Master of Rome

CHAPTER TWELVE

The sentry pulled the rim of his helmet lower as he peered into the darkness, his head turned slightly to pick up any sounds of approach. Huge torches burned high on the walls of the city four hundred yards away, playing havoc with his night vision, but he kept his eyes to the ground and the black space that separated the enemy from the Roman lines.

He was an optio of the II maniple, the unit whose turn it was to post the vigilae, the night guard, and although the sentry could take consolation in knowing this would be his only night watch all week, he was weary after working the entire day on the siege towers and his eyes were heavy with exhaustion. He sought to keep his mind active, knowing that any lapse in concentration would invite the mortal danger of falling asleep on duty, an offence punishable by summary execution. He felt an ache in his lower back and he suddenly noticed his shoulders had slumped. He quickly straightened and cursed under his breath, drawing his dagger from its scabbard.

He placed the ball of his thumb on the blade, pressing down slightly until the blade pierced his skin. He winced against the pain, but he felt his mind react sharply and he kept his thumb in place, shifting it slightly from time to time to keep his senses alert. It was an old trick, and the legionary’s thumb was laced with ancient scars that bore testament to his years in other legions. He scowled in the darkness. It was going to be a long night.

The commander of the Greek mercenaries heard the grating noise of a blade against a scabbard and he froze. In the darkness around him he sensed his men react, the tiniest rustle of disturbed grass giving way to total silence. He held his breath. Had the Roman sentry heard them? He remained still, opening his mouth slightly to improve his hearing and he began breathing again — short, shallow breaths that sounded no louder than the warm wind. In his mind’s eye he pictured the Roman sentry, perhaps poised as he was, and he waited for the inevitable challenge, knowing any sentry, however experienced, would feel compelled to call out. A minute of complete silence passed, however, and the mercenary commander felt confident they had not been discovered.

He moved forward again and smiled, his mouth closed. The Roman sentry was no more than twenty yards away and the mercenary commander moved his head from side to side to try to locate him, using the random torch-lights of the distant Roman stockade to silhouette the standing sentry. He had advanced with a hundred men in a spaced row towards the Roman sentry line, while fifty yards behind, a further five hundred men moved equally silently. Now he was poised to attack and he nodded to himself in the darkness. He had achieved surprise.

The mercenary commander advanced a further five yards and then stopped again, allowing time for his men to get into position. The main force would continue to move forward, unaware of their leader’s position, so he could not linger. His hand felt to his side and the hilt of his sword, the ivory handle familiar in his grip. He angled his body towards where he had heard the metallic sound and then slowly came out of his crouch, his legs tensed with coiled energy. He paused for a further heartbeat and then whistled. A sharp, short blast that signalled the charge. He shot forward, drawing his sword as he did, coming up to a full run as he sought out his prey.

He spotted the sentry to his right, a shadow within a shadow, the legionary standing beneath one of the massive siege towers. The mercenary commander leaned into the turn, bringing his sword up high as the Roman reacted, the beginnings of a call of alarm escaping his lips as he tried to draw his weapon. The Greek struck him down with a single blow, his sword striking the legionary in the neck, and he fell instantly. The mercenary commander continued on, running directly to the siege tower; as he reached it he heard the first cries of alarm from sentries who had reacted faster.

Their calls were quickly silenced but, like a spark to tinder, the Roman soldiers guarding the towers exploded into action. A figure surged out of the darkness towards the mercenary commander, a misshapen beast with shield and sword held outwards in attack. The commander crouched low and slashed his sword across the legs of the oncoming legionary. The Roman screamed out in pain and fell to the ground. The Greek spun around and stabbed his sword down into the legionary’s exposed back, the blade glancing off the spine before plunging into the kidneys.

The mercenary commander stood up quickly and charged his sword once more. The main body of his men were rushing past him and the darkness hid a growing maelstrom of sound as they struck the centre of the Roman night guard behind the towers. The enemy had reacted fast, as the mercenary commander knew a disciplined army like the Romans would, but within seconds they were hopelessly outnumbered. The commander stayed out of the desperate fray, his eyes on the growing lights of the nearby legion encampment; and, as the last of the valiant night guard were put to the sword, a momentary semblance of calm descended around the towers, at odds with the growing cacophony of shouted orders from the encampment.

