Master of Rome

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The day dawned under a leaden sky, prolonging the long dark hours of the night. The sea was troubled, the swell erratic and grey, like twisted cold metal long since cast aside from the furnace. The southwesterly wind had tormented the Roman fleet throughout the night, further complicating the already difficult task of maintaining the cohesion of the attack formation, and the dawn light revealed a seascape littered with individual galleys.

Scipio stood alone on the foredeck of his flagship, the Poena, his anticipation honed to a keen edge after long hours of waiting, his mind playing out his future. He breathed in the moist air, expanding his chest until the straps of his armour restrained him. He had spent his youth in the legions, pursuing the path that all ambitious men in Rome must tread, his legitimacy in the Senate as a military leader founded on the bedrock of legionary service. Now the armour felt light across his chest, a second skin he had long since grown accustomed to.

Those years in the legions had embedded many traits within his character, particularly patience, a skill he had developed during his time in the Senate into an almost impenetrable armour of self-discipline. Only hatred for his enemies pierced that armour, and not for the first time since sailing from Lilybaeum four hours before, Scipio felt the white heat of his temper overwhelm him, his mind swimming with the vision of one man whom he had sought to destroy at his ease but whose very existence was becoming too vexing to bear.

He turned and strode from the foredeck, the alert crew of the Poena stepping aside to allow him passage, wary of unwittingly colliding with the consul, an accident that would undoubtedly result in summary punishment. Scipio watched the crew as he stood on the main deck, looking beyond them to the ragged formation of the Roman fleet in surrounding waters. He felt his previous confidence ebb, and he cursed the creeping doubts with which the Greek had infected him. Battle was imminent, the enemy lying just beyond the horizon, outnumbered and unaware, and yet Scipio could not shake the warning uttered by Perennis.

He reached the aft-deck and beckoned the priest to his side, the older man moving deferentially towards the consul. Scipio glanced over his shoulder and immediately saw that many of the crew were watching surreptitiously. He nodded to himself. They would bear witness to the simple ceremony, its outcome putting mettle into their resolve, and Scipio would get the signalmen to spread the word across the fleet.

It was an arcane and ancient ritual, one Scipio had seen many times but had never held in any esteem, believing his fate to be controlled by a higher power than the creatures the priest carried in his hand. Today, however, on the eve of what would be his greatest victory, Scipio needed to dispel the curse of uncertainty, that slight shift in his confidence that he barely acknowledged even to himself. This ritual would cleanse him and, as Scipio watched the priest prepare for the almost farcical ceremony, he silently vowed that Perennis would never again stand tall in his presence. After today, he would finally break him. Whether he put him to the sword or to a galley oar in chains, Scipio would be rid of the Greek.

The priest began a slowly incantation, calling on the god Mars to rise up from his slumber and stand astride the battlefield over the ranks of the Roman forces, to look down upon the enemy over the shoulder of every legionary, to put his strength into the sword arm of every son of Rome so he might strike down the foe who would dare to defy him. Scipio listened to the droning voice, seeing past the words to the subtle essence of the invocation, allowing it to fill his heart while, behind him, the entire crew of the Poena ceased their tasks to gaze upon the ceremony.

The priest held out his left hand and scattered the grain on the timber deck, his voice becoming stronger as he crouched down to release the three chickens in his right hand, the birds squawking loudly as they flapped their clipped wings and found their feet. These birds were sacred, bred to perform in this one simple ceremony and complete a basic task that would signify that the gods favoured the Romans in the battle to come: eat the proffered grain.

Scipio stood silently watching the chickens circle the scattered seeds, his doubts already dispelled by the formality and reverence of the ceremony. He felt his confidence rise, and he held his breath in anticipation of the first peck of the chickens’ beaks, ready to use that moment of fulfilment of the ceremony to rouse the crew of the Poena and the fleet.

A minute passed, followed by another, and still the chickens would not eat, their seemingly aimless steps across the grain scattered beneath them breaking the previous spell of the ritual. Scipio looked to the priest, his expression twisting into furious anger, and the priest immediately crouched to shepherd the birds to the centre of the grain. Scipio felt a groundswell of superstitious fear sweep the crew behind, their muttered concerns rising to a cacophony of open alarm.

He rounded on them, glaring at those nearest, but they looked past him to the birds. He spun around again and charged at the priest, pushing him aside as his temper slipped its bounds. He picked up a chicken, squeezing its neck in his hands, the bird’s squawking increasing. He held the bird aloft and turned to the crew.

