Master of Rome

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Hamilcar looked up at the verdant slopes of the mountain soaring up from the shore of the ‘sacred island’ to the clouds racing overhead. The sky was a reflection of the sea, the heavy swell following the course of the clouds, racing to keep up under the force of a strong westerly wind. He placed his hand on the side rail, gripping it tightly as the Alissar rolled beneath him, and he gazed about him at the Carthaginian fleet holding station in the lee of the island.

Over the winter months, Hamilcar had slowly assembled a fleet of one hundred and sixty galleys in Carthage. Hanno had refused to re-release the Gadir fleet and so Hamilcar had been forced to draw his forces from the minor fleets guarding the African coastline and trading routes. They were skilled sailing crews but he had been forced to admit that they lacked the battle-hardiness of the Gadir fleet, and the cold months had had to be spent reinforcing their training, while waiting for news from Rome that the enemy fleet had sailed.

Reports had arrived four days before, not from Rome but from Lilybaeum — disastrous news that the Romans, with a fleet of two hundred ships, had taken the undefended port of Drepana in a surprise attack from the north. Hamilcar had hastily set sail with his fleet, his course taking him directly to Hiera, the sacred island of the Aegates, to find Himilco already waiting there for him with the ninety galleys of the Lilybaeum fleet, the very ships they had captured from the Romans at the battle of Drepana over a year before.

Himilco had abandoned the port, fearful of being blockaded and, knowing that a battle with the Romans was inevitable, he had taken with him the entire garrison of a thousand men. It was a bold and decisive move that Hamilcar approved of, although he knew Lilybaeum was now ripe to fall. If the Romans were to attack from the landward side, the population might well panic, and without a garrison to control them they would throw open the gates to save themselves. It was imperative, therefore, that his fleet reach Lilybaeum with all haste, but Hamilcar had nevertheless waited for a favourable wind to give his approach an additional advantage in what were now enemy-infested waters.

With a combined fleet of two hundred and fifty galleys, Hamilcar was confident that he could challenge any blockade of Lilybaeum; but, given the Roman’s boldness in bypassing Panormus and taking Drepana, he knew that blockade would never materialize. The Romans were seeking battle. It was surely why they had attacked Drepana without warning, for they had expected to find a Carthaginian fleet there.

Hamilcar had always known the Romans to be arrogant, but given their defeat over a year before in these very waters, their return and audacious attack displayed a level of arrogance that was staggering to behold. Hamilcar’s fleet was inexperienced but nonetheless they were Carthaginian, and he outnumbered the Romans by at least fifty ships.

After Drepana he had wanted to push the war to a final conclusion. Now the Romans were handing him that chance, confronting him like a dying warrior reaching for his last weapon, marshalling his final strength for one last great effort. They would not succeed, Hamilcar thought triumphantly; he would end them, here, in the cold grey waters off the Aegates Islands, and with a shouted command that carried on the wind, he called his fleet to battle stations, knowing that between the sacred island and Lilybaeum he would meet and finally destroy the greatest foe he had every known.

Atticus stood on the foredeck of the Orcus, his tunic soaked through from the sea water crashing over the bow rail, the cutwater of the quinquereme slicing through the endless rows of wind-driven waves. The drum master was hammering out standard speed, but the quinquereme was only barely making headway, while Atticus squinted into the wind to the grey horizon and the distant island of Hiera.

He glanced over his shoulder to the rest of the fleet taking shelter around the southernmost headland of Aegusa, the largest of the Aegates Islands and the closest to Lilybaeum, five miles away to the east. He wiped the sea spray from his eyes, searching again for some flash of movement, some sign of colour, anything that would betray the exact position of the Carthaginian fleet in the shadow of Hiera.

He turned and looked back along the length of the Orcus. Catulus, the junior consul, was on the aft-deck, standing by the helm, his personal guard close at hand. He stood with his legs apart, braced against the pitch of the deck, his gaze reaching past Atticus to the western horizon, his bearing one of total confidence. The senior consul, Aulus Postumius Albinus, was also the flamen martialis, a member of the priesthood, and was forbidden by religious taboo from leaving the city. The position of overall commander had therefore fallen to Catulus.

The junior consul had quickly chosen the Orcus as his flagship, wishing to sail with his most experienced prefect, and from the outset he had consulted with Atticus at each stage, reminding Atticus of another junior consul years before on the eve of the battle of Mylae. Catulus knew the limits of his experience, and was content to allow Atticus to make front-line decisions, giving him effective command of the fleet.

Atticus looked to the heavens, knowing that Fortuna was continuing to toy with him. His approach from Rome had been flawless; his tactic of keeping the bulk of the fleet out of the normal trading lanes and away from the sight of land, coupled with avoiding Panormus, had allowed him to take Drepana completely by surprise. But only then did Fortuna reveal her presence. Drepana had been abandoned by the Carthaginian fleet, and although Atticus had been gifted a secure harbour, his ultimate goal to bring the enemy fleet to battle had been thwarted.

