Ship of Rome

by John Stack

  Septimus fought hard to suppress his growing disquiet at what he was witnessing, all the while wondering if he was misjudging the looks being exchanged between Atticus and his sister. His boyhood friend Valerius had been dead less than a year and, although his mother had said that Hadria’s heart was free, Septimus felt it was wrong for his friend and sister to share any feelings of attraction.

  ‘Atticus?’ Hadria asked, her voice finally breaking the silence. ‘Tell me about your ship. Why is she called the Aquila?’

  ‘She is named after the star constellation,’ Atticus answered, and began to describe the positions of the five major stars that formed the figure in the night sky. Hadria leaned in close to follow his every word.

  ‘Aquila was a faithful servant of Jupiter, the king of the gods,’ Atticus explained. ‘During the king’s war with the Titans on earth the eagle carried Jupiter’s lightning bolts from the heavens to strike the Titans. After the war was won, Jupiter immortalized Aquila in the stars as a reward for his loyalty.’

  Hadria noticed that Atticus spoke in hushed tones, his deep, sonorous voice giving passion to the ancient story, a passion that reflected his obvious bond to his ship.

  ‘Loyalty…’ Septimus said suddenly, breaking the spell around Hadria, ‘the cornerstone of any friendship. Wouldn’t you agree, Atticus?’

  ‘What?’ he said, looking over at Septimus, the centurion’s expression unreadable.

  Hadria was also unable to read Septimus’s face, but she knew the tone of his voice, knew its portent with the absolute certainty of a sibling. The underlying menace was undeniable. Her mind raced to understand its cause until she suddenly realized the reason for Septimus’s animosity. Valerius.

  ‘Septimus,’ Hadria said, cutting off her brother’s repetition of his question, ‘it’s late and I’m tired. Would you kindly escort me to my room?’

  The suddenness of the request and the sweetness of the tone in which it was made arrested Septimus’s comment. Hadria stood up and made to leave the room, her brother falling in beside her. She glanced over her shoulder at Atticus who looked confused by the sudden turn of events.

  ‘Goodnight, Atticus,’ she said, trying to make her voice sound dispassionate.

  ‘Goodnight, Hadria. Goodnight, Septimus.’

  The centurion did not return the platitude and the brother and sister left the room.

  The abrupt end to the night and Hadria’s hasty departure had caught Atticus off guard. He had been acutely disappointed when Septimus had not left after the meal, but he had still held out hope that he would be able to engineer a moment alone with Hadria. Despite his frustration he smiled to himself. Perhaps there would be another chance.

  Hadria turned at her door to say goodnight to her brother. He still looked slightly aggravated but she pretended not to notice and kissed him lightly on the cheek. The intimate gesture returned a slight smile to his face.

  ‘Goodnight, Septimus,’ she said.

  ‘Hadria?’ Septimus said, catching his sister lightly by the forearm, arresting her departure. ‘Do you no longer mourn for Valerius?’

  Hadria sighed, her expression kind, sensing the question had been on her brother’s mind.

  ‘I think about him every day, Septimus, but I have learned to live without him in my heart.’

  Septimus nodded, his gaze somewhere in the middle distance, his memory on the Battle of Agrigentum a year before, standing shoulder to shoulder with Valerius in the centre of the line as the final assault of the Carthaginian heavy infantry rushed towards them.

  ‘So you will marry again?’ he asked softly.

  ‘I have little choice, brother, but yes, I will marry again. I can only hope to someone worthy of Valerius’s memory.’

  Again Septimus nodded, this time his eyes looking to Hadria’s.

  ‘And I hope you will never feel that pain of loss again,’ he replied, gently squeezing his sister’s forearm in affection. ‘Goodnight, Hadria,’ he smiled.

  Hadria returned his smile before closing her door. She stood in the darkness of her room, listening to the receding sound of her brother’s footsteps, remembering his parting words, sensing that his hope encompassed them both. It was only then that she recalled the lie she had just told her brother. There had been many days over the previous weeks that she had not thought of Valerius; she had thought only of another man, a man who had crept into her feelings and into her heart.

  ‘Well, where in Hades are they?’ Marcus cursed, his hand instinctively going for the hilt of his gladius as his eyes scanned the near-impenetrable line of trees.

  ‘I don’t know, Centurion. They followed a deer into that copse about ten minutes ago,’ Corin, the optio, replied, indicating the island of dense woodland at the top of the rise.

  ‘Just the two of them?’

  ‘Yes, Centurion. Legionaries Gratian and Nerva.’

  Marcus immediately pictured the two men in his mind.

  ‘I left strict standing orders that no group smaller than a contubernia was to detach from the maniple.’

