Ship of Rome - читать бесплатно онлайн полную версию книги автора John Stack (ч. 4)

Gisco smiled at the idiotic manoeuvre. He would crush them for their recklessness.

‘Prepare to withdraw the portside oars,’ he commanded.

Gisco allowed himself a quick glance to starboard to see the rest of his line. The Melqart’s superior speed had put them a half-ship length beyond the line and so his galley would strike the Roman line first. He turned to the bow as the final yards swept beneath his hull.

‘Withdraw!’ he roared. ‘Helmsman, hard to port!’

The ninety-ton Melqart tore into the side of her smaller opponent. The larger galley shook with the impact but Gisco saw the Roman trireme was almost capsized by the blow. Futile grappling hooks were thrown from the Roman deck, but the momentum of the quinquereme was too great and her speed continued almost unchecked. One Roman was plucked from his ship, his hand caught on the line connected to a grappling hook held fast by the Melqart. He was thrown into the gap between the grinding hulls, the hook finally releasing as his body was pushed under.

Gisco saw the device he had noticed earlier suddenly fall towards his ship. It was a ramp of some kind, a crude boarding device with massed ranks of legionaries formed behind it. Gisco watched in fascination as the ramp fell onto the main deck of the Melqart, a series of spikes penetrating the timbers of the deck. The quinquereme shuddered at the moment of impact and for a heartbeat the two ships were locked by the inanimate ramp before the momentum of the Melqart broke the spell and the ramp was torn apart by the opposing forces on either end of its length. The spikes tore a huge gash along the deck before finally releasing, the ramp buckling under the strain, throwing legionaries from the far end where they had been poised to attack. Gisco roared defiance as he watched the ill-fated tactic thwarted and the quinquereme shrug off the remnants of the boarding ramp.

The cutwater of the Melqart tore into the extended portside oars of the Roman galley, the splintered spars snapping like twigs against the reinforced bow.

‘Loose,’ Gisco roared above the crashing sounds.

The arrows seemed to dart across the rails of the enemy ship, the point-blank range allowing the archers to keep their trajectories almost horizontal, their precision deadly. Fresh calls of panic rose from the trireme as fire took hold of the deck, the cries mixed with the screams of the dying.

The Melqart broke through the back of the Roman line out into an uninterrupted sea. Gisco ordered the portside oars to re-engage before running to the stern rail to witness the devastation his galley had wrought on the Roman ship that had dared to challenge him.

‘Come about to re-engage!’ he ordered automatically as he continued to scan the back of the Roman line, expecting any minute to see other Carthaginian galleys break through.

‘Loose!’ Septimus roared.

The twenty hastati of his command threw their pila spears as one, the volley striking the knot of Carthaginians on the foredeck of the galley directly opposite the Aquila in the Carthaginian battle line, the two ships only thirty yards apart and closing. Septimus felt the deck tilt beneath him as the bow of the Aquila was aimed at the enemy’s bow. He braced himself against the impact, holding the straps of his scutum shield tightly.

The collision of the equally matched ships drove the momentum out of both, and for an instant the rowers were thrown from their stations, the rhythm of their stroke shattered. Grappling hooks were thrown and made secure, creating the moment of inertia required.

‘Release the corvus!’ Septimus roared.

The thirty-six-foot ramp crashed down across the gap separating the foredecks, crushing the side rail of the enemy ship, the spikes driving deeply into the weathered timber deck. Septimus was instantly away, the legionaries following behind him at a rush. They roared in attack, the sudden onslaught temporarily stunning the Carthaginians. The Punici rallied into the charge, echoing the Romans’ cries with calls to their own god of war.

The legionaries deployed with terse commands, the ingrained training of years taking control of their movements. Within an instant they presented a solid wall of interlocking shields, against which the Carthaginian charge broke in disarray.

‘Advance!’ Septimus ordered above the clash of battle.

The legionaries began to step forward. At each footfall they shoved their shields forward, the copper boss at the centre striking the enemy and parrying their blows. Gladii were punched through the narrow gaps in the wall to wound or kill the faceless enemy beyond, the cries of pain mixed with shouts of futile rage at the pitiless wall of shields. The twenty principes made up the first row of attack, their physical strength driving the tide of legionaries forward. Those Carthaginians that fell wounded under the wall were instantly dispatched by the junior hastati in the rear, giving no quarter to the desperate enemy. Within five minutes the Romans had cleared the foredeck, leaving a trail of dead behind them, and the enemy were beginning to buckle.

‘We have them,’ Duilius said with relish as he watched the legionaries’ relentless advance from the aft-deck.

Atticus didn’t reply, his eyes restless, his sailor’s instincts compelling him to continually search the four quarters of the galley. The scene on board the Carthaginian galley captured by the Aquila was being repeated on all sides, the corvus tipping the odds inexorably in the Romans’ favour. Not every Roman galley had met with success the first time and Atticus counted six individual duels developing in the waters behind the Roman line as opponents struggled to manoeuvre to ram or board. Smoke billowed into the sky as a Roman galley burned furiously, the desperate cries of her crew filling the air.

The sound of a tremendous crash caused Atticus to spin around to see a Carthaginian quinquereme drive home her ram into the exposed flank of a Roman galley. The Roman vessel had been stationary in the water, her bow transfixed by her corvus as a battle raged on a captured ship. The blow was incredible, the trireme buckling under the strike, the six-foot ram of the quinquereme disappearing into the hull of the smaller ship, pushing the trireme up onto the cutwater of the Carthaginian galley. The trireme was close to capsizing and Atticus watched as sailors were thrown over the side into the maelstrom of the churning sea.

‘Consul!’ Atticus shouted, immediately recognizing the quinquereme.

Duilius spun around to face the captain.

‘That quinquereme is the Carthaginian flagship. We need to take her.’

Duilius looked over the starboard rail across the two-hundred-yard gap to the enemy ship. He considered the position for a mere second.

‘Agreed,’ he said.

‘Lucius, prepare to get under way,’ Atticus ordered immediately.

Atticus’s order was accompanied by a shout of triumph from the legionaries on the enemy deck. The Carthaginians had finally broken, their nerve shattered by the ruthless advance of the Roman soldiers. Atticus took off at a run, rushing down the length of the galley and across the corvus. The enemy deck was slippery with blood, the brutal work of the legionaries. Atticus searched the ranks of the legionaries, instantly recognizing the imposing figure of Septimus. He called the centurion’s name, causing Septimus to break off a command to his optio in order to turn. He strode back to the foredeck, his sword bloodied by his side, his shield scored and dented.