He had sent out patrol ships, through which he’d received reports that the only ships the Carthaginians had in the area had fled Lilybaeum and sailed west, another stroke of bad luck that was neatly reversed when the enemy fleet was seen approaching from the south to take up position at Hiera, a staging post for a run at the port of Lilybaeum. Atticus had immediately ordered his fleet to Aegusa, knowing the Carthaginians would have to sail past, but again Fortuna had spun her wheel, stirring up a strong westerly wind that churned the sea into a heavy swell.

Atticus had continued the training of the fleet during the winter, and his confidence had increased during the voyage south from Rome, the disciplined formations of the fleet holding even during the hours of darkness. Individually the seamanship of the Romans would never be of the standard the Carthaginians possessed, a skill learned over a lifetime, but in a massed battle the finer subtleties of seamanship mattered little, and Atticus was confident that his men were trained to a high enough standard to match the enemy.

But now the gods were conspiring to foul those odds, giving the Carthaginians the advantage of a tail wind and the Romans the potentially ruinous disadvantage of facing into a heavy swell. The Roman rowers would have to work twice as hard to take up position against the Carthaginians, and if any of the crews misaligned their hulls, the swell would turn them out of position, leading to collisions and exposing their broadsides to the enemy rams.

Atticus glanced at the new helmsman. He was a master of his craft, a skilled navigator and pilot, but although Atticus had shared the aft-deck with him since Drepana, he had yet to establish the level of trust that he had had in Gaius. The sailing crews were untested in battle and, with the elements against them, any battle fought on this day would be a challenge beyond any he had envisaged. He wished Lucius and Gaius were by his side, two steadfast advisors from whom he could draw counsel, and he looked once more to the western horizon, the wind robbing him of his breath at the moment he spotted the line of dark hulls in the distance.

‘Enemy galleys approaching, dead ahead,’ the lookout called, and without command the Orcus came to battle stations.

Atticus stood silent. The time for deliberation had passed. Now he had to commit one way or the other: withdraw to the safety of Drepana and wait for a better opportunity, or take the fight to the Carthaginians and trust in the men he commanded. He suddenly realized that Septimus had come up to the foredeck and was standing beside him, the centurion looking out beyond the bow rail to the enemy ranks, his expression as hard as iron.

‘The final battle,’ he said, and Atticus looked to the enemy. If we dare, he thought.

Septimus glanced over his shoulder, looking to his own men on the main deck, Drusus at their head. He was too unskilled in boarding to be given a command in the navy, and so he had accepted a demotion to optio in order to remain on board, gladly taking his place beside his former commander.

‘They’re ready,’ Septimus said, referring to his legionaries, the men drawn up in tight ranks, their rounded shields held firmly by their sides.

Atticus nodded. ‘They are,’ he said, thinking of his own command, the sailing crews — and the simple admission ended his doubts. They were ready and the enemy was at hand. He looked past Septimus and called a runner to his side.

‘Signal the fleet. All hands prepare for battle.’

‘Enemy galleys ahead!’

‘Battle speed. Secure the mainsail,’ Hamilcar shouted, and the actions of the crew of the Alissar were repeated on the galleys flanking the flagship, the preparations for battle rippling down the length of the fleet. Hamilcar stared at the waters ahead, watching as the Roman battle line extended, the enemy galleys beating directly into the wind, the spray thrown up by their bows as they sliced through the heavy swell visible even from his distant vantage point. Whether through stubborn arrogance or mindless courage, the Romans were obviously determined to precipitate a battle, and Hamilcar sneered disdainfully at their folly.

From the Alissar ’s position in the centre, Hamilcar looked to his flanks and the expanding line of his own fleet, their deployment hastened by the wind-driven waves. A sliver of annoyance rose within him as he noticed that many of the galleys were not gaining their position with the alacrity he would expect, the less experienced coastal galley crews being unused to large fleet manoeuvres, but he ignored the feeling, vowing instead that after the battle he would ensure that every crew was trained to the level of the Gadir fleet, an exemplar for the entire empire.

The battle line coalesced and hardened into a solid wave of timber, steel and men. Hamilcar moved to the foredeck, glancing left and right down the line, acknowledging the signals relayed from Himilco on the right flank that the Carthaginian line extended beyond that of the Romans, an implicit assurance from the experienced captain that he would allow none to escape to the south.

Hamilcar was captivated once again as he watched the bows of the galleys surge forward with the sweep of each oar stroke, the rams overtaking the swell, catching each wave and slicing through its crest, the hull bearing down through the trough in an unstoppable charge. He let the sight fill his heart and he thought back to the battles he had fought, on the sacred land of Carthage and the cursed earth of Sicily, on the all-encompassing sea, the domain of his ancestors. He thought of his foes, the invidious Romans and the Greek whoreson who had risen in their ranks, and the misguided leaders of his own beloved city who sought to confound his every move. It would all end in the waters ahead, decided on the blunt-nosed tip of a bronze ram or the steel tip of a sword, and Hamilcar ran his gaze across the length of their battle line before focusing dead ahead on the centre of the line and the heart of his foe.

