Master of Rome

CHAPTER NINE

A single alarm bell was heard across the wide sweep of the bay, followed moments later by a dozen more, the sound rapidly succeeded by the horns of the galleys in the outer harbour, their clamour combining to fuel the panic of the inhabitants inside the walls of the town. Panormus was in turmoil, its streets crammed with people and animals, some fleeing deeper into the town and the docks, others towards the gates, now shut tightly against the advancing Roman legions. The noise was deafening, whipping up the panic of the populace, while above it the shouted commands of officers held sway, sending men racing to the walls, their shields and spears giving them headway in the throng.

Atticus stood on the aft-deck of the Orcus, breathing in the atmosphere of the ancient port. Fewer than a dozen Carthaginian galleys were in the bay, their hulls down as they drew deeper into the safety of the inner harbour, the sight of so many Roman galleys hastening their flight. Behind and around the Orcus sailed seventy galleys, newly formed from the remnants of the fleet from Agrigentum, which had regained its strength over the previous month. Atticus was in overall command and he nodded to Gaius as he watched the last of his ships round the eastern approaches.

The Orcus slowed, coming once more to standard speed. The wings of the formation unfolded as a blockade was formed, a flurry of orders and signals reaching across the length of the fleet until each galley knew its place. Atticus took a moment to look at the trim of his own ship, focusing on the actions of his new crew. Every moment of the long voyage from Rome to Agrigentum and thence to Panormus had been spent in training the raw recruits, and Atticus was satisfied with their progress.

Almost all of the senior sailing crew of the Orcus had been transferred to provide experienced personnel for the new fleet of 220 galleys being built at Fiumicino, and when Atticus had sailed south from Rome some three weeks before, half of those ships were already afloat and undergoing sea trials. It was only a matter of time before they would be unleashed upon the enemy.

Atticus had applied to retain Gaius, a request that was granted because of his rank, but he had been surprised and delighted when Baro also escaped transfer. Many of the experienced seconds-in-command had been chosen to captain new galleys, and the retention of Baro was a stroke of luck that immeasurably speeded up the training of the new crew.

Atticus acknowledged another flood of signals and the Orcus came to a stop, her bow swinging neatly to point directly into the inner harbour, her position making her the lynchpin for the entire right flank of the blockade. Atticus moved to the foredeck to get a better view, bringing with him the signalman from aft. Aside from the dozen or so Carthaginian war galleys, there were over fifty trading vessels of all sizes, many of them tethered to the docks, while others milled around the in visible boundary between the inner and outer harbour. Nightfall would bring the first attempts to break out, particularly amongst the smaller trading ships, and Atticus studied their form and disposition, trying to decipher which ones were the more aggressive given their proximity to the blockade.

Blockades were notoriously difficult to maintain given the small range of a galley. They had limited space for supplies, particularly water, a resource quickly devoured by the rowing crew in the late summer heat. It was necessary therefore to set up a system whereby individual ships could disengage from the formation to resupply nearby on land, the ranks thinning around its position until it returned, only to allow another ship to disengage and repeat the process. Any sailor who had witnessed a blockade, and doubtless there were some in Panormus, would know of such limitations and would therefore try to exploit the weakness. Atticus knew of only one solution to this problem, and that was to keep the disengagements random, allowing no advantage to an observant enemy. Even still, in an unfamiliar harbour, there would certainly be some escapees, and Atticus’s main concern was that some of those might sail directly to Lilybaeum to warn the enemy there about the blockade.

The high-pitched clarion call of the legions caught Atticus’s ear and he turned towards the shore beyond the walls of Panormus. The marching formations of the newly formed Ninth were stark red against the green hills sweeping up from behind town, and even from a distance Atticus could sense their latent energy, a coiled serpent waiting to strike against the walls of Panormus. Atticus turned away from the sight, forestalling the drift of his thoughts to one in particular amongst the legion. He refocused his concentration on the formation of galleys around him, conscious that the battle would soon be joined and the blockade would need to stand firm.

Septimus cursed loudly as he roared at the new recruits in his maniple. In the brief minutes that he had been distracted by observing the walls of Panormus, the strict formation of the unit had once more lost cohesion. The defined gaps between the grades had disappeared and the formerly rigid square was again bowed outwards on both flanks, inviting similar curses from the centurions who commanded the maniples on either side.

The recruits were interspersed with experienced men, but their majority in numbers gave them weight, and the stumbling efforts of one man had an instant ripple effect on the whole. An experienced unit would constantly dress its own ranks, compensating immediately for any uneven terrain underfoot, but the recruits allowed themselves to be shuffled out of position, forgetting even the most basic rules of drill in their heightened state of anticipation. The nervous tension of his men further aggravated Septimus, and the whiplash of his commands brought them once more into formation, a status the centurion knew would not last.