The Greek mercenary commander knew they had to act fast before the full force of the legion arrived to counter-attack. He could not stand against such numbers, but with luck his task would be complete before then. He stepped back from the tower as the first of his men bearing buckets of pitch arrived. They threw the pitch at the base of the tower while others ran around to ascend the ladder to the platform above, spreading the viscous liquid over as many of the timbers as they could. Once lit, the pitch would give the flames purchase on the newly cut timbers that were still heavy with sap, but it would take several minutes for the fire to take hold and become an unquenchable inferno. Vital minutes that the Greek mercenaries would pay for with blood.

Septimus was jolted from his sleep by the first calls. He jumped up, his mind fogged by fatigue as he shrugged on his armour and grabbed his weapons. By the time he emerged from his tent, the cries of alarm had given way to a general call-to-arms. He automatically repeated the order, shouting at individual men of his command as they emerged from their tents, ordering them to form up and make ready.

He looked to the ramparts of the encampment, trying to discern the point of attack from the rush of men responding to the strident orders. It was difficult to see in the half-light, but a dozen torches quickly became fifty and then a hundred and uncertainty suddenly gave way to realization. His mind became fully alert following the first rush of action, and he ran towards the main gate, a feeling of dread rising from the pit of his stomach.

His maniple ran after him in a confused rush, his optio shouting orders for the men to form up on the run, understanding sweeping through the ranks as the whole encampment became aware of the enemy’s target and the legionaries of the IV maniple increased their pace. Septimus barged into the bottleneck at the main gate, his size and rank giving him the advantage as he pushed through into the open ground beyond the gate. The darkness outside the ramparts was almost total and he stumbled on the uneven ground, his eyes locked on the siege towers two hundred yards away. They were silhouetted against the torches mounted on the distant town walls, four massive shadows, and Septimus could intermittently see figures surging around their bases, indistinguishable as friend or foe.

He glanced to his right and the Second Legion’s encampment half a mile away. It too was coming to life, reacting to the din coming from the Ninth. The ramparts bristled with torch-lights, the soldiers wary of the surrounding darkness, not knowing if they were witnessing the main attack or a diversion. Septimus had no such doubts and he drew his sword as ran on, his ears filled with the sounds of hundreds of men snarling and panting, of swords rasping against scabbards, of heavy footfalls as they charged towards the towers.

When the Carthaginians had attacked the siege towers at Panormus the arrival of reinforcements from the main encampment had quickly routed the enemy and saved the beleaguered maniple on guard duty. Now the enemy had repeated that action and, as Septimus ran, there were legionaries on all sides, with only those who had reacted more quickly in front of him, the soldiers advancing to defend the towers without orders, and all semblance of manipular order lost in the headlong charge.

Two hundred yards became fifty and Septimus shouted out the first commands, the men responding immediately to the centurion amongst their ranks; but only a ragged line was formed, distorted by the darkness and the rush of attack. Septimus tightened the grip on his sword, tensing his arm behind the bulk of his shield. He peered ahead into the darkness, searching for prey, expecting them to be already in flight in the face of the Roman charge.

Suddenly an orange plume appeared on the nearest tower, a dancing light that pierced the skin of legionary discipline, and the Romans roared in anger, their shouts becoming a terrifying battle cry as they saw the flames whip up the height of the tower. Septimus saw a host of men suddenly appear as if from nowhere, exposed by the light from the fire, twenty yards away, their ranks steady, their swords charged against the oncoming counter-attack, and Septimus yelled a desperate order for the line to coalesce, alarmed by the apparent discipline of the enemy force, their coordination in marked contrast to the night attack at Panormus. His command came too late, though, and the Romans charged into the enemy line as a multitude of individual fighters.

Septimus thrust his sword forward in anger and frustration, alarm still ringing in his mind as he sensed the chaos around him. The fight was already a desperate brawl where enemies and weapons were veiled in the half-light of the fires consuming the siege towers, a confusion of thrashing limbs where sword and shield were used with equal force, the men whipping around to face the enemy that was suddenly on all sides, the lines becoming completely enmeshed.

The clash of swords resounded in the shadows and men shouted angrily in attack and defence. The Greek mercenaries added to the noise, hammering their shields and shouting out conflicting commands, raising the level of confusion, calling out orders to advance while their lines remained steady. The mercenary commander stood back from the fight, his eyes locked on the fires that were on the cusp of becoming uncontrollable infernos.

He cursed the Romans’ swiftness, their unholy charge from the encampment that had brought them sweeping into his ranks long before he thought it possible. Any other enemy would have been wary of the darkness, advancing only in numbers, but the Romans had counterattacked at the pace of the quickest man, a ragged charge that would not defeat his men but would increase his casualties. He dared not withdraw too soon for that would give the Romans the opportunity to douse the fires; however, every passing second brought the risk that the ever-increasing enemy numbers would overwhelm and trap his forces.