The gap fell to a mile, the final boundary of commitment, the last chance for the combatants to disengage, but the fleets continued to converge without check or alteration. Hamilcar let his hand fall to the hilt of his sword. He drew it slightly and looked to the shard of exposed steel. It was polished, sharpened to a fine edge, and he tilted the blade to catch the sunlight, imprinting the image on his mind, knowing that by the end of the day it would be stained with Roman blood.

‘Six hundred yards,’ the masthead lookout called, and Hamilcar strode from the foredeck, nodding to his men on the main deck as he passed them, their eyes determined and hostile, locked on the approaching enemy, silently goading them on, waiting for the order to strike. Drepana had steeled the nerve of every man, even those who had not fought that day, the crushing defeat inflicted on the enemy navy exposing the Romans as mortal men, vulnerable to the blade of a sword and the power of a ram. They returned their commander’s nod, ready to follow him against the enemy, and Hamilcar felt the awe-inspiring faith of Carthage on his shoulders as he took up his command position beside the helm.

‘Four hundred yards,’ the lookout called.

‘Attack speed,’ Hamilcar ordered without hesitation, the entire fleet responding within a ship length. He closed his eyes and whispered a final prayer to Anath, to guide his hand and watch over his men, and when he opened them again, he raised his voice and led his men in a war cry, calling down death upon the enemies of Carthage.

Atticus heard a war cry on the back of the wind, a surging wave of sound that swept over the advancing Roman fleet. It was met with silence by the legionaries, discipline holding them firm. Only the order to attack would unleash their fury; until then, each man would hold that fire within him. Septimus moved among his men, speaking slowly of the battle to come, of how he expected each man to attack without hesitation, without mercy, reminding them of Drepana and the measure of vengeance that their fallen comrades called for from beyond the Styx.

The legionaries stood in silent ranks, rocking slowly with the pitch of the deck, their gaze locked on the enemy, seemingly oblivious to Septimus’s words, but each one was heard clearly and, as the order for attack speed was called from the aft-deck, a deep growl came from the men of the IV maniple — a reactive, momentary sound that revealed their readiness for the fight.

Atticus looked to the flanks and the neat formation of the line. The fleet had accelerated to battle speed almost as one, months of training dictating their approach. It was a fine display of seamanship, but one given in open water surrounded by their own galleys. He looked to the enemy, now only two hundred yards away. Once engaged and the battle joined, the lines would become fully entwined, and only then would the true strength of the Roman fleet be revealed.

He glanced at Catulus, the junior consul, standing on the other side of the tiller. No more orders could be given, no more preparations made. Once the gap between the fleets fell to one hundred yards, all would increase to ramming speed and every galley would become a lone fighter. Atticus, as fleet commander, would lose control for those first chaotic minutes, and only after they had passed would he be able to ascertain the level of parity between the crews. If both sides were evenly matched the battle would descend into a determined fight; if one or other crew were much stronger, the battle would become a slaughter. With an acceptance of fate that comes from a lifetime at war, Atticus placed the first assault in the hands of Mars.

One hundred yards.

‘Ramming speed,’ Atticus shouted, and he indicated a target ship to the helmsman, the Orcus shifting slightly beneath him as the attack line was set.

He swept his gaze across the centre of the Carthaginian line, picking out individual ships, the foredecks crammed with men, their faces grotesquely twisted as they roared defiance and hatred. The gap fell to fifty yards, the helmsman adjusting the course of the Orcus, countering the galley opposing him, gaining the advantage, bringing the ram to bear.

Atticus glanced to his left and right, at the extended line of the enemy. Suddenly he froze, his mind reacting to a moment of brief recognition, and he looked again, focusing on the masthead banners of a galley a hundred yards further down the line. He stepped forward instinctively, his mind transporting him back over a year to Drepana and a vision of a blood-soaked aft-deck, of Gaius’s head cradled in his arms, of Corin, crushed beneath the hull of a galley. It was Barca’s flagship.

Atticus looked to the front and the anonymous Carthaginian galley bearing down on the Orcus. The lines were now thirty yards apart. It was too late to change course and target another ship. The Orcus was committed, but Atticus now knew where the heart of the enemy lay. ‘Helmsman, forget the ramming run. Prepare to sweep the starboard oars,’ he shouted, and the order was carried forward to the rowing deck as the gap fell to twenty yards. The Orcus had gained the angle to ram but Atticus was sacrificing it to avoid the entanglement, needing to get beyond the battle line so he could seek out Barca’s galley. Catulus looked on without a word, not understanding the sudden change, putting his trust in the Greek commander.