‘We’re breaking off the assault, Septimus. The Carthaginian flagship is on our starboard flank. We’re going to attack her.’

Septimus nodded, his face grim. He turned to his waiting legionaries. They were still hungry. The remaining Carthaginians of the trireme had gone below decks to make one last stand.

‘Drusus!’ Septimus called, his optio reporting immediately.

‘Fire the deck. We’re withdrawing.’

The optio saluted, his face showing none of the surprise he felt at the decision to abandon the Carthaginian galley at the moment of victory. He ran to complete the order.

The demi-maniple formed up and marched quickly across the corvus once more. Atticus led them, making his own way once more to the aft-deck. Septimus watched as Drusus and two legionaries fired the deck, setting the main mast and mainsail alight before finally igniting the tiller. Once they were gone, Septimus had little doubt that the Carthaginians would be able to control the fire, but their ship would be hamstrung and useless. They would be lucky to escape.

The centurion was the last man across the corvus, the ramp immediately raised as he once more set foot on the deck of the Aquila. The galley was instantly away, swinging her bow to starboard as she came about to face her prey.

‘What’s the count, Drusus?’ Septimus asked.

‘Four dead and seven wounded. Two of those won’t fight again this day.’

Septimus’s face remained grim as he calculated the odds. Septimus had counted approximately fifty warriors on board the Carthaginian trireme they had just taken. The flagship would surely have twice that number. Septimus was left with forty-nine able men and five walking wounded. Good odds, he thought sardonically, the fire of battle still fierce within him. To him, the men of the Fourth had shown their courage. He would lead them again over the corvus, confident that they would follow him into the firestorm awaiting them.

The Aquila swung around in time to see the Melqart’s first attempt to break free of the impaled Roman trireme. The bow of the quinquereme was buried deep within her victim’s hull, the untested, untempered timbers giving way completely under the hammer blow of the six-foot bronze ram. It was a killer blow, the water rushing past the ram into the lower decks of the stricken galley. Once the ram had been withdrawn, the trireme would sink like lead, taking two hundred chained slaves with her, and their cries of panic and fear could be heard above the clamour of battle.

Atticus watched the oars of the quinquereme dig deep into the water, the oar shafts straining to extract the ram. The Carthaginian was only vulnerable when stationary. Once free, her speed and power would give her unassailable odds against any Roman galley. The Aquila had to strike before she was released from her quarry.

‘Ramming speed!’ Atticus roared. ‘Steer dead amidships!’

The Aquila accelerated to thirteen knots, her ram thrusting forward at every oar-stroke. The strike would merely wound the larger ship, but it would also bind the Aquila inexorably to her hull, like a bull terrier attacking a wolf, refusing to release the grip of its jaws. The Aquila swung onto her final heading, her arrowed bow fixed on course. Atticus whispered a prayer to Jupiter, calling on him to remember the Titans and infuse his Eagle with strength.

‘Captain!’ Gisco bellowed in rage. ‘Get below decks and make sure those slaves are whipped to within an inch of their lives.’

The captain scurried away, fearful of the terrible wrath evident on the face of the admiral. The Melqart was stuck fast, the splintered hull of the Roman trireme gripping the bow of the larger ship like teeth. Gisco’s fury knew no bounds as he watched the tide of battle turn against the Carthaginians. The ramp he had seen so easily destroyed by the Melqart was spewing Roman legionaries onto the decks of the Carthaginian triremes, the deadly effect of the new tactic fully realized on the more evenly matched ships. All around him, Roman formations were sweeping his men from the decks of their own ships, slaughtering them with cold efficiency.

Every minute spent attempting to extract the ram from the Roman ship robbed Gisco of the chance to assuage his anger and satisfy his lust for vengeance. From the corner of his eye he saw an approaching galley on a collision course. He spun round to see her, watching in satisfied anger as the trireme advanced at ramming speed, willing the battle to come to him. As his gaze swept the galley, he caught sight of the name on the bow, Aquila. His hatred threatened to overwhelm him and he squeezed his hand until the nails dug into the flesh of his palm. Here was a focus for his revenge. The Aquila, the galley that had escaped him in the Strait of Messina.

‘Prepare to repel!’ he roared from his position on the aft-deck.

The bulk of his men were on the main and foredecks, the archers selecting targets on the deck of the trireme impaled on the ram. The order was lost in the noise of battle. Gisco turned to Khalil, the man’s massive frame tensed under the leather-bound chest-plate.

‘The Romans depend on discipline and command,’ Gisco snarled. ‘Bring me the head of the Roman centurion and I will grant you your wish.’

‘Yes, Admiral,’ Khalil replied, his mind already picturing the Roman consul he had once called master under his blade. The sight hardened his resolve and hatred for the Romans. Gisco sensed the hatred, smiling to himself. He too would have a target in the fight to follow, the captain of the Aquila. The man had disgraced him in the Strait of Messina, dishonouring him before his own fleet. Now he would extract the price of that humiliation in blood.

Gisco drew his sword, his personal guard following suit. He turned and marched quickly across the aft-deck, his eyes never leaving the approaching galley. He roared his order again, this time his command heard by many on the main deck. They turned into the sight of the Roman galley, their faces first registering shock and then cool determination as they formed up to receive the oncoming assault, eager to bloody their swords.

Septimus stood tall at the head of the assembled men. The ranks behind him were swelled by fifteen praetoriani, the consul releasing them in the desperate bid to take the Carthaginian flagship. They were the cream of the Roman army, each man a veteran of battle, and their strength reinvigorated the battered demi-maniple. Septimus waited as he judged the distance to the enemy deck, his hastati once more armed with deadly pila spears. At ramming speed the moment would soon be upon them.

At fifty yards Septimus could see the Punici form up into a knot of men on the main deck. They were well over one hundred in number. Beside them the rail of the foredeck was lined with archers.

‘Raise shields!’

The first of the Carthaginian arrows soared across the closing gap, many with their tips aflame. At thirteen knots, the Aquila was a difficult target, but the close range allowed for near-flat trajectories and Septimus felt the arrows slam into his shield on the exposed foredeck. Behind him he heard shouted commands as fires were doused on the main deck and one man cried out as an arrow found its mark.

‘Hastati, prepare to release on my command!’

The junior soldiers shifted their weight behind interlocking shields as they prepared to target the massed formation on the enemy main deck. Septimus breathed out slowly as he judged the distance with a trained eye. The volley would have to be perfect if the necessary chaos was to be instilled in the enemy ranks. He picked out individual men in the enemy formation, their shouted war cries lost in the noise of battle. Their faces were masks of fury and blood lust, of intense hostility. They would not die easily.