The maniple, indeed the entire legion, was built on the solid premise that experience was essential in maintaining discipline in battle. For that reason the front ranks, the hastati, were often the most junior of the soldiers and invariably the lightest. They were backed up by the principes, the inner strength of the formation and, to the rear, the triarii, the veterans of many battles. These second and third ranks ensured that the legion did not take one step back unless ordered, denying the junior hastati the opportunity should they falter under the stress of battle. In the newly formed Ninth, however, the rapid recruitment of its ranks meant that both the hastati and principes were, in the main, raw recruits, with only the physical size of each man deciding their rank. Only the triarii were experienced, drawn from other legions; in the fight to come, they would be the bulwark of the Ninth.

The sound of thundering hooves interrupted Septimus’s invective and he spun around as another squad of cavalry shot past on a headlong dash to the approach road on the far side of the town. That western side had been assigned to the Second Legion and they were already sweeping across the flat tillage fields that separated the landward walls of Panormus from the towering hills that framed the bay. Septimus watched their advance with a studious gaze, noting the ordered ranks of the experienced legion, and he knew it was not by chance that the Second had been assigned the road that led from the enemy stronghold at Lilybaeum.

The command to halt echoed across the Ninth and Septimus instinctively repeated it, an order that triggered a weary sigh from the troops behind him. He frowned at the sound, conscious that his men didn’t even possess the basic level of stamina that campaigning required. With Fortuna’s blessing, unless the Carthaginians sallied forth from Panormus, there would be no fighting that day, but the day was far from over. Septimus glanced left and right, immediately spotting the men laying out the boundaries for the rectangular encampment that would need to be completed before nightfall. Their marks would delineate the trench to be dug, ten foot wide by five deep, with the earth thrown inwards to form a rampart, on top of which the sudes, the six-foot-long pointed oak stakes that travelled with the legion, would be implanted and intertwined with lighter oak branches. It was a task that a seasoned legion could complete in less than three hours, but one that the Ninth had struggled to complete in five on the previous nights during their march from Brolium. Under the watchful gaze of the enemy, Septimus could only hope that any ineptitude would go unrecognized.

Scipio braced his feet in his stirrups and stood tall in his saddle. The horse shifted beneath him, adjusting its balance, and Scipio instinctively murmured a soothing word, settling his mount once more. She was an Andalusian, a Spanish horse, fifteen hands high, and Scipio had specifically selected her from his own stables, one of three war horses that had accompanied him to Sicily. Specially bred and trained, the horse responded instantly to his shifting body weight and the press of his legs, eliminating the need for reins in battle, allowing the rider to wield weapons in both hands.

Scipio stood motionless as his eyes scanned the width and breadth of the walls of Panormus. They were formidable and, despite the obvious sounds of panic from within the walls, he realized that no military commander would relinquish the town without a fight. Beneath his gaze marched the Second Legion. They moved without command, their only sound a thousand individual rhythms as kit and armour clanged in time with the beat of the march. They were a hardened legion, tried and tested, and would bear the brunt of the assault.

To his right Scipio spied the Ninth deploying to build their encampment. They were legionaries only by virtue of their uniform and were far from being a useful fighting unit. Scipio had ordered them on campaign only as a last resort, wanting their numbers as a show of outward strength, knowing that the Carthaginians on the walls of Panormus would see only the legion and not their fragility.

The march from Brolium had been arduous, over the more difficult inland mountainous terrain, a route taken by necessity to detour around the Carthaginian-held port of Thermae. It was a bold strike, one which had some detractors in the Senate, but Scipio had insisted, wanting to retake the initiative in the war, knowing that a piecemeal, timid approach would rapidly sap the limited time of his consulship without achieving any noteworthy gains. If he could take Panormus, he could begin a campaign to retain proconsul command of the army after his tenure, a prize that could only lead to further possibilities.

He sat back in his saddle and the tribunes around him became immediately alert, waiting anxiously for his command. He looked to the walls again, and to the massive gate that barred the eastern entrance to the town. There was a similar gate no doubt on the western approach, both firmly shut against the Roman legions.

Scipio called a tribune to his side. ‘Take a detachment of cavalry and ride to the walls,’ he ordered. ‘Seek out an enemy commander, someone of rank, and give them this message: “If they surrender without a fight, every man of military age will be enslaved, but their lives will be spared, as will those of the inhabitants. If they resist, when we breach the walls, and we will, there will be no mercy.”’