‘Centurion Capito to the aft-deck,’ Atticus called, and he saw Septimus respond immediately.

Ten yards.

‘Withdraw!’ Atticus roared, and the helmsman leaned into the tiller, decreasing the angle of attack to stop the ram from penetrating.

The Orcus struck the bow quarter of the enemy galley as Septimus reached the aft-deck, the shuddering blow knocking him off balance, and Atticus shot out his arm to grab him. The ram glanced cleanly off the strake timbers, swinging the stern of the Orcus around. The momentum of her charge carried her down the length of the Carthaginian galley, her cutwater snapping off its starboard oars, the unexpected change of attack throwing the enemy crew into confusion.

‘All oars, re-engage,’ Atticus shouted as the stern emerged into open water and the Orcus continued on, the sea clear all the way to the fringes of the western horizon.

Catulus looked over his shoulder to the crippled Carthaginian galley, its crew shouting challenges to return, their individual voices lost amidst the deafening noise of battle — the sound of galleys striking deadly blows against each other, the crack of timbers and the screams of men. He spun around to Atticus, baffled by the decision to alter their attack at the last moment.

‘Why did we not ram?’ he asked. ‘The marines were ready to board. Now that ship will escape under canvas.’

‘Let them,’ Atticus replied. ‘They are minnows, and I have seen the heart of the enemy.’

He turned to Septimus

‘Barca’s galley is there,’ he said in explanation, pointing to a nearby melee of ships. ‘And we’re going to take her.’

Septimus nodded, agreeing without question, though he knew the flagship would be the most heavily manned galley, remembering the enemy command ship at Mylae.

Atticus ordered the helmsman to bring the ship around and the Orcus turned broadside to the swell before neatly coming about, giving Atticus an uninterrupted view of the battle. It was chaotic, as he knew it would be, but for an instant he thought the Roman fleet looked to have the upper hand, a judgement he knew was fraught with hope. He focused on the confusion of galleys off the port bow quarter, searching for his prey. He thought again of Corin, whose sharp eyes would have seen Barca’s galley by now, and Gaius, whose deft touch on the tiller would have sent the Orcus, like the arrow that slew him, into the heart of the enemy.

Within seconds he saw it again, Barca’s ship, withdrawing its ram from a stricken Roman galley. He shouted the course change to the helmsman, calling once more for ramming speed. The Orcus bore down into the attack, its ram smashing through each rushing wave.

‘You have the aft-deck,’ Atticus said to the helmsman, and he brought his hand to the hilt of his sword as he strode to the main deck, gathering up a hoplon shield as he came up to stand by Septimus’s side. The centurion glanced at his friend and nodded, understanding Atticus’s need to see this fight through to the end.

Septimus looked to the waters ahead and Barca’s galley, the enemy as yet unaware of the Orcus, since its attack run was coming from the reverse side of the battle line. He drew his sword, an action followed by Drusus, his prompt order bringing the legionaries to the cusp of battle, their swords singing out as they swept the blades from their scabbards.

Septimus turned to his men, holding his sword aloft. ‘For Rome!’ he shouted, and the men cheered as one, hammering the back of their shields with their swords, the noise coming to a deafening roar that put steel in each man’s heart for the brutal fight ahead.

‘And for her fallen,’ Atticus said to himself as he drew his own sword amidst the cheering of the legionaries.

The Alissar re-engaged her oars at attack speed, the helmsman swinging the bow away from the flagship’s first blood and Hamilcar cheered in triumph with his crew, memories of Drepana flooding his mind, and the incredible prize that was once more there for the taking, an entire Roman fleet ripe for capture. He looked to the battle beyond the Alissar, already forming in his mind the signal he would send to his ships to ensure that most of the Roman galleys be spared from sinking; but, as he looked out over the portside rail, the smile died on his face.

Not thirty yards away, one of his ships was being overwhelmed by a Roman boarding party, the attack being repeated on a dozen other galleys within his range of view, while others had fallen victim to Roman ramming runs. His own galleys had scored only a handful of hits. Even where they had boarded, the Roman legionaries were pushing back the assault and reversing the attack.

Hamilcar put his hands on the rail for support, a terrible dread overwhelming him. He had believed his understrength crews would still outmatch the hapless Romans, his faith based on his crushing victory at Drepana, but the enemy had come out fighting, somehow overcoming their previous inadequacies in seamanship and naval combat. The doubts that had consumed him after Ecnomus flooded back, deriding him for his blind faith in Carthage’s naval superiority. He felt helpless. How could he defeat such a foe? He had crushed their army at Tunis and their fleet at Drepana. The gods had commanded a tempest to shatter their galleys, and yet each time the Romans had returned, each time eager to fight on, rebuffing any talk of peace, their navy ever renewed, ever undaunted, relentlessly sailing out against every fleet Hamilcar could muster, their strength of will an unconquerable force that knew no bounds.

