mainmast, waiting for the lookout to decipher the full message, a sudden feeling of unease sweeping over him as he watched Corin spin around, his expression one of pure dread.

‘Enemy fleet ahead!’ the lookout roared and Varro felt a sudden knot develop in the pit of his stomach.

‘Confirm that message!’ he roared up the masthead as he walked quickly to the helm.

‘Signal from the first squadron is confirmed!’ the lookout shouted. ‘An enemy fleet has been sighted.’

Varro looked to the sea ahead but could see nothing beyond the first and second squadrons a half-mile ahead. They were sailing in arrow formation, each squadron forming one side of the spear-point with the two command ships at the apex, the Victoria under Regulus at the head of the first squadron and a quinquereme under Longus at the head of the second.

Varro had been given command of the Orcus on the day the fleet had sailed from Brolium, the singular honour of commanding the third squadron bestowed upon him in recognition of his part in thwarting the Carthaginians’ plans to attack Rome. It had been a proud moment for Varro, standing on the main deck of the Victoria as Regulus announced the promotion before the assembled tribunes and senators, the consul speaking highly of Varro’s courageous action at Thermae which had saved so many hastati of the Ninth in addition to his capture of the pirate galley that had led to the exposure of the enemy’s subterfuge.

Now however, sailing a half-mile behind the consuls, Varro felt suddenly cheated. The Orcus was a powerful galley, a ship that belonged in the van of the fleet, destroying enemy triremes as the Roman quinqueremes had done so easily at Tyndaris. Instead Varro was leading a fleet of hulking transport ships and obsolete triremes, a reprehensible command that would ensure that the glory of the battle ahead would fall to other, lesser men.

Varro walked slowly to the foredeck; his gaze locked on the Roman formation ahead, the distance opening with every passing minute as the vanguard accelerated to battle speed. He looked beyond them to the horizon, seeing for the first time the dark shapes of the approaching enemy, their naked mainmasts like a wave of scorched grass against the sky. Varro’s dark mood deepened at the sight, his eyes sweeping across the enemy line, estimating their numbers to be less than a hundred, a pitiful force against the three hundred galleys of the Classis Romanus. Success for the Roman fleet was assured, a near slaughter given the odds and Varro cursed the fates that robbed him of his part in a victory that would be gained on such easy terms.

The tribune was turning away from the sight but a flicker of darkness at the edges of the Carthaginian line made him turn once more, his mouth falling open slightly as he watched the enemy line extend on either side, the dark wave of galleys breaking towards the shoreline and the horizon to the south until it filled the entire seascape ahead, Varro’s dark mood dissipating without conscious thought to be replaced with a cold dread that filled his entire soul.

‘Battle speed!’ Hamilcar shouted, his heart racing as the line of enemy galleys unfolded before his eyes, a wedge of galleys that swept north and south; a formation his patrol galleys had sighted the day before. He ran back to the aft-deck, weaving through the scurrying crew as the Alissar was made ready for imminent battle. Himilco walked briskly towards him as he reached the aft.

‘Signal the fleet,’ Hamilcar said. ‘Advance the flanks!’

The captain saluted and ran to the aft-rail, issuing the order to the signal-men who quickly dispatched the message that would ripple down the three hundred and fifty-strong line of galleys in a matter of minutes.

Hamilcar looked to the shoreline not five hundred yards off his port quarter. Ahead was Cape Ecnomus, Roman-held Sicilian land and a point on a map Hamilcar remembered examining months before. At the time he had envisaged his land forces striking east across that very Cape, cutting off the city of Agrigentum from rescue, the Carthaginian flank protected by the army of Syracuse, the Romans in chaos and on the brink of surrender with the news that their vaulted city of Rome was on its knees.

