Master of Rome

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Hamilcar looked out along the length of the city of Drepana to the harbour as the Ares rounded the small islands at the head of the bay. The Gadir fleet was anchored in neat lines, the ships tethered by their sterns, their bows facing out, ready to slip their moorings at a moment’s notice. He heard warning cries carried on the offshore breeze, and from out of the inner harbour two quinqueremes approached, turning neatly together to intercept the unusual ship that had sailed brazenly into the jaws of the fleet.

Hamilcar smiled and moved to the foredeck to identify himself as the gap narrowed, impressed but not surprised by the alertness of the fleet’s commanders. Gadir was on the very fringes of the empire, and the fleet based there was one of the best: independent and resilient, it existed outside of the realm of the relative protection of Carthage and was often cut off for months during the winter. The crews were renowned for their strict sailing discipline and the fleet possessed the agility and reaction times of a force half its size.

The Ares passed through the guardsmen and into the long neck of the harbour, while Hamilcar returned to the aft-deck to instruct Calix to sail past the fleet and tie up at the docks beneath the walls of the town.

‘An impressive fleet, Hamilcar,’ Calix said as the Ares moved slowly past the serried ranks.

‘There are few finer,’ Hamilcar replied, with the same unassuming confidence that Calix had shown when he spoke of his crew.

Calix nodded, realizing the depth of pride the Carthaginian had in the men he commanded. They were indeed a race of skilled mariners, their expansive empire a fitting testament to that skill, but Calix believed they could not claim the mantle of the finest seafarers. That rested solidly on the shoulders of the Greeks, an ancient claim that was reasserted with each new generation.

‘You are right, Hamilcar,’ Calix said, looking proudly around at his crew. ‘There are few finer, and they are here.’

Hamilcar smiled with amusement. ‘You must continue to prove that, Calix,’ he said. ‘I need to keep a line of communication open with the besieged garrison. You must return to Lilybaeum immediately.’

Calix nodded. He had expected as much, given that only he could run the blockade.

‘Pay me for the passage for you and your men first, then we will negotiate a fee for running the blockade with dispatches,’ he said.

‘I will pay you what we agreed,’ Hamilcar replied. ‘And the same amount again each time you return here from Lilybaeum.’

Calix’s eyes shone with avarice. It was more than he’d hoped for and Hamilcar had offered it without hesitation. The potential purse was enormous and, given that he had already bested the Romans, even the notable Greek prefect, it would be an easy task.

Hamilcar saw the self-assurance in Calix’s face and felt his doubts ease somewhat. It was a risk sending the Rhodian back to Lilybaeum, given that — if he was caught — he would certainly reveal the strength and location of the Carthaginian fleet; but Hamilcar knew he had to keep in contact with the garrison, albeit only until he had readied the Gadir fleet for battle.

Continuing to use the Rhodian also sorted out one other potential problem. If Hamilcar ended his contract, the Rhodian would be free to sell his information to the Romans. The alternative was to seize the Rhodian’s ship but, considering how dependent Hamilcar was on mercenaries, any such blatant persecution of one of their own kind would surely cause the others to question his loyalty to their agreements.

‘Then we are agreed,’ Hamilcar said to Calix’s silence. ‘When you reach Lilybaeum, submit yourself to the garrison commander.’

Again Calix nodded and, as the gangplank was lowered on to the dock, Hamilcar beckoned to his men to depart.

Calix followed with men of his own, anxious to receive the money he was due and depart the bottleneck of the port. He felt hemmed in, an unfamiliar feeling for a creature of the open sea, and he looked around him furtively, taking solace in knowing that he would soon be away, his bow turned to the southwest and the Aegates Islands, there to await a favourable wind that would carry him once more through the blockade at Lilybaeum.

Atticus watched with interest as the trireme made its way slowly towards the Orcus, its familiar lines bringing a smile to his face. He glanced at Gaius, seeing the same satisfaction in the expression of the normally stern-faced helmsman. She was the Virtus, almost an exact replica of the Aquila, and both men looked past the differences to see the galley on which they had once sailed with pride.

The Virtus pulled alongside and Atticus jumped across the gap on to the lower main deck, followed by Gaius and ten other men. He looked over his shoulder and nodded curtly to Baro on the aft-deck of the Orcus, signalling the beginning of his nominal command of the quinquereme, and the Orcus pulled neatly away from the smaller galley. Gaius went immediately to the helm while Atticus took a moment to look about the ship and its assembled crew.

They were a picked crew, the best from every ship in his entire squadron, ninety men in all, three times the normal sailing complement of a trireme, but the Virtus carried no legionaries as each sailor was a skilled boarder, a vital attribute given they were planning to take a larger galley.

Atticus knew many of the men by name; others had been recommended by their captains, trusted men who knew what was at stake and would give their best to the task. He called the captain of the Virtus to his side and ordered him to organize the men into watches while he went below to the rowing deck.

The space was overly crowded, with men squatting silently on the walkway that ran the length of the deck, while others filled the cabins of the trireme. It was a cumbersome arrangement, but Atticus had managed to increase the relief from forty to one hundred rowers, an additional weight that increased the draught of the trireme by a foot but still kept it under that of a quadrireme. Again the men had been hand-picked from amongst the entire squadron, seasoned rowers who had lived through many battles and whose nerve could be trusted. By necessity they would be unchained to allow for a frequent and fluid system of replacement, so, to ensure the rowers would remain at their oars, Atticus had promised them all their freedom should their assault be successful, a loss he planned to make up from his prey.

Atticus nodded to himself, content that all was in order, and he went back on deck. He had no idea what cargo or personnel the Rhodian had ferried into or out of Lilybaeum, but he was convinced the Rhodian would return, for without his abilities the siege remained intact and the city cut off from supply and communication. He re-examined his plan, trying to anticipate every possible variant, relying the most on the skill of the crew he had assembled.