He drew in a deep breath, a blast of warm air from the surging fire drying his throat, and he reached for the horn at his side, bringing it slowly to his lips, his eyes ever locked on the fires. He paused, waiting for the right moment. ‘Now,’ he decided, and he spat to wet his throat before sounding the order to disengage, a command that was normally tantamount to suicide in close combat, but the Greek mercenaries were well drilled and prepared for the order and the commander was counting on the Romans ignoring their flight as they rushed to save their siege towers.

The air was filled with the lowing sound of a horn, a continuous, steady note. The attackers swiftly disengaged from the fight, many of them surging forward one last time, only to turn and run through the guiding light of the flaming towers into the darkness beyond. Septimus instinctively shouted at his men to continue the fight, to exploit the moment of maximum weakness when an enemy turned his back; but in the darkness and confusion of the tangled skirmish his order was meaningless, and the attackers swept from the fight like a wave receding over a pebble beach, carrying some Romans in their initial wake but ultimately escaping unencumbered.

Septimus quickly forgot the enemy’s withdrawal at the dread sight of the fires consuming the siege towers. He slammed his sword into his scabbard. He swept around and shouted at the bloodied, winded legionaries to run for water, but his command was unnecessary as hundreds of men emerged in ordered ranks from the encampment bearing buckets and amphorae of water. Going as close as they dared to the raging fires, they attacked the flames, throwing the meagre contents of each container at them.

Septimus stood back, the skin on his face burning with the intensity of the fire. He leaned against his shield, allowing the other centurions to command their own maniples in the fight to save the towers. It was hopeless, and Septimus mourned the loss of so much hard work. He looked at the ground surrounding the towers, littered with the slain who had fought to defend the hollow wooden prizes.

The II maniple had been all but wiped out, along with dozens more legionaries who had charged fearlessly from the encampment into the chaotic vortex where the enemy had stood resolute and disciplined. The attackers had anticipated the counterattack, had fought hard and withdrew only when the fires had taken hold, their staunch defence dissipating at the sound of a horn.

Septimus searched for their slain and saw they were but a fraction of the total, barely visible in a sea of red-cloaked soldiers. He walked over to one and kicked over the body, noticing, even in the half-light of the fires, that his uniform and armour were unlike any he had ever seen on a Carthaginian. His anger flared unbidden as he realized the attackers had been mercenaries, hired swords, their loyalty extending only to money and plunder. To a legionary they were the lowest form of vermin, and to have been bested by them was a bitter insult that compounded the dishonour of defeat.

Septimus was distracted by a scuffle nearby and he watched as a group of legionaries beat a captured mercenary. He was badly wounded, but the legionaries, enraged by their loss, showed little mercy. A centurion struggled to call them off, needing to keep the mercenary alive for interrogation. The legionaries refused to back down, wanting the mercenary dead, and the centurion drew his sword to enforce his will. Septimus watched apathetically. What did it matter if the mercenary had any information? The defeat was irreversible. He turned again to the pyres that had once been the siege towers, the men no longer trying to douse the flames but standing back, breathing heavily, their blackened faces twisted in anger and frustration.

Even from four hundred yards away, Hamilcar imagined he could feel the heat off the smouldering piles of debris, although he knew it was the warmth of the dawn sun, its light perfectly framing the triumph that was the mercenaries’ night attack. The Greeks had more than proved their worth, and Hamilcar wished his father had been there to see the harvest of his choice.

Apart from the destruction of the siege towers, the attack served one other important purpose: putting to rest a doubt that had plagued Hamilcar ever since the hired Greeks had arrived. He had long used mercenaries as part of his forces, but never had he allowed them to outnumber his own native troops, a necessity at Lilybaeum forced upon him by Hanno’s possession of the Carthaginian army and the spectre of betrayal that had hung over Hamilcar and the garrison. That fear was now vanquished by the Greeks’ successful attack on the siege towers and the death of so many Romans at the hands of the mercenaries.

Hamilcar had little doubt that the Romans would build again, but at a slower pace, hindered perhaps by the need for greater security or an underlying fear that their labour would be for naught. The Romans were wilful to the point of arrogance, but even they must feel the uncertainty that follows on the heels of defeat.

Whatever the enemy’s course, Hamilcar’s plan was now firmly in motion. The destruction of the siege towers had bought him valuable time. Lilybaeum was safe from a land assault for the immediate future and Hamilcar could now turn his attention to other side of the battle. For this he needed to leave the city, to escape the siege. He turned towards the sea and the quadrireme waiting for him at the quayside.