The tribune slammed his fist to his chest in salute and rode off in a cloud of dust, shouting orders as he passed a squad of cavalry. A dozen riders peeled off from the formation and pursued the tribune, catching up with him only as he neared the walls. Scipio watched them with mild disinterest. The offer of mercy was a mere formality, extended on the remote possibility that the military commander was a coward or the inhabitants had somehow overcome the garrison, leaving a civilian in charge. Otherwise these offers were rarely, if ever, accepted.

The minutes drew out and Scipio stood once more in his saddle to get a better view of the cadre of Roman horsemen beneath the walls of the town. Above them he could see a group of Carthaginians on the battlements, the sun glinting off their helmets as they peered down from the heights. Without warning a flight of arrows struck the horsemen from further along the wall, and Scipio watched in anger as the Carthaginians loosed spears directly down on the Roman cavalry. The horsemen broke away instantly, leaving dead and wounded in their wake, and a roar of anger rose up from the previously quiet Second Legion, as those that had witnessed the malicious attack gave vent to their fury. The Carthaginians had given their answer: there would be no surrender.

Scipio’s mount became skittish as it sensed the tension of its rider. Scipio spurred his horse to a full gallop, his startled coterie of tribunes reacting more or less quickly in following him as he rode to cut off the retreating detachment of cavalry. He halted their flight and quickly scanned their number. Two of the remaining seven were injured, with arrow shafts protruding from grievous wounds. The tribune was not amongst them, and Scipio looked beyond to the crumpled figures lying in the shadow of the town walls. It was a senseless, wasteful death and Scipio burned the sight into his consciousness. Panormus would fall, of that he had never had any doubt, but now he was determined that the fall would take the town, and all who dwelt within, to the very depths of Hades.

Dawn afforded Atticus his first proper view of the captured trading boat; he rubbed the tiredness from his eyes as he moved to the side rail for a better view. It was a small boat, lateen-rigged for coastal trading, and the trader had tried to slip through the blockade three hours before sunrise. It had been a moonless night, putting the odds firmly in his favour, but Fortuna had taken a hand in his fate and his attempt to slip through a gap in the blockade had coincided with the return of a galley, the Corus, to its station.

The trader had been quickly discovered and the skirmish that ensued had been both brief and one-sided. The shouts of alarm and commands had roused Atticus from his sleep; he had rushed on deck to witness the confused encounter that was illuminated only by scattered torches less than a hundred yards away. Orders rang out for the release of grappling hooks, and Atticus judged that at least two other Roman galleys that flanked the Corus came to her aid, but it was all over before any other ship could intervene.

In the silence that followed, sporadic cheers rang out, and Atticus quickly shouted orders to be passed down the line of galleys, warning the crews to be vigilant against any other boats that might take advantage of the distraction to make their own attempt at escape. Thereafter the blockade had descended into near silence, but few slept, including Atticus, the nearness of dawn and the brief but intense restlessness brought on by the skirmish combining to keep all alert and awake.

In the dawn light, the crew of the Corus had lined the side rail of the trading ship with its own crew, and Atticus watched in silence as he waited to see what fate the victors had decided for their captives. The attitude of the blockade crews had changed over the three weeks since arriving in Panormus. Initially there had been many attempts at escape, particularly amongst the larger trading ships. All had been recaptured and their crews sent to a stockade that straddled the encampment of the Second Legion. From there they would be sent to the slave market and the proceeds would be divided amongst the blockade crews.

As the blockade dragged on, however, and the attempts at escape had become more sporadic and the boats smaller, the Roman crews began to tire of the boring routine of blockading. Their attitude had changed towards any Carthaginian crew that was captured trying to escape. Frustration and tedium had descended into anger, and an unspoken decision was made amongst the men that smaller Carthaginian crews were fair game, not worth the paltry sum they would fetch on the slave market. A precarious balance had begun to emerge between discipline and insubordination, but Atticus had turned a blind eye to the brutal retaliation the men were dealing out to the captured Carthaginian crews, preferring them to vent their frustration at the enemy rather than at their commanders.

Atticus counted fifteen Carthaginians lining the side rail of their captured ship; without warning the crew of the Corus pushed them all into the sea. A cheer rang out from the galleys closest to the action and many of the crew of the Orcus rushed to the rail to gain a better view. Atticus had witnessed some brutal methods to dispose of Carthaginian crews over the previous days, but this time the method seemed simple: swim or die.