‘If they refuse to eat, then let them drink,’ he shouted, and he cast the bird over the side of the galley, reaching around to gather up the other two quickly and throwing them over with equal fury.

The crew stood aghast at the sacrilege. Scipio again lost control as he shouted at them to continue their preparations for battle, his voice and raw fury breaking the spell of their shock, but each man turned away with fear in his heart. The gods had spoken. If the Romans joined battle, they would do so alone, without the favour of Mars.

Scipio watched through the mists of his own anger as the last of the disillusioned crew went back to work. He strode to the side rail, past the cowering priest who was trying to avoid the consul’s wrath. The birds were lost from sight somewhere in the wake of the Poena and Scipio felt the cold hand of doubt close over him once more. He crushed it mercilessly, banishing the ill omen of the ceremony from his mind, dismissing it for what he had always believed it to be, a superstition from an ancient, unenlightened time. He redirected his anger, letting it fill the void caused by his lost confidence, using it to steel his will. Perennis had precipitated this weakness, the Greek whoreson whom Scipio now realized he should have disposed of months before, despite his usefulness.

He looked to the brightening horizon, and the long line of Roman galleys sailing northward towards the enemy at Drepana. The battle was at hand, the odds unchanged, and victory was within Scipio’s grasp. He would triumph this day and, after the last Roman blade had been drawn across Carthaginian flesh, Scipio vowed he would turn that steel against Perennis.

Drepana slumbered unawares, with much of the city still enveloped in the fading darkness of early dawn, the shadows giving way slowly under a dawn light struggling to overcome the heavy cloud cover. The city was built on a peninsula that stretched westward out to sea, and Atticus looked slowly along its entire length, his eyes moving upwards to the lines of trailing smoke that marked the first cooking fires of the day, and the dying torches on the battlements of the city walls. All was quiet and Atticus nodded grimly with satisfaction. The night approach had succeeded, no warning had been received in Drepana by land; but as Atticus turned to look behind him, he conceded that the price of that success had been significant.

The Roman fleet was strung out in a loose formation that reached to the southern horizon and, although the individual captains of Atticus’s squadron were already closing ranks, beyond this vanguard the fleet was in complete disorder. Drepana’s inner harbour was but three miles away; if the Carthaginians were to be blockaded in the narrow inlet at the base of the peninsula, the Romans would need to strike with the force of a clenched fist, not with an open-handed cuff. He looked to the four points of his galley. The choice was clear. Slow his advance to allow the fleet to coalesce and concentrate its strength and run the risk of the element of surprise being lost, or strike now with the vanguard alone, a force that might be inadequate to the task.

‘Enemy galleys off the port bow. Two miles.’

Atticus followed Corin’s call and immediately spotted the darkened hulls of the two patrol galleys. They were sailing in the lee of the two elongated islands beyond the tip of the peninsula. As Atticus watched, they turned their bows eastwards in the direction of the inner harbour, the galleys becoming almost invisible as they sailed under the shadows of the city walls.

Atticus cursed. Fortuna had usurped his choice and forced his hand. ‘Battle speed,’ he shouted.

The crew rushed to secure the mainsail for battle. Drusus ordered the legionaries to form ranks. The restlessness of a night’s sailing was thrown off. The squadron was signalled and, before a mile was covered, the Orcus was sailing at the tip of a slowly forming spearhead.

Atticus stepped to the side rail and leaned out over the water. The wind had fallen away but the speed of the galley swept the cold morning air over his face. He looked down the length of the hull to the bronze ram slicing through the lead-coloured waves and studied the swell, judging the strength of the tide. It was on the turn, offering no advantage to either side. He looked beyond. The patrol galleys were entering the inner harbour at what was at least attack speed, a perilous pace given the narrow approach.

Atticus realized that everything now depended on the calibre of the Carthaginian commander. If he was competent, the enemy fleet would stand ready to slip their anchors at a moment’s notice; if not, then Atticus had a reasonable chance of ending the battle before it could begin. He glanced over his shoulder. The vanguard was still not fully formed, the fleet beyond too far out of position to assist. His squadron would meet the enemy alone. He smiled grimly as he turned to the helm. He had known worse odds.

‘Patrol ships returning at attack speed,’ the lookout called, and Hamilcar ran the length of the Alissar to the foredeck, leaning out over the rail to look to the entrance of the inner harbour.

