Captain of Rome

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Alissar struck the fore section of the Aquila with all the force of her one hundred ton hull, her eleven-knot momentum driving the ram cleanly into the Aquila, punching through the seasoned oak, the blunt-faced fist propelled deep into the slave deck of the trireme. Sixty yards along the hull, the second quinquereme struck, her ram taking the Aquila deep below the waterline, flooding the lower hold, the splintered timbers of the Aquila clawing at the lower cutwater of the quinquereme as if desperately trying to stay the blow.

Hamilcar regained his feet and charged to the front of the aft-deck, scarcely believing the sight before him. A huge crash and screech of timbers made him spin around in time to see two of his galleys collide, a quinquereme turning into the path of another as it swerved to avoid the aft-section of the Roman ship. He swore at the top of his lungs, cursing the idiotic captain who had caused the collision, cursing the Roman galley that shattered the centre of his line. He looked to the trireme, his gaze sweeping her chaotic decks, the galley somehow familiar but the thought cast aside as fury overwhelmed him, his sword leaping from his scabbard without conscious thought. He ran to the main deck, gathering his crew as he did, leading them on, a gathering storm, surging towards the fore and beyond to the enemy deck.

‘It’s the Aquila!’ the masthead roared and Varro whipped his head around, watching as the trireme was rammed by two of the enemy quinqueremes. The sight transfixed him, his mind flooded with doubt, anger and confusion.

‘We have to help them!’ a voice shouted beside him and the captain’s call was taken up across the deck. Varro snapped around, his expression furious.

‘Hold your course!’ he roared, striding over to the captain.

‘Helm! Collision course!’ the masthead roared, his voice manic.

Varro and the captain looked directly to the water ahead, to the three Roman galleys that had turned and were sailing directly across the Orcus’s line and towards the Carthaginian attack, their crews having also seen the Aquila’s lone charge, the sight spurring all to follow.

‘Helm, evasive course!’ the captain shouted and the Orcus turned to starboard.

Varro looked to the helm and beyond to the ragged anarchic formation that had once been his squadron, his gaze immediately picking up the sight of a dozen more galleys turning into the fight, the sound of shouted orders and angry calls for support gathering every ship to the fight, the effect rippling down the line with other Roman galleys turning directly into the seaward enemy attack.

‘Tribune,’ the captain said, his face stern. ‘Your orders.’

Varro turned to the captain, his eyes darting beyond to the empty sea ahead and the coastline. It was close, minutes away.

‘Your orders,’ the captain repeated.

Varro put his hand to the hilt of his sword, fighting the urge to draw the blade, to run the captain through, to escape. He looked at the captain directly, seeing the challenge in his eyes, the naked contempt for Varro’s indecision.

‘Hard to port,’ Varro growled and the captain instantly reacted, shouting the command to the helm, the Orcus turning once more, this time into the face of the oncoming enemy attack.

Varro watched the scene change before the bow of his galley, the coastline giving way to open sea and then the Carthaginian formation, a gaping maw in the centre of their line, a savage tear caused by the Aquila.

‘Perennis,’ Varro whispered, all his hate and fear forged into one man, the Greek captain who seemed set to ruin his fate once more, the Aquila’s lone attack exposing Varro’s retreat in all its shame. There would have been others to blame after the battle, the captain of the Orcus, of other galleys, men lost in a chaotic fight against overwhelming odds whose deaths Varro would use to tangle and bury the truth, but now that confusion was gone, replaced with the clarity of attack, the entire Roman third squadron taking the fight to the enemy. Varro’s order to retreat would be remembered, reported, his reputation ruined forever. One man had precipitated this, one man who had come so close before. Varro turned to the captain once more.

‘Steer a course to the Aquila,’ he said. ‘We will go to her aid.’

‘Yes, Tribune,’ the captain said, concurring unequivocally with the order. The Orcus was the largest galley of the squadron, only she could pass unmolested through the open centre of the Carthaginian line and save the brave men of the Aquila.

Varro caught the captain’s expression of approval and he turned away, hiding the rage that rose unbidden to his face.

‘Vitulus!’ he shouted. The guard commander ran to the tribune.

‘We will soon board the Aquila,’ Varro said, his voice low and menacing. ‘There will be confusion, chaos, many will be killed. Make sure one of those is Perennis.’

Vitulus nodded, his eyes cold as he saluted the tribune, stepping back to draw his sword, his gaze following Varro’s as both men turned to the sea ahead.