‘Loose!’ Septimus roared, as his body instinctively braced itself for the oncoming collision of the two ships.

The bronze ram of the Aquila struck the Melqart dead amidships, its blunt-nosed point striking the hull cleanly, the four-inch-deep cork-oak timbers splintering with the force of the collision. The Aquila seemed to reel from the blow, the impact transmitted down the long axis of the hull, as if the galley had struck solid rock. For a long second the men on both ships staggered under the impact, their balance and focus lost with the brute force of the blow.

Septimus didn’t wait for his men to recover. Knowing there would be no retreat, he swung his gladius in an arc to sever the line holding the corvus aloft. The ramp crashed down onto the main deck of the Carthaginian galley, crushing a man beneath its weight, its foot-long spikes biting down on the deck timbers to bind the fate of both galleys.

‘Advance!’ Septimus roared, running at full tilt across the twenty-foot ramp, never looking behind him, sure by the cries he heard that his lead was being followed. The massive centurion raised his shield to chest height and angled his body to put the weight of his shoulder behind the charging wall of reinforced, canvas-covered timber. Septimus’s momentum was duplicated to his left and right by the legionaries, who threw themselves across the six-foot-wide ramp. As one they slammed into the enemy formation, the brass bosses of their shields crunching bone and cartilage.

‘Wedge formation!’ Septimus ordered as the legionaries deployed from the head of the corvus.

Another Carthaginian fell under the centurion’s blade as he heard his optio, Drusus, shout orders to dress the flanks of the wedge. Septimus continued to push deep into the enemy’s centre, aiming to create a bridgehead that would allow his troops to form a solid line of battle. The gamble was significant. The wedge formation would shock the enemy and slow their response, but it was brittle, the thin edge exposed to the enemy on two quarters.

Septimus clearly heard Punic commands shouted in the pitch of battle. The Carthaginian commander was rallying his troops, aiming to reverse the momentum of the Roman charge. Septimus almost sensed the change in the enemy formation before it occurred, the Carthaginians at the rear pushing forward to check the retreat of their front line.

‘Line of battle!’ the centurion roared, an instant before the Carthaginian thrust reached the front.

The wall of interlocking shields formed up to create a semicircle around the boarding point.

‘Steady the line!’

The legionaries roared their acknowledgement of the command. Unable to advance against the mass of the enemy pushing against them, they would hold the line of battle where they stood. There would be no retreat, no forfeiture of the deck already held. From this moment their mettle would be tested. Whichever side broke first would be slaughtered.

‘Push them back into the sea!’ Gisco bellowed as the Romans’ initial thrust was checked.

From his position at the rear of the formation he watched the first steps backward as the Romans surged into his men. The sight enraged him and, sensing the panic ripple through his men, he watched for the first sign of retreat. A young soldier turned his back on the fight, a moment of hesitation that cost him his life as Gisco ran his sword into the man’s chest.

Gisco stepped over the body and pushed his way into the formation, his personal guard and Khalil following, forming a solid knot that drove directly at the apex of the Roman wedge. His shouted commands and presence amongst his men overcame the first heated moments of panic, and the Carthaginians turned into the fight with renewed vigour. Five men back from the front line, Gisco watched the Roman line re-form into a seemingly impenetrable wall of shields. His eyes scanned the Roman line for the man he sought and found him at the centre of the formation, his height setting him apart from the men on his flanks. Gisco turned to Khalil to single the man out but the Nubian had already identified his prey.

Gisco renewed his cry to advance and his men surged forward, the momentum allowing Khalil to push through to the forefront of the formation. Within seconds he would be poised to attack the very centre of the enemy line – his target, the Roman centurion.

Atticus ignored the strike of the arrow on his hoplon shield as he stood on the foredeck of the Aquila. From the moment Septimus had led his men across the corvus, Atticus had realized the magnitude of the task set for the legionaries. The enemy outnumbered them by at least two to one and, after the initial shock of boarding had been overcome, the Carthaginians would fight fiercely to defend their ship.

With victory in the balance, Atticus had assembled on the foredeck the best fighters from amongst his crew. The twenty men were veterans of countless battles and skirmishes with pirates, and they stood stoically as the battle unfolded before them. Eight of Atticus’s crew were skilled with a bow and they worked to keep the Carthaginian archers at bay, their own arrows seeking targets on the decks of the Melqart. Atticus suppressed the urge to rush across the corvus as he saw yet another legionary fall under the enemy’s onslaught. Atticus and his men knew nothing of legion tactics and would hamper the strict discipline of the line formation. If the enemy broke through, the battle would descend into a mêlée. Only then would Atticus unleash his men.

Septimus grunted as a fresh surge hit the shield wall and he shoved his shoulder forward to counter the lunge. His gladius sought the gap between the shields and he struck low, seeking the groin of an unseen enemy. His sword connected with flesh and he twisted the blade, hearing the cry of pain as yet another Carthaginian fell under the Roman attack. He withdrew his sword, its blade dulled with anonymous blood, before sending it out again to maim and kill.

Septimus’s shoulders and upper arms ached as he reversed the thrust. The physical stress of the battle was beginning to take its toll on the legionaries. In a land battle the three-line, triplex acies, formation allowed for troops to be rotated from the front line to let men rest before rejoining the fight. In a demi-maniple on the deck of a Carthaginian ship, no such respite could be granted. The legionaries would have to continue fighting until the fight was done. Stamina, willpower and courage had become the foundations for the last line of defence.

A guttural war cry cut through the air and Septimus arrested his next sword stroke, his warrior instincts screaming at him to beware. The shield of the legionary to his left was struck with a force that pushed the man off his balance, exposing a small gap in the shield wall. The next legionary along the line thrust his sword into the breach but it was instantly struck down, the attack anticipated. Septimus bellowed for Drusus to cover the possible breach, unable to help the man to his left without turning and exposing the flank of the man to his right. The legionary’s shield was struck again, this time with a ferocity that caused the soldier’s legs to buckle, and Septimus was given a glance at the enemy warrior forcing the breach. His eyes widened in shocked awareness as he recognized the figure of Khalil, Scipio’s Nubian slave. The man’s face was twisted in grim determination as he bore down on the legionary, battering his sword like a hammer on the anvil of the shield. A final thrust tore through the legionary’s defence and he fell, clutching at the mortal blow to his stomach.