‘All commands, battle stations,’ he shouted without hesitation, his gaze locked on the approaching galleys, their reckless pace alerting him to the unseen danger.

The Carthaginian crews reacted quickly, the general order sweeping down the length of the anchored fleet. The Alissar slipped its stern line and shoved off, her oars finding firm purchase in the deep-water inlet. Her bow swung out of the anchored formation, the patrol ships adjusting their course as they saw the flagship emerge from the ranks.

Hamilcar watched the fleet come alive with a critical eye, looking to each galley in turn. The Gadir fleet had been poised to sail for the past two days, awaiting only a favourable wind to carry them to the Aegates Islands, where they would make their final preparations before sailing to Lilybaeum, there to be unleashed upon the unsuspecting Roman blockade. The men were prepared for a battle in a distant port, not in the narrows of Drepana, but they were responding to the unexpected order without panic, their urgency tightly controlled as each galley became a drawn bow, ready to be loosed upon the enemy.

The Alissar sailed down the length of the fleet, many of the men cheering as the flagship swept past their bow, but Hamilcar ignored their calls, his eyes locked on the approaching patrol ships. He moved to the foredeck as the order for ‘all stop’ was given on all three converging ships, and he listened intently to the captains’ reports, making his decisions even as they finished, ignoring the inner voice in his mind that cursed the vicissitude of Tanit, the fickle goddess of fate who had somehow reversed his plans to surprise attack the Romans.

He looked to the entrance of the inlet. Escape was the first priority and he ordered the Alissar to restart at battle speed, the order flashing down the length of the fleet, the report of enemy sighted and the flagship’s lead pressing the men to greater speed.

The Alissar neared the entrance and Hamilcar anxiously counted the yards left to cover, glancing over his shoulder at the fleet rapidly forming in the wake of the flagship. The inlet was no more than two hundred yards across at its widest point, a safe anchorage in foul weather but a deathtrap in battle, and he whispered a silent prayer to Anath to grant him the time he needed to extract his fleet from the jaws of captivity.

Hamilcar ran to the portside rail as the Alissar breached the mouth of the inlet, his gaze taking in the entire vista of the southern approaches to Drepana before he could draw a single breath. A spearhead of Roman galleys was but half a mile away, approaching at attack speed, the galleys rigged for battle, and Hamilcar cursed the sight, slamming his hand on the side rail. The fleet would escape the inlet but the initiative was lost, and with its loss, the fate of Drepana hung in the balance. He searched his mind for a strategy to reverse the Romans’ ascendancy, but the sight of the Roman fleet behind the spearhead stopped him short, the advance of the Alissar affording him a better view with each passing oar stroke.

The enemy ships were scattered across the southern approaches, an inexplicable arrangement that for many seconds eluded Hamilcar’s comprehension, until he realized that it was accidental, caused by the Romans’ inability to maintain shape during their night approach. He smiled savagely and looked back to the tight formation of the Gadir fleet, the galleys sailing with only yards between them, even though they were advancing at attack speed, the incredible skill of each helmsman matched by those fore and aft of his position.

He turned to the Roman spearhead, now less than a hundred yards from the entrance of the inner harbour. No more than forty ships, too few to stop the escape of the Gadir fleet, and Hamilcar repentantly withdrew his censure of Tanit, knowing that had the entire Roman fleet kept pace with the vanguard, his ships would have been annihilated in the bottleneck of the inlet. He glanced once more at the spearhead, ready to dismiss it, when he suddenly recognized the lead ship, his immediate fury sending his hand instinctively to the hilt of his sword. It was Perennis’s ship. The cursed Greek was leading the vanguard, and Hamilcar spun around to face the helmsman, tempted to turn the Alissar into the path of the spearhead.

He cursed loudly and turned to stare at the enemy once more. To attack the Roman vanguard would be to abandon the chance granted to him by the chaos of the enemy fleet. Its destruction was his priority, and for that he needed to extract his entire fleet from the inner harbour. The battle would be joined, the Gadir fleet unleashed, but Hamilcar now had a further objective. As the Alissar continued west under the shadow of Drepana, his eyes remained locked on his sworn enemy.