The Carthaginian warriors flooded onto the port-side fore and main decks of the Aquila in a savage wave of iron and fury, their war cries screaming hate and death to the Romans, their momentum a relentless force that swung towards the tightly packed semi-circle of legionaries backed up to the starboard rail. Septimus shouted the release of pila, the spears striking the mid and rear ranks of the Punic charge, the front line too close to maul, the Carthaginians bearing down behind their shields as they ran across the ram-tilted deck towards the Roman shield wall.

‘Steady the line!’ Septimus roared, no other command to give, the sea behind them an enemy as merciless as the Punici.

The Carthaginians struck the legionaries with an incredible force and the Roman line buckled and caved, the men behind pushing forward against the front, heaving the formation back into shape with the desperate strength of sixty against two hundred. Septimus struck out with all his might, driving his sword home with a ferocity born of a forlorn hope, his roar giving vent to all his bravery, all his strength, the men to his sides matching his savage aggression, giving no quarter, expecting none, remorseless enemies on all sides.

The Carthaginians surged around the Roman shield wall, enveloping it, hemming it in against the fragile starboard rail, sensing the kill, their blood-lust unleashed while others ran towards the aft-deck, a baying pack of wolf-hounds searching for prey. Atticus stood unmoved; the crew of the Aquila to his back, Lucius and Gaius to his side, anger wrought on every face, knowing their ship was dying beneath them. The Carthaginians gained the aft-deck, spreading out, never faltering as they ran onwards. Atticus raised his sword, holding it high, the unsullied forged iron blade light in his hand. He summoned up his will and let fly with a roar: ‘Aquila!’ The call unleashed his crew and their war cry surged out before them as they ran full-on into the Carthaginian charge, Atticus running deep into the enemy ranks, sweeping his sword down into enemy flesh, the blade drenched with blood that fell to the deck of the dying galley. The crew were swallowed by the Carthaginian horde, the fight on all sides as Atticus held his ground at the centre of the aftdeck with a small knot of men, every man fighting with a demonic fierceness that defied the greater strength of the Punici.

Beyond the decks of the Aquila the Carthaginian flanks struck the ragged attack of the Roman third squadron, the galleys colliding head-on, the quinqueremes breaking through, the Carthaginian triremes held fast, the Romans streaming across boarding ramps as the battle descended into single combats. A single Roman quinquereme slipped through the line, tearing through the water at twelve knots with the ranks of a full maniple forming on her decks, their shields raised and swords drawn, the standard of a Roman tribune flying from the masthead.

The Baal Hammon reversed oars, her ram at first resisting the pull, the splintered hull of the Roman trireme clawing at the bow of the Carthaginian galley. Hanno watched the death throes of the enemy ship from the aft-deck, his gaze darting left and right, to the archers on his own galley who ceaselessly rained death on the Roman decks, the legionaries hidden behind shield ramparts, forestalling the certain death that awaited them and their ship.

Hanno looked beyond the galley to the fight at large, the lines of battle now a tangled net. He suddenly thought of Hamilcar’s strategy, the plan Hanno had agreed to before the battle, to feign retreat and then counter-attack but to avoid a full engagement against the corvus-armed Roman galleys, Hamilcar warning Hanno that the enemy could not be beaten on their terms, that the ramp still held sway in open battle. Hanno looked to the sinking trireme before the Baal Hammon, the Romans dying before his eyes, the quinquereme, finally released, turning quickly to seek new prey. He smiled derisively. Hamilcar was a fool, or worse he was hoping to take the lion’s share of the victory, his strategy a clever ruse to minimise Hanno’s impact on the outcome.

The Baal Hammon came full about and Hanno was afforded a wider view along the length of the battle. Carnage was everywhere, the sea strewn with wreckage, rammed Roman galleys amidst Carthaginian pyres, the galleys set aflame by victorious legionaries. Half of the fleet on each side was engaged, most of the galleys fighting in desperate ship-to-ship battles, the Romans fighting to take Carthaginian decks they had boarded across the infernal ramps.

Hanno felt a sudden sliver of doubt as he stared at the dozen fights closest to the Baal Hammon. The Romans were prevailing in every clash where they had managed to deploy their boarding ramps, the Carthaginians only succeeding when the ram had decided. In close quarters, with little sea room, the Roman tactics had the advantage and the words of Hamilcar’s warning echoed once more in Hanno’s mind.