He had concluded that he had beaten the previous time because he had blindly followed convention, forgetting the skills he and many of the other men had gained through years of skirmishing with individual pirate ships. His manoeuvres had been those of a fleet commander, not an individual captain, and the Rhodian had exploited that predictability.

Atticus had forgotten the power of one ship, of one crew, believing instead in the strength of numbers, and he had dismissed the Rhodian’s first evasion as a fluke, the product of a surprise approach, confident that a ship so vastly outnumbered would be easily caught if they were vigilant. But the Rhodian had escaped him a second time.

Now Atticus possessed, as nearly as he could, an equivalent ship; and although he did not know the exact location of the channels the Rhodian had used to escape, he had formed a reasonable approximation. He had positioned other ships of his squadron to tempt the Rhodian to use the same or nearby channels in his next attempt.

Baro had asked if he believed he knew the Rhodian’s mind because he was Greek, but Atticus had realized it was because he had once been like him, relying solely on one ship and its crew, skilfully seeking out and exploiting an enemy’s weaknesses, fighting each battle from a chosen position of strength, stacking the odds in advance to ensure victory. It was the way of a lone wolf, a creature who shrugged off the safeguards but also the burden of a hunting pack to become a more efficient killer. With the Virtus, Atticus had become that creature once more and, as he looked to the western horizon, he sensed his prey was near at hand.

Calix held up his hand as the distant features of Lilybaeum became more distinct and the helmsman immediately shouted orders for the running rigging to be released. The mainsail lost its shape, the corners of the canvas sheet flapping in the westerly wind coming in over the starboard aft-quarter, and the Ares slowed, the helmsman just managing to keep her bow steady in the swell. Calix moved to the side rail, his gaze sweeping across the width of the bay, and the altered disposition of the Roman blockade.

The Ares had lain off the Aegates Islands for three days awaiting a favourable wind, and had set sail only hours ago. They had approached, as before, under canvas, keeping the strength of the rowers in reserve; but Calix was about to order them lowered when he noticed the revised Roman formation. The enemy galleys were now deployed in a blockade line that reached across the breadth of the lagoon, a tactical change to cover the hidden channels and deny their use to a blockade runner. It was a misguided approach, Calix thought, for the channels were not so numerous and the Romans were now too thinly spread to form any sort of protective barrier. Even in the centre, the location of the channels last used by Calix for his escape, the line was no stronger, with the Roman galleys separated by at least four hundred yards in the calm of the lagoon.

He moved once more to the tiller, conscious of the fact that, if he could see the Romans, so they could see the Ares, and they might rush to group around his line of approach. He shouted for full ahead and the mainsail was made taut once more, the wind taking the lion’s share of the load as the rowers engaged their oars at battle speed. He ordered the helmsman to make for the same outer channel as before, one of only three available to him and the only one in the centre, and he locked his gaze on the Roman galleys directly opposite that point, confident that he could easily shred such a thin veil. The channel was a dogleg and so could only be negotiated safely under oars but, once in the lagoon, Calix would have a choice of three channels through the inner shoals, each one too shallow for a quinquereme. For the Rhodian the pieces had moved but the game, and the inevitable outcome, remained the same.

‘Galley approaching.’

‘Identify,’ Atticus shouted animatedly.

‘It’s him, Prefect,’ Corin replied from the masthead of the Virtus. ‘He’s heading is on a line bearing two points off our starboard quarter, between us and the Copia.’

It must be the same channel as before, Atticus thought with a smile, but aloud he cursed, unable to see the approaching ship from behind the hull of the Orcus. He looked to Gaius.

‘Shadow her every move,’ he said, and the helmsman nodded, holding the Virtus steady on station behind the Orcus, keeping her hidden from the open sea.

The order for battle speed was shouted from the aft-deck of the Orcus by Baro and the quinquereme moved off, the Virtus sailing in her shadow, Gaius handling the tiller with gentle, deft strokes, trusting Baro to keep a steady line.

Atticus looked to the other ships of the blockade, the nearest ones already converging on points inside the outer shoals where it was estimated the Rhodian might emerge, a natural re action to his approach. He cursed his line of sight again and on an impulse he ran to the rigging and climbed hand-over-hand up to the masthead, keeping his grip firm on the rough-hewn ropes until he reached the top, and he lifted himself up on to the mainsail lifting yard. Corin smiled beside him and moved over to allow Atticus to stand tall and find his balance.

At the head of the mainmast the gentle roll of the deck was multiplied, and Atticus was suddenly conscious that he had not been aloft in many years. His grip tightened on the mast and his movements were exaggerated in contrast with Corin’s almost innate sense of balance, but he steadied his breathing and looked out over the deck of the Orcus sailing alongside the Virtus to the horizon.

The Rhodian was approaching as before, under sail and oars, but Atticus knew he would need to slow as he passed through the channel. Despite this, the converging Roman galleys would still not be in a position to challenge him as he emerged into the lagoon, and again Atticus begrudgingly admired the Rhodian’s utmost use of the prevailing elements to his advantage. His grip remained firm on the mainmast, only now it was an outward sign of his inner determination and, as the Rhodian furled his sail to begin his run, Atticus shouted down the order for battle stations.

Calix’s head darted from side to side as he tracked the approach of the four Roman quinqueremes. As he suspected, they had left their positions in the blockade line to converge on his approach but, with the Ares already halfway through the outer shoals, he would reach the lagoon before they had a chance to close the neck of the channel.