Almost immediately half a dozen men, the non-swimmers, disappeared beneath the water, and the silence that followed their desperate screams was filled with groans of anger and annoyance from those amongst the crew of the Corus who had bet on them. The gambling now started in earnest on every galley within sight, and shouts of encouragement and cheers echoed across the deck of the Orcus. Atticus watched the scene dispassionately while glancing occasionally to his crew who were bunched on the main deck. Baro stood amongst them, making the book.

Some of the Carthaginians struck out for the shoreline two miles away, but in a panic one man swam directly to a neighbouring galley, calling out to the Roman crew to rescue him. Many of them laughed, but others took to fending off the struggling Carthaginian with the tip of their spears, not wanting to see him survive in favour of the man they had backed. Two other Carthaginians were treading water a dozen yards off the bow of their boat, and it soon became apparent that one of them couldn’t swim. He was clinging desperately to the shoulders of his friend, terror etched on his face, and he frantically gulped the air as the swell drenched his face.

Their plight quickly drew the attention of the Romans, and again shouts of anger mixed with those of encouragement as more money changed hands and side bets were taken. Some of the crewmen of the Corus on board the trading boat began to hurl objects at the struggling pair, trying to separate them, and the swimmer was accidentally struck on the head with a pulley block. He was knocked unconscious and, as he rolled over in the water, his companion clawed desperately at his back, his frenzied efforts pushing the unconscious man beneath the surface, drowning him. In a panic the non-swimmer lost his grip and he slipped under the waves, leaving behind the body of the man who had tried to save him.

Atticus turned away and looked towards the shore. One hundred yards away another man was struggling, a weak swimmer, and his arm shot up as if clawing at some invisible source of salvation as he slipped beneath the waves. Beyond him only two men remained and all eyes went to them. They were swimming strongly, twenty feet apart, and they had already gone nearly two hundred yards towards the shore. Again the level of noise from the fleet increased as new bets were taken, and Atticus found himself drawn into the intensity of the struggle.

Shouts of anger caught Atticus’s attention and he turned to watch a fight break out on the foredeck of the Corus. Suddenly a flight of arrows shot forward from the melee to fall with deadly accuracy on the first swimmer, neatly piercing the water around him until one struck his shoulder. His scream could be plainly heard across the galleys, but it was soon forgotten in the brawl that followed. Atticus called his own crew to order and calmed the arguments that had broken out over the settling of bets. The crew moved away quickly but Atticus could see that on other galleys the captains were struggling to regain control of their men. Atticus cursed the blockade, knowing the situation could only deteriorate if the siege continued, but as he looked to the town he felt his spirits rise.

Over the previous weeks he had watched with interest as four siege towers had taken shape at the eastern side of the town. They had risen slowly from the ground, four hundred yards out from the walls, and on days when the offshore breeze carried sounds towards the ocean, the air would ring with the beat of hammer blows. They had stood immobile as they grew, but today they were no longer stationary, they were moving, inch-by-inch, towards the wall. Over the expanse of open water that separated the Orcus from the shore, the progress of the siege towers was almost imperceptible, but soon many others noticed their advance and the last of the angry shouts amongst the fleet gave way to a cheer that could be heard across the bay. The legionaries had finally begun their assault.

‘Heave!’

A thousand voices echoed the command, a deep growl that gave strength to their effort. Four men stood behind each bar that passed through the long, blunt-edged poles extending from the back of the siege towers. Thirty yards long, the poles resembled huge stationary battering rams, butted hard against the near intractable weight of the massive siege towers. The lines of pushing men weaved from side to side as they stumbled over the uneven ground, with only their momentum keeping them upright as one hard-fought step was taken after another.

Septimus echoed each shouted command to the men nearest him, his back locked straight as his legs heaved through each step, the bar pressed tight against his chest, the sweat stinging his eyes. He glanced to his right and the ordered ranks of the Second Legion, drawn up two abreast between the pushing poles, directly behind the ladder that led to the top of the siege tower. The Ninth had built the towers, had slaved over them during every daylight hour over the previous weeks, and now, like dray horses, they were heaving them into place, handing their labour and the honour of assaulting the walls over to the Second. It was a bitter trade, and Septimus roared out the order to push, feeding his frustration into the task.

‘Incoming, shields up!’

As one, the legionaries on the flanks, protecting the men who were pushing, threw up their shields to accept the first flights of arrows from the walls of Panormus. The Carthaginian archers were stationed further along the walls, loosing their arrows diagonally into the men further back from the tower, those not screened by its bulk, and the legionaries were forced to form an elongated testudo.