Atticus punched hard with his hoplon shield, the copper boss slamming into the Carthaginian’s chest, driving him back, robbing him of his balance and Atticus lunged forward, striking low, his blade tearing through the enemy’s groin, the Carthaginian falling even as Atticus withdrew his sword. Lucius stood to his side, the seasoned veteran drawing on the strength of a thousand fights, his sword arm never tiring, his thoughts still firmly locked on sweeping the Carthaginians from his ship and somehow saving her from the sea’s grasp.

Atticus felt the side-rail slam into his lower back as he backstepped away from a furious assault, the Carthaginian soldier’s blade a blur of iron in a deadly sequence of sword-strokes, Atticus’s arm going numb under the shield that bore the brunt. He stabbed out with his sword, a desperate jab to force his enemy to relent and through sweat-stained eyes he saw the Carthaginian block left with his shield, giving Atticus the opening he needed. He pushed forward from the rail, his sword instinctively following a series of strikes, the years of single combat commanding his every action, every move and the Carthaginian gave ground slowly until he backed into another fight, forcing him to stand firm. The Carthaginian responded with a frenzied counter-attack and Atticus turned his shield once more in defence, his eyes locked on the Carthaginian’s, seeing the fury there, the eyes anticipating the sword. Atticus shortened his defence, closing the distance to beneath a swordlength, breaking the Carthaginian’s assault and Atticus pushed forward until the two were chest to chest, the stink of sweat and aggression filling his senses. Atticus ignored the continued blows on his shield, the close quarters negating their strength and he swung his sword out low and wide, bringing the blade in behind the Carthaginian, sweeping it back until it sliced into the enemy’s hamstring, the Carthaginian screaming out in pain as his tendon split, his leg buckling under his own weight and he fell to the deck, dropping his sword to reach for his wound, his face a mask of agony.

Atticus jumped back, bringing his sword up quickly, the fight pressing in on all sides as two Carthaginians quickly stepped over the man he had downed, their swords charged against Atticus, their expressions malevolent, taunting, their quarry singled out before them. Atticus brought his shield up to his shoulder, his sword dropping low for the first attack, his eyes darting from the first man to the second, crouching slightly to coil the energy of his legs, ready for the lunge. The two Carthaginians moved in, one of them smiling viciously and Atticus smiled back, his eyes ever cold. He paused as the moment to attack neared and he tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. He was about to charge but he checked himself, realising a sudden unease on the faces of his attackers, their eyes no longer on Atticus but to a point behind him and they began to back off.

Atticus glanced over his shoulder, the breath that he had held releasing as the sight before him overwhelmed his mind. The Orcus was less than fifty yards away, her corvus already partially lowered, the serried ranks of a full maniple drawn up behind, a solid wall of shields above which iron helmets and cheek-plates framed hostile and determined faces. The Orcus closed the gap in seconds, her oars dipped and held to slow the galley and the bow of the quinquereme struck the stern of the Aquila lightly, the corvus falling firmly onto the aft-deck, the spikes hammering into the timbers.

The legionaries flooded across, forming a line, the strident commands of a centurion marching them forward. The Carthaginians faltered then quickly turned into the new threat, a ragged few joined by scores in a matter of seconds, the Punici slamming into the shield wall, hammering with all the frenzy of hate against leather and brass.

Atticus called the remaining crew of the Aquila to the rails to continue their fight on the flanks, wary that in the confusion of battle the armourless crew might be mistaken for Carthaginians by the legionaries. He looked to the main deck and the embattled men of Septimus’s command, his attention drawn away from the Orcus, never seeing Vitulus run across the corvus, his own gaze looking beyond the front line of the legionaries, searching for his prey.

‘Hard to starboard! Withdraw oars!’ the captain of the Baal Hammon roared and Hanno leaned into the turn as the quinquereme swung to avoid the fall of a corvus, the Roman quinquereme sweeping past the bow, the cutwater of the Baal Hammon slamming into the extended oars of the Roman galley, snapping the fifteen foot spars like twigs underfoot, until the counter turn of the Roman ship dragged the remaining oars out of reach.

‘Attack speed!’ the captain called again, his eyes searching for open water, the second narrow escape from boarding tearing at his nerves. Hanno felt a contagious panic spread over his galley, seeping into his own mind, the complete dominance of the Roman quinqueremes over the equally sized galleys of his own fleet a terrible realisation that had suddenly thrust the Baal Hammon into the fight of her life.