The Carthaginians screamed in triumph as the breach was made. Time seemed to slow for Septimus as he watched the enemy ranks swell in anticipation of exploiting the gap. Survival and victory for the Romans now depended entirely on discipline. With the line breached and their backs exposed, there was the immediate threat that the legionaries would panic. If they fled they would be cut down. If Septimus re-established order they would survive and counterattack. Everything now depended on his command. As the order formed on his lips, Septimus instinctively threw up his sword to counter a thrust from Khalil. The Nubian had not rushed through as anticipated, but instead had turned into the centurion, focusing his attack on the embattled commander.

Septimus was forced to parry another blow as Carthaginians surged through the gap made by Khalil. The centurion took another step back under the onslaught, the Nubian’s blade seeming to strike in two places at once as the speed of the blows intensified. A tiny portion of Septimus’s mind registered the need to regain control of his men, but the thought was overwhelmed by his survival instinct as he narrowly defended a counter-thrust. He raged at his incapacitation, his inability to command his men when they needed him most. As he readjusted his balance and took a further step back, he planted his feet firmly on the deck. Steady the line, he thought grimly as another blow was parried. The battle for the Carthaginian flagship might be lost but Septimus would ensure that at least his fight for the legions would be won.

‘Breach!’ Atticus roared as he pointed to the emerging gap in the Roman formation with the tip of his sword.

‘Men of the Aquila, to me!’

Atticus raced across the corvus, his men at his heels, shouting the name of their galley as they charged. The captain swerved into the line of the breach in time to see a powerful black warrior step through to engage Septimus. Atticus recognized him immediately but his mind swept the shock of recognition clear as it focused on the vital action needed to save the Roman line. Another legionary fell and the charge intensified, the breach widening.

A dozen Carthaginians were through the breach, their cries of triumph causing the Roman line to waver as the legionaries felt their backs exposed to encirclement. The men of the Aquila crashed into the charge at full tilt, their attack cutting the premature cries of success short. Atticus brought his hoplon shield high to block an overarm blow of a Carthaginian axe, driving his sword underneath into the exposed flank of his attacker. The strike knocked the Carthaginian off his feet and Atticus twisted the blade to release the weapon from the man’s ribs. His men overwhelmed the breach, their frenzied attack causing the Carthaginians to hesitate at their expected moment of success.

‘Men of the Fourth! The line is held!’ Atticus roared, his eyes scanning the backs of the Roman legionaries. The Boars of Rome roared as the tide was turned again and they intensified their defence.

The Carthaginians trapped behind the now solid line fought with the desperation of doomed men. At their centre was Khalil, his focus entirely on Septimus, their fight exemplifying the intensity of the bitter struggle. The centurion’s spirit rose as he registered the shouted acclamation of Atticus, the captain now engaged in the front line. The battle was once more finely balanced and victory was there for the taking.

Septimus stepped inside another strike from Khalil and reversed his sword to rake the Nubian’s stomach. Khalil bunched his shield into the assault, narrowly deflecting the blade against the shield edge. The men were mere inches apart, their combined skills keeping the combat close, their blades a whirl of iron. Septimus focused his mind on the movements of his attacker, searching for a weakness, a way through. With the clarity of discovery, Septimus realized his advantage over the Nubian. Khalil was using his rounded shield for defence only, his sword the only offensive weapon in the attack. The legions had taught Septimus differently.

Khalil kept his attack high, forcing Septimus back on the defensive as he parried a sequenced series of blows. The Nubian suddenly inverted the attack and Septimus cried out in pain as Khalil’s sword swept the back of his thigh. The wound itself was not mortal, but it would kill him nevertheless as his balance crumbled, his body automatically favouring his uninjured leg. Against an opponent of Khalil’s skill, the end would come swiftly. Septimus had mere seconds to react.

The centurion attacked with ferocity, forcing Khalil to throw up his shield, keeping his sword low, poised, waiting for the opportunity to counterattack. Septimus registered the stance, the coiled energy of the Nubian, waiting for his own chance to end the fight. Septimus ground his teeth against the pain and shifted his weight onto his injured leg. He could feel the severed muscle buckle under the strain, and his cry of pain mingled with a vicious roar of attack. He lunged forward with his scutum shield, striking the Nubian’s sword arm with the copper boss of the shield, the unexpected blow throwing Khalil completely off balance, causing him to stumble backwards. Septimus resisted the intense urge to ease the pressure on his injured leg and he continued the lunge, committing himself fully to the desperate attack. Khalil’s arms raised fractionally to balance himself and Septimus seized his chance. He whipped his gladius high through the opening, the blade cutting cleanly through Khalil’s arm, severing the sword hand from the wrist. Khalil screamed in pain, dropping his shield as he grasped the stump of his injured arm. He bowed over the wound and Septimus reversed his swing to bring the sword down in a killing blow. At the last instant the centurion stayed his blade and he struck Khalil on the top of his head with the iron hilt of the gladius. The Nubian collapsed, unconscious, before he hit the deck.

Khalil’s fall was registered by the front line of the Carthaginian formation and their will cracked at the loss of such a powerful warrior, the only man who had forced a breach in the Roman line. Septimus straightened up slowly as the last of the Carthaginians trapped behind the line was dispatched by Atticus’s crew.

‘Advance the line!’ Septimus ordered, finally released to command his men.

The legionaries stepped forward under the familiar command of a centurion, their swords exacting a terrible price from the Carthaginians on the front line. A ripple of panic ran through the Carthaginian formation, a ripple that soon became a wave as Carthaginians turned from the advancing wall of shield and iron, the vacuum created by their retreat hastening the advance of the line. Almost as one they finally broke, their resistance buckling, and they fled the main deck as one. The Romans cheered in triumph as the pressure against their line dissipated.

‘Drusus!’ Septimus called, the optio immediately by his side.

‘Two parties, fore and aft, clear the decks and then sweep below. Wipe out all resistance.’

The optio nodded and left to command the legionaries. Only then did Septimus collapse from his wound.

Hamilcar was staggered by the sight before him. Everywhere he looked Carthaginian galleys were locked in hopeless fights against an enemy that had somehow turned the naval battle into a land war, immediately making a mockery of the generations-old superior seamanship of the Carthaginians. The Punic warriors, so skilled at boarding and shock attacks, were completely outclassed by the efficient butchery of the Roman legionaries, the wall of shields an impenetrable barrier that swept each deck in turn.