That vision had been ripped from Hamilcar’s mind on the day the Romans had attacked Tyndaris. Hamilcar still wondered how the enemy had uncovered his plan. Belus’s disappearance must be connected somehow but he was unable to link the two positively. The goddess Tanit had a hand in Hamilcar’s fate, of that he now had no doubt, her hand of fortune lifting from his shoulder at Tyndaris only to fall once more upon him with the deliverance of the Maltese captain’s report, the Carthaginian spies in Brolium initially confirming the fleets arrival and then revealing the true objective of the enemy fleet, the Roman town awash with the rumour as the legionaries boarded the transport barges, their destination; the shores of Carthage.

The Romans had indeed reversed his strategy, turning the blade until it now pointed directly at Carthage, their base at Agrigentum a close enough jumping-off point to Carthage as Tyndaris had been to Rome. It was a conceit that drove Hamilcar to a near frenzy of anger, a blatant arrogance that typified the Roman foe, the self-assurance that made them believe that the order of superiority could be so easily reversed. Carthage was not Rome. She was not the sleeping prey the Roman city had been, she was a leopard lying in wait, everfierce, ever-prepared to defend her progeny against any who would dare to attack.

The Alissar began to forge ahead at Hamilcar’s command to advance the flank, an invisible tether drawing out the galleys behind her, the manoeuvre mirrored on the seaward flank until the Carthaginian formation resembled a crescent moon. The lines were re-dressed quickly, deft touches that marked the fine seamanship inherent on every galley of the fleet. Hamilcar looked back along the formation, his gaze picking up the flagship Baal Hammon in the centre of the line. She was sailing slightly ahead, no doubt by order of her commander Hanno, the councillor’s arrogance demanding the prominent position in recognition of his titular command of the fleet. Hamilcar’s strategy to defeat the Roman fleet had begrudgingly been accepted by Hanno before the fleet sailed, the councillor recognising the formidable logic of the plan. The agreement had created an uneasy truce between the men; their mutual animosity set aside, neither man willing to risk the fate of Carthage and, as Hamilcar stared across at the Baal Hammon, he felt his confidence rise, knowing the might of Carthage was for now united under one banner, one cause. Death to the Romans.

Regulus felt the deck rise and plunge beneath his feet and he gripped the side-rail on the aft-deck for balance as he stared ahead at the oncoming Carthaginian line. The false wind created by the galley’s speed blew fresh onto his face and he breathed deeply, drawing in the salt-laden air, tasting it as if for the first time. A lifetime ago he had commanded a legion in the field, had tasted battle, both bitter defeat and sweet victory. It was a time he had long forgotten, the memory fouled by the listless air of the Curia and the leaden air of the bathhouse. Now a new memory was being forged, a latent vigour re-discovered and Regulus looked to the forces that were his to command.

The main deck of the Victoria was crammed with troops, a full maniple, the I of the Fifth, in addition to a further sixty legionaries of the praetoriani, each man a veteran, every soldier on board the flagship battle-hardened and ready, their swords drawn in anticipation. Regulus looked once more to the Carthaginian fleet, wondering anew what skill the enemy possessed that allowed them to anticipate the approach of the Classis Romanus and assemble such a host against it. They had appeared as if from nowhere, their battle-line fully deployed and prepared and Regulus had realised that near disaster had only been averted by the fact that his fleet was already deployed in an aggressive posture. It was a formation Regulus had insisted upon only days before for the protection of the helpless transports and he looked skyward; a whispered prayer on his lips to Mars, the god of war who he believed must have had a covert hand in his decision, his guiding hand granting Regulus the opportunity to take the fight to the enemy.

‘Captain,’ Regulus commanded to the man at his side. ‘Order attack speed and signal the third squadron to stand fast.’

‘Yes, Consul,’ the captain saluted and issued the orders over his shoulder, turning once more to stand tall beside his commander, the flagship accelerating to twelve knots, her clean lines and unblemished hull causing her to skim over the gentle swell, steadying her deck. Regulus left go of the rail and moved to the helm, his eyes darting to the lead ship of the second squadron, picking up the figure of Longus standing apart on the aft-deck. He looked over suddenly at Regulus, as if he knew he was under scrutiny, and he nodded to the consul, a brief but confident gesture that Regulus returned.