The Baal Hammon had rammed and sank two Roman triremes, charging them down and striking them deep with a strength they could not defy and Hanno had praised his decision to fully engage the enemy, sensing victory with every Roman who fell under the ram of his quinquereme. But beyond his own galley, Hanno had suddenly witnessed the real truth of the battle, the Romans triremes like jackals hunting down prey, attacking creatures their own size with a savage sabretoothed weapon that conquered relentlessly. And amongst them the larger quinqueremes, attacking the command galleys, the Carthaginian crews overwhelmed and slaughtered.

The Baal Hammon found clear sea and the captain brought the galley around once more, the tangle of butchery that was the battle-line spread out before the bow once more, the helmsman holding his course, waiting for the command to re-engage. The captain looked to Hanno, his expression questioning, his eyes devoid of the confidence that befitted the captain of a flagship. Hanno looked beyond him, immediately seeing a number of Roman triremes holding fast to Carthaginian galleys, stationary in the water, perfect targets for the Baal Hammon. Hanno hesitated however, knowing that to ram the triremes was to expose his own ship to the threat of being boarded by another, a fight he knew could not be won and for the first time the unthinkable crept into his thoughts, the unendurable truth he had realised earlier but had buried beneath his honour.

The Roman line swept ever forward, the Carthaginians falling before the onslaught, the rear ranks stepping forward as the front stepped back, creating a solid press of men before the legionaries, the Roman blades wreaking a terrible carnage. Atticus stood at the starboard rail, many of his crew at his side, turning the outer flank of the Carthaginian host, giving them no pause, the press of men increasing in the centre until the Roman line concaved, the sides of the line moving forward even as the centre came to a halt.

Vitulus stood behind the starboard flank of the line, stepping forward slowly as the line advanced, his eyes never leaving the sight of the Greek captain standing only yards away, the gap closing with every Carthaginian slain. He readied his sword and moved to the rail, pushing forward until he reached the front line of the attack, slotting his shield to the end of the line, striking his blade forward with intuition; the instinct learnt during the years spent in the legions never leaving him. The Greek was but feet away, oblivious to the advancing wall, his eyes locked on the combat before him, his sword striking the shield of a Carthaginian warrior. Vitulus recognised the sailor to the captain’s left, the older man standing closer to the Roman wall, an obstacle Vitulus would avoid. He pushed forward, breaking out of the line, using his shield to push the Carthaginian before him away from the rail and into the maelstrom of the centre. Vitulus readied his sword, drawing the weapon back, his shoulder tensing as it reached the height of its arc, the blade pointing almost directly down, poised to stab forward, waiting for a path to open, for a moment when the captain would be exposed. He saw one and lunged without conscious thought.

Lucius saw the blade from the corner of his eye, his weapon whipping instinctively away from the Carthaginian to his front to block the sword swiping behind him, the clash of iron jolting his forearm, the strength and direction of the sudden attack shocking him, knowing how close his captain had come to death. He turned in an instant, his sword already recovered, his mind screaming restraint as he suddenly spotted the red cloak of a legionary.

‘We’re Roman!’ Lucius shouted, the attacker’s face inches from his own, the expression of rage twisting the features of the legionary. The soldier spat back in fury, striking again with his sword, Lucius parrying the blow but staying his counter-strike, bringing his shield up in defence but keeping his sword at bay. He broke off and made to roar again, to breach the obvious trance that consumed the Roman soldier but the words died on his lips as he recognised the legionary for who he was. Vitulus noticed the change in Lucius’s expression and attacked without hesitation, driving his sword through, bringing his shield to the fore. Lucius tried to react, his sword sweeping back up into the fray, his soul consumed with hatred for the assassin but Vitulus’s strike was too quick and the hammer blow of the sword drove the air from Lucius, the blade slicing unchecked into his stomach until the pommel punched against his skin, knocking Lucius back. Vitulus stared into Lucius’s face, hold his gaze, seeing the hatred there, the emotion overwhelming the agony of the strike. The legionary held the gaze for a heartbeat and then twisted the blade, Lucius’s expression collapsing into a mask of pure pain as Vitulus withdrew the blade, the sailor falling to the deck, a scream dying in his throat.