Hamilcar’s quinquereme, the Byblos, sailed unopposed around the flank of the battle, her superior size deterring any Roman attack against her hull. The Byblos was surrounded by Carthaginian triremes milling in abject confusion, their initial escape from the dreaded Roman boarding ramp, and the witnessed destruction of their sister ships, compelling them to withhold from re-engaging the enemy. The sight made Hamilcar nauseous, the shame of his countrymen’s timidity and fear coursing through his heart.

Even at a mile’s distance he had seen the Melqart re-engage, her distinctive size distinguishing her from the surrounding vessels. The Carthaginian centre was completely collapsed around her, the quinquereme flagship lost in the maelstrom. It was a sight that sobered Hamilcar, forcing him to rationally examine the situation as a commander. Gisco had failed. The battle was lost. With bitter resignation, Hamilcar realized the decision that needed to be made, the unendurable order that needed to be given if the remainder of the fleet was to survive. With the taste of acrid shame in his throat, he issued the command to withdraw, cursing the admiral who had once again led the sons of Carthage to defeat.

Gisco bellowed with rage as his forces fled past him for the main deck, leaving the admiral standing alone with his personal guard of a dozen soldiers. On the brink of collapse, Gisco had watched in desperation as the Carthaginian war cries gave way to muttered sounds of panic and furtive glances over shoulders as men sought avenues of escape. Gisco had seen Khalil fall, the massive Nubian warrior clearly visible even in the maelstrom of battle. The fall was immediately followed by a shouted Roman command to advance as the centurion once more took charge of his men. The moment of victory had been snatched from Gisco by the re-formation of the Roman line and the Romans’ success in holding the breach. One man had brought about the recovery of the Roman line; one man who Gisco had seen run across the boarding ramp at the very height of the battle.

The Melqart was lost but victory was still in the offing, a victory that now depended on Gisco avoiding capture. He quickly ordered two of his men to launch the skiff and bring it alongside, making ready the flight he now knew was inevitable. Only one task remained before his escape, one vow to fulfil, one man to send through the gates of Hades. The man who had precipitated his defeat, the captain of the Aquila.

Atticus cheered with his men as the Carthaginians fled before the Roman line, the enemy split down the middle as men ran towards the fore and aft of the ship, seeking refuge and escape below decks. As his eyes scanned the chaotic scene before him, Atticus noticed an unmoved knot of men formed at the far rail. There were maybe a dozen in total, their leader standing tall at their head. Atticus recognized him immediately, although it had been months since their first encounter. He was the commander who had chased the Aquila from the Strait of Messina, and Atticus realized in an instant that the commander of the Carthaginian flagship was the admiral of the Punici.

Atticus bellowed a challenge to the Carthaginian, the remaining men of the Aquila immediately forming behind their captain as they saw the reason for his outburst. Gisco had been scanning the deck himself and the shouted defiance focused his attention on the man he sought amidst the chaos.

‘You!’ Gisco roared.

For a heartbeat the two men locked eyes across the blood-soaked deck, their mutual belligerence forming an inescapable bond. Gisco’s mind swam with visions of defeat at Agrigentum, of humiliation in the Strait of Messina and the doomed fleet surrounding him. Atticus saw only the massacre at Brolium, the defeat at Lipara and the vow he had made to a centurion many weeks before.

With a visceral cry both men charged across the deck, their crews following recklessly behind. The two forces met in the centre, the groups overlapping into a mêlée of tangled, individual contests. The fight was vicious, the men of the Aquila outnumbering the Carthaginians, and within seconds the balance of the struggle was set.

Atticus and Gisco fought in the middle of the fray, their fury turning the fight into an uncoordinated brawl, both men using their swords like clubs in the frenzy of attack. Within seconds the contest became one of brute physicality, anger and hate suppressing all skill. Gisco’s strength, forged by thirty years of combat, pitted against the speed of a younger man.

Atticus was first to regain his wits, and he focused his mind to channel his aggression. Gisco’s attack filled his vision, the endless blows numbing his sword arm, and Atticus sidestepped suddenly to gain a heartbeat’s respite. His speed fooled Gisco, the admiral immediately trying to re-engage, but Atticus sidestepped once more to keep the Carthaginian off balance.

Gisco roared in frustration as the Roman captain continued to elude his sword, the younger man’s superior speed now dictating the focus of combat. Gisco realized that within a dozen strikes the contest would be lost, its end inevitable. The adrenaline and blood lust in his system rapidly cooled as his body sensed the failing strength of his arm and he stepped back for the first time, his eyes seeing a look of triumph cross the Roman’s face. With a final ferocious roar Gisco summoned up all his rage, all the hate within his soul for the enemy he could never overcome, and he grabbed the man to his left and hurled him at the Roman captain.

Atticus reacted instinctively to the sudden attack, the oncoming Carthaginian completely off balance from the unexpected push. Atticus drove his sword forward, putting his shoulder behind the thrust and, although the Carthaginian guardsman reacted instinctively, he could not avoid the outstretched blade, the gladius striking him full in the chest, the momentum of his charge and the force of the strike burying the blade deeply. Atticus was shoved off his feet as the full weight of the guardsman hit him, the Carthaginian dead before both men struck the deck. Atticus kicked wildly to free himself, twisting his blade to release it from the clinging flesh, the rush of blood warm over his hand. He pushed the Carthaginian to the side and clambered up, immediately regaining his balance and adopting a defensive stance in the midst of the dying fight around him. His eyes sought out the Carthaginian admiral, expecting to see him directly in front. It took a full second before Atticus realized his enemy had fled.

Gisco reached the side rail at full tilt, diving over the side in a single movement. He fell ten feet before striking the water, the weight of his armour and the height of his fall driving him deep beneath the surface. His powerful arms struck out and he regained the surface, the salt water bitter in his mouth. Strong hands grabbed his arms and lifted him cleanly from the water into the skiff, the two men immediately retaking the oars and sculling with all speed away from the flagship. Gisco coughed and pulled himself up to look back at the rail he had just jumped. The Roman captain was standing there, his face twisted in mottled rage. Gisco felt the equal emotion swell within him and his anger burst forth.

‘The curse of Mot on you, Roman!’ he screamed. ‘This fight is not over…’

‘Archers!’ Atticus roared for the second time, the impotence of his rage clouding his mind. The Carthaginian commander was escaping, the arch-fiend who had slaughtered Atticus’s countrymen at Brolium and brought the legions of Sicily to their knees. Atticus’s gaze swept the sea before him for another Roman galley, for any ship that could cut off the Carthaginian’s escape. He swung around in agitation, searching the deck again for archers. There were none. His eyes sought out the skiff again, watching in bitter frustration as the three men shouted to a Carthaginian galley beyond the entangled line of battle, her course change answering the call. Atticus threw his sword to the deck in anger, his mind barely registering the clarion calls of victory emanating from the Roman galleys on all sides.