The spearhead created by the convergent lines of the first and second squadrons flew onwards, the helmsmen of the lead ships keeping the formation in perfect balance, their thrust directly towards the centre of the Carthaginian line. Regulus watched the I of the Fifth walk forward to take position behind the corvus, his gaze tracking up the height of the raised boarding ramp. It was a fearsome weapon, poised to strike and Regulus felt the anticipation of battle unfurl itself within his heart as the men of the Fifth roared a war cry in answer to the call of their centurion.

The consul looked beyond the corvus to the enemy line less than four hundred yards ahead. The breath in his throat stilled for a heartbeat, his eyes darting left and right and he ran once more to the side-rail to gain a better line of sight. Now he was certain and Regulus felt his heart rate rise as elation surged through him. The Carthaginian formation was as yet unbroken but it had become concave, as if the centre was recoiling before the Roman thrust, an instinctive reaction to an aggression they had not expected of the Romans, the Carthaginians obviously believing that they would catch the Classis Romanus unawares.

Regulus locked his gaze on the centre of the Carthaginian line as the gap decreased, anticipating what he was about to witness, praying that he was right, knowing that victory would be assured. He raised his hand up and clenched his fist, holding it still above his head, the muscles in his forearm trembling with the force of his grip, his entire being focused on one galley, a flagship, sailing slightly advanced of the line. Regulus waited, the seconds passing as the oars fell and rose in unison.

The change happened suddenly and Regulus roared in triumph, his fist slamming down on the side-rail, a death knell for the Punici. The Carthaginian flagship was turning, her deck keeling over violently as the galleys around her reacted in kind, the Carthaginian line disintegrating into confusion and fear within seconds, the roars of defiance and aggression on board the Roman galleys turning to baying cries of triumph and mercilessness.

‘Maintain attack speed!’ Regulus shouted, striding to the helm. ‘Hunt them down! Prepare to release the corvus!’

The command was quickly passed along the deck and outward to the other galleys of the spearhead, the legionaries hammering their shields in affirmation of the order. Regulus drank in the sound, feeling his Roman heart match the beat of ten thousand blades raised at his command.

The enemy centre was now fully turned, fleeing before the Roman spear, the gap of three hundred yards a pitiful defence against the unleashed Roman advance. Regulus was staring once more at the Carthaginian flagship, his gaze now sweeping her aft-deck, trying to single out the cowardly enemy commander who believed he could run from his fate, the consul’s fixation blinding him to the enemy galleys beyond the centre of the Carthaginian line.

‘They’re turning!’ Corin shouted from the masthead, the excitement in his voice impossible to contain. ‘The enemy are in retreat!’

Atticus ran to the foredeck to gain a better view, passing quickly through the serried ranks of legionaries on the main. He skirted around the newly replaced corvus, his shoulder brushing against the cumbersome ramp as he did and he mumbled an incoherent curse, his eyes never leaving the sea ahead until his legs struck the forerail. He glanced down, the surging water breaking over the ram echoing a rhythmic splash and he placed his palms on the rail, leaning his upper body forward as he stared once more ahead. The lead squadrons were over a mile away and beyond them was the enemy line, its aspect in complete disarray as the galleys turned away from the fight.

‘Something’s wrong,’ a voice said beside Atticus and he nodded to his second-in-command.

‘No collisions,’ Atticus remarked.

‘And I’ve never known the Carthaginians to run before,’ Lucius replied. ‘Not before the battle’s even started.’

‘Lucius,’ Atticus began. ‘Get aloft. Do a full sweep.’

Lucius nodded and turned, sidestepping past Septimus as he went.

‘They’re in retreat?’ Septimus asked, removing his helmet and rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand.