Atticus felt a weight fall against his legs and he glanced down, a cry of anguish escaping his lips as he saw Lucius beneath him, the sailor holding his hands tightly across an appalling wound, blood and viscera spilling from between his fingers, his eyes wide in terror and pain. Atticus made to crouch down but a hidden instinct caused him to look up and he immediately recognised Vitulus, his sword drenched in blood, the legionary’s eyes suddenly shifting from Lucius, catching Atticus’s stare. Vitulus reacted instantly, his sword darting forward with incredible speed. Atticus sidestepped, slamming his shield down to strike the top of Vitulus’s sword, the legionary bringing his own shield around to parry the counter-strike from Atticus.

The first blows landed, the two men immediately backed off, finding their feet on the blood-soaked and body-strewn deck, fighting for balance as the tide of battle broke beside them, the Carthaginians checking the advance of the Roman wall, the sheer weight of numbers concentrating the slaughter along an immovable front line. Atticus charged into the attack, his mind wiped of all thought save one, his sword moving without conscious reason. Vitulus stood his ground, his shield absorbing the assault, his own sword stabbing forward, seeking a breach. Atticus ignored the sword strikes on his hoplon shield, his anger consuming him, the desire for revenge allowing him no respite. He pushed forward, stepping over his friend, forcing Vitulus to step back, the rail to their sides denying them room to circle.

Atticus pushed forward two more paces and then suddenly checked his advance, holding his ground as Vitulus began a counter-attack, his body already poised to step back, knowing how Vitulus would press forward, staying his own attack as he waited for the moment he knew was coming. Vitulus advanced, his attack instantly transforming into the innate sequence of the legions, the shield shoved forward, the sword striking out, the shield pushed forward again, the predictable rhythm that was so lethal when used in formation. Atticus drew Vitulus on, inch by inch, his anger screaming at him to strike but his instinct restraining his sword arm. He watched the rhythm take hold of Vitulus, the legionary’s expression turning to triumph as Atticus retreated further, the Roman shield pushing him back, the pressure unrelenting.

Atticus allowed the shield to push him back one final time, parrying the sword strike that followed, waiting for Vitulus to commit to the next shield thrust, his predictability becoming a fatal weakness in single combat and Atticus suddenly twisted his entire body as Vitulus shoved forward, the legionary falling as the resistance against his shield disappeared, his sword arm stretching out to regain his balance. Atticus continued his turn, spinning his body completely around, his sword following on a wide arc, the momentum building, the strength of his entire body behind the blade as he came full about, Vitulus’s exposed midriff drawing the tip of the blade. Atticus punched home the strike and the blade slammed into Vitulus below the ribs, the force of the blow accelerating his fall, the blade vanishing to the hilt before sliding out again, the legionary dead before he hit the deck.

Varro watched the fall from the fore-deck of the Orcus, his disbelief giving way to rage, the triumph he had felt swelling up only seconds before as Vitulus pushed home his attack now replaced with a fury that seemed to contract every muscle in his body. An intense urge overwhelmed him and he drew his sword without conscious thought. He ran across the corvus, his gaze never leaving the Greek spawn of Hades who defied him, whose every breath mocked Varro’s honour. He stopped amidst the dead strewn across the aft-deck of the Aquila behind the Roman advance, Carthaginian and legionary, a tangled slaughter of bodies. The Greek captain was kneeling over another man, the fight raging to their side, the Carthaginians refusing to relent under the pressure of the shield wall. Varro felt the bile of hatred course through him and he raised his sword.

‘Perennis!’ he roared, his voice cutting through the air.

Atticus’s gaze shot up, seeing the tribune standing only yards away, Varro’s eyes boring into him. Atticus rose to his feet. Seconds passed, a sudden pause in the vortex of battle as both men became locked in deadly enmity, Atticus slowly lifting a hand to his face, touching the scar there, his hand falling away, his eyes following to rest on the dying figure of Lucius. Varro charged with his sword before him, a slow, almost hypnotic movement as if time had slowed for both men and Atticus stepped forward, throwing his shield to the deck, the grip on his sword tightening.

Varro surged forward, a scream surging from his throat as he rushed to the attack and Atticus roared in defiance, a war cry of his ancestors as he ran to meet the Roman, the two blades clashing in a blur of iron and terrifying hatred. The fight descended into a brawl, both men lashing out in unforgiving fury, each strike parried and immediately reversed, neither man pausing.