Duilius walked slowly across the corvus, his eyes ranging over the scene of carnage before him. He had never witnessed a battle before and the adrenaline and euphoria of victory were lost at the sight of slaughter. He choked down the bitter taste of bile in his throat as he fought to control himself. The smell of battle was overwhelming, the air filled with the scent of blood and voided bowels, of burnt timber and flesh. Romans – legionaries, sailors, marines and praetoriani – lay strewn amongst the Carthaginian dead, their shared fate marking them as comrades in the hard-fought victory.

The Roman centurion, Capito, was lying on his back on the deck, his wound being tended to by one of his men. Beside him lay a huge Nubian warrior, his face bloodless in shock as he nursed the bloodied stump that had once been his hand.

Captain Perennis stood by the mainmast, surrounded by the remains of his crew, men who had rushed headlong across the corvus to seal the breach in the Roman line and save the battle for the Carthaginian flagship. He was issuing orders to his second-in-command, orders that would secure the Carthaginian vessel and release any Roman slaves below decks.

Beyond the Melqart, the sea to the west was strewn with fleeing Carthaginian galleys. Over half of their fleet was escaping, many scattering in panic and confusion, while a core number followed in loose formation behind the quinquereme. Duilius had stayed the order to pursue, conscious that the element of surprise that the corvus had afforded them was lost, and in the open sea the Carthaginians still held the advantage. He regretted the lost opportunity to eradicate the enemy fleet, knowing that soon the Classis Romanus would have to face them again.

Duilius watched as the optio led a group of slaves up from the lower decks. His eyes passed over their number without interest, their pathetic condition failing to evoke pity in Duilius’s weary soul. He was about to turn when the last man in the group arrested his attention. He was filthy, his only clothing a soiled tunic, but he stood tall, his eyes alive with intensity, and it was only when those eyes looked at Duilius, and the light of hatred cast itself upon him, that he finally recognized Scipio.

‘Curse you!’ Gisco bellowed as he stormed down the gangplank onto the dock at Panormus, his sword raised in anger, his face demonic at the sight of shattered crews disembarking their dead and wounded onto the dock, the spirit of each man broken by the sudden reversal in fortune. ‘Get back to your galleys, all of you: this fight is not over…!’

The Carthaginian crewmen on the dock scattered before Gisco’s flailing sword, some running back to their galleys but many more fleeing towards the town. A vacuum formed around Gisco on the dock, an empty void that he filled with his frustration and anger. He recognized one of the galley captains and ran towards him, grabbing the petrified commander by the arm before bringing the tip of his sword up under his chin, forcing the captain onto his toes.

‘Who gave you the order to abandon the battle?’ Gisco spat, twisting his blade until a drop of blood appeared.

‘Commander Barca…’ the captain stammered, his eyes alive with fear.

‘Barca!’ Gisco roared, throwing the captain to the ground. He twisted his sword and began to beat the captain with the flat of the blade, snapping the man’s forearm the instant it was thrown up in defence, his anger knowing no bounds. The captain cried out for mercy, his pleas ignored by the fanatical Gisco. Suddenly the fall of his sword was stayed by an outstretched blade, the unexpected strike causing Gisco to loose his grip on his weapon.

‘Seize him!’ Hamilcar commanded, keeping his sword charged against Gisco’s throat.

Hamilcar’s guards rushed forward and took hold of Gisco’s arms, the admiral struggling against their superior strength.

‘Release me! I will have you all flogged raw for this insult! And you,’ Gisco rounded on Hamilcar, his face a mask of fury, ‘I will have you crucified for cowardice.’

‘No, Admiral,’ Hamilcar replied, his voice cold and calm, ‘it is I who will have you crucified for failure.’

‘You cannot!’ Gisco railed. ‘I command here. These men answer to me!’

‘They answer to Carthage!’ Hamilcar roared back, his temper unleashed. ‘And on the island of Sicily, I am Carthage!’

‘You cannot!’ Gisco repeated, his voice now tinged with fear.

‘I am an envoy of the Council and a son of Carthage and you have failed both…Take him away!’

The guards hauled Gisco towards the barracks, the admiral bellowing a tirade of hate laced with accusations of treachery. Hamilcar ignored the shouts, ordering the men to continue their attendance of the wounded and dead.

The slain were laid ceremoniously in ranks, their arms folded across their chests, waiting patiently for their journey to the world of Mot. Hamilcar looked upon them with reverence, marking their faces in his memory. They had fought well for their city and Hamilcar murmured a prayer to Tanit, the queen goddess of Carthage, for their souls, his mind already picturing the funeral pyres that would cleanse the mortal remains of the fallen and release their spirits to the gods.

Today Hamilcar would grieve with honour for the dead. Tomorrow, he vowed, the living would pay the price for failure. And as the ashes of the pyres grew cold after the inferno, so too would Hamilcar harden his heart for the terrible retribution to come.

EPILOGUE

Gaius Duilius raised his hand in victory as he entered the Forum Magnum at the head of the triumphal parade. The whole area was thronged with the people of Rome, their number swelled by the promise of wine and food, a celebration of victory for the Classis Romanus at the Battle of Mylae four weeks before. Duilius wore the corona graminea, the grass crown, upon his head, an award given only to commanders whose actions saved a besieged army, and he was dressed in a ceremonial toga, its cloth solid purple, embroidered with gold, a gift from the gracious people of Rome.

The consul’s gaze swept across the crowd in front of him before resting on the men gathered on the steps of the Curia. Every senator was present, ally and foe alike, all save for one man. Duilius smiled at the sight, a response to the summons he had issued that none could ignore for fear of crossing the most powerful man in Rome. As tradition dictated, a slave stood behind Duilius on his chariot, whispering in his ears the words, ‘Memento mori; remember that thou art mortal,’ a reminder from the gods that he was just a man. Duilius ignored the slave, the truth of the words lost in the heady wine of victory and the potent aphrodisiac of power.

Atticus rode in a chariot directly behind the consul, the place of honour insisted upon by a grateful Duilius, even after the captain had requested leave to return to his galley. Many in the crowd recognized Atticus from the stories told by the orators that Duilius had hired to spread the tale of their victory all over Rome, and they called out his name in tribute. Atticus acknowledged the cries with a nod, unsure of how to respond as he kept his right hand firmly on the reins, his left gripping the shaft that held aloft the new banner of the Classis Romanus.