The Ares swung neatly through the turn in the dogleg and Calix called for attack speed, turning briefly to nod at the helmsman in silent commendation for a perfect approach. The quadrireme moved quickly over the surface of the water and the crew worked with silent efficiency as they readied the ship for the run across the lagoon, securing the mainsail, its broad canvas too easy a target for a fire arrow; while below the rowers shouted encouragement to each other over the sound of their own singing.

The Ares tore out of the channel at twelve knots, Calix standing firmly beside the helmsman, his eyes darting from the approaching Roman galleys to seemingly random points on the inner shoals a mile away. The helmsman began a series of evasive manoeuvres in an effort to keep the Romans guessing; but, before they had covered two hundred yards, Calix had made his decision.

‘The centre channel,’ he ordered, and the helmsman confirmed the course, shifting his rudder a half-point, already looking to the landmarks that would allow him to make the final adjustments as he neared the shoals.

Calix watched the Roman galleys turn as they realized they could not cut him off, their bows slowly coming about to a convergent point a half-mile ahead of the Ares. The nearest galley was less than one hundred and fifty yards off his starboard forequarter and Calix recognized it as the quinquereme Hamilcar had identified, the Greek prefect’s boat. The beginnings of a smile creased his mouth as he relished the chase to come, but it quickly evaporated as he noticed an anomaly: the slender shaft of an additional mast, hidden until now by distance and the sailing skills of an unseen opponent. He was about to shout out a warning to his crew when the Roman galley shot out from hiding. It was a trireme, a small, sleek ship, and it sped neatly from beneath the shadow of the quinquereme.

Calix lost vital seconds as he stared at the trireme, completely thrown by its sudden appearance. It was a smaller, slower boat than the Ares, and should logically be no threat, but the Romans had obviously devised some plan with the trireme as its crux. His helmsman shouted for further orders, apprehension in his voice.

Calix spun around. ‘Two points to port,’ he ordered. ‘Keep us out of range of that trireme.’

The helmsman nodded and the Ares leaned into the turn. Calix looked to the approaching Roman ships again, his confidence shaken. He tried again to understand the Romans’ plan when a realization struck him. The trireme had been hiding behind the prefect’s quinquereme. He was the master of this plan, and Calix looked to the trireme again, suspecting that Perennis was the commander.

His fists clenched instinctively, the realization steeling his nerves once more. His contract with the Carthaginians made the Romans the enemy, but now two sons of Greece would lead the fray for each side, and Calix knew his every skill would be tested.

The drum hammered out the rhythm of attack speed, but to Atticus the Virtus seemed to move at a faster pace, its nimble hull turning neatly at every touch of Gaius’s hand on the tiller. The Orcus was swinging around behind him, its turn wider and slower, but its attack speed was a knot faster and it shadowed the Virtus, bearing down upon her.

The Rhodian was less than one hundred yards away off the port forequarter of the Virtus, aiming to sweep past the bow of the Copia, which was approaching rapidly on its port side. It would be a tight run but Atticus could see the Rhodian had chosen his angle perfectly, allowing himself sufficient sea room to adjust his course and still break through.

‘Signal the Fulgora and Honos,’ Atticus ordered, referring to the two quinqueremes on the outer extremes of the chase. ‘Tell them to break off and block the channel the Rhodian just used.’

The quinqueremes broke away in succession, leaving only three Roman galleys in the chase.

The Rhodian’s galley passed the Copia, her course changing slightly again as she lined up for an invisible channel in the inner shoals. Gaius brought the Virtus into her wake but the trireme was already falling behind the larger, faster galley, the gap increasing beyond a hundred yards. Atticus waited patiently, the Copia sweeping past his left flank to continue the chase, while over his right shoulder he could hear the drum beat of the Orcus from inside its hull at it too began to overtake the Virtus, the spearhead formation of the three Roman galleys becoming inverted as the trireme tip was overtaken.

Every galley was moving at attack speed, looking to conserve their energy, waiting for the right moment to commit to a ramming-speed attack run or, in the Rhodian’s case, an escape run, each captain knowing that the strength of their rowing crew was finite and there was no room for error in the enclosed lagoon. Atticus knew from their previous encounter that the Rhodian believed he had the advantage of both speed and manoeuvrability over the quinqueremes, but the Virtus had brought one other factor into play, one where Atticus alone had the advantage: stamina.

‘Ramming speed,’ he shouted, and the Virtus surged forward, her ram rearing out of the waters at the first pull of the oars at thirteen knots.

She quickly began to retake the lead from the quinqueremes, re-establishing the spearhead until she was sailing neatly in the wake of the Rhodian, the Orcus and Copia falling away, following orders to conserve their strength until the battle was joined.

The shoals were still half a mile away, the Rhodian less than a hundred yards ahead, and the Virtus was committed.

‘Ramming speed,’ Calix shouted, his eyes locked on the approaching trireme. ‘Archers to the aft-deck.’

He spun around and looked to the shoals ahead. The deck of the Ares shifted beneath him, a minor course adjustment as the helmsman brought the bow of the quadrireme to bear on the mouth of the channel, still a half-mile away.

He looked to the trireme again, the gap between the boats becoming steady and then increasing as the quadrireme’s greater speed came to bear once more. The Ares would reach the channel first, but what then, Calix thought? The trireme would follow, its shallow draught allowing it access. Would it maintain a higher speed, risking all to catch the quadrireme as it slowed through the channel? Would it follow the Ares into the inner harbour? Calix could not be sure, his mind trying to place himself on the aft-deck of the Roman galley, to see as Perennis saw, to plan as he would. His conclusions all reached the same point. He must not allow the trireme to catch up and somehow cripple his ship.

‘Helmsman,’ he shouted. ‘Come about six points to port. Take us through the left channel.’