Atticus strode impatiently across the aft-deck of the Orcus, his mood foul after a sleepless night. The arrival of the Rhodian in Lilybaeum was an ill omen, a subtle but vital shift of the odds in the Carthaginians’ favour. Their easy approach and evasion had made a mockery of the blockade; Atticus had sent one of his galleys to Ovidius, the Roman prefect at the northern end of the bay, to warn him of the quadrireme’s arrival.

To add to his disquiet, Atticus had heard the sound of battle from behind the town during the dark hours of the night, the noise travelling easily across the still waters of the bay. Trapped out in the lagoon, it was impossible to tell what was occurring but, as the noise abated, the orange glow of fires could be seen. It was evident that the siege towers had been attacked and Atticus’s thoughts were with Septimus and the Ninth Legion, his concern keeping him awake until dawn.

He held his hand up to his face to shield his eyes, the rising sun behind the town illuminating the inner harbour, and he saw a number of boats sailing aimlessly across the docks, while others pulled gently at their anchor lines in the shoal-weakened swell. In light of the Rhodian’s arrival, Atticus was tempted to abandon the blockade and immediately sail the fleet into the inner harbour via the northern channel, to force the issue and end the torturous waiting, but he dismissed the idea, knowing that the Carthaginians had not attacked him in the enclosed harbour of Aspis for the same reasons he could not here, and in Lilybaeum there would be the added danger of needing to land men on a hostile dock with a precarious line of retreat. The town would have to be taken from the landward side by the legions or, failing that, the inhabitants would need to be forced to surrender through starvation and deprivation, a tactic that would only work if the bay were sealed and the town cut off from resupply.

As a blockade runner, the Rhodian was the blade that could slash the entire fabric of the siege. Atticus turned abruptly from the town to continue pacing the deck, his mind revisiting every thought he had had during the night on how he could capture the Rhodian when he inevitably tried to run the blockade again. The heat of the day was building, the sun beating down from a clear blue sky, and the sweat prickled on Atticus’s back, sharpening the fine edge of his dark mood.

Hamilcar nodded as permission to come aboard was granted. He walked quickly up the gangplank, jumping down on to the main deck, followed by twenty of his own men. He looked to the aft-deck, searching for the Rhodian, his shaved head a distinguishing feature that singled him out. He saw the Greek standing by the helm, his expression one of anger. Hamilcar strode towards him, his men fanning out across the deck behind him, and the Rhodian approached to close the gap, meeting him on the main deck.

‘The agreement was for you alone, Hamilcar,’ the Rhodian said. ‘There was never any mention of these additional men.’

‘They are here for my protection, Calix,’ Hamilcar replied evenly. ‘You have worked with the Romans before and I wanted to be sure you would not be tempted to hand me over to the blockade. So, at the first sign of treachery, my men have orders to strike you down.’

Calix bristled at the insult against his honour, and Hamilcar sensed the Greek crewmen around him react with similar anger, but he kept his eyes on the Rhodian.

‘There will be no treachery, Hamilcar,’ Calix replied with suppressed resentment. ‘I have also worked with your people in the past and my reputation is without stain.’

‘Nevertheless,’ Hamilcar said firmly, ‘my men stay.’

Calix stared at the Carthaginian commander for a moment longer. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We will discuss the price of their passage after we escape the blockade.’

Hamilcar smiled. ‘Agreed,’ he said. He had known Calix would ultimately comply — how could he not, given he was yet to be paid? — but to have him back down so quickly and swallow the slight against his honour was a mark of his professionalism. For many men whose allegiance was for sale, loyalty could easily be secured by a higher bidder; but with the Rhodian, Hamilcar was now confident his loyalty was also bound by his word and his reputation.

Calix ordered his crew to cast off and shouted down the open hatchway to the rowing deck to make ready. Hamilcar glanced down and was immediately surprised to see the rowers moving freely around the deck, many of them running to their oars in answer to Calix’s command.

‘They’re freedmen,’ he said almost to himself, and Calix turned.

‘The strongest rowing crew in the Mediterranean,’ he said with unassuming confidence, and he began calling orders at his crew again as the Ares moved sedately away from the dock.

Hamilcar watched the rowing crew at work, their stroke even and clean. He had heard the Greeks used freedmen as rowers, but he had never encountered them before. For a fleet the size of Carthage’s, apart from the difficulties of procuring such manpower, the cost of using freedmen as rowers would be enormous, although Hamilcar could see the advantages.