Atticus smiled inwardly at the sound of Roman voices heralding a Greek name, and his thoughts returned to the constant conflict of emotions that symbolized his loyalty to Rome. On this of all days he couldn’t help but feel part of the surging crowd that surrounded him on all sides, their cheers infectious, their own unquestioning loyalty to Rome impossible to ignore. It was a city like no other, populated by a race of men who constantly strove to expand their world at the expense of others, and Atticus looked over his shoulder to see what that ambition had wrought. An army of slaves followed behind, carrying the bronze rams of the captured enemy galleys, rams that would adorn a new column being raised in the Forum to mark Rome’s victory.

Atticus turned once more as the parade came to a halt at the foot of the steps of the Curia. He watched as Duilius dismounted from his chariot, his arm raised once more as the renewed cheers of the crowd mixed with the constant clarion calls of a thousand trumpets. The consul turned slowly to face Atticus, gesturing with his hand for the captain to join him on his triumphant walk up the steps of the Curia. Atticus stepped forward, never relinquishing his grip on the banner of the Classis Romanus as, side by side, the two men began their climb.

The sound of distant trumpets sent Marcus running up the steps leading to the parapet above the main gate. His heart soared at the sight before him, the long train of red- and purple-clad warriors approaching to the sound of drums and cheering from the men within the encampment. Two days before, on the ninth day, a troop of fifty Roman horsemen had reached Makella with news that the legions were following on a forced march from Brolium. The camp had cheered at the news before unceremoniously slaughtering the cavalry’s fifty mounts, the horse meat sustaining them as they waited for the coming rescue.

The gates below Marcus were opened without command and the legionaries of the Ninth spilled out to line the road to the camp. Marcus recognized a tall centurion accompanying the first maniple on horseback, his gaze steady, his back straight in the saddle. He rushed down from the parapet and pushed his way out into the middle of the road, standing with arms akimbo, a broad smile across his face. Septimus spotted Marcus immediately. He issued a terse order over his shoulder for an optio to take over, before dismounting and covering the last few steps on foot, his determined stride marked by a pronounced limp. Septimus had requested temporary leave from the Aquila, a request readily granted by Duilius; Septimus had arranged to be in the vanguard of the force that would relieve Makella and Segeste, wanting to personally discharge his promise to his old commander.

Marcus strode up to Septimus, his hand proffered in comradeship.

‘Welcome to Makella, marine,’ he said with a smile.

‘You look hungry,’ Septimus replied, shaking the centurion’s hand, marking the last time they had exchanged the gesture and the vow that was now fulfilled.

Scipio swallowed another mouthful of wine as the sound of the cheering crowd washed up from the Forum half a mile away. His town house was deserted, the servants dismissed, his guards commandeered for the triumphal parade of Gaius Duilius. Scipio’s hate swelled inside him at the thought of the consul’s name, a man who had taken everything that was rightfully his. He vividly remembered their last encounter on the deck of the Carthaginian flagship, the look of disdain and disgust on Duilius’s face, his dismissive tone as he ordered Scipio to be taken on board the Aquila, his rank of senior consul ignored. He also remembered a similar look of victory and success on the face of the young Captain Perennis as he stood amongst his battle-hardened crew. It was a sight that was for ever burned into Scipio’s soul.

The triumphal parade was coming to a head in the Forum Magnum, the crowd being whipped to a frenzy as Duilius marched victoriously up the steps of the Curia. Once there, the Senate would crown him with a golden wreath of olives, an everlasting symbol of his victory. Scipio retched at the sight in his mind’s eye, at the thought of the accolades stolen from him through deceit and betrayal. There was even a proposal before the Senate to award Duilius with a cognomen, an honorary title in recognition of his victory. Scipio’s political rivals had already bestowed on Scipio a cognomen of his own: Asina – ‘donkey’ – in recognition of his ignominious defeat at Lipara.

Scipio stood up suddenly as a figure entered the room. It was Fabiola, his wife. She approached slowly, her expression hard and cold. She took the goblet of wine from his hand and laid it gently on the table.

‘You were betrayed,’ she said simply.

Scipio nodded and sat back down, his hand reaching for the wine goblet again.

Fabiola stayed his grasp before taking his chin in her hand, raising his face so she could look him directly in the eye.

‘You were betrayed within this very house, by one of your slaves, a man in the service of Duilius.’

Scipio absorbed the words slowly.

‘You know his identity?’ he asked.

‘Yes, and he is oblivious.’

Scipio nodded, understanding immediately. If the traitor within his midst was unaware that his true identity was known, Scipio could manipulate the information Duilius received. He smiled at the thought, his expression mirrored in the face of his wife. Scipio closed his eyes as the cheers in the Forum reached a crescendo. For the first time the sound did not disturb him, and he filtered out the noise to allow his mind to focus on the faces of his enemies, the faces of senators and a naval captain, enemies that would pay dearly for their disloyalty and betrayal.

Gisco roared in agony as a second nail was driven through his right hand. The hangmen worked with silent efficiency, ignoring the grotesque, maniacal expression of their charge as they bound his wrists to the crosspiece. Hamilcar viewed the condemned admiral dispassionately, his disgust at the obscene ritual hidden behind a cold expression. Only yards away, Boodes screamed a silent scream as the garrotte around his neck was given one final turn. He collapsed to the ground, his swollen tongue purple from strangulation. Two guards walked forward and lifted the lifeless body of the former squad commander, throwing it onto the fire already fuelled by the bodies of the six other commanders of the fleet.

The hammer blows continued as Gisco’s feet were nailed to the sides of the cross, the position designed to support the upper body and prolong the agony. Gisco’s screams of pain continued unabated, the strength that had carried him through life depriving him of the oblivion of unconsciousness. The cross was hoisted up and made fast, the transfer of weight onto Gisco’s tortured hands and feet robbing him of every vestige of dignity, and he begged for the release of death.

Hamilcar ignored the cries, turning his back on Gisco to look out over the harbour. Ninety-six galleys lay at anchor in Panormus, ninety-six that had escaped the disaster at Mylae, a hollow prize given the loss of so many. Hamilcar would report the summary execution of Gisco, the admiral’s life a token consolation, along with a request to the Council for full command of the campaign to be given to him immediately. His first action would be to summon the fleet at Malaka on the southern coast of Iberia, a fleet of one hundred and twenty galleys that could be in Sicilian waters within a month.