Atticus strode across the deck to the helm as the Orcus reached the southern edge of the inner harbour, his hand kneading the handle of his sword, his frustration of only minutes before — at seeing the leading galleys of the Carthaginian fleet emerge from the inlet — being slowly replaced with a sense of relief. The enemy seemed intent on escaping, sailing in a line astern formation a mere two hundred yards away at the other side of the inlet. Already over forty galleys were outside the bounds of the inner harbour, and although Atticus was in a position to strike at the enemy’s flank, he knew the lead galleys of the Carthaginian fleet would immediately turn back into the fight and trap him.

Even as a coherent force, Atticus had little doubt in the Romans’ chances against a determined Carthaginian fleet. A surprise blockade had been their only chance and, given that Scipio’s ill-conceived plan of attack had been further weakened by the lack of coordination in the Roman fleet, the enemy’s withdrawal was a godsend. He looked to the lead ship of the enemy fleet, remembering his previous thoughts on the calibre of the Carthaginian commander. His hand fell away from his sword in shock, his feet taking him unerringly to the side rail. He leaned against it, his gaze locked on the distant galley, the unmistakable masthead banners. Barca’s ship.

He spun around, dread clawing at his stomach as he stared at the scattered Roman fleet. He knew Barca too well, knew he would not retreat in the face of such a disorganized and exposed foe. The Carthaginian fleet was not escaping. It was gaining sea room in order to regroup.

‘Prefect…’ Gaius said, alarmed by the look he saw on his commander’s face.

The helmsman’s voice snapped Atticus back.

‘Full about,’ he shouted, and Gaius reacted without hesitation, bringing the Orcus and the vanguard about at the entrance to the inner harbour.

The crews of the opposing fleets looked across at each other over two hundred yards of iron-grey sea, many of them in silence, while others shouted sporadic curses and threats, eager to engage with the enemy. They did not know the intentions of their commanders, the experienced crewmen knowing they were powerless to control their destiny, subject as they were to the commands of their officers, slaves to their judgement, never realizing that those men were subject to the same tempestuous fate.

‘Confirm,’ Scipio shouted impatiently to the masthead, striding across the width of the aft-deck, pausing at each rail in turn to look ahead. His command was followed by a moment’s silence, prompting the captain to order a further two sailors aloft, eager to assuage the consul’s impatience. The Poena was still two miles short of Drepana; from his position, Scipio was unable to see what was happening, his frustration quickly boiling over to compound his anger.

The lookout had reported the concentration of the vanguard and its advance towards the inner harbour, only to report minutes later that the Carthaginian fleet was escaping the confines of the inlet and sailing west in the lee of the city. The opportunity for a surprise attack had been lost and Scipio was immediately overcome by a sense of desperation, of helplessness, unable in his position at the rear of the fleet to bring the Carthaginians to battle.

‘Confirmed, Consul,’ one of the new lookouts called. ‘The Carthaginian fleet is escaping. The vanguard did not reach the inner harbour in time.’

Scipio halted his incessant striding at the portside rail and watched the long line of Carthaginian galleys extend to the limits of the peninsula, the unmolested enemy ships in a tight formation that mocked the chaotic disposition of the Roman fleet.

‘Shall I order battle stations, Consul?’ the captain asked, wary of the proximity of so many enemy ships.

Scipio seemed not to hear him, his attention turning to the city.

‘Consul?’

Scipio turned around irritably, his mind slowly absorbing the captain’s original question. He waved his hand dismissively.

‘No, it’s hopeless,’ he said. ‘We are too far out of position to stop the Carthaginians escaping. We will advance to the inner harbour and take control of the city.’

The captain hesitated but thought better of challenging the consul, and he nodded his ascent, ordering the minor course change.

Scipio nodded to himself. Drepana was a small consolation given his original plans and he knew he would need to embellish his account of its capture if he was to gain any credit for such an insignificant victory. The Carthaginian fleet had escaped, the surprise attack had failed, and Scipio cursed the deities for robbing him of his victory.

‘Hard to port, standard speed,’ Hamilcar ordered, and the Alissar turned tightly around the seaward end of the narrow island, the vista to the fore of the flagship changing from the empty western horizon to the teeming waters of the southern approaches to Drepana. The galleys behind the Alissar began their turn as they reached the same location, each one dropping off a fraction of a point to sail beyond the flagship, maintaining battle speed until they came up on its starboard beam before dropping to standard speed, the formation rapidly extending into line abreast, the Carthaginians bringing their rams to bear on the Roman foe.