‘But Captain,’ the helmsman replied, ‘that’s over a mile away. The rowers-’

‘Do it now!’ Calix shouted, his eyes locked on the trireme. ‘There’s only one way to stop that trireme: we must bleed its rowers white.’

The Ares heeled over into the turn, the helmsman straining through the effort of turning the rudder at ramming speed. The Roman galleys matched the course change, the trireme’s sleeker lines allowing it to respond faster, and within two ship lengths the formation of the chase was re-established, although the quinqueremes, continuing at attack speed, were falling further away from the smaller lead ship.

Calix could hear the slow creak of drawn bows to his side and a flight of arrows whooshed away from the aft-deck to the pursuing trireme. He watched the arrows fall, a sporadic hail of death, but as the archers prepared to loose again, Calix suddenly became aware of a silence behind him. He turned and strode to the aft-hatch on the main deck that led to the rowers. They had been rowing at ramming speed for three minutes. Six, maybe seven minutes was their absolute maximum, and Calix glanced back over his shoulder to the trireme. Perennis was subject to the same restrictions and the gap was still increasing. Calix still held the advantage, but as he looked down to the rowers he felt the seeds of doubt taking root within him.

They were sweating stoically at their oars, their faces twisted in grotesque masks of exertion, their laboured breathing like that of a blown elephant. They were strong men, not easily given to exhaustion, but it was the lack of a customary sound that had drawn Calix’s attention — for the rowers had stopped singing.

Atticus took one last look at the stern of the quadrireme before ducking his head below deck. The rowing deck seemed in chaos, the central walkway crowded with the fallen, while fresh rowers ran to take abandoned oars in hand. They had passed the five-minute mark and still the drum hammered out eighty beats a minute, a gruelling, punishing pace that only the strongest could maintain. Atticus counted at least two dozen men near him who had not yet fallen. Rarely had he seen such determination, like indomitable legionaries in the face of an enemy charge, the rowers’ backs straight through each pull of the oars, their very freedom at stake. They laboured with a savage-like trance on their faces, betraying the deep-seated hatred for the very task into which they poured every ounce of their strength.

Another man fell, then another, and another, their cries pitiful in the hollowed-out carapace of the trireme, the screams of men broken on the yoke, their will driving them beyond the endurance of their bodies until muscles cramped in excruciating pain and they fell, their twisted, near lifeless bodies thrust aside by relief rowers whose strength roused the men around them to greater exertion, the air filled with voices calling out in half a dozen languages in encouragement and anger, in frustration and pain as another man fell, and another, and another.

The drum master roared at the top of his lungs, shouting out the beat even as his hammer fell, viciously calling on the rowers to bend their backs through the slide, to take the strain of the catch and pull through the draw, telling them the enemy was at hand, the fight almost upon them, the end but minutes away, and the rowers responded to his words with renewed determination.

Atticus went back on deck, his nerve steeled to a fine point by the rowers’ display of raw courage. He strode back to the aft-deck, ignoring the arrows that slammed into the timbers around him and the sporadic cries of crewmen struck by the pitiless missiles. He turned and stared along the length of the Virtus to the quadrireme ahead.

The gap had increased to two hundred yards but the five-minute threshold had been passed. Ramming speed on the Virtus was being maintained by the determination of the strongest and the massive influx of relief rowers. They could not last indefinitely, but Atticus was confident that, without relief, the Rhodian’s crew had to be suffering more.

His plan was simple. Run the quadrireme down. Not to cripple it for the quinqueremes, but to take it himself, the trireme’s shallow draught ensuring there would be no withdrawal this time. The Rhodian had yet to turn and commit to a channel, the quadrireme still running parallel to the inner shoals not one hundred yards away off the starboard beam, but the turn was close, Atticus could sense it, could feel it through the desperation of his rowers, a palpable anguish that he knew must be drawing the heart out of the Rhodian’s own crew.

‘By the gods,’ the helmsman shouted, glancing fearfully over his shoulder. ‘She’s still coming on.’

The Rhodian felt the same panic rise within him and he struggled to push it aside. What had it been: seven, eight minutes? What kind of men were powering the trireme?

‘One hundred and fifty yards,’ one of the archers called beside him, shouting out the range for their next flight.

The gap was falling. The Ares was losing speed, fast; her rowers were past exhaustion, past the limits of will and determination, of pride in their strength, with only the dread fear of capture keeping them pulling, knowing that if they were to fall into Roman hands they would become slaves to the very task they performed as freedmen.

‘Distance to the channel,’ Calix shouted angrily at the helmsman, refocusing his attention. His looked ahead, his gaze darting from the sea to the land.

‘Two hundred yards, Captain,’ he replied.

‘Prepare to make your run,’ Calix said, and he looked to the trireme again. The gap was still falling; a gap he had believed would be four or five hundred yards by now, with the trireme drifting aimlessly in the wake of the Ares, her rowers blown, her strength gone. But still it came on, and Calix let his hand fall to the hilt of his sword as his options fell away to one. He had seen the two Roman quinqueremes take station on the channel through the outer shoals. His route there was blocked, even if his crew had the strength to re-cross the hostile lagoon, which they had not. The channel ahead was his only escape, and there the trireme would catch him, in the narrows of the channel, where the lack of sea room would make evasive manoeuvres impossible.

The sudden clarity of purpose gave Calix new confidence, and he slowly drew his sword, the muscles of his arm welcoming the familiar weight. The chase would end soon, on Perennis’s terms, but in the shallows of the channel it would be a duel between mismatched ships, with the Roman quinqueremes unable to assist. The Ares could yet escape to the inner harbour. But first Calix and his crew would have to draw the blood of the Roman crew and their Greek leader.

‘Aspect change,’ Corin called, pre-empting the turn by a heartbeat as he saw the helmsman put his weight behind the tiller.