Septimus looked up. Fifty yards to go and his eyes were drawn to the corpses hanging from the battlements. They were legionaries, captured in a night attack a week before when the Carthaginians had sallied out from the town to try and fire the siege towers. Their attack had been beaten off, but the dawn light had revealed a macabre consequence. The legionaries had been brutally tortured and, as the Roman army looked on, each soldier was hung from the walls, the fall mercilessly breaking the necks of the lucky ones, while the unfortunate were slowly strangled, their desperate struggles drawing cheers from the onlooking Carthaginians.

The blood of each watching legionary ran cold that day but, rather than acting as a deterrent, the brutal act had driven all semblance of humanity from the Romans. Septimus recalled the savage determination that overtook his men after that day as they raced to finish the siege towers.

The order to make ready was heard and the first ranks of the Second moved forward. From the enemy’s perspective, the front of the rectangular tower was solid and imposing, a sheer wall of oak reaching above the height of the walls of the town. At the rear, however, hidden from the Carthaginians, a massive inclined ladder, wide enough for four men, reached from the base of the tower to a platform twenty-five feet above the ground, the height of the town’s battlements. The leading ranks of the Second jumped up on to the base and climbed up the first rungs of the ladder. Their progress was slow as the tower swayed over the rough ground, but a dozen men reached the top and formed up behind the crude drawbridge at the front of the platform, waiting patiently as each yard of ground was covered.

The rain of arrows intensified and, with it, the calls of encouragement from the centurions and optiones. Sporadic cries of pain came from all sides and the men redoubled their efforts as the order to ‘heave’ became more frequent. Fire arrows soaked in pitch struck the upper works of the tower, striking deep into the timbers, and like tenacious fingers of Vulcan the flames licked the newly cut oak. Sudden cheers rang out from the battlements as fire took hold of one of the siege towers. The legionaries who had stood ready on the upper platform, in jumping to escape the flames, fell to their deaths.

Still the dogged order to advance was heard across the legions and the men of the Ninth looked grimly to the earth beneath their feet as they put their weight behind the attack.

As the gap narrowed, the arrows gave way to spears, the iron-tipped javelins, loosed from the height of the walls, piercing even the strongest shield. The casualties on the ground mounted, the extreme forward flanks of the Ninth bearing the brunt of the assault. Like a wave breaking against jagged rocks, the tight formation of shields formed to protect the men was shattered, leaving the exposed soldiers with nothing to do except pray to Mars as they passed through the killing ground.

Under the lee of the walls, with mere yards to go, the defenders resorted to throwing rocks on the exposed legionaries. Only those men on the siege tower or directly behind it were safe. Further back there was no defence against the missiles, each one the size of a man’s head, and they tore bloody swathes through the flanks, killing and maiming as bones were shattered and bodies broken.

The blood ran freely down the side of Septimus’s face and he blinked it from his eye as he spat the salty taste from his mouth. It was not his own, and he glanced to the empty space on his right. The rock had hit the legionary on the head, cracking open his skull before driving through into the man behind, shattering his pelvis; his screams echoed in Septimus’s ears as he relentlessly pushed forward.

The gap between the siege tower and the wall fell to five yards. Almost without command the men of the Ninth dropped the heavy poles and began to retreat out of arrow range.

That same instant the drawbridge was released and the legionaries of the Second swept across in a savage wave of steel and flesh. The Carthaginians held firm on the narrow battlements, and men fell to their deaths as the struggle descended into a chaotic brawl, the enemies fighting chest to chest, their faces twisted in aggression and rage.

The legionaries streamed up the ladder of the siege tower, creating a crushing momentum that forced the front ranks deeper into the enemy’s midst, pushing out the flanks along the battlements, the narrow walkway creating individual battles where strength and will held sway. The Carthaginians fought with demonic resistance, the defenceless inhabitants of Panormus to their backs; within minutes the balance shifted as the Carthaginians first checked, then reversed the tide of battle, pushing the legionaries back towards the towers, striking down any Roman who stood his ground against the maniacal fury of the counter-attack.

Septimus watched the fight from two hundred yards away, his chest heaving from the exertion of the advance and the battle lust flowing in his veins. He had never turned away from the moment of attack before and he cursed the subservient role the Ninth had been given in the assault, the bloody casualties it had endured that would go unreciprocated.

Suddenly he noticed the momentum of the battle turn against the men of the Second on the battlements. The legionaries were no longer ascending the ladder and the platform to the drawbridge was overcrowded as the assault stalled under the weight of the Carthaginian counter-attack. He looked to the other siege towers, trying to judge their situation, but smoke and distance frustrated his attempt.