As the order was given for standard speed, the Ares jerked forward under their combined strength. He was poised to turn away when one other realization struck him, his ear so attuned to the sound that he did not notice its absence; there was no drum beat. Just as he wondered how the rowers kept time, they suddenly began to sing, a deep sonorous tune that matched the pace of their stroke. They bent their backs to the task with the enthusiasm of professional labourers who took pride in their work.

The Ares swung her bow through ninety degrees and Calix called for battle speed. Beyond the inner shoals, two squadrons of ships were sailing slowly across the lagoon while the bulk still straddled the northern channel. As Hamilcar moved to the helm, Calix adjusted the course of the Ares once more, deciding on an inner channel that would take the Ares between the two squadrons but closer to the southernmost one, a calculated risk to lower any pursuit to a minimum.

Hamilcar looked to the Roman ships less than a mile away and, with a sailor’s heart, he shrugged off the concerns of command to concentrate on the contest about to unfold. He was committed; his fate was in the hands of the gods and the skilled crew of a Greek mercenary.

‘Enemy galley, four points off the starboard bow.’

It took mere seconds for Atticus to spot the approaching ship and discern its course and intent.

‘Battle speed, steady the helm,’ he shouted, running to the side rail. It was the Rhodian, there was no doubt. Making battle speed and heading for a channel in the inner shoals about half a mile away. Atticus looked to his other squadron nearer the northern end of the bay. They too were responding, coming about to close the vice, but Atticus could immediately see they were too far away. Only his squadron was in a position to intercept the Rhodian.

‘Gaius, your assessment,’ Atticus asked over his shoulder.

‘He’s making battle speed,’ Gaius replied, his hand steady on the tiller. ‘And if his channel through the inner shoals is straight, he’s going to reach the lagoon before we can intercept him. Recommend we go to attack speed and head for the outer rim of the lagoon.’

Atticus nodded without turning. ‘Make it so,’ he said, and the Orcus accelerated, the staggered response of the rest of the squadron creating a slight gap behind the command ship.

Gaius turned the helm through two points to port and the Orcus leaned into the turn, her ram slicing across the gentle swell, creating curved waves that marked her course.

‘Baro,’ Atticus shouted, and the second-in-command ran to the aft-deck.

‘Have Drusus ready the legionaries. It’s time they put their new skills to the test.’

Baro nodded with a conspiratorial smile. He had trained the legionaries relentlessly over the previous weeks and was anxious for them to cut their new teeth in battle. He ran back to the main deck and began speaking with Drusus, occasionally pointing to the quadrireme off the starboard beam.

Atticus watched them for a moment longer and then turned his attention to the Rhodian. The quadrireme was approaching the inner shoals, still sailing at battle speed, an incredible pace considering the obstacle he was about to negotiate; but his committed course allowed Atticus to recalculate the angles, his confidence rising slowly as he drew his conclusions.

Hamilcar instinctively leaned forward as the ram of the Ares approached the shoals, the speed of the quadrireme raising the hairs on his arms. He glanced at Calix, the Rhodian’s gaze locked on the Roman squadron on the far side of the lagoon. Hamilcar looked over his shoulder to Lilybaeum, wondering which landmark the helmsman was using to align the galley to the hidden channel, impressed by the confidence shown by all on board but, as he looked again to Calix, he saw his brow was wrinkled in puzzlement.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘The Romans,’ Calix replied slowly. ‘I had expected them to come straight at us as we emerged from the inner shoals and then give chase, but they have sailed to the far side of the lagoon. It is a clever move, one to their advantage…’

He turned away abruptly and began talking to the helmsman, as if Hamilcar were no longer there, and both Greeks looked towards the Roman squadron. Hamilcar watched their discussion. Greek was the trading language of the entire Mediterranean and Hamilcar possessed a reasonable grasp of the language, but the dialect and speed of their conversation frustrated his efforts to listen. He saw them nod in unison as they reached a decision.

He looked to the waters around the Ares and noticed they were almost through the shoals. Beneath the crystal-clear green waters he could see the shadows of the rocks, some of them reaching up to the surface not twenty feet from the bow of the Ares, jagged spires that would pierce even the strongest timbers, and again he marvelled at the skill and confidence of the Rhodian, knowing that any mistake would be punishable by utter ruin.

The deck tilted suddenly beneath Hamilcar, and he centred his balance as the Ares accelerated to attack speed, her bow coming around to a point further ahead of the Roman squadron. The Rhodian had obviously abandoned his original course and was now striking for a more distant channel, forced to do so by the Romans’ initial perceptive reaction. Hamilcar felt a stirring of doubt but he shrugged it off. Despite the slight deviation in plan, he trusted the Rhodian.