In the past the Romans had succeeded using their cursed boarding ramps, or at Hermaeum using sheer weight of numbers, but at Drepana Carthage had finally been able to use the one advantage they had always possessed, seamanship, and the result was complete victory. Now it seemed that their one advantage had been surpassed. How had the Romans channelled their resources and strength of will to create a fleet that could outmatch one from the home waters of Carthage, and who amongst them could command such a force?

‘Galley on a ramming course off the starboard beam,’ the lookout called frantically and Hamilcar spun around.

A lone galley sailed stark against the empty seascape, approaching on an unanticipated angle of attack that only the vigilant lookout had spotted, the entire crew sharing their commander’s interest in events on the port side. Hamilcar was stunned and he lost vital seconds as the Roman galley came to within a hundred yards of the Alissar.

‘Hard to starboard, turn into her,’ Hamilcar roared, his wits returning, and he ran to the tiller, putting his weight behind the helmsman’s turn. ‘Ramming speed!’

The Alissar came about swiftly, the sweep of the battle line passing before her bow. Hamilcar kept his eyes on the ram of the lone galley, watching it as it turned inside the Alissar ’s turn, its course ever locked amidships of his galley. His gaze swept up and suddenly his hand fell from the tiller, the sight of the masthead banners triggering an automatic grab for the hilt of his sword.

The Greek’s ship. Perennis.

He was alive, and in an instant Hamilcar’s questions were answered, his doubts falling away to be replaced by cold determination. Here was the enemy: not the forces of Rome, but the demon who had honed their strength.

The gap fell to fifty yards and Hamilcar ran to the main deck, his sword clearing his scabbard as he ran.

‘All hands, brace for impact,’ he shouted. ‘Prepare to repel boarders.’

He moved to the starboard rail, his men bunching behind him, ready for the assault. The oncoming galley filled his field of vision and he threw up his shield as a black rain of spears erupted from the bow of the Greek’s ship, falling heavily on his crew, the barbs finding prey in the massed ranks. His crew yelled in pain and anger, defiance steeling their nerves, and they called on the inexorable fight, eager to repay every injury, every drop of blood.

Hamilcar let them roar, his own mouth clamped shut in a thin line of hatred. The fate of his fleet might be beyond his control. The Alissar was moments from damnation and he could not save her. But Hamilcar vowed that if on this day he should pass under the hand of Mot, the god of death, he would not go alone. The Greek would go before him.

Atticus stood with every muscle tensed, the impact seconds away. His sword felt light in his hand, his shield was held tight against his shoulder and he breathed deeply as the final yards were covered. His mind was filled with the din of battle, and the utter conviction that comes on the cusp of mortal danger, when the spirit has overruled the instinct and committed the warrior to battle, when the enemy’s numbers become inconsequential, their strength irrelevant. Only the man who stands defiant before the warrior matters; in the midst of a greater battle, he fights not for victory but for survival.

Atticus was propelled forward as the Orcus struck home, the deck bucking wildly beneath him, the six-foot bronze ram of the quinquereme driving deeply into the hull of the Carthaginian galley, the air rent with the sound of timbers snapping under the hammer blow and the terrified cries of men who could foresee their death in the cold water that rushed past the ram into the lower decks.

Atticus used the impact to begin his dash to the fore rail, Septimus running at his right shoulder, the legionaries coming on behind like the scourge of Nemesis, bearing retribution for the loss at Drepana. Atticus jumped up on to the rail, never hesitating as he cleared the four foot gap to the main deck of the enemy galley, his shield and sword charged against the Carthaginians who were re-forming after the shock of impact. He slammed into an enemy soldier, his momentum throwing the man back against the throng behind, the Carthaginian ranks attempting to expel the invaders before they could gain a foothold.

Atticus lashed out with all his fury, knowing the first seconds were vital, that the enemy defence had to be checked until the legionaries could board in force. The attackers were few, heavily outnumbered, constricted by the narrow sliver of deck they controlled. The corvus put forty men on an enemy deck in twenty seconds, but now they crossed in twos and threes, and the momentum of their attack stalled as many took the place of fallen legionaries in the front line.

Atticus fought on, ever conscious of the hollow sensation at the base of his spine, the treacherous space behind him, a thin rail separating him from the oblivion of a pitiless sea trapped between two opposing hulls. He struck out low with his sword, concentrating on the enemy in front of him, constantly fighting the temptation to check his exposed flank, knowing he had to trust the legionary at his side, to put his faith in the skill of the man fighting next to him.

The Carthaginian line hardened as the initial strength of the Roman charge was absorbed and Atticus bunched his weight behind his shield as he felt the first counter-surge from deep within the enemy ranks. The pendulum had swung back in the Carthaginians’ favour, their numbers and command of a wider front allowing them to push their ranks forward from the back, giving their front line no choice but to step deeper into the Roman assault in an attempt to push the attack line back in turn.