Septimus looked forward again and, almost intuitively, he decided. ‘Men of the IV, to arms,’ he shouted.

His maniple reacted instantly, responding to his command without question. They rose up and formed behind their centurion, drawing their swords as one. He signalled the advance and they fell into the wake of the siege tower, their pace increasing as they covered the same ground a second time, this time with the tools of war in their hands.

The sudden headlong rush of the IV maniple caught others in the Ninth by surprise, but they quickly responded. By the time Septimus reached the base of the siege tower, he stood at the head of an unstoppable charge. They pushed past the legionaries of the Second, and like a seventh wave overcoming its lesser predecessors, the IV maniple went on up the slope of the ladder. Septimus pushed through the throng on the upper platform, his head down through the black smoke that was engulfing the space, as Carthaginian fire, loosed from close range, caught hold of the wooden structure.

Through hooded eyes he saw the enemy before him and he bunched his weight behind his shield, his feet instinctively finding purchase on the narrow, blood-soaked drawbridge, the memory of a dozen assaults across a corvus guiding his actions. He roared in defiance, his call taken up by a hundred men, and they tore into the Carthaginian front line, shattering it instantly as men were flung backwards from the battlements. He spun on his heel, turning the momentum of the charge along the narrow walkway, and once again the battle was transformed into two narrow fronts as the legionaries tried to sweep the Carthaginians from the walls.

Septimus tasted blood: the remnants of the legionary who had fallen beside him, his own from a shallow sword wound under his helmet, and also the blood of his enemy, a fine spray that covered his face as he twisted and withdrew the blade of his sword from the clinging flesh. The close-quarter combat reached a bloody peak as each side neared the limit of its strength and desperate commands were shouted in disparate languages, driving the men through barriers of pain and exhaustion.

Septimus stabbed his sword forward, his shield arm numb to the shoulder from countless blows but, as he stared into the eyes of his enemy, he began to see seeds of doubt there. Suddenly the tempo of the defence changed from tenacious to desperate. The number of legionaries on the battlements had reached a critical level and an instinctive recognition swept through the Carthaginian line.

The pressure against Septimus’s shield fell away and, over the shoulders of the enemy front line, he saw men retreating, fleeing down the steps that led to the street below. The warrior facing him sensed the vacuum to his rear and he stepped back in panic. Septimus stabbed through the Carthaginian’s open guard, slicing cleanly into his groin, and he pushed him from the battlements as he led his men onwards, the Carthaginian’s dying screams lost amidst the cheers of the Ninth.

They swept down off the battlements and along the narrow street that led to the eastern gate, clearing all before them, dealing quickly with any individual Carthaginian who stood his ground, running at full tilt as blood lust and victory combined to chase all restraint from their minds.

Septimus had led a hundred men from the battlements, but as he neared the eastern gate that number fell to a dozen, the others disappearing into the warren of streets, knowing they were the first, eager to ravage the virginal town before the horde descended. Four Carthaginians stood guard at the eastern gate, the brave remnants of a detachment that had already fled, and they threw themselves against Septimus’s men, screaming battle cries of hatred. They were quickly killed, and the legionaries sheathed their swords as they lifted the locking bar clear.

A wave of legionaries swept through the entrance, their cheers laced with a savagery born of a bloody fight. The assaults of the other siege towers had failed and the men of the Second had been badly mauled, a blood-letting that fed their desire for brutal revenge. Like feral animals they threw off all restraint, racing into the deserted streets, their swords drawn against a defenceless foe.

Septimus stood back from the tide, his mind still conditioned to the demands of his command, giving himself pause to still the blood lust in his veins as he took stock. The legionaries were beyond control and, although many of the enemy would stand, individually or in small groups, they were hopelessly outnumbered and the end was inevitable.

Panormus had fallen, and Septimus could hear the screams of terror from the populace, the cries of women and children, of men desperately trying to mount a defence against hardened soldiers who would kill any who stood in their path. Panormus had stood defiant, and for that the inhabitants had sacrificed all claims to mercy. The victors would take their measure of retribution. As the last cries of battle faded, a new, more terrifying sound resonated around the walls: the desperate pleas of a population given over to a cursed fate of rape and death.

‘Aspect change on the Carthaginian galleys!’

‘Report, Corin,’ Atticus shouted, running to the side rail of the aft-deck.

There was a moment’s pause as the lookout watched the enemy formation take shape.

‘Eleven galleys, looks as though they’re making battle speed, heading… west, towards the right flank.’

‘Baro,’ Atticus shouted, ‘make ready for battle. Drusus, assemble your men.’