‘Aspect change,’ Corin shouted. ‘The Rhodian is coming about two points to starboard. Moving to attack speed.’

‘I make it more like three,’ Baro said, but Atticus and Gaius remained silent, their concentration riveted on the quadrireme’s every move.

‘Helm, one point to starboard,’ Atticus said. ‘Give me a hundred yards off the port beam between us and the outer shoals.’

Gaius nodded and made the change. The quadrireme was almost directly off their starboard beam on the far side of the lagoon, but their course was convergent, the Rhodian striking for a channel in the shoals somewhere ahead of the Orcus. Atticus was looking to close that apex, to intercept the quadrireme just short of its target, knowing that if the Rhodian reached the shoals the race would be over. The quadrireme’s draught was at least four or five feet less than that of a quinquereme’s, and Atticus knew, if the roles were reversed, he would choose a channel that only a lighter boat could traverse.

‘We should accelerate to ramming speed,’ Baro said, but Atticus ignored him. It was too soon for such a last-ditch move. The rowers could only maintain ramming speed for five minutes maximum and, given that the Rhodian might change course again, Atticus might need that reserve of strength. He looked to his other squadron, approaching on their position, but again, even with the convergent courses, they would still not intercept the Rhodian before he crossed the lagoon. The Orcus was leading the charge and only they could thwart the enemy.

‘Ramming speed,’ Calix ordered, and the Ares was transformed into the very creature its namesake watched over, the galley taking flight across the smooth waters of the lagoon, its sleek, shallow draught offering minimal drag. The ram surged clear of the water with each pull of the oars.

Hamilcar listened to the rowers sing, their tune changing to match the increased tempo, their words sung on the exhalation of each pull of the oar. The Roman squadron was closing off the port beam, perhaps three hundred yards away, while ahead Hamilcar could not yet see the telltale signs that marked the beginnings of the outer shoals. He looked to the Rhodian, unnerved by his confidence. For Hamilcar the order to increase to ramming speed had come too soon, and he wondered if Calix was perhaps blinded by his own self-belief. He had thrown the final die and committed the Ares to its top speed. The Romans were sure to respond in kind and he tried to calculate the result, deducing only that it would be close. He was tempted to challenge the Rhodian but he held his tongue, and his nerve.

‘They’ve gone to ramming speed,’ Baro shouted. ‘I told you-’

‘Quiet,’ Atticus barked, thrown by the unexpected move. ‘Gaius?’ he said.

‘It’s got to be a mistake,’ the helmsman said. ‘He’s shown his hand too soon.’

Atticus nodded but, regardless of any perceived mistake, the Rhodian’s move had to be countered.

‘Ramming speed,’ he shouted, and Baro needlessly ran to the hatch on the main deck to repeat the order, the drum master already responding to Atticus’s voice.

The Orcus charged forward with the strength of two hundred and seventy rowers, making its ramming speed a shade faster than a quadrireme’s, and Atticus saw Baro nod to Drusus on the main deck, a final salutation of comrades before the fight.

Atticus glanced to the four points of his ship, the waters ahead clear, the shoals off his port beam, his squadron taking up the rear, and the enemy galley sailing desperately to get ahead of the Orcus, their slight lead being eroded with every stroke of the quinquereme’s oars.

‘It’s the Greek,’ Hamilcar said venomously as he recognized the command ship of the Roman squadron.

‘Who?’ Calix asked, perplexed.

‘Perennis, the Greek prefect.’

‘Perennis,’ Calix repeated slowly, taking a greater interest in the lead galley. She had gained over a ship length on the boats behind, a testament to a more skilled crew. He had heard of Perennis, and had remembered his name: a Greek who had risen in the Roman navy, a testament to his abilities in itself. He nodded, feeling a slight tinge of regret that he would best one of his own people.

Hamilcar kept his gaze locked on the Roman galley, less than two hundred yards away, its course locked on a point ahead of both converging ships, and he realized with sickening dread that the Roman galley would reach that point first and block the Ares ’s access to the shoals. There was no escape. Even if they turned inside they would be turning into the entire Roman squadron. There was no choice but to retreat; even then their chances were slim, given that the rowers could not maintain ramming speed for the time it would take to re-cross the lagoon to the inner shoals. The Rhodian had misjudged his run and Hamilcar turned to him with a murderous expression.

‘We can’t make it,’ he said angrily. ‘You pushed them to ramming speed too soon.’

