Scipio's End

by Martin Tessmer

  Regillus tilts his goblet to his lips. “I hear you, it’s dangerous to be here. I will send out some scout ships as soon as I finish.”

  He cuts his eyes sideways at Eudamus. “Really, Commander. If the Syrian’s fleet was around here, we would have seen them.”

  A small, sun-browned man appears in the doorway, nervously twisting the hem of his stained green tunic. “Is this where I get my reward?” he mutters, his eyes wide with apprehension.

  “Here now, be off with you,” barks a guard. The peasant retreats into the street, dodging a pack of boisterous Romans. He sets his chin and steps back in. “I hear Romans pay for information.”

  The guard places his hand on the pommel of his sword. The peasant edges back into the street, but his face remains hopeful.

  “Wait a minute, Cassius,” Regillus says to his guard. He waves in the peasant. “And just what information do you have for us?” He winks at Eudamus. “Do you know where the best brothel is, is that what you want to tell me?”

  The little man stares at his feet. He vigorously shakes his head. “Ships. I saw lots of ships. Syrian ships.”

  Eudamus rises from his stool, his eyes staring. “You saw ships where?”

  The peasant looks up at the frightening figure, and quickly glances down. “I fish on Macris Island. Yesterday I sail to windward. See scores of ships in harbor. They hidden from sight. Big ships, purple flags with moons!”[clxxxvi] He points to a Syrian flag dangling from the ceiling. “Flags like that.”

  Regillus vaults from his seat, his face ashen. Eudamus grasps his wrist. “We have to get out of the bay before we are trapped!”

  “I know I know,” Regillus blurts. “Get your ships to follow me!” He turns to his guards. “Sound the recall! You hear me, recall everyone at once!” Regillus and Eudamus rush from the wine bar, followed by the Roman guards.

  “What about my money?” the peasant shouts at the empty doorway. He hears no response. “Come back!” he yells, but receives no reply.

  The peasant walks to Regillus’ table and draws up a stool.

  The portly bar owner approaches, his pig eyes burning with disdain. “What are you doing? Get your bony ass out of here!”

  The fisherman draws out his filleting knife and places it on the table. “I think I stay and finish.” The owner eyes the keen blade. With a shrug, he walks into his kitchen.

  The peasant pours himself a goblet of the admiral’s wine and drinks deeply, smacking his lips. He bites a chunk off the pie-shaped barley bread lying next to him. He chews slowly, eyeing the empty doorway. “Fucking Romans,” he mutters.

  Regillus rushes back to his ship, shouting orders as he runs up the gangplank. Soon, dozens of Roman hornsmen rush through the seaport streets, madly blowing their calls to return to ship.[clxxxvii] The sailors dash for the docks. Some stagger drunkenly toward their vessels, others run while hastily knotting up their loincloths. The piers swarm with frantic marines and rowers, but still the horns echo throughout the town.

  Regillus stands at the foot of his gangplank, frantically waving his men into his flagship. “Come on, come on, we have to be the first out of here!” The last marine jumps onto the deck. The ship casts off for the mouth of the harbor, drawing out the rest of the Roman fleet.

  Eudamus strides over to his ship, ignoring the Romans who stampede past him. He strides up to the prow of his flagship, watching Regillus’ ship ease out from its mooring.

  “Should we launch and follow them?” asks Faustus, his deck captain.

  Eudamus watches the careening Roman ships bump into one another, their captains cursing at each other across the railings. “Wait until the confusion dies down. For once, we will bring up the rear.”

  By day’s end, the Roman fleet has sailed past the peninsulas and is out into the Aegean, drawn up in a line. The ships anchor there, while the Roman scout ships sail toward Macris Island.

  Morning finds a fully armored Regillus pacing about the deck, his mind whirling with plans to defend against a Syrian attack. The young admiral strides to his ship’s stern and looks off to his right. Far astern, he sees the trim Rhodian triremes at anchor in an attack wedge, their lowered sails flapping against the masts. Eudamus’ snake-faced flagship floats at the head of the wedge, the sun glinting off its brass ramming head.

  You’re waiting to see what I will do if they attack, aren’t you? Regillus thinks. I know you don’t trust me, old man.