The Rhodian’s galley swung hard to starboard, finally reaching the channel.

‘All hands, prepare for boarding,’ Atticus shouted, and the men cheered, eager to get in the fight, the minutes spent under the rain of arrows sharpening their aggression.

Gaius brought the Virtus through the turn, keeping the ram on a line to the rudder of the quadrireme, now only fifty yards ahead. The quadrireme began to slow further, the breaking waves of the shoals enveloping her bow as she entered the channel, and Gaius called for battle speed, keeping his pace above that of the Rhodian’s, not needing to anticipate the turns in the channel in the wake of the quadrireme pathfinder.

Atticus looked over the side to the waters below. Only half the oars of the Virtus were still engaged, the others having been withdrawn, the rowers collapsed upon them. The sea seemed to boil on all sides and Atticus could see the deadly fangs of the shoals piercing the surface of the water not twenty yards from the hull.

‘Best guess,’ he said to Gaius. ‘Get us alongside the aft-deck.’

The helmsman nodded, his eyes never leaving his prey. The chase was over but the mortal stroke had yet to be delivered. It was impossible to guess what sea room was available in the channel and Gaius knew he would have to judge which side to attack from the manoeuvres of the quadrireme. It was a difficult task, but as he saw the prefect hesitate at his side, ready to offer help, he broke eye contact with the quadrireme for the first time.

‘Go,’ he said vehemently. ‘I have her.’

Atticus nodded and ran from the aft-deck, the crew responding to his flight by gathering in a wave behind him. He drew his sword, a commitment that was echoed by his men and, as he reached the foredeck, he grabbed a discarded hoplon shield.

The crews roared at each other across the gap, battle cries and challenges, while arrows were loosed at near point-blank range, the barbs striking deeply into shield and flesh, fuelling the belligerence of each crew. Atticus stood silent amongst his men, his shield held tightly against his shoulder as he looked to the waters around the stern of the quadrireme, trying to discern the sea room, to give Gaius some advantage.

The two galleys sped through a turn in the channel but, as the quadrireme straightened out, Gaius continued the turn for a second longer, the nimbler hull of the trireme cutting inside the line of the bend. Atticus felt the hull buck beneath him as Gaius called for attack speed, a final push from the exhausted rowers to bring the port bow quarter in line with the starboard aft of the quadrireme.

‘Grappling hooks,’ Atticus shouted without conscious thought, and a line was thrown but instantly parted under the strain of the uneven stroke of the galleys. A dozen more followed, the majority finding purchase, to be attacked by the Rhodian’s crew with axes and swords.

The Romans drew the remaining lines in, heaving them hand over hand until the hulls slammed against each other, the timbers grating, the galleys reluctantly giving way to each other’s pitch. Atticus led the men over the rails with a roar that unleashed their savagery, and they jumped across the treacherous maw of the clashing hulls to slam into the first rank of the defenders, their momentum checked then revived as they gained a foothold on the enemy deck.

Atticus kept his shield at chest height, slashing forward with his sword, his eyes locked on those of the defender before him, the man’s eyes wide with anger, but they suddenly dropped low, signalling the strike of the sword. Atticus dropped his shield to counter the blow before driving his blade to the flank, the defender reacting with incredible speed to parry the strike. He came on again and Atticus reversed his block to push the sword away, exposing the defender’s torso and, risking all, he threw his body off balance to bring his sword to bear, the defender trying to react as he sensed the unexpected strike, his reflexes too slow to avoid the blade. Atticus punched the sword through, twisting the blade as it sank into the defender’s stomach, and he whipped it back to free it, a gush of warm blood and viscera spilling out over his hand. He pushed forward against the dying man with his shield, knocking him underfoot to the deck.

The aft-deck was in chaos but slowly the Romans made headway, their numbers twice those of the Rhodian. The helmsman never left the tiller as the battle raged, his eyes ever locked on the shoals and the narrow line of the channel; but, as the battle line advanced beyond him, he fell under the slash of a Roman sword. Released from the control of the rudder, the bow of the Ares skewed sideways, the pressure of the Virtus ’s bow against its stern hastening the turn, and the strake timbers of the bow struck the shoals that clawed out from the edge of the channel.

The battle descended into a ferocious brawl as the Rhodian’s men felt their ship shudder beneath them. They roared in anger and hatred, stopping the Roman advance on the fringes of the main deck. The Romans rebuked the challenge, giving no quarter, and the line of battle steadied as each side fed more men into the fray, the opposing ranks becoming increasingly intertwined as anarchy reigned.

Atticus surged forward in frustration, the din of war filling the air around him, his ears ringing with the sound of his own blood rush, the numbness of his sword arm ignored as he thrust it forward into the groin of a defender, slicing the flesh cleanly, taking no respite as he withdrew his blade to attack again. His chest ached from an old wound, the tightness squeezing the vice of his anger, and he shoved a man back with his shield to expose him to the blade. He looked around him, searching the faces of the defenders for some sign of submission, that they were nearing the end of their resolve, but each face was twisted in courageous defiance.

He spotted a man in the centre of the melee, his sword charged but not engaged, shouting orders to men around him, his shaven head splattered with the blood of the slain and injured, his reddened blade testament to his skill. It was the captain, Atticus realized in a moment of clarity, the Rhodian. He roared a challenge across the fight in gutter Greek, the language of a native, and the Rhodian turned to the voice, seeing the scarred face of his challenger amidst the ranks of the Romans. Perennis, he cursed, and he surged forward through the fights around him to charge the precipitator of his doom.