‘I’m not so sure,’ Atticus replied and Septimus looked to him.

‘It’s not like the Carthaginians to break so easily,’ Atticus continued.

‘But they are turning from the fight,’ Septimus insisted.

‘Without panicking,’ Atticus said, his gaze now sweeping across the entire seascape ahead. He turned to Septimus.

‘Have you ever known an enemy to retreat suddenly in complete order?’ he asked.

Septimus was silent for a moment, his head turning to the Roman attack. He shook his head. Something was wrong.

Hamilcar slammed his fist onto the side-rail as he watched the centre of his line turn in full retreat, the two hundred galleys of the Roman spearhead never pausing as their headlong attack transformed into a full pursuit. The lead galleys of the Roman formation were quickly in line with the Alissar’s advanced position on the landward flank, granting Hamilcar a perfect view across the half-mile distance, his professional eye immediately recognising the classic Tyrian design so loved by the Carthaginians in the new Roman quinqueremes. The reports from Brolium on the strength and size of the Roman fleet had been extensive and within seconds a malicious smile spread across Hamilcar’s face as he counted the larger hulls in the formation.

‘Two points starboard!’ Hamilcar ordered the helm and the Alissar turned quickly to her new course, the entire landward flank responding immediately, separating Hamilcar’s attack force from the galleys of the centre as they fled west away from the Romans. Hamilcar turned his gaze southwards once more, seeing through the single ranks of the Roman formation to the opposing flank of the Carthaginian line, watching as their aspect changed to mirror his own course. He looked ahead once more, finally focusing all his attention on the true target of his attack, the soft underbelly of the Roman fleet.

‘Aspect change on the flanks!’

Varro looked up to the masthead, turning away from the sight of the Roman pursuit for the first time, his mind quickly deciphering the call, his brow creased in confusion. The sight of the extended Carthaginian line had shaken him but he had quickly buried his apprehension, the resolute signals of attack from the Victoria giving him confidence once more and he had cheered with the rest of the crew as the enemy centre turned in retreat.

Suddenly he was unsure once more and he looked to the enemy galleys closest to the shore. They were advancing, flanking the Roman spearhead, the lead galleys already turned to a course directly aimed at the centre of the third squadron, the galleys behind the vanguard sweeping out to form a line of battle. Alarm instantly swept through Varro, his gaze locked to the galleys in the centre of the line, quinqueremes all, ships that outmatched every galley in the third except the Orcus. They could not stand. There was no hope. The first and second squadrons were sailing further away with every passing minute, isolating Varro, cutting him off, abandoning him to the Carthaginian jackals.

Varro looked to the shore less than a mile away, a series of inlets and jagged headlands. If the Orcus could reach it first there was a chance they could fend off any attack, the shoreline protecting his rear. He spun around, searching for the captain, seeing the line of triremes still tethered to the transport ships. He froze for a heartbeat. There was nothing he could do for them. The enemy galleys were too strong, too numerous. To stand and fight was to die and Varro was not willing to die for some forlorn cause. Fleeing was the only option for him; for everyone.

‘Captain!’ Varro shouted, finally seeing the man. ‘Attack speed. Make for the coastline!’

‘Yes, Tribune,’ the captain replied and quickly issued the orders. ‘What will I signal to the rest of the squadron?’ he asked as the Orcus broke formation.

Varro looked to the line once more, weighing his options. If they all cut loose and ran the confusion would better hide the Orcus from the enemy. He turned once more to the captain. ‘To Hades with them.’

Atticus watched the Carthaginian flanks complete their turn around the rear of the advancing Roman spearhead, Lucius continually shouting down aspect changes from the masthead, the second-in-command’s voice level and unhurried. Atticus glanced briefly to the ship tethered to the Aquila, calculating the maximum speed his galley could drag the dead weight against the distance and speed of the approaching Carthaginian line. They could not run, not without cutting loose and condemning the entire Ninth legion. The triremes of the third squadron would have to stand and fight.