The low cloud cover and feeble sunlight reduced visibility to less than five miles but Hamilcar could see the entire Roman fleet was encapsulated within that sphere. His gaze swept over them, counting them quickly with a practised eye. He was outnumbered by at least thirty galleys, but the Romans were woefully out of position and Hamilcar now had the advantage of superior sea room.

He walked over to the helmsman and pointed out the cluster of galleys that made up the Roman vanguard under the command of Perennis, issuing the helmsman with a terse order. The Greek had extracted his galleys from the inner harbour in the time Hamilcar’s ships had taken to sail the length of Drepana, and was now engaged in forming a defensive line. He nodded grimly. Perennis had anticipated his turn. It was not unexpected. He knew the Greek to be a skilful opponent. But he was the only one who had predicted the counter attack, and Hamilcar smiled as he looked upon the centre and southern flank of the Roman fleet, still advancing towards Drepana in a scattered screen of galleys.

Hamilcar felt the Alissar shift slightly beneath him; he looked along its length and onwards to the enemy formation a mile away. The helmsman was following his orders to the letter, keeping the Alissar fixed on the command ship of the vanguard, and he slapped him on the shoulder before striding away to check the unfolding formation of the Gadir fleet. The battle line was almost formed, the galleys still moving at standard speed, poised to accelerate to battle, attack and then ramming speed.

Hamilcar turned his focus to the Greek’s ship. He would get only one chance, one opportunity to attack before having to withdraw to take command of the entire battle. He would not be able to order his men to board. There was no time; the overall battle was too important for him not to command personally. One ramming run would get him close enough. Then he would strike.

‘Damn it, Baro,’ Atticus shouted. ‘Signal them to tighten the formation.’

Baro nodded and ran to the signalmen on the foredeck, skirting around the formation of legionaries on the main deck. Atticus looked to the western approaches and the rapidly forming Carthaginian battle line.

‘Corin, report,’ he shouted and looked up to the masthead. The lookout turned around and looked down to the aft-deck.

‘Thirty galleys still sailing behind the line,’ he shouted. ‘No more than five more minutes.’

Atticus waved to acknowledge the report and looked anxiously to the remainder of the Roman fleet to the south of the vanguard. The line of his ships was being extended along the coastline by the galleys of Ovidius and, beyond, Scipio, the haphazard defence only slowly taking shape, the Roman captains taking their lead from the vanguard, while only a mile away the Carthaginian battle line was forming with deadly efficiency. Atticus turned to his helmsman.

‘Gaius?’ he asked, requesting his steady assessment.

The helmsman looked to the four points of the ship as his hand continued to move on the tiller, making minor adjustments to his own charge. He looked to Atticus.

‘Our only chance is a tight defensive line,’ he said. ‘The Carthaginians will try to ram and they have the sea room to back water if we try to grapple them and board.’

Atticus nodded. He could see no other way, and his first command to form up on the coast remained sound.

He met Gaius’s steady gaze. It was a testament to the helmsman’s loyalty that Gaius had not questioned the overall strategy of the attack, or Atticus’s part in its planning. Atticus had not discussed his reservations with any of the crew, but he knew Gaius would be of the same mind. The Roman fleet simply wasn’t ready, and that disparity in skill would be compounded by an unfavourable position in the battle ahead.

Atticus took strength from Gaius’s faith, using it to suppress his growing fear. The storm off the southern coast of Sicily had cost the fleet many ships and countless lives. Now a new storm was on the horizon less than a mile away, a tempest of steel and men, with a squall line of bronze rams that would overwhelm the exposed and vulnerable Roman fleet.

‘They’re advancing,’ Corin called from the masthead. ‘Estimate battle speed.’

‘All hands, make ready,’ Atticus shouted and the crew roared a defiant war cry, many of them looking to their commander standing firm on the aft-deck before focusing all of their attention on the oncoming enemy. Atticus spotted Baro on the main deck and called him to his side, wanting to bury their recent enmity in the face of a shared danger.

‘They’re moving to attack speed,’ Corin called. ‘Close formation.’

‘Close formation…’ Baro repeated to himself. ‘To make sure we don’t break through.’

Atticus nodded and turned to his second-in-command. ‘Who says we want to escape?’ he said with a wry smile.

Baro did not reply, the prefect’s glib remark irking him, and he kept his gaze locked on the approaching enemy ships.

The sun broke through the low clouds with spears of light that reached down to the sea, turning great swathes of the surface from grey to blue. The Alissar sailed into one of the shafts at attack speed, her spear-like hull making a shade over twelve knots in the tideless waters. Hamilcar looked up to bathe his face in the heat of the sunlight. It was a good omen, the light of Shapash, the sun goddess, was upon them, and Hamilcar muttered a brief prayer of gratitude.