Atticus came on against the Rhodian’s charge, keeping his body low to maintain his balance on the blood-soaked and body-strewn deck. He shoved a man aside, keeping his line straight, and bunched his weight behind his shield, his battle lust pouring out of him in a guttural roar of challenge that the Rhodian answered with his own cry. They reached each other amidst the heaving fight. Atticus slammed his shield into the Rhodian to unbalance him, jabbing his sword forward; but his blade was immediately knocked down with a force that jarred the muscles of his arm and Atticus realized he was well matched. He dropped his shield an inch and stared into his opponent’s face, seeing past the fearsome mask of hostility to the eyes, readying himself for the assault.

Calix broke away to put the strength of his shoulder behind his strike. He brought his sword around like a scythe, the blade whistling through the air. Atticus reacted instinctively, a lifetime’s training guiding his arm, and he dropped his shield to accept the strike, the hammer blow knocking him off balance. He recovered with a counter-stroke, but with incredible dexterity the Rhodian reversed the strike and Atticus, acting on sheer reflex, parried the killing thrust with his sword, twisting his wrist to expel the Rhodian’s blade from inside his guard.

The steel swords rasped together and Atticus took a step back, regaining his balance as he drew breath before renewing his attack. Calix met him head on, both men unable to sidestep on the crowded deck, and again they were locked chest to chest, their faces inches from each other and the sweat and breath of the Rhodian mingled with Atticus’s own in his nostrils. He shifted his weight to his right foot, using his left to propel him forward and swung his sword around, but in the crowded fight his blade caught on an unseen soldier, and the Rhodian’s eyes flashed with triumph, his opponent exposed. He lunged forward inside the attack and Atticus, unable to give ground on the perilously slippery deck, was forced into a desperate defence.

He hooked his arm around to parry with his sword but the Rhodian pushed forward relentlessly, switching his attack from left to right and back, breaking his own rhythm with unexpected twists that kept Atticus on the back foot. The tortured muscles of his sword arm conspired with his laboured breathing to feed the creeping panic that clouded his mind as each strike of the ceaseless attack came within a hair’s-breadth of penetrating his frantic defence. He fought on, the battle surrounding him blurring into insignificance, his reactions to the Rhodian’s blade predetermined by reflexes and innate skill.

Atticus could see nothing beyond his opponent and the flash of steel between them. He was close to defeat and the realization stirred the fury within him. He had brought this fight to the Rhodian. This was his battle, fought on his terms, and suddenly his panic ceased, replaced with a cold determination.

The Rhodian brought his blade in low and Atticus swept it aside, reversing the parry, forcing the other to bring his shield down to stifle the blade. In the same instant, Atticus swung his own hoplon around, slamming it in the Rhodian’s exposed shoulder. He staggered backwards to regain his balance.

Atticus followed through, keeping the Rhodian off balance, and the roles were neatly reversed, Atticus tapping every reserve of his strength, knowing he needed to end the fight, that he was close to reaching his limits. He swung his blade through a series of strokes, a recurring sequence of cut and thrust, purposefully allowing a deadly predictability to creep into his attack while he watched the Rhodian’s face intently, waiting to see the first signs of recognition that the attack had become rhythmic.

Calix could not give ground on the crowded deck and he stood firm, his mind numb to the searing pain in his chest as he parried blow after blow. The attack was unceasing, Perennis’s strength seemingly limitless, and Calix started to search desperately for a way out. He had information the Romans could use — it was his only advantage; but as he made to utter a call for surrender, his warrior’s instincts registered a fatal flaw in Perennis’s attack, and he readied himself for what he knew would be the final strike.

Atticus saw it, the tiny light of triumph in the Rhodian’s eyes, and he suddenly broke the rhythm that had lulled the Rhodian, reversing his blade at the arc of his stroke to swipe inside the Rhodian’s defence. The Rhodian was completely unprepared and Atticus’s sword sliced cleanly into the under-side of his opponent’s outstretched arm, cutting through muscle and flesh until the blade met the smooth edge of the bone. The Rhodian cried out in pain and his sword fell from lifeless fingers. Atticus pulled his own blade clear to deliver the killing stroke, arching back, his eyes still locked on the Rhodian’s, seeing there the desperation of defeat. The Rhodian’s shield fell, his hand clasping his wound, trying to staunch the flow of blood, and his eyes came level with his executioner’s.

‘Quarter, Perennis,’ the Rhodian shouted, the shock of hearing his name causing Atticus to hesitate. He twisted his blade aside, staying his attack to bring the tip of his sword up to the Rhodian’s neck.

‘Your fleet,’ the Rhodian gasped, knowing death was still at hand. ‘Your fleet is in danger…’

Atticus remained poised to strike the Rhodian down, his sword hand trembling with suppressed battle rage, but the Rhodian’s words forced his hand.

‘Order your men to stand down,’ he shouted through parched lips.

The Rhodian quickly complied, calling on his crew to lower their weapons, and the outnumbered mercenaries followed his order, stepping back from their attackers, their arms held out as they looked about the ruin that was the deck of the Ares.

Atticus lowered his sword from the Rhodian’s neck, although he kept it charged, knowing the conflict that rages within the mind of a defeated foe, the sudden shame that can sweep a man who has surrendered his arms, a shame that can compel him to restart the fight. His crew did likewise and they moved forward quickly to distance the mercenaries from their fallen weapons, ordering them to relinquish their remaining blades.

Atticus stepped back and stared at the Greek mercenary. His face was drawn in a grimace of pain, but his eyes remained defiant and he held Atticus’s gaze.

‘I have information that can save your fleet from defeat,’ he said, his words coming slowly through ragged breaths.

‘What information?’ Atticus asked impatiently.

‘The location and size of the Carthaginian fleet,’ Calix replied.

‘Where are they?’ Atticus asked.

‘I will speak only with the consul,’ Calix said, knowing he had to regain some measure of control over his own fate if he was to survive. His contract, and therefore his loyalty to Hamilcar, was severed the moment he surrendered, rendered void by his inability to complete the task. Now his loyalty extended only to the task of securing his own freedom.