The balance gave way within a minute, Atticus’s experience and battle-hardened strength coming to the fore, the pure hatred of Varro’s attack not enough to overcome a more-skilled opponent. Varro stepped back, his mind registering for the first time the escalating pain in his sword arm, the muscles burning, his counter-attacks regressing more and more to a desperate defence under the crushing onslaught. The Greek captain came on, never relenting and Varro felt the first threads of panic encircle his heart as he stared at the harsh determined expression of his opponent. His hatred suppressed his fear, forcing him to think and he immediately went on the offensive, knowing only one attack could save him against the better swordsman. Revenge filled his soul as the fight came to closer quarters, Varro pushing forward with all his strength until the two swords were locked between them, the pommels intertwined. Varro leaned in further, looking over the interlocked blades, his face only inches from his enemy’s, the green eyes of the Greek never leaving his own. Varro held the gaze, a malicious smile creasing the edge of his mouth, almost tasting the victory to come as he reached down with his free hand.

Atticus held the tribune’s gaze, anger tensing every fibre of his body, the sword blades shifting slightly, metal grinding against metal as Atticus readied himself for a final lunge to separate the weapons and finish the fight. He saw Varro’s lips curl slightly at the edge of his mouth, a vicious smile that spoke of some inner madness and as Atticus returned his focus to the Roman’s eyes, he saw them flicker slightly, darting low and left. Atticus reacted instantly, his own hand reaching out unbidden, his eyes dropping to follow Varro’s glance, seeing the deadly blade.

Atticus grabbed wildly for the dagger, his hand grasping Varro’s, his fore-fingers reaching over the pommel onto the blade, the edge slicing his flesh. He forced the knife up, turning the blade away from his stomach, the tip brushing against his tunic as he pushed the knife ever upwards. He looked to Varro’s eyes once more, seeing beyond the hatred there to the emerging fear. Atticus pushed harder, the muscles in his arm bulging, his grip tightening, the blade cutting deeper into his fingers, the pain ignored as the blade came up past his chest. Atticus held it there, feeling Varro’s arm tremble under the strain. He stared at the tribune again, nodding slightly as he witnessed the naked terror in Varro’s eyes.

Atticus eased the knife forward until the blade touched the skin of Varro’s neck. The Roman pushed back with one last effort but Atticus pressed on, the knife piercing Varro’s skin, bright red blood spurting out, splashing across Atticus’s face. The pressure against the knife held as Varro dropped his sword and reached up with his other hand. Atticus stood back, the knife still pressed across Varro’s throat and with a sudden swipe he whipped the blade across, slicing deeply, Varro’s hands immediately clutching his throat as blood gushed through his fingers, his mouth open in silent fear, his eyes wild, unseeing.

Atticus watched as Varro swayed and he shot out his arm, grabbing hold of Varro’s chest-plate, suddenly abhorring the idea of the Roman’s body defiling the Aquila’s deck. He hauled him to the side-rail and held him there for a second as he looked at his enemy one last time before throwing him over the side. Varro struck the sea eight feet below and sank beneath the water, surfacing a moment later, one hand still on his throat, the other flailing the water, his face a mask of absolute panic, his armour dragging him down, his blood staining the sea around him. He reached out to the hull of the Aquila, grasping for a hand-hold but the smooth timbers betrayed him and he slipped beneath the surface, the sea returning to calm as Atticus looked on dispassionately.

‘Enemy galleys approaching!’

Hamilcar shot around, running to the side of the foredeck of the Alissar to gain a better view of the sea behind. Scores of Roman galleys were approaching, the bulk of the spearhead. Hamilcar looked to the horizon beyond them, seeing the grey palls of smoke that marked each burning galley and he cursed Hanno’s name, realising the councillor had defied him and that that defiance had turned to failure, costing Hamilcar the time he had so desperately needed to overwhelm the Roman transport fleet. He turned and looked beyond the stricken Roman trireme, his gaze sweeping over the seascape, his galleys locked in combat, a lone few having broken through, a pitiful number of transport ships sunk with the others scattered across the horizon.

Hamilcar looked once more to the approaching Roman vanguard less than a mile away. They would be upon him within minutes, an overwhelming force that could only end in defeat and capture for the remaining Carthaginian galleys in the fight and his eyes fell across the fight on the Roman trireme transfixed to the ram of the Alissar; the battle-lines clearly drawn by the shield walls of the Romans, one across the aft-deck and a defensive semi-circle on the main, the quick victory Hamilcar had expected turning into a bloody stalemate with the arrival of a Roman quinquereme. His indecision lasted a second longer and he called the captain to his side, the order catching in his throat as he cursed his fate.