He looked to the main deck and the tight knot of men taking instructions from Himilco, the captain. Many were nodding grimly, glancing over their shoulders to the Roman line, and with a final command they broke to take up their assigned positions. Himilco returned to the aft-deck and saluted his commander.

‘I have given them your instructions,’ he said, and Hamilcar nodded in reply.

He looked to the bow and watched a solid line of shadow sweep along the length of the Alissar towards him as the quinquereme breached the outer edge of the shaft of sunlight. Shapash had bestowed her blessing, and Hamilcar looked to the Roman line less than three hundred yards away, wallowing in grey seas, their formation still not exact, even amongst the galleys of the Greek’s command.

Hamilcar examined his decision one last time, knowing he was risking a great deal to strike this one blow against Perennis, concerned that his personal vendetta was clouding his judgement, but he quickly rationalized his choice, conceding that the Greek was one of the most skilled commanders in the Roman navy and his loss would be significant. His attack would be swift and brutal, specifically targeted to kill the Greek, and Hamilcar could trust Himilco to have the Alissar back in a command position before the battle was fully engaged. He nodded to himself, his remaining doubts dispelled, and he looked to the captain to issue the order of commitment.

‘Ramming speed.’

Atticus looked along the length of the approaching Carthaginian battle line, the bows of the galleys dipping and rising out of sequence, like the heads of cavalry horses charging in line. He knew the Roman fleet should have advanced to meet the Carthaginians in the centre of the bay in order to gain some sea room, but that command had remained impossible. With many of the galleys still not in position, a ragged charge would have led to utter chaos. However disadvantageous, their only chance now was a defensive battle plan, with the Roman galleys remaining in close proximity to each other.

‘Enemy galley on ramming course!’

‘Battle speed, full ahead,’ Atticus shouted, reacting instinctively to Corin’s warning.

The rowers were holding the Orcus on station, the majority of them with their oars dipped in the water, but they moved with lightning speed to Atticus’s command, all of them having heard Corin’s call from the masthead, knowing that if the Orcus was holed they would share its doom.

Atticus ran to the side rail to look past his own main deck to the approaching galley. He recognized it instantly.

‘Barca,’ he uttered, knowing that the focused attack could not be mere coincidence, that the enemy commander had identified the Orcus as he had the Carthaginian’s flagship. His hand fell to the hilt of his sword. The odds against the Roman fleet were staggering, but now there was a chance to sever the head of the serpent. The realization steeled his determination to strike down the Carthaginian commander whom he had fought too many times.

The one hundred-ton hull of the Orcus moved forward at a torturously slow pace, its previous inertia fighting the strength of the rowers.

‘Your helm, Gaius,’ Atticus said over his shoulder. ‘Wait for the turn.’

Gaius nodded and lightened his touch on the tiller, his hand moving slightly from side to side, waiting for the moment when the speed of the hull would allow him sufficient rudder control to turn quickly. The Orcus might gain only a ship length in the time it took for the Carthaginian galley to cover the final gap, and in that limited sea room Gaius knew he would have only one chance to thwart the Carthaginian’s ramming run, to foul the angle of attack and prevent the enemy’s ram from penetrating the hull.

‘One hundred yards,’ Corin called.

‘Steady…’ Atticus said almost to himself as he returned to the helm, his trust in Gaius absolute.

‘Prepare to repel boarders,’ Baro shouted, and the sailing crew drew their swords, the legionaries following suit at the command of Drusus.

‘Fifty yards…’

The hastati raised their pila spears, ready to loose them.

‘Aspect change, turning to starboard,’ Corin shouted frantically. Gaius reacted before Atticus could utter the command, the helmsman throwing the tiller hard over, the Orcus turning to port to counter the attack. Atticus nodded. Gaius had done it. The Carthaginians would not be able to cut back inside to ram. They would have to board over the bow rail and take the ship along its entire length, giving the defenders a greater chance. He drew his sword and braced his legs for the impact, Baro drawing his own blade beside him, while Gaius kept both hands on the tiller, the gap falling to thirty yards, twenty…

‘They’re withdrawing oars,’ Corin shouted suddenly, panic in his voice. ‘Starboard side…’

‘They’re going to sweep the oars!’