Atticus stepped forward once more, angered by the Rhodian’s evasion. ‘You will tell me now, Rhodian,’ he spat, ‘or I will have my men torture you until you do.’

‘You are no fool, Perennis,’ Calix replied evenly, straightening his back to stand tall, his face twitching slightly from the incessant pain in his arm. ‘You know my information will be more valuable if I give it willingly.’

Atticus knew the Rhodian was right, that a man would confess anything under torture, even untruths. He relented and brusquely ordered his men to take the Rhodian back to the Virtus.

He watched them leave and then looked down to the deck and the carnage that the few minutes of fighting had wrought. The quadrireme was taken, the blockade once more secure, but the cost had been high and Atticus counted a score of fallen men, Roman sailors who had charged fearlessly into the fight. He stepped through their ranks slowly, and then crossed once more to the Virtus, quickly making arrangements for a prize crew to take command of the Rhodian’s galley.

Within minutes Gaius had the Virtus under way, turning its course to the northern end of the bay as it cleared the channel, the Orcus falling into its wake. Atticus stood on the aft-deck, watching quietly as a sailor bandaged the wound on the Rhodian’s arm. The fight was won but the Rhodian had increased the prize. Capturing the quadrireme had become only a part. The Rhodian’s knowledge was the balance and Atticus was determined to take his full measure of its worth.

Atticus coughed violently as the dust thrown up by the horse’s hooves coated the back of his parched throat. The effort to breathe hurt his chest and he gazed through exhausted eyes to the main gate of the legion encampment ahead. The rush of battle that had possessed him only an hour before had fled, and he looked grimly to the charred remains of the siege towers two hundred yards away. They were being picked over by a dozen soot-stained soldiers, searching for salvageable remains of iron, like ants scavenging a carcass after a larger predator has eaten its fill.

Atticus looked to his own blood-and sweat-stained tunic, blacked by the fires of battle. Then he glanced at Ovidius, the Roman prefect, riding by his side, at his immaculate tribune’s uniform. He felt no inferiority, though; he was glad he had been able to locate his fellow fleet commander as he landed on the northern shore of the bay, knowing he too needed to hear the Rhodian’s information first hand. He saw Ovidius glance at the cavalry troop in their wake and the prisoner in their midst, noting with satisfaction that the Roman prefect had taken Atticus at his word and was conscious of the importance of the Rhodian.

The horsemen rode through the gates unchallenged, many of the legionaries looking with undisguised curiosity at the ragged sailor riding shoulder to shoulder with the tribune. They made their way directly to the command tent in the middle of the encampment, dismounting even as their horses slowed, and Atticus felt a renewed surge of energy flood his reserves as he watched two cavalrymen manhandle the wounded Rhodian from his mount. An optio approached Ovidius and, following a terse request, withdrew into the tent, reappearing after a minute to summon the men forward. Ovidius led Atticus and the Rhodian inside.

The interior was bathed in canvas-filtered sunlight, subdued by the dark rugs underfoot. After a brief pause inside the threshold, the men stepped forward. Scipio was seated at the far end of the tent, behind a dark stained desk, a solid piece built for the rigours of a campaign; but closer inspection revealed the intricacies of its elaborate carvings, the work of master craftsmen. His face was drawn with irritation and he barely acknowledged the salutes of his two prefects, his eyes darting to each in turn but lingering a second longer on Atticus.

‘Speak,’ he said to Ovidius.

‘Prefect Perennis,’ Ovidius began, glancing at Atticus, ‘captured this man and his crew as they tried to run the blockade earlier this morning. He is the mercenary known as the Rhodian.’

Scipio shrugged his shoulders imperceptibly, looking to the wounded man behind Ovidius.

‘And…?’ he said impatiently.

‘He claims the fleet is in danger from a Carthaginian attack,’ Atticus interjected, hiding his own impatience, wary as always of Scipio’s hostility.

‘Claims?’ Scipio said.

‘He knows the location of the enemy fleet, Consul,’ Atticus continued.

‘Where is it?’ Scipio asked.

‘He will not say. He demanded to speak only to you, Consul,’ Atticus explained. ‘And, given the importance of the information, I judged it best that it was given willingly.’

‘You are a fool, Perennis,’ Scipio said dismissively. ‘He is bargaining for his life. He would say anything.’

Atticus bristled at the insult.

‘I believe him, Consul,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘He escaped this harbour days ago carrying Carthaginian officers, and when captured today those men were not on board. With the wind shift in the past twenty-four hours, I believe they must have disembarked at some location not a day’s sailing from here.’

‘They could have transshipped to another galley,’ Scipio said mockingly, ‘or simply landed somewhere along the coast.’

‘I brought them to their fleet,’ Calix said, speaking for the first time, noting the open hostility the consul displayed towards the Greek prefect. The identity of his passenger entered his mind, but Calix chose to retain that information, knowing he needed to keep something in reserve to strengthen his bargaining position.

Scipio grunted in reply but he tempered his scornful remarks, the seeds of fortune and opportunity combining in his mind. Perhaps this was his chance to go on the offensive. He beckoned the Rhodian forward with a wave of his hand.

‘You are who Perennis claims you are?’ he asked.

‘My name is Calix.’

‘But men call you the Rhodian?’ Scipio said, smiling coldly at the confident tone of the captured captain.

‘I am of that island,’ Calix replied.

‘So you too are Greek,’ he said slowly, the smile falling from his face. ‘Like the mercenaries who attacked the siege towers.’ And he glanced unconsciously at Atticus.

Calix saw the sideward glance. ‘I know nothing of them,’ he said. ‘I was hired by the Carthaginians for a specific task, as I was hired by the Romans in the past.’