The Orcus sprang into action, every man following the dictates of training or experience, the endless hours of drill transforming the galley from an inert state to battle-poised in minutes.

‘Signal from shore, the legionaries have breached the walls!’

Atticus looked to Panormus. The siege towers were hard up against the eastern wall, like barbs stuck fast on the hide of an enormous beast, their size dwarfed by the featureless curtain walls and battlements. At least two of them were on fire and, although Atticus had watched their approach to the wall, he was suddenly in awe of the men who had scaled such crude devices to throw themselves against the waiting defenders. He looked to the inner harbour and the tight formation of Carthaginian galleys approaching his command. The town had fallen and soon every ship in Panormus would attempt to break out, many of them in the wake of the galleys, hoping for a breach. Atticus made his decision even as he spoke the command.

‘Signal to the left flank: full attack! Tell them to take the inner harbour. We’ll take the galleys.’

Gaius immediately called for battle speed and the Orcus shot forward from the static formation of the blockade, the galleys on its flank reacting quickly as the signal swept across their decks to be passed down the line.

‘Gaius, target the centre of their formation,’ Atticus commanded, and the helmsman swung the bow through two points. Their best chance was to overwhelm the Carthaginian galleys quickly and decisively, ending all hope of escape amongst the trading ships. Atticus moved to stand beside the tiller, bracing his feet against the pitch of the deck; he felt the crushing monotony of the past three weeks fall away as a spearhead of galleys formed behind the Orcus.

Like the unfolding wings of a hawk preparing to fly, the Carthaginian formation took shape before the Roman attack, the flanks advancing at a faster pace until the enemy galleys were sailing line abreast. They were manoeuvring for sea room, Atticus realized, abandoning any pretence of punching through the Roman formation. They were going to engage. Atticus smiled derisively. Although outnumbered, the Carthaginians were evidently confident they could prevail. After all, the fight would be on their terms, fought on the tip of a ram, but the Carthaginians were underestimating the skill of a trained Roman crew and Atticus vowed they would pay dearly for their imprudence.

He glanced left, watching the opposite flank as it swept in behind the Carthaginian galleys to envelop the struggling mass of trading ships, many of them hopelessly trying to raise sail in the insipid wind, irrationally ignoring the odds. Any chance of a breakout was already being quashed, and with a hard stare he turned once more to the approaching Carthaginian galleys.

The gap fell to four hundred yards and Atticus called for attack speed, the Orcus taking on the additional four knots within a ship length. Atticus pointed to the centre galley of the enemy formation, his silent order wordlessly acknowledged by Gaius as he adjusted the tiller a half-point. Hours of training came to the fore and the formation of Roman galleys behind the Orcus was forgotten as she cast off the fetters of combined attack to become a lone fighter.

Atticus and Gaius spoke with one voice as the Carthaginian galley neared, the enemy crew having identified and responded to the singular line of attack. The opposing galleys weaved through an invisible line separating the rams, each helmsman subtly countering the feints and ripostes of the other, and the unrelenting drum beat from the rowing deck seemed to increase as Atticus braced for the final thrust.

His mind cleared, the order forming in the back of his throat; he felt Gaius tense beside him, anticipating the command. The Carthaginian galley filled his vision, its dark hull a mirror reflection of the Orcus, two creatures born of the same design, forced to fight each other by their warring masters.

‘Now,’ Atticus said, almost in a whisper, and Gaius nudged the helm, taking the Orcus off its true line, a delicate and deliberate error to compel the enemy to commit. The Carthaginians responded instantly in an incredible display of seamanship, and they swept in to strike the Orcus on the starboard forequarter. Atticus had anticipated the move, but the enemy’s reaction was far faster than he predicted, their skill beggaring belief, and he roared out the final order before he drew breath.

‘Hard to starboard, ramming speed!’

The Orcus was immediately transported back to the calm coastal waters of Fiumicino and the rowing crew accelerated to ramming speed even as Gaius brought the tiller hard over. A hundred hours’ training was realized in the span of a breath, and the Orcus cut inside the line of attack, bringing her ram to bear on the starboard flank of the Carthaginian galley.

Atticus was thrown to the deck as the ram struck home, the six-foot bronze fist striking the strake timbers at an acute angle, snapping them cleanly from the bulkheads, the forward momentum of the Carthaginian galley adding to the force of the blow, the galley pushing itself upon the very spear that was slicing into its underbelly. Atticus regained his feet, the shock of attack and the fury of battle heightening his senses. Quickly he took stock. The Carthaginians were thrown by the sudden reversal but they were already recovering; Atticus could hear the angry bark of orders from the enemy decks. They were surging towards the side rails, preparing to board, to trade ship for ship.