‘The Orcus is breaking formation!’ Lucius shouted, tension in his voice for the first time.

Atticus ran to the side-rail and looked to the command ship, the quinquereme already accelerating to attack speed, her course cutting across the Roman line as she started to flee. A ferocious anger surged through him as he spotted Varro on the aft-deck, the tribune standing tall by the helm, his back turned to his own line as he stared at the approaching enemy attack.

‘Varro!’ he roared, but the tribune stood unmoved.

‘The Pomona!’ Lucius shouted and Atticus spun around to look at the trireme two ships further down the line. She had cut her tether and was falling into the wake of the Orcus, following the command ship in headlong flight. Within a minute a dozen more galleys had broke from the formation, the crack of axe blows resounding through the air as lines were cut and more transport ships were cut loose, panic quickly sweeping through the ranks, the sight of the command ship flight unleashing the survival instinct in every galley.

‘We can’t run!’ Septimus said as he ran onto the aft-deck, his eyes sweeping past Atticus to the galleys on all sides, confusion transforming to outright panic before his very eyes. ‘The Ninth!’

Atticus looked to the ships again, the sails of the released unfurling in a futile attempt to gain some headway in the tepid breeze, their hulls turning slowly, barely making steerage speed. A sudden crunch of timbers cracked through the air as two galleys collided, the total chaos turning Roman against Roman as they sought to escape.

‘By the gods, Atticus,’ Septimus said, grabbing his friend by the shoulder and spinning him around, his face a mask of terror for the lives of the Ninth. ‘We have to do something!’

Atticus stared at Septimus, his mind racing, a thread of panic reaching up and clawing at his spine. Lucius arrived on the aft-deck, his eyes dark with anger and frustration. Atticus looked to the Orcus, the command ship holding a direct line to the coast. Varro had destroyed the squadron, had broken its back as surely as the Punici would have done. Every galley was fleeing. It was every man for himself and no one man could stand alone, no one galley could stop the Carthaginians. Atticus looked down to the deck beneath his feet and then raised his head as he looked along the length of the Aquila. She was a fine ship.

He turned to Lucius, his eyes hard and cold.

‘Sever the line,’ Atticus said, his voice steady, a captain of the Classis Romanus. ‘Attack speed’.

Regulus watched the runner sprint onto the aft-deck of the Victoria, his head darting left and right, searching for his captain. He spotted him and ran to his side, speaking quickly, pointing over the aft-rail. Regulus saw the captain turn, his expression apprehensive.

‘What is it?’ Regulus asked, walking towards the captain, turning his head for a second to the enemy ships fleeing before his own.

‘The enemy flanks,’ the captain said, ‘the masthead lookout reports they did not turn.’

‘What’s their course?’ Regulus asked, suddenly uneasy.

‘They’ve turned into the third squadron, Consul,’ the captain replied, his own anxiety evident in every word.

‘The third squadron…’ Regulus whispered. The Ninth legion, ten thousand men. Only a single line of triremes stood between them and the enemy. He cursed loudly, striding past the captain toward the aft-rail. He had never thought to look beyond the enemy centre, too elated that they had turned so easily. He looked to the third squadron a mile and a half behind. Approaching fast to on its flanks was the Carthaginian attack, a now solid line of advance, at least a dozen quinqueremes in each line. It was impossible to make out any detail in the Roman formation but Regulus thought it was in disarray, as if Varro was redeploying his forces to make a stand against the enemy. It was a valiant attempt but Regulus knew any such stand was doomed without the assistance of some of his forces.

‘Captain!’ he shouted, glancing over his shoulder. He would cut his force in two, sending one half back to relieve Varro’s galleys. It would mean the escape of many of the Carthaginian centre but the transports had to be protected at all costs. The captain appeared beside him. Regulus turned.