  A Roman bireme surges in under full sail, its twin banks of oars plowing furiously. The scout ship glides toward Regillus’ quinquereme and slows. Regillus leans over the railing, his eyes wide with excitement.

  “What news?” Regillus shouts down to it. The bireme’s captain rushes to the middle of his narrow deck and cups his hands to his mouth. “The Syrians are coming, hard in from the northeast! Fourscore ships, or more!”

  Regillus feels his stomach churn. “Sound the battle horns!” he yells. The ship’s trumpeter grabs his cornu and blares three short blasts. The call echoes across the water, relayed from ship to ship. Florus raises the ship’s red battle flag to the top of the main mast.

  “For Rome and the Republic,” Regillus yells. “Attack!”

  The ships raise their sails and surge forward. Regillus’ keen-eyed lookout leans over the bow, searching for signs of the enemy.

  Aboard the Syrian flagship, Polyxenidas stomps about in a fit of rage. “Gods damn them, those Roman scout ships found us! No sneaking into the harbor, we’ve got to meet them head on.”

  “We outnumber them,” Captain Juval says. “And our triremes are faster than their lumbering quinqueremes. We’ve should try to outflank them.”

  “Agreed,” the admiral replies. “We’ll pick on the weakest side.”

  The Syrians approach the Roman line of battle, their eighty-nine ships riding two deep across the sea. Polyxenidas notices that the Roman vessels are bunched closer together than his flotilla, with the Rhodian fleet miles behind, to his right. The left side will be their weak side, he decides. He beckons his captain.

  “Juval, we’re going to lead our rear triremes on a sweep to our left, so we can outflank them. Bring our big ships to the center, behind our triremes. Tell the fire archers to get ready.”

  The Syrian flagship close-hauls its sails and turns its rudder to port side. Polyxenidas’ vessel curls in behind his front ships and surges toward the Roman’s right flank. The admiral’s flagman runs to the side rail, signaling the rear ships to follow. The dagger-shaped triremes slice through the Aegean chop, and begin a wide turn around the Roman flank.[clxxxviii]

  While the Syrians initiate a flanking maneuver, Eudamus’ ships close in behind the Roman vessels. Standing in the prow of his trireme, the Rhodian watches in alarm as Polyxenidas’ rear ships sail out toward the Roman right, their bronzed prows aimed at the open sea. They’re going to encircle Livius’ flank!

  Eudamus glances at the Roman center, affirming that they are still moving straight ahead. That boy Regillus is too stupid or scared to do anything about it. “Full speed east, oars double time,” Eudamus tells his captain.

  The Rhodian triremes surge to their left, powered by banks of sturdy oarsmen. Admiral Eudamus spies the purple flag upon Polyxenidas’ vessel.

  “Aim for the flagship,” he tells his captain. “We take him out, the rest may lose their spirit.” The Rhodian flagship veers farther to the left, slashing toward Polyxenidas’ vessel.

  Regillus watches helplessly as the Syrian ships race to outflank him, knowing his quinqueremes cannot catch them. He sees the Rhodian fleet surge out to meet them, their side oars beating like the legs of a maddened centipede.

  “Full speed ahead, Florus, we’ll break into their front,” Regillus says, his heart pounding in his ears.

  Regillus watches the sleek Syrian triremes arrow toward him. They might be faster, but we are better deck fighters, he decides. He beckons Florus to his side. “Signal our ships—we’re going to ram and board.”

  The young ad
miral gazes into the Aegean’s dark green depths. “Oh sea gods, I pray you, let me have this battle. I promise I will build a temple in your honor.”[clxxxix]

  The Syrian ships draw within two spear casts of the Romans. They turn abruptly, aiming for the sides of the quinqueremes. A Syrian ship crashes its beaked ram through the side of one Roman vessel, caving in its timbers at the waterline.

  The Roman craft rows off toward the rear of the fleet, slowly sinking. Another quinquereme draws alongside the crippled ship. It drops its corvus onto the deck of the foundering vessel. The sinking ship’s marines and rowers race across the boarding platform, lugging their weapons and possessions.

  A second trireme rams a Roman ship. The quinquereme limps from the battle line, slowly drawing water. After a half hour of ships attacking and dodging, a Roman ship manages to grapple a Syrian vessel. The marines throw down their boarding platform and stream across it.