Again Gaius reacted without hesitation, but travelling at battle speed he could not turn quicker than a galley approaching at ramming speed, and the Carthaginian ship gained a yard on the starboard side as it covered the last ten.

Time slowed for Atticus as he watched the turn. His heart seemed to stop beating, overwhelmed by a surge of dread and anger, Barca’s perfect ruse bringing a roar of utter defiance to his lips which he twisted into a forlorn command.

‘Starboard oars, withdraw! All hands, brace for impact.’

The Carthaginian ram slammed into the starboard bow of the Orcus, striking the forward strake timbers with a force that heeled the Orcus over into the strike. The entire crew was thrown to the deck, the mainmast tilting over thirty degrees as the Orcus absorbed the blow, and Corin was thrown from the masthead, his cry cut short as he struck the water over the starboard side.

Atticus regained his feet and ran to the side rail. Corin had resurfaced, along with two other men who had fallen over the rail, and Atticus looked with horror at the approaching Carthaginian galley, the three men directly in its path. The deck beneath shuddered again, this time under the impact of the cutwater of the enemy galley striking the starboard oars, the sound of the fifteen-foot-long oars snapping was overwhelmed by the screams of the dying on the rowing deck, the remnants of the oars scything through the chained men on their mountings, killing any within their reach.

Atticus ran back to the helm, desperate to try and save Corin, to somehow turn his devastated galley into the sweep and gain a precious yard of distance on the starboard side. Gaius already had the tiller hard over, the portside oars hastening the turn, but at ramming speed the Carthaginian galley was moving too fast and Atticus looked again to the side rail, hearing the desperate cries of Corin and the others. He turned to Gaius, desperation in his eyes, helplessness overcoming him, his entire focus concentrated on saving his ship and crew, never seeing the approaching danger on the foredeck of the Carthaginian galley.

Hamilcar staggered as he ran the length of the main deck, the Alissar bucking wildly beneath him as it smashed through the oars of the Roman galley. The noise was overwhelming, the screams of dying men, the crack of oars snapping, the sporadic boom of the hulls slamming against each other as they reeled from the initial strike. He reached the foredeck within seconds and glanced over his shoulder to Himilco standing at the helm, his eyes locked on his commander, waiting for the order that would trigger his command to turn away from the stricken Roman galley and rejoin the battle at large.

The deck beneath Hamilcar was littered with the splinters of the shattered oars, while yet more rained down upon him as he came up behind the group of men he had stationed on the foredeck. They stood unmoving, their weapons poised in their hands. Hamilcar looked beyond them to the Roman galley, the mainmast now directly opposite him, now behind. He turned to the enemy aft-deck. Three men stood there and Hamilcar immediately recognized Perennis amongst them, issuing orders to his helmsman while frantically looking to the starboard rail. Hamilcar smiled coldly.

‘Make ready,’ he shouted above the cacophony of noise. His men raised their weapons.

Drusus stood stoically on the main deck of the Orcus at the head of his demi-maniple, his legs braced against the shudder of the deck beneath him, his expression murderous behind his raised shield, his eyes locked on the passing Carthaginian galley. As a soldier trained and forged in close combat, where you could smell the breath of your enemy, where the shadow of death was cast over all, the concept of attacking an enemy with impunity was abhorrent.

There was no honour in the naval tactics of ramming or sweeping oars, striking your foe with a crippling or even mortal blow, only to sail away without ever having faced down your enemy. That was not the way of the legions, and Drusus craved the chance to take the fight to the Carthaginians, hoping that they might yet board the Orcus and taste the steel of the men to his back.

A shattered piece of oar slammed into his shield. The bow of the Carthaginian galley passed, moving at the speed of a running man, and Drusus’s eye was immediately drawn to the knot of men on the enemy foredeck, their attention fixed on the aft-deck of the Orcus, their intention clear. Drusus did not hesitate. He ran, shouting for his men to follow, the more alert reacting instantly, the Carthaginian galley outpacing them all as they raced to the aft-deck.

Atticus heard his name being called through the deafening noise and turned to the main deck. Drusus was running towards him with a half-dozen men, while behind him the rest of the maniple seemed in confusion, with many others turning to join the flight towards the aft-deck. The optio was screaming his name, pointing frantically to a point somewhere to Atticus’s right, and he spun around.