‘Signal Consul Longus,’ Regulus began, ‘order him to take the second…’

‘The enemy are turning!’ a voice shouted out and Regulus looked to the waters ahead. The entire Carthaginian line was turning once more into the attack, every galley, a fluid coordinated manoeuvre as if some unseen hand had swept over their line.

‘Mars protect us…’ Regulus whispered as the full realisation of what he was witnessing overwhelmed him. There was never a retreat. It was a trap, and the Roman vanguard had taken the bait completely, leaving a vital part of the fleet vulnerable, risking a loss that would prevent the invasion of Carthage, the death of ten thousand legionaries.

Hamilcar glanced left and right as the last of his galleys slipped into formation, completing the battle line, creating a sweeping wave fifty ships wide bearing down on the Roman line at seven knots. The seaward flank was a mile to the south, its line equally formed on a convergent course with Hamilcar’s galleys and the Romans trapped between them.

‘Attack speed!’ Hamilcar ordered and the Alissar bucked beneath him, taking on the extra knots with a savage intent that matched the will of its commander. Hamilcar moved once more to the side-rail to gain a better view of the Roman squadron a half mile away, his elation growing with every passing oar-stroke, the decreasing distance confirming the masthead’s earlier report that the enemy were retreating. The line was in complete chaos, with galleys fleeing north towards the coastline and east, away from the line of attack. Only the transports remained relatively unmoved, the fickle insipid wind making a mockery of their attempts to manoeuvre by sail. Hamilcar had been ready for a fight, had already accepted in his mind the loss of many of his galleys, even the quinqueremes that would be vulnerable to attack as they rammed the transport ships. Now that fight was dissipating before his eyes, the shield wall drawing back to lay bare the unprotected.

Hamilcar looked back over his shoulder to the rear of the Roman spearhead, the enemy galleys slowly fanning out to counter the re-turned Carthaginian line that threatened to envelope them. Hanno had timed his counter-stroke perfectly. He had executed the first part of the plan exactly as requested and so now, for the first time, Hamilcar felt confident that Hanno would follow the second part of his plan, the order that dictated how the councillor would engage the enemy vanguard.

His back protected, Hamilcar brought his full focus back to the transport fleet and its retreating escort. He felt his elation surge again and he closed his eyes, breathing in deeply, sifting the smells in his nostrils, the clean salt, the stale dry land and underneath, something else, a smell he could almost imagine, a smell of sweat and bile, the fear of the ten thousand men trapped in floating timber coffins.

‘Enemy galley on intercept course!’

Hamilcar snapped open his eyes and looked to the masthead, seeing the outstretched arm and following the indication to the sea ahead. A lone trireme was approaching, her bow reared up in attack speed, her foredeck drenched in spray from her cutwater as she sliced through the gentle swell. Hamilcar looked to her flanks, to her rear and beyond, searching for other galleys, for the attack she must be leading but there was none. The trireme was alone, a single galley against a line of fifty. Hamilcar’s mouth twisted into a snarl as he stared at the lone galley, admiring the bravery of the suicidal charge but dismissing it instantly.

‘Hold your course!’ he shouted to the helmsman.

Hamilcar had seen how the Romans attacked their prey many times, striking them head-on, holding them firm before releasing their cursed boarding ramp. But the approaching galley was a trireme, sailing into a pack of quinqueremes and Hamilcar knew the Alissar would brush her aside with barely a check. He smiled at the prospect, his hand gripping the side-rail in anticipation of the hammer blow to come.

‘Steady,’ Atticus said as he placed his hand on Gaius’s shoulder, the helmsman gripping the tiller with a force that turned his knuckles white.

The solid line of Carthaginian galleys seemed to stretch forever before the bow of the Aquila, the quinqueremes in the centre a terrifying combination of speed and brute strength, their hulls dwarfing the smaller galleys on the flanks and the single galley that sailed towards them.