‘Sound the withdrawal,’ he said, his heart consumed with thoughts of the consequences that would follow his decision. ‘Full retreat.’

The trumpet calls of retreat were followed an instant later by triumphant shouts, the Roman lines surging forward as the Carthaginians ran to the two quinqueremes, many of the Punici dropping their weapons in their haste, the men leaping across to the foredecks to escape the unleashed legionaries. The rowers of the Carthaginian galleys began to backstroke, slowly withdrawing their rams, the sea-water gushing in around them, filling the lower holds of the Aquila as retreat rapidly descended into rout, the Carthaginians left on the Aquila trying to jump the ever-increasing gap, many falling to the water below, easy prey for the hungry sea.

Septimus led his men to the foredeck of the Aquila, attacking the bottle-neck of retreating men; giving no quarter to an enemy who had offered them less and the fight became a desperate slaughter as the Romans purged the Aquila of Carthaginians, the remnants throwing themselves into the sea to avoid the vengeance of a merciless foe. Septimus called his men to order, breathing heavily, his blood-soaked sword falling to his side, his gaze drawn to the retreating Carthaginian quinqueremes and beyond to the Roman vanguard.

Septimus suddenly became aware of the desperate screams of panic beneath him as the battle noise on the foredeck abated and he looked across the Aquila, noticing the tilt of the deck that was worsening with each passing second, the Carthaginian rams that had supported the Aquila supplanted with an unstoppable flood of sea-water.

‘Every man to the Orcus!’ Septimus roared, his men reacting instantly and they ran the full length of the Aquila to the corvus of the Roman quinquereme, the legionaries of that galley following without hesitation. Septimus took up the rear, ensuring that every injured legionary was taken aft, his eyes sweeping the decks, ignoring the dreadful screams of the dying rowers chained to the dying galley. He reached the aft-deck and immediately spotted Atticus, the captain kneeling at the side-rail with a man’s head on his lap. He ran to them, recognising the pale bloodless figure as Lucius.

‘Atticus,’ Septimus called. ‘Is he…?’

Atticus looked to Septimus, a haunting expression of grief etched on his face. ‘Get your men off,’ Atticus said, ‘and hold the corvus for me.’

Septimus nodded, turning to the last of the legionaries waiting for their chance to get across the boarding ramp.

Atticus leaned over, his face inches from the man he had served with for so many years, his trusted advisor and mentor, his friend.

‘Lucius,’ he said. ‘We need to go.’

Lucius opened his eyes and gazed across Aquila before looking up at Atticus.

‘She’s dying, Atticus,’ Lucius said, his voice cracking, a trickle of blood forming at the edge of his mouth, a massive pool of blood covering the deck beneath him.

‘I know,’ Atticus replied, forcing his own eyes to look out over his galley, accepting and facing that truth for the first time.

‘Leave me here,’ Lucius said, his eyes pleading. ‘Leave me with her.’

‘No I can’t,’ Atticus replied. ‘There’s still time. I…’

‘No,’ Lucius said, shaking his head. ‘There’s no time, not for me, and I don’t want to die on some blasted quin.’ He tried to laugh and blood coughed from his mouth, staining his lips. He gasped for breath. ‘She shouldn’t die alone,’ he said.

Atticus nodded and held out his hand. Lucius grabbed it, the strength of a lifetime’s friendship and respect making the grip firm. Atticus laid Lucius’s head gently on the deck and stood up, holding his gaze for a second longer before turning and walking to the corvus, Septimus already across, the Orcus ready to pull away.

Atticus stopped for a heartbeat and looked down at the deck of the Aquila and then back along her entire length, the galley sinking rapidly by the bow. He nodded to her and jumped onto the corvus, the ramp rising even as he walked across and the Orcus got underway, the quinquereme turning as the first galleys of the Roman vanguard swept past, many of their crews looking to the sinking trireme, at the many slain on her decks, Roman and Carthaginian, wondering what ferocity had gripped the solitary ship. Atticus stood with Septimus on the foredeck of the Orcus as the quinquereme accelerated to battle speed, her course turning into the wake of the fleeing Carthaginians while Atticus watched once over his shoulder as the Aquila slipped beneath the waves.