The foredeck of the Carthaginian galley was all but level with his position and Atticus immediately saw the danger, the tight knot of archers with their bows drawn, their arrows pointing directly at him, Baro and Gaius. Behind them he saw Hamilcar, his gaze already locked on Atticus. Across the maelstrom of shattered oars and the wall of screams from the rowers below, Atticus saw the hatred pouring from Hamilcar’s eyes and the triumphant, twisted smile on his face.

Atticus reacted without conscious thought, striking out with his left hand to shove Baro to the deck, dropping the sword from his right as he made to turn towards Gaius, his eyes still locked on Hamilcar, his mind registering the open mouth of his enemy, forming a single shouted command: loose.

The Carthaginians released their drawn bows as one, the trajectory of the arrows almost flat across the narrow gap, and Atticus immediately felt a solid deadening punch in his right shoulder and leg, the realization of the dual strikes flooding his mind with alarm, numbing his senses as the deck fell away from beneath him and his gaze swept across the iron-grey sky.

The air was blown from his lungs as he struck the deck. Sensations assailed him like waves crashing endlessly against a stricken hull; the struggle to breathe, the numbness in his shoulder and leg giving way to searing pain that built like heat in a furnace, his ears filled with cries of alarm as unseen bodies clamoured around him, the thud of arrows striking raised shields punctuating the endless noise.

He rolled on to his side, crying out in pain as the shaft of the arrow in his shoulder broke under the weight of his body. His hand shot to the wound, the blood gushing through his fingers, and his vision began to swim, a darkness creeping in on all sides. He roared a guttural cry of defiance, pushing back the darkness, knowing he needed to stay alive, that his ship was in danger, his crew.

He slammed his bloodstained hand on to the deck and pushed himself up, immediately seeing Baro taking cover behind the shield wall of Drusus’s men while the optio shouted for his hastati to let fly on the escaping galley with their spears, a furious, hopeless order to exact some measure of vengeance.

Atticus turned his head, a wave of nausea sweeping over him; again he repressed it savagely. He looked to the helm, the tiller swinging steadily against the grey backdrop of the sky, and then he dropped his gaze to the deck, his heart breaking as he spotted Gaius not five feet away, the helmsman’s eyes wide in fear, his bloodied hands clutching the shaft of an arrow that was protruding from his neck.

Atticus crawled across the deck, his own pain forgotten, his vision filled with the sight of Gaius. He reached out and grabbed Gaius’s tunic with his left hand just as the helmsman began to fall, and he eased him on to the deck. Gaius’s eyes locked on Atticus. He opened his mouth, blood gushing out to run down his cheeks. He tried to speak, his eyes opening wider in a silent plea as the words died on his lips, choked by blood and the terrible wound. Atticus put his hand to Gaius’s cheek, quieting him, nodding slightly as if in understanding, and the helmsman calmed, the pleading in his eyes turning to gratitude before death robbed them of their sight.

Hamilcar continued to look over his shoulder as the Alissar made its turn through the empty waters beyond the Romans’ northernmost flank. The Greek’s ship was drifting aimlessly, its starboard side a tangle of broken oars, the rail lined with men waving wildly at the Alissar to return and fight. The taunts were lost over the increasing distance, but Hamilcar still felt their sting, a part of him wanting to strike again and board Perennis’s ship, to take it as a prize, to be the captain he once had been.

He turned and made his way back along the main deck, his thoughts on the frantic seconds of the attack, the moment of clarity before the order to loose, when Perennis had looked him in the eye. He recalled the arrows striking the Greek, knocking him to the deck, and the sudden arrival of the legionaries, their wall of shields blocking Hamilcar’s chance to confirm the kill. He replayed the moment again and again in his mind, each time becoming more convinced that his attack had been successful, and with satisfaction he put the matter beyond doubt in his mind, knowing he needed to focus his energy on the greater battle.

The Alissar came about behind the Carthaginian battle line, affording Hamilcar an uninterrupted view of the fight. No Roman ship had yet broken through, the disciplined ranks of the Gadir fleet preventing any escape. The southern flank was more exposed; the disparity in numbers allowed for some Roman galleys to fall outside the net, but Hamilcar dismissed the loss as inconsequential, knowing the Roman centre was ensnared, its doom already sealed.

He would further concentrate his forces, squeezing the centre until it buckled under the strain, forcing a surrender that would give him a bounty of captured galleys, each one a replica of his own, save the calibre of the crew. At Drepana the sons of Carthage would prove their worth and write their claim upon the sea with Roman blood.