Calix did not respond but held up a hand to silence Hamilcar as he spoke rapidly to the helmsman, both men glancing over their shoulders to some distant point on the land behind. Calix nodded in agreement and then turned to Hamilcar.

‘Forgive me, Hamilcar, but our approach to the channel must be exact,’ he said calmly.

‘We’ll never reach that far. Perennis will cut us off. We must withdraw.’

‘We will yet outrun them,’ Calix replied, and shouted out an order for the rowing deck to make ready.

‘We are already at ramming speed and Perennis’s quinquereme is faster,’ Hamilcar said exasperatedly.

‘His rowers are slaves,’ Calix replied, never taking his eyes off the Roman galley. ‘As are yours, Hamilcar. Therefore you think like a master of slaves. They respond only to the beat of the drum; however well trained they are, they are bound by its beat. Ramming speed is merely the limit of the drum. Any faster and the beats overlap, causing the rowers to lose coordination. But my rowers are freedmen. They were not trained by the rhythm of a drum and for a crew such as mine, coordination is almost instinctive. Strength alone is their only limitation, and I know they have not yet reached that threshold.’

He turned to Hamilcar.

‘Now you and Perennis will witness the true speed of a galley,’ and he ordered the rowers to increase their pace, leaving Hamilcar to watch in awe as the Ares accelerated to an incredible sixteen knots.

‘By the gods, they’re increasing speed,’ Gaius whispered, and Atticus ran to the side rail to confirm what he could not believe. The gap between the two ships continued to fall as their courses converged, but now the pace of the quadrireme was outstripping the Orcus. Atticus’s mind raced to try to devise some way to stop the Rhodian, exploring every conceivable course change and discounting it in the same moment. Speed alone would decide the contest and the Rhodian had somehow reversed the outcome.

The quadrireme passed within a ship length of the bow of the Orcus and Gaius swung the galley into its wake, knowing there was little else he could do. Atticus stared at the aft-deck of the enemy ship. There were Carthaginians amongst the mercenary crew, their faces indistinguishable across the distance, and Atticus felt overwhelmed by his frustration.

‘He’ll have to reduce speed once they hit the channel,’ Baro said. ‘We still have a chance.’ And he shouted forward to Drusus to make ready.

‘It’s over,’ Atticus said. ‘We can’t enter the channel. It’s too shallow for us.’

‘You can’t know that,’ Baro argued angrily. ‘We have to stop them.’

‘The Rhodian knew he would be pursued,’ Atticus replied. ‘And he would have picked a channel that he alone could traverse.’

Baro looked to Gaius, but the helmsman remained silent, in tacit agreement with Atticus.

‘How do you know?’ Baro said, turning once more to Atticus. ‘Because he’s Greek, like you? Is that it? You all think alike?’

Atticus’s expression became murderous and he stared into Baro’s face, causing the second-in-command to step back instinctively.

‘It’s over, Baro,’ he snarled. ‘Now get off my aft-deck.’

Baro straightened up and stalked away. Atticus turned to Gaius, the helmsman nodding, and he ordered ‘all stop’, the Orcus drifting to a halt as the quadrireme reached the outer limits of the shoals, when it too reduced speed to navigate the channel. The squadron of galleys behind the Orcus responded to the command ship’s order, fanning out to allow themselves sea room to stop safely. All were given leave to watch the Rhodian complete his passage of the outer shoals, the quadrireme raising sail with impunity to strike away into the west.

Gaius requested further orders, ready to bear away, but Atticus did not hear him, his entire being focused on the escaping galley. He recalled every detail of the chase, every manoeuvre the quadrireme had made, and stored it away beneath his anger, determined that he should use it to find a way to seal the loophole the Rhodian had exposed in the blockade and forge a new defence that would not break so easily.

Scipio watched with a slight smile at the edge of his mouth as the legionaries flogged the trader with the flat edges of their swords, whipping their blades away after each strike with a slight twist of their wrists, causing the leading edge of the blade to cut neatly through the trader’s clothes and score his skin, shallow flesh wounds that would leave scars as a reminder of his crime. He was bent over almost double as he ran, his cries for mercy unheard by the jeering crowd, and the legionaries pursued him all the way to the main gate, stopping only when they reached the threshold to spit and curse at the fleeing trader, shouting unnecessary warnings that he should never return.