Atticus looked to the main deck and the sight of Septimus forming his men into protective ranks. The men moved with grit determination, their faces grim under iron helmets and cheek-plates, every sword drawn for the fight to come. Atticus checked his own weapon by his side, drawing the blade an inch out of its scabbard, feeling the familiar weight before slamming it home, his attention returning once again to the enemy.

Atticus counted to the centre galley, the lead ship, its masthead banners unfurling languidly behind and in an instant he was transported back to Tyndaris weeks before, remembering those same banners on a fleeing quinquereme, Hamilcar Barca’s galley. Atticus ran to the side-rail, locking his gaze on the masthead of the enemy galley, confirming what he believed, realising that his target was ever more deadly because it carried the military commander of Carthage.

Atticus stood back from the rail and moved to the centre of the aft-deck, his eyes sweeping once more over the deck of his ship. Corin had descended from the masthead and he stood with the rest of the crew on main deck, the men in a tight knot as Lucius issued final orders to each man. The legionaries beyond were in their own ranks but Atticus noticed glances being exchanged between the two groups, expressions that marked their shared fate, Roman and provincial citizen alike.

Septimus stepped away from his men and strode to the aftdeck. ‘They’re ready,’ he said, his expression grim, unrelenting.

Atticus nodded, ‘Expect two attacks at least,’ he said, tension in his voice for the first time as the distance to the enemy fell below four hundred yards. ‘My crew will try and hold the aft, you hold the main.’

Septimus nodded, looking at Atticus closely, seeing the shadow of uncertainty in his friend’s face.

‘This is something,’ he said and Atticus gave him a quizzical look.

‘I said we needed to do something,’ Septimus explained, a slight smile reaching the corners of his mouth, ‘and this is it.’

‘We had to give the Ninth some chance…’ Atticus said, glad that Septimus understood his order to charge the Carthaginian line. He looked to the advancing enemy, the odds overwhelming and he turned to his friend.

‘About Hadria,’ Atticus began, unsure of what he was about to say.

Septimus looked at Atticus, holding his gaze. ‘She told me,’ he said, the shadow of an emotion sweeping across his face, ‘that she won’t give you up.’

‘And you can’t accept that?’ Atticus asked, silently willing Septimus to relent.

Septimus looked to the waters ahead, each drum beat and oar stroke taking the Aquila closer to certain defeat and the very fate he had wished to shield his sister from, the loss of another love in battle. He turned once more to Atticus.

‘Not today,’ he said and walked back towards his men, his hand reaching for his sword and drawing it with one sweep of his arm, the metal singing against the scabbard.

Atticus watched Septimus for a moment longer. Not today, he thought and he drew his sword, the grip of the hardwood hilt solid between his fingers. He caught Lucius’s eye, nodding to him in command, the older man nodding back imperceptibly before ordering the crew to make ready.

The Aquila sped on, her two hundred oars never faltering, the banner at her masthead whipping out to release the eagle in flight, the seventy-ton hull like an arrow set loose from the draw, skimming the wave tops, taking deadly aim. Atticus stepped back to the helm, seeing Gaius’s hard stare, his gaze never wavering and Atticus took strength from the helmsman. He looked to the enemy. Two hundred yards.

‘Ramming speed!’

One hundred yards, thirteen knots, the enemy surging forward, the edges of the line disappearing as all focus turned to the centre, the drum beat crashing out, the oars slicing through the air and surging through the water.

‘Steady Aquila,’ Atticus whispered, placing one hand on the tiller behind Gaius’s grip, his vision filled with the sight of the charging behemoth bearing down.

Fifty yards.

‘All hands, prepare to be boarded!’

Forty yards. Thirty.

‘Now, Gaius!’ Atticus roared and threw himself against the tiller, the helmsman surging with him, their every strength throwing the rudder hard left, the Aquila responding in opposition, her bow slicing right into the path of the flagship, her hull turning in seconds to create a solid wall of timber, iron and men across the enemy front.