‘Gaius, full reverse,’ Atticus ordered. ‘Drusus, prepare to repel boarders.’

The newly promoted centurion commanded his men with crisp, decisive orders and they ran quickly to the foredeck, forming a wall of interlocking shields at the rail, their swords drawn in defiance, daring the Carthaginians to attack.

The rowers of the Orcus began to back stroke but, even as they did, grappling hooks were thrown by the enemy, locking the ships together. The timbers of the stricken Carthaginian galley squealed and tore as the ram twisted in the gaping hole. The legionaries drew aside their shields to attack the lines, the ropes parting like bow strings drawn by the strength of two hundred and seventy rowers, but from ten feet the Carthaginians cast spears through the gaps in the shield wall, striking down any legionary who exposed himself. The embrace was sustained as more lines were thrown.

The gap between the foredecks fell to four feet, and the Carthaginians charged the shield wall, jumping fearlessly across, a desperate attack to escape their doomed ship. The legionaries stood firm and a dozen men fell between the grinding hulls of the galleys, their screams of terror lost in the din of battle. The stronger warriors gained the Roman deck but Drusus’s men held them fast, checking any breach before it could develop while the increasing momentum of the Orcus finally overcame the strength of the tethers and they parted in sequence, the lines whipping back to leave the Carthaginian galley reeling away. The stranded boarders fought to the last, their fate driving them to mindless fury, and many legionaries fell before they were finally overcome.

The Orcus swung away under a final hail of arrows and spears from the sinking Carthaginian galley, the enemy’s curses reaching across the increasing gap. Gaius brought the galley back up to battle speed, her bloodied ram seeking out further prey.

Atticus watched as the last arrows fell short. He looked to the foredeck and the casualties of the legionaries. The Carthaginians were a fearsome breed and their defiant attempt to board the Orcus was a mark of their courage. Nevertheless, they had been beaten on their terms, on the tip of a ram, and Atticus knew his confidence had been justified as he looked once more to the sinking enemy ship.

‘By the gods…’ Gaius began, and Atticus spun around, following the helmsman’s gaze.

Eight Roman galleys were sinking fast in the waters behind the Orcus, prey of the Carthaginian rams; as Atticus watched in horror, another three ships were struck in rapid succession, second blood for the enemy ships. Only two Carthaginian galleys had been rammed on the first assault.

Atticus had been certain of victory, the sheer weight of odds negating any chance the Carthaginians had. Yet the enemy ships were mauling the thirty-five galleys of the right flank and he realized with sickening dread that his previous confidence had been based solely on the skill and training of his crew. As a commander he had misjudged the situation, believing that all Roman crews possessed the same prowess as his own. But the Carthaginians had neatly exploiting the imbalance of skill, attacking many of the ships with near impunity, with only the more experienced Roman captains able to counter the enemy rams.

With corvi, the Romans attacked head-on in line abreast, each galley protecting the flanks of its neighbour, an impenetrable wall against which the Carthaginians had no defence. The skill required of the Roman crew for a frontal attack was minimal compared to a ramming run, and therein lay one of the many strengths of the corvus, requiring only that the crew strike the bow of the enemy ship before the boarding ramp was released to hold the galleys together. Now the ram reigned supreme and seamanship was vital, a skill the Carthaginians had honed over generations, using it to deadly effect in the harbour of Panormus.

Atticus roared a course change in anger and frustration and the Orcus came up to attack speed. In the waters ahead, a Roman galley was desperately trying to avoid the ram of a pursuing Carthaginian ship, their forlorn attempts to escape neatly countered at every turn. Atticus identified the target to Gaius, the helmsman grimly bringing the ram of the Orcus to bear. The Carthaginian crew realized the threat and although, as before, they reacted with lightning speed, Gaius was their equal and the Orcus accelerated to ramming speed.

Atticus instinctively braced himself for the strike but his frustration refused to allow him to focus. A sudden crash of timbers caused him to turn and again he watched with dread as another Roman galley fell victim to the Carthaginians. The sound was repeated twice more in as many seconds and Atticus felt the weight of regret crush him. The Orcus would claim a second prize, maybe a third, but all the while other Roman ships would be lost, and Atticus was powerless to defend them all.

Panormus had fallen, the town was theirs, but in the harbour the Carthaginians were exacting a measure of revenge, slowly drawing a blade across the exposed incompetence of the Roman navy, turning the waters red with their blood. The Carthaginians were once more claiming what was rightfully theirs: mastery of the sea.