  With no room for organization or movement, the deck becomes a freewheeling swordfight between the Roman marines and the Syrian sailors. Battling in close quarters, the Romans’ short swords and discipline begin to tell. The Syrians soon surrender, throwing their swords and spears into the sea.

  The victorious Romans rope the rowers and soldiers together. They strip the trireme of its sails and rope it to the quinquereme’s stern, towing their captive to the rear of their fleet. Over the next two hours, four more Syrian ships are captured and removed. A dozen more row out from the battle, their sides wrecked by Roman rams.

  Delirious with the prospect of victory, Regillus dashes about the deck, searching for a ship to assault. “Sails to starboard!” he yells. “Aim for that bastard over there!” The quinquereme veers around and plunges toward a nearby trireme.

  Regillus studies the trireme’s angle of sail, plotting the shortest route to cut it off. A hand tugs at Regillus’ tunic sleeve. “What is it Florus?”

  His wide-eyed captain points to the stern. “Three monsters behind us!”

  Three enormous hexaremes sail into the swarming sea battle. Each carries two thirty-foot towers upon its deck, towers commissioned by Hannibal when Phoenicians built the new ships for him. The hexaremes turn toward the Romans nearest them, their oars delving deep into the choppy Aegean waters.

  A tower ship closes on the quinquereme nearest to Regillus. The admiral sees the Roman ship’s marines lining the deck railing, preparing to board the Syrians’ craft. My marines will slaughter them. What a prize that big bastard will make!

  The hexareme’s towers release a withering fire of flame arrows. The shafts penetrate man and deck alike, setting them aflame. Scores of burning marines dash madly across the deck, screaming for help. Dozens more dive into the sea, mad to escape their agony.

  The quinquereme’s top deck bursts into flame. The ship’s rowers run from below decks and pitch themselves into the sea, trusting they will be succored by the other ships.

  The hexareme turns toward Regillus’ ship, its towers spitting arrows.

  A flaming shaft thunks into the deck near Regillus, then another. “Throw some sand on these!” Regillus yells, “and get us out of here!” The quinquereme strokes away from the hexareme’s line of fire.

  Regillus watches his ships surge aimlessly about the scene of battle, chased by the relentless Syrians. Off to his left, another quinquereme bursts into flames, ignited by a hexareme’s flaming onslaught.

  The admiral’s face becomes grim. “Florus, take us about. We’re heading back in.”

  “Back to where?” Florus asks.

  Regillus points at the nearby hexareme. “Back into the side of that oversized puke bucket. Triple-time rowing. We’re going to break it.” The flagship rows toward the hexareme, its sails stiff with wind.

  “Get every marine armed and onto the deck,” Regillus commands. The ship’s eighty marines crowd onto the top. They stand facing the enemy ship, swords drawn and waiting.

  Arrows rain down from the hexareme’s towers, arching toward the flagship’s deck. “Testudo!” Regillus yells, raising his own shield. The marines square up and raise their rectangular shields. The arrows stab into the shields and the deck. A handful of marines scurry across the deck, their gloved hands yanking out the shafts.

  Regillus scrambles below decks. He faces his half-naked, sweat-soaked oarsmen. “Lean your backs into it!” he shouts. “Twenty more strokes and we have them!” The banks of oars delve into the sea, surging the quinquereme forward.

  Regillus’ flagship crashes its armored prow into the hexareme, lurching it sideways. The young admiral stumbles drunkenly, grabbing a deck ladder to right himself. “Port rows hard, starboard rests!” he shouts, clambering to the top deck.

  The Roman ship scrapes against the side of the hexareme. Scores of Syrians shove poles against the quinquereme, but the Roman rowers shove the ship closer. After several tries, the marines drop their corvus onto the enemy deck. Dozens of Syrians grab the sides of the corvus, trying to throw it overboard. The marines rush across the platform and cut them down.

  While scores of marines beat back the deckside Syrians, dozens of Romans break into the towers. They run up the stairs, swords bared, and stab down the unarmored archers.

  Watching Regillus’ ship board the hexareme, the Roman ships emulate their admiral’s assault tactics. They board dozens of the enemy triremes. Others attack the two hexaremes in groups of three, ramming them until they sink.