Atticus heard a roar of command from his side, and out of the corner of his eye he noticed that Septimus stood beside him, the centurion’s voice carrying clearly above the clash of steel and the cries of death and fury. Behind he could hear the deeper tone of Drusus’s voice, urging the men forward against the crush, harnessing the stamina of soldiers bred on the march, their strength halting the Carthaginian surge.

The battle line became compressed, forcing Atticus to shorten his sword thrusts, each riposte and recovery of his blade testing the strength of his sword arm as he drove his weapon back into the fray, a defender not inches from his chest, the man’s eyes locked on Atticus’s, his roar of defiance lost in the noise of battle, the spittle from the Carthaginian’s war cry mingling with the sweat on Atticus’s face as he fought on and on.

The front line was a shambles, a place of butchery, where men’s lives were sacrificed for inches of deck space and the slain fell only where the crush allowed. The deck underfoot was coated with the blood of both sides, the battle line becoming static as the pressure equalized on all sides. The pendulum of advantage had swung back from the Carthaginians, but only to the nadir of its arc. It dangled over the capricious battle line, waiting to see which side would break first.

Hamilcar stood in the midst of his men, calling to them to push ever onwards, to sweep the enemy from the deck of the Alissar, to fight as if the Romans were threatening the very walls of sacred Carthage. His senses picked up the slight tilt in the deck beneath him, his galley already dying, its final demise stayed only by the Roman ram deep within its bowels, keeping the Alissar afloat. It was a realization that put further steel in his heart and he heaved forward with his men, robbing those fighting at the front of the room to wield their swords, sacrificing them in an effort to reverse the Roman attack.

The pressure increased and again Hamilcar called for his line to advance, his breath catching in the crush of men, the grunts and gasps of the heaving mass overcoming the sound of clashing steel in the battle line. Hamilcar looked to the row of Roman helmets not six feet away, his eyes drawn to the tallest man in the centre. He was the centurion who had stood beside the Greek before the battle of Cape Hermaeum.

The sight caused Hamilcar to redouble his efforts and the men around him took heart from the determination of their commander, their war cries reaching a ferocity that emboldened the Carthaginian ranks. The line seemed to tremble, like a bow drawn to its furthest limits, a shuddering tension that threatened release, and Hamilcar felt his blood lust intensify as he suddenly took a full step forward, the pressure abating in front of him, his men responding with a savage cheer as the Carthaginian line advanced.

Septimus stared coldly over the leading edge of his shield at the Carthaginian soldier inches from his face, the man screaming a curse in guttural Punic, his face twisted in exertion as he tried to push the Roman line back. Septimus struck out with his sword, blindly judging the angle of attack, and the Carthaginian’s scream turned to one of agony, blood erupting from his mouth as Septimus twisted his blade to savage the flesh and free his sword. The man slumped, unable to fall freely, and Septimus turned his shoulder slightly to clear his sword, ready for the next attack.

The fight seemed unrelenting but, while his legs ached from the effort of holding back the flood of Carthaginian warriors, his sword arm felt tireless, the close-quarter fighting a natural environment for the gladius in his hand, the simple thrust and withdrawal of the blade an almost reflex movement.

His men around him fought without check or mercy, the bodies of the enemy slain laid thick before them, and Septimus judged the Carthaginians were losing two or even three men to every Roman lost. Again the pressure increased and Septimus tensed the muscles on his lower legs, pushing the hobnails on his sandals into the timber deck to give him purchase under the surface of viscous blood and viscera. He was staggered by the intensity of the Carthaginian defence, the sheer blind fury of an enemy that would use the leading edge of their ranks as a ram to break through the Roman line.

A Carthaginian soldier heaved over his fallen comrade and Septimus struck out again, stabbing low, the crush turning his blade off true. He sliced through the edge of his opponent’s inner thigh, a brutal injury that was a death sentence in a fight where rotation out of the battle line was impossible, and Septimus stared into the terrified, pain-twisted face of the Carthaginian before striking out again with impunity, his opponent unable to defend himself in the agony of his injury.

Septimus withdrew his sword, ready to strike again, when he was arrested by a blood-chilling sensation down the left side of his body. An incredible surge swept through his shield arm and down his leg, a force that surmounted all that had come before, and he felt his body give way under the strain, his mind registering the cheer of the Carthaginians as the entire Roman line was driven back a pace.

A sudden panic overwhelmed him and he shouted to his men to hold fast, the call taken up by Atticus by his side and Drusus to his rear. It was a forlorn command, and within seconds another foot of deck space was lost. Septimus lashed out with his sword, the blade finding exposed flesh, but the pressure never slackened. Cries of alarm to his rear rang out and he looked over his shoulder through the crush of legionaries that filled the six-foot deep sliver of Roman-held deck. The side rail was giving way and Septimus stared in horror as three men disappeared over the side, their fall to the sea lost in the rising chaos, their deaths sealed by their heavy armour.