Scipio’s eyebrows rose in surprise and he leaned forward, his interest piqued by the revelation. ‘When were you hired by the Romans?’ he asked, and Calix listed the operations he had carried out at the beginning of the war.

Scipio sat back again, intrigued by the mercenary’s obvious indifference to both sides in the conflict, his adherence to any cause purchased only for the length of a single contract. Scipio had known and manipulated men of this sort his entire career, and he knew the measure of their loyalty, and how easily it could be bought.

‘So now you will reveal the location of the Carthaginian fleet in exchange for your life?’ Scipio asked and Calix nodded.

‘Where is it?’ Scipio asked.

‘You will release me?’ Calix said.

Scipio nodded.

‘The Carthaginian fleet is anchored at Drepana.’

‘How many?’ Atticus asked.

‘Over one hundred galleys,’ Calix replied over his shoulder. He turned back to Scipio. ‘They are planning an attack. I do not know when.’

Again Scipio nodded.

‘Guards,’ he called, and four legionaries entered.

‘Take this man to the guardhouse and hold him there,’ he said.

‘But our agreement,’ Calix said angrily.

‘Will be honoured when we have confirmed your information,’ Scipio said dismissively, and he returned the Rhodian’s hostile gaze as he was escorted out.

Calix followed the legionaries across the beaten earth in the centre of the encampment, the acid bile of anger in his throat. He swallowed his fury, knowing he needed to remain calm. The consul’s actions were not wholly unexpected and Calix focused on the remaining information he held. The Romans would have confirmation of his report when they reached Drepana and, whether they attacked or remained in defence, the identity of the Carthaginian commander was salient information.

Calix suddenly recalled the hostility he had witnessed towards Perennis. The Greek prefect had been victorious, had taken a valuable ship as a prize, and yet the Roman consul had offered no praise. He had even looked at Perennis when he spoke of the attacks perpetrated by Greek mercenaries. Such an open schism was an obvious weakness and Calix kept it at the forefront of his thoughts, knowing that if he were to escape with his life, he would need every advantage he could gain.

Scipio looked to Atticus and Ovidius in the silence that followed the Rhodian’s departure, his mind already formulating a plan, a mortal blow to the Carthaginian fleet.

‘How far is Drepana?’ he asked of the two men before him.

‘No more than four hours,’ Atticus replied. ‘We must plan our defence so we can be ready at a moment’s notice.’

‘Our defence?’ Scipio said incredulously. ‘By the gods, Perennis, you Greeks are a timid race. We will attack, immediately.’

‘We cannot, Consul,’ Atticus said, struggling to contain his anger against Scipio’s hostility and denigration. ‘The men of the new fleet aren’t ready for an open, offensive battle.’

‘We have surprise and numbers on our side, Perennis,’ Scipio said, a cold edge to his voice. ‘If you have not the courage to fight on even these advantageous terms, then I shall remove you from your command.’

Atticus took a half-step forward to retort, but Ovidius spoke first.

‘We can be ready to sail by nightfall, Consul,’ he said, looking to break the conversation between the other two men. He did not know the source of the consul’s antagonism towards the prefect, but he was eager to deflect it, confident in the opinion he had formed of the Greek since arriving in Lilybaeum.

This was Ovidius’s first naval command, granted to him weeks before in Rome when he was tasked with sailing the first contingent of the new fleet south to the Aegates Islands in preparation for the siege of Lilybaeum. Unfamiliar with naval warfare, he relied heavily on the experienced captains of his squadron, and had spoken to each exhaustively over the course of the monotonous weeks of the blockade. The Greek prefect’s name had been mentioned many times, and Ovidius had quickly become aware of the high regard in which the men held him.

He did not understand the Greek’s hesitation and agreed with the consul’s assertion, but he also knew it was in the fleet’s best interest for Perennis to retain command of his squadron.

‘By nightfall,’ Scipio said, looking to Ovidius, the distraction causing his mind to focus once more on the incredible opportunity the Rhodian’s information had unlocked. He pushed his anger aside.

‘Yes, Consul,’ Ovidius replied. ‘We can sail up the coast during the night and attack at dawn, and a night approach will ensure the Carthaginians are not forewarned by land.’

Scipio stood up in anticipation. ‘Ready the fleet, Ovidius,’ he said, striding around the table. ‘We sail at dusk.’

Ovidius saluted and as he made to turn he saw the Greek ready himself to argue once more. He grabbed him by the arm, staying Atticus’s words, and led him from the tent.

Once outside, Atticus shrugged off Ovidius’s hand angrily.

‘This is madness, Ovidius,’ he said. ‘We cannot fight the Carthaginians on their terms, not yet.’

Ovidius held Atticus’s hostile gaze. ‘The battle will not be on their terms, Perennis,’ Ovidius replied. ‘We have surprise on our side.’

‘It will not be enough,’ Atticus said, not even convinced the Roman fleet could carry off a night approach. He looked once more to Scipio’s tent, the frustration of knowing his opinion counted for naught consuming him, seeing in Scipio the arrogant figure of Paullus before the storm.

Ovidius watched Atticus closely and stepped forward once more.

‘You do not know me, Perennis,’ he said evenly. ‘But I know of you. Take command of the vanguard. The honour is yours.’

Atticus turned to Ovidius, noticing the same unwavering confidence he had witnessed so many times before in other Roman officers, the indomitable self-assurance that could not be shaken. Ovidius slapped him on the shoulder and mounted his horse once more, the stallion wheeling in a tight circle before the Roman spurred it towards the gate. Atticus watched him leave and then mounted himself. He looked to the sun, its zenith already passed, and he spurred his horse in pursuit of the Roman prefect.