  While Regillus’ ships duel with the Syrians’ center fleet, Eudamus of Rhodes charges his twenty-three triremes around the outside of the Roman battle line, seeking the forty triremes led by Polyxenidas. The Syrian admiral sees the Rhodian fleet approaching, but he remains unperturbed.

  “They’re coming on fast,” Juval observes.

  Polyxenidas shrugs. “We outnumber them two to one. While they occupy themselves with one of us, another will ram into them, then another. We’ll sink all of them before nightfall.”

  Eudamus stands in the prow of his ship, the stiff breeze ruffling his white mane of hair. His eyes follow Polyxenidas’ gorgon-headed flagship, its bronze prow aimed directly at him.

  Captain Faustus joins Eudamus. “Here they come,” the Rhodian exclaims. “There looks to be two score of them. They’ll try to double up on us, and ram our sides.”

  The aged Rhodian’s gaze does not waver. “Get the pots lined up on the deck. We’re going to need them.”

  The Syrian triremes close upon their Rhodian counterparts. As they approach, the Syrian ships edge apart from each other, seeking more room to maneuver. The Rhodians sail on, maintaining their wedge formation, with Eudamus’ flagship in the lead.

  The two flagships close upon one another. Eudamus turns toward Faustus, who stands in the center of the trireme’s narrow deck. The Rhodian admiral throws down his right hand. Faustus spins around and repeats the gesture to his helmsman. The helmsman shoves the rudder sideways while the sailors pull the trireme’s two sails to the opposite side of the craft.

  The Rhodian ship veers abruptly to the left and slides past the Syrian’s flagship, dodging its attack. Eudamus sees Polyxenidas standing at the railing, glowering at him. The Rhodian admiral’s seamed face breaks into a grin. He raises his middle finger and jabs it at the Syrian, emulating a dagger thrust.

  “Hard about to port side,” Eudamus tells Faustus. “Let’s go back and get him.” He grins. “Signal the other ships. Tell them to use the pots.”

  The two fleets surge into one another, angling for the best fighting position. The Syrian ships aim their prows at the sides of the Rhodians, intending to bash them in. The Rhodian vessels slow, waiting for them to approach. The Rhodians turn their vessels sideways, drawing close to the sides of their attackers.

  Pairs of Rhodian sailors rush to their ships’ side rails. Each pair carries a forty-foot pole with an iron pot attached to the end. They halt at the railing and stab torches into the resin-filled pots. Fires roar from the containers, flames fueled by unquenchable Sea Fire, the nightmare of e
very sailor.[cxc]

  Bracing their long poles against the top of their railings, the Rhodians slide the pots across the gap between the two ships, hovering them over the Syrian decks. With a twist of the wrist, they dump the pots’ contents onto the triremes.

  Sea Fire streams across the Syrian decks, burning everything it touches. The Rhodians rush out with more pots. They pour the burning resin down the sides of the enemy triremes, igniting the oars and hulls.

  A dozen Syrian ships turn into burning barges of death, their occupants diving into the sea. A score of them row from the battle, fleeing the unquenchable fires.[cxci]

  Polyxenidas watches his assault fleet break apart, his victory dissolving before his eyes. He sees Eudamus’ flagship heading toward him, backed by three Rhodian triremes.

  “Run for Ephesus,” he yells to Juval. “Quick, while we still have the wind at our back.”

  The Syrian flagship flees the battle. The rest of the demoralized fleet soon follows him, capitalizing upon the winds at their backs.[cxcii]

  “Get after them!” Eudamus bellows. “Full speed!” The swift Rhodian ships angle into the escaping triremes, cutting the fleet in half. Regillus’ ships close in from behind, completing an encirclement. One by one, the captive ships lower their sails.

  Regillus leans over the prow of his ship, watching the enemy sailors pitch their arms into the sea. He sobs with joy.

  “You’ve won,” Florus tell him, grinning from ear to ear.

  A look of dismay crosses Regillus’ face. “Gods curse me, now I’ve got to fulfill my promise, and build a temple to the Lares!” He smiles. “There’d better be plenty of plunder on those ships, Florus, or I’ll be out begging in the streets!”

  “For a while there, I thought they had us,” Florus says. “Those fire towers were fearsome!”

  Regillus nods. “How many ships did we capture?”

  “Thirteen. Another forty of them are at the bottom of the sea. A half dozen of ours are badly damaged, but they sunk only two.”[cxciii]