He spun around, his conscious thoughts receding under a terrible fury, and the knuckles of his bloodstained sword hand turned white under the strength of his grip. If his men were to die, they would die fighting the enemy, not like vermin cast overboard. He summoned up the full measure of his will, knowing he had to reverse the momentum of the enemy’s charge.

‘Men of the Ninth!’ he yelled, and the legionaries around him looked to their centurion. ‘Prepare to redeploy!’

They roared in reply, a ferocious affirmation to a commander they had followed into the maw of death.

‘Wedge formation!’ Septimus roared, and he immediately twisted his body to the side and shoved forward with all his strength, his shield angled to drive between two Carthaginians to his front in a desperate attempt to negate the enormous strength of the Carthaginian line, to force a breach and give his men a fighting chance.

Atticus followed Septimus without hesitation, pushing against the Carthaginian to the centurion’s left, his body angled to guard Septimus’s flank. The strength of the Carthaginian line was concentrated in the advance forward while sideways their cohesion was weaker, and the sudden lunge of the wedge formation drove the leading edge deep into the enemy ranks. The legionaries fought with brute aggression, punching their swords into the Carthaginian ranks, and they fed into the back end of the wedge, completely changing the aspect of their attack within seconds.

The Carthaginians responded, absorbing the initial momentum of the Roman counter-charge, but the respite had been gained; the Romans were no longer threatened with being pushed into the sea. Now the fight was on two wings, their backs to fellow legionaries, but in escaping the fate ordained by the Carthaginians, Septimus had gambled all. If they could not force a breach and split the Carthaginian front, they would be surrounded, and slaughtered like the men who stood their ground at Tunis.

Atticus grunted as he wrenched his sword free from the flesh of a Carthaginian soldier. His throat was dry, his breathing laboured, and he had a vile taste of blood and sweat in his mouth. His shield arm was numb, with only the straps to his forearm holding the hoplon in place, and his shoulder registered the strike of yet another blade while his body screamed for rest. He retched bile into the back of his throat as his battle lust demanded greater effort.

He sensed Septimus beside him, the centurion cleaving a path through the enemy ranks, and Atticus fought to keep pace, knowing that if any man were to become isolated he would be overwhelmed in seconds. The tip of the wedge was halfway across the deck and the amorphous Carthaginian formation continued to adapt, concentrating their numbers ahead of the wedge, trying to blunt the head of the attack. But it was a forlorn hope; the Romans would not be stopped and they pressed further on, while overhead the pendulum of battle followed their course.

Hamilcar shouted to his men to stand fast, his call lost in the din of battle, heard only by those closest to him; their scant numbers could do little to stem the momentum of the Roman advance. He had been moments from victory, but the disciplined Roman soldiers had broken out of his vice and Hamilcar realized that the fate that was befalling his fleet would soon meet his crew. Split in two, Hamilcar knew his men would founder, unable to stand against a wall of Roman legionaries who no longer feared an enemy to their rear. That moment of collapse was but moments away and Hamilcar accepted the inevitable, turning his fury to the fight within a fight he was honour bound to seek.

He looked to the head of the Roman formation, seeing again the towering stature of the centurion and, at his side, through the crush of men, he saw the Greek’s scarred face. He went to press his way forward but just then he sensed the first ripples of retreat in the men around them, the temper of their war cries changing, many of them glancing over their shoulders, no longer looking to the enemy at hand. He shouted one last time at his men, calling on them to take heart for Carthage and the Alissar, but they were beyond hearing, the instinct to survive resurfacing through the fog of battle lust.

The Romans reached the far rail and almost as one the Carthaginians stepped back, as if a command had been issued, the seasoned warriors knowing the Romans could no longer be defeated in formation fighting, knowing that from now, each man would stand alone, and that Mot already walked amongst them, selecting those who would be spared and those who would follow him through the gates of the underworld.

Hamilcar alone stood steady, his eyes locked on the Greek, the separating mass of his men giving him a clear line of vision. Perennis was but ten yards away, his sword charged outward, the Romans already in a line that would sweep the length of the deck. One of Hamilcar’s men bumped against him as he stepped back but Hamilcar ignored him, the command of his men no longer important. He was a warrior of Carthage and his enemy stood before him: nothing else mattered. He drew in a breath, steeling his will for the fight and he roared out a single word of challenge: ‘Perennis!’

Atticus heard his name clearly and he darted around, seeing Hamilcar standing square while those around him backed away. He reacted without thinking, surging forward from the Roman line, his sword held high as he roared Barca’s name in answer. Behind him he heard the command for the lines to advance, one facing forward and the other aft, but Atticus ignored them. He was unfettered, and the enemy who had taken much from him stood to his fore.

The Carthaginians were retreating but one turned to challenge Atticus. Without check, he bunched his weight behind his shield and shoved him aside, never taking his eyes off Barca. His brought his sword down and, as he covered the final yards, he saw Barca drop into a defensive crouch, his face a belligerent mask of hatred, his mouth opened wide as he bellowed a war cry.