Hamilcar turned once more to Gisco, the admiral’s screams now abated to a low murmur of incoherent cries. For an instant his senses seemed to return and his eyes looked past Hamilcar to the shattered fleet he once commanded. He roared a visceral challenge, the incomprehensible words born from an unrecognizable emotion. Hamilcar nodded to himself, deciding Gisco’s final fate. Tomorrow he would order Gisco’s legs broken, ending the admiral’s life by suffocation, the weight of his own body constricting his lungs, the end coming swiftly.

Hamilcar dismissed his guard and walked back along the beach towards the port. He cursed the island of Sicily, hating it anew, its arid shore and coarse mountains so different from the fertile hinterland of Carthage. The defeat at Mylae was a dark mark against the pride of his city, a mark he felt on his own heart, a mark that could only be removed with Roman blood. The enemy were now poised to strike at Thermae, the only other port the Carthaginians held on the northern coast. The Romans would become careless in the aftermath of their victory, their confidence blinding them into believing the Carthaginians were all but beaten. Hamilcar vowed to shatter that illusion.

Atticus looked down at the Carthaginian war banners that carpeted the steps of the Curia as he and Duilius made their way up to the assembled Senate, remembering when and where he had last seen them.

‘You belong in Rome, Atticus,’ Duilius said suddenly, his voice barely audible over the constant cheers of the crowd. Atticus looked over at the man by his side, the consul’s expression proud and magnanimous.

‘Join me on my staff,’ he continued, ‘and I promise you, the city will always be at your feet.’

Duilius held Atticus’s gaze for a second before turning his face upward once more as they covered the last few steps to the top, the members of the Senate moving back from the edge to allow a place in the centre for their consul. Atticus walked on behind Duilius before turning, his breath catching in his throat as he drank in the sight before him, the assembled masses of Rome spread out from the foot of the steps of the Curia, the entire city at his feet.

Waves of sound crashed over Atticus as he watched Duilius being presented with a golden wreath of olives by the Senate, and he closed his eyes against the noise, his mind transposing the sound into that of the crashing waves of the sea against the cutwater of the Aquila. In that instant Atticus was sure his place would always be on the aft-deck of his galley, and in his mind’s eye he could see the clear horizon over the bow of the Aquila, taste and smell the salt-laden air of an onshore breeze, hear the sound of the canvas sail catching the prevailing wind in a crack of cloth and rigging as the finely balanced hull of the Aquila sliced through the white horses of the wave tops.

Atticus opened his eyes once again as Duilius turned to accept the adulation of the crowd, but the sense that he belonged elsewhere stayed with him in his heart. Rome would never be his home but Atticus knew that for now his destiny was intertwined with hers, his fate and future commanded by a city his forefathers had called their enemy. He, like the Aquila, was no longer alone, no longer a solitary warrior of the sea. He was now a commander in the Roman fleet and the Aquila was a ship of Rome.

HISTORICAL NOTE

The First Punic War began in 264 BC when the inhabitants of the city of Messina, fearing occupation from Hiero II, the tyrant of Syracuse, sent envoys to both Rome and Carthage pleading for an alliance that would protect their city. Carthage was the first to react and after persuading Hiero to call off his advance, promptly occupied Messina themselves, installing a garrison and effectively taking control of the city.

Rome had been slow to react, believing the conflict between Syracuse and Messina to be an internal conflict. However the permanent presence of a Carthaginian force so close to Italy prompted the Republic to land a force of their own on Sicily, the first time the legions had ever deployed off the mainland. By the end of 264 BC, and after several defeats, Hiero concluded an agreement with Rome that allowed Syracuse to remain independent but confined her forces within her own borders on the south-east corner of Sicily. The conflict was now transformed into a contest between Carthage and Rome with each vying for complete control of Sicily.

In 262 BC the Romans besieged the city of Agrigentum. The siege was finally lifted after several months by the Carthaginian navy but in the ensuing land battle the Romans prevailed and the city fell into their hands. The city’s commander, Hannibal Gisco did not suffer censure for the defeat although the loss of Agrigentum was considered a significant blow.

Polybius, the Greek historian, states that the Romans did indeed build an entire fleet within the space of two months. For narrative purposes the Roman fleet in Ship of Rome consisted entirely of triremes however it is generally accepted that the majority of the fleet were quinqueremes based on a captured Carthaginian galley. Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio, the Senior Consul in 260 BC, was given command of the fleet while Gaius Duilius, the Junior Consul, was given command of the army.

Roman history records that the Carthaginians tricked Scipio into sailing a small detachment of approximately twenty galleys to Lipara in the belief the city was poised to defect to the Roman cause. The Carthaginians, commanded by Gisco and Boodes, were lying in ambush and the inexperienced Roman crews promptly panicked and surrendered. Scipio was captured and was thereafter given the cognomen Asina to signify his foolhardy mistake.

Little is known of Gaius Duilius before his election to Consulship in 260 BC. As a novus homo, a new man, his family lineage was not of historical importance. After the capture of Scipio at Lipara, Duilius was elevated to command the new fleet and led them into battle at Mylae.

The Battle of Mylae took place in late 260 BC. The sides were evenly matched although the Carthaginians anticipated victory given their superior experience. The inventor of the corvus is not recorded however the device is similar to the one described. It was this that assured the Roman fleet’s first victory, an invention that allowed them to deploy their superior soldiers at sea.

Gisco escaped after the Battle of Mylae although his flagship was lost in addition to half his fleet. The remaining Carthaginian galleys fled to Sardinia where Gisco was relieved of his command by his own men. He was subsequently crucified for his incompetence. A commander named Hamilcar replaced Gisco although it was not Hamilcar Barca as stated in Ship of Rome. I have introduced Barca at this earlier stage in the war for narrative purposes.

Scipio was shamed upon his return to Rome but his career survived and he subsequently returned to power. Duilius enjoyed a triumphal parade for his victory and a column was raised in the Forum in his honour, the remains of which are enshrined in the Capitoline Museum in Rome. Although he secured Rome’s first naval victory he never again commanded the fleet.

The command structure on board a Roman galley was as described, with a naval captain and a marine centurion sharing authority. It involved a delicate balance, a partnership between career officers, men like Atticus and Septimus.

The Battle of Mylae was a significant victory for Rome but the Carthaginians were far from beaten. They would reform and challenge the Classis Romanus again and within a short time the two fleets would meet in the largest naval battle of the ancient world, the Battle of Cape Ecnomus.

Copyright

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Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2009

FIRST EDITION

John Stack asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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