In the charged atmosphere of the legionary encampment, the trader’s crime was simple. He was Greek. He was a camp follower, one of more than a hundred who had flocked to the stationary camps offering all manner of wares, from replacement kit to wines and exotic foods, and a taste of the local women. For some it was a full-time profession: they had travelled from Rome on foot for the profits that could be made over an entire campaign season. The Greek was one of these men, a trader who had shadowed the legions in Sicily for years and was well known amongst the quartermasters. He, like the other camp followers, had been tolerated — even liked, Scipio suspected — but that had all changed with the discovery that the surprise attack on the siege towers had been carried out by Greek mercenaries.

Legionaries were conditioned to hate the Carthaginians by the hardships of the campaign and the loss of comrades in previous battles, but the discovery that it was the Greeks who were responsible for the destruction of the siege towers seemed tantamount to treason, given that the Republic encompassed former Greek territories that had always been treated magnanimously.

For Scipio it was evidence of the beliefs he had always held about the treacherous nature of non-Romans: that their disloyalty was simply a mark of their innate inferiority. In watching the trader being beaten from camp, Scipio had pictured Perennis beneath those same swords, spat at and told never to return, as the Romans who had tolerated him for years finally became aware of the true nature of the outsider in their midst. For now, the Greek prefect still served a purpose, but Scipio was finding it increasingly hard to stick to his original conviction, and it was with difficulty that he suppressed the urge to summon Perennis to the camp under some pretext in order to expose him to the wrath of the legionaries. He calmed himself, conceding once more that time was on his side and that eventually he would dispose of the Greek as thoroughly as the legionaries had his compatriot.

Scipio was distracted by the approach of a contubernia of soldiers led by a centurion, and his eyes narrowed in curiosity as he looked at the long timber box they carried on their shoulders. The centurion stopped before Scipio and saluted. His expression was fearful and his forehead beaded with sweat.

‘Beg to report, Consul,’ he said haltingly. ‘We found this box inside our lines this morning. It must have been placed there during the attack.’

‘What is it?’ Scipio asked impatiently.

‘It’s…’ the centurion stammered and he looked to the box, unable to answer.

‘Set it down,’ Scipio ordered irritably.

The soldiers quickly complied and then backed away. The box had already been opened, Scipio presumed by the centurion, but the lid had been reaffixed. Scipio could hear a faint buzzing sound emanating from within and his brow furrowed in puzzlement.

‘Open it,’ he commanded, and the centurion stepped forward, drawing his sword as he did. He crouched down and slid the blade under the lid and then turned his face away, before abruptly twisting and lifting the blade with one sweep of his arm.

The lid flew off and a cloud of flies erupted from the box, causing Scipio to lean back and look away as the swarm dissipated. He waved his hand angrily in front of his face and stepped forward to peer down. His stomach heaved, a violent spasm from the depths of his bowels, and he turned away before looking back upon the rotting corpse laid out in the box. Regulus stared up at him sightlessly; his eyes long since devoured by the voracious flies that had nested there, the swarm resettling once more on his flesh.

Scipio looked down to the butchery that was Regulus’s chest, unable to comprehend what would cause such a horrendous wound. It was as if… and Scipio suddenly realized what he was seeing, the shape of the elephant’s pad-like foot clearly visible around the lower edge of the wound. He fought against the wave of nausea that swept over him.

‘Cover him up,’ he ordered the centurion harshly, and he turned to enter his tent, anxious to be alone.

Once inside he stumbled over to a basin and splashed water on his face, closing his eyes as he did so. The image of Regulus flashed before him and he opened his eyes wide again, his nausea suddenly coupled with a primal fear of retribution. Regulus had been his enemy and Scipio had wanted him destroyed, but he realized that the terrible fate the proconsul had suffered had affected him deeply. He had sent Regulus to that end, and again the image of his hollow stare flashed before him.

Scipio brushed the vision aside, suddenly angry at his own weakness, that he should feel remorse for Regulus. The proconsul had brought his fate upon himself with his foolish attempt to broker a peace treaty, and the Carthaginians had carried out the barbaric execution, not Scipio. Yet a shred of culpability remained on his conscience. He poured a goblet of wine from an amphora and drank deeply, allowing the sharp taste to cleanse the last of the nausea from his throat.

The return of Regulus’s body was no doubt meant as a personal warning to the Roman commander of the fate that awaited him, but for Scipio it merely hardened his heart. The Carthaginians had rid him of his enemy and, however merciless they perceived their method of execution to be, Scipio had witnessed the legionaries descend to the same level of savagery in their sack of Panormus. If Carthage believed that Rome had not the stomach for the fight, they were sorely mistaken. Scipio would open their eyes to that error. He would go back on the offensive, and wipe the stain of Regulus’s demise from his conscience by inflicting a terrible reprisal on the Carthaginian foe.