Atticus slashed his sword around, using all the force of his momentum to land a strike on Hamilcar’s flank. Hamilcar dropped his shield, accepting the blade, but the force of the blow knocked Hamilcar off balance and he sidestepped before bringing his own sword around, looking to strike the Greek in the flank as he turned into the fight. Atticus parried the blade, circling his sword in a wide arc to expose Hamilcar’s centre, but the Carthaginian sensed the danger and he whipped his sword back to break the contact.

The two men stepped in to close the distance between them, neither man fighting for space or looking to circle his enemy. Their blind hatred drove them deeper into close combat, their eyes locked on each other, silently repeating the curses and vows of retribution for losses suffered through years of warfare. Hamilcar slammed the edge of his shield into Atticus’s shoulder and stabbed forward with his sword. Atticus reacted reflexively, swiping down with his own weapon, and although he parried the strike, the tip of Hamilcar’s blade sliced across his thigh, drawing first blood.

Atticus backed off but Hamilcar followed through, never allowing him to regroup, and the Carthaginian used his momentum to begin a series of sequenced strikes, his sword becoming a blur of steel that Atticus could only avoid by giving in to his instincts, his sword arm reacting faster than conscious thought. Again Atticus felt the weight of fatigue but he refused to relent, knowing that a second’s respite would cost him his life and leave the deaths of Gaius and Corin unavenged.

The thought steeled his determination and he stood fast, drawing on Hamilcar’s attack, not willing to give one further step to his enemy. He matched Hamilcar’s ferocity, his strength finding reserves in his will to finally end the fight. He looked for the chance to counter-attack but Hamilcar’s assault never abated, his sword strikes constantly pushing Atticus to defend with ever-increasing desperation. A cold panic crept into his thoughts, a dread terror that Hamilcar was but seconds away from penetrating his defence. He furiously suppressed the growing fear in his mind, searching for a way through, and suddenly he saw a weakness in the Carthaginian’s attack.

Hamilcar’s blade hammered off his shield and Atticus pushed out against the strike, knocking the Carthaginian’s sword away, exposing his centre. Hamilcar reacted to the threat, bringing his shield in close for the expected sword strike, but instead Atticus suddenly whipped his own shield back around, the heavy iron edging striking Hamilcar in the side of the face, and the Carthaginian wheeled away, stunned by the blow. Atticus seized the chance and stabbed forward with his sword, the tip finding Hamilcar’s exposed right shoulder. The blade punched through his defences, the sword driving deeply into his flesh before Atticus whipped it back, twisting the blade as he did. Hamilcar screamed in pain as he fell to the deck, landing at the foot of the Roman line, which had already advanced halfway across the main deck.

A legionary made to finish the Carthaginian foe at his feet, but Atticus shot forward, his sword staying the fatal strike as the line advanced beyond the fallen Carthaginian commander.

‘Finish it,’ Hamilcar cursed as he looked up at Atticus, his hand clasped over his wound.

Atticus stared down at his enemy, his thoughts still reeling from the fight, wondering why he had lunged forward to save Hamilcar from the legionary’s blade. Hamilcar saw Atticus’s hesitation and he tried to raise his sword, but Atticus swiped it away with a force that knocked the weapon from his hand and it clattered across the deck. Atticus brought the tip of his sword over Hamilcar’s chest but again he paused. The sounds of cheering and Roman trumpets signalling victory rang through the air.

‘What are you waiting for?’ Hamilcar demanded angrily.

Atticus searched his mind for the answer. Hamilcar was beaten, the fight was won, and although his battle lust called for the final strike, he could not deliver it. He thought of Gaius and Corin, of Lucius, and how they had always fought with honour. His enemy lay at his feet, unarmed, and for all the retribution his sword demanded, Atticus knew that if he killed Hamilcar now, the dishonour of slaying a defenceless foe would blacken the memory of the very men he had fought for. He lowered his sword.

‘It’s finished,’ he said and he stepped back.

Hamilcar tried to struggle up, his face etched in pain and anger.

‘You would spare me?’ he asked, the dishonour of absolute defeat robbing him of the will to survive the fight.

Atticus nodded, thinking once more of his fallen crew. ‘I will not kill an unarmed man,’ he said.

Hamilcar scoffed. ‘Is this Greek honour?’ he asked scornfully.

‘No,’ Atticus replied. ‘Roman.’

And he turned away, sheathing his sword as he did so, the base of the hilt slamming home against the locket of the scabbard, a solid strike that marked the end of the fight. He walked over to the side rail, stepping over the slain as he did, Roman and Carthaginian, their lives given in the final act of a bloody war. Beyond was the restless sea, its surface churned by a wind that swept the stench of battle from the air, its black depths oblivious to the fate of men who had fought to call themselves masters of its domain.