  ‘Yes, Centurion,’ Corin replied, knowing that terse answers and complete agreement was always the safest option when addressing a superior officer, especially an officer with Marcus’s reputation for discipline.

  Marcus cursed again and walked forward towards the copse, his shield raised slightly to cover his flank. He searched the line of trees again, suppressing the urge to call out the men’s names. With the Roman encampment at Makella three miles behind him, his maniple was deep in enemy territory, and any overt betrayal of their position could be fatal.

  Marcus unconsciously flexed the muscles of his sword arm, the cramps becoming more frequent as his body reacted to the lack of salt in his system. The ration had been halted more than a week before and so now Marcus, like every other legionary of the Ninth, was experiencing the onset of salt deprivation. The movement of his arm relaxed the tortured muscle, allowing Marcus’s mind to fixate once again on the ever-present ache in his stomach.

  The food supplies of the legion were near exhaustion and, with the camp and the adjoining city both effectively under siege, the legions had been forced to engage in foraging. It was a normal practice for a fighting army in the field, but one that carried significant risks. The Carthaginians knew how tenuous the Romans’ supply situation was, and so their attacks on the foraging parties were marked by their intensity and ferocity. Legate Megellus was forced to send units no smaller than a maniple into the surrounding countryside and the parties had to range further and further in an effort to keep the camp supplied.

  The IV of the Ninth had left camp at dawn to forage in the valley to the north of the encampment. Marcus’s maniple was once again near full strength, the death of Centurion Valerius of the VII resulting in the cannibalization of his maniple to feed and replenish others. The resulting influx of men from the VII, proud men who resented the break-up of their maniple, had infused Marcus’s command with a miasma of anger and isolation that had badly affected morale.

  Marcus glanced over his shoulder at his assembled men. To a man their expressions were grim and angry. When facing the enemy those expressions signified the ferocity of a fighting legion. Now, those same expressions represented the low morale and simmering discontentment of hungry men. After three hours of foraging, the wagon accompanying them held only wild game and fowl, barely enough to feed the maniple itself. The Carthaginians had swept the countryside of livestock and grain stores, creating an island of hungry men in a sea of ravaged farmland, and the desperation of his men was palpable, a desperation that fuelled their indiscipline and the reckless action of Gratian and Nerva.

  Marcus turned once more to the tree-line and spat in anger. When the two legionaries returned Marcus knew he would have to order a harsh punishment for their insubordination. He could only hope they would return empty-handed. If they carried a deer on their shoulders the men would cheer their return, a cheer that would instantly turn to resentment when Marcus had the men flogge
d for disobeying the standing order. It was brutal discipline but entirely necessary if the men were to be kept in check. With their backs to the wall, any lapse in the rule of command would result in anarchy.

  Marcus tensed as he caught a flicker of movement within the copse. ‘About bloody time,’ he cursed as he hardened his expression. Out of the corner of his eye he caught another disturbance, the second fifty yards from the first. He reacted before his mind could fathom their cause.

  ‘Shields up!’ Marcus roared before the first flight of arrows darted from the undergrowth.

  The legionaries moved with lightning speed, their previous indolence forgotten as training took over their actions.

  Marcus felt the arrows slam against his own shield, their flat trajectory driving the arrowheads deep into the leather. An arrow tore past his shield and struck him in the upper arm, the punch of iron knocking him off balance. Behind him the arrows struck the wall of shields as one, negating the killing power of the surprise attack.

  ‘Form up on the centurion!’ the optio called. The maniple moved forward as one, their line enveloping Marcus and coalescing around his position.

  Marcus grunted as he caught the shaft of the arrow embedded in his upper arm. The wound felt numb, a feeling Marcus knew would not last, and he fought to break the arrow before the pain arrived. The shaft snapped at the instant a second wave of arrows struck. The Carthaginians were steadying their aim after the first rush of attack and Marcus heard the cries of his men as they fell under the onslaught.

  ‘Testudo!’

  The flanks instantly folded and the maniple deployed into two lines, the second holding their shields aloft at a forward angle to complete the tortoiseshell of protection. As quickly as it began the rain of arrows ceased, the tree-line once more becoming still.

  ‘Steady men, wait for the command,’ Marcus shouted to his men, their swords drawn behind the wall of shields, their eyes fixed dead ahead.

  The copse seemed to exhale a breath of aggression as the legionaries waited in silence. Suddenly a lone war cry was heard, the noise a low growl, its source undefined in the undergrowth. Within a heartbeat it multiplied and reached a crescendo, and the Carthaginians surged out of the woods.

  ‘Orbis!’ Marcus roared above the sound of fury.

  The legionaries moved instantly, the command expected, and before the Carthaginians had covered half the distance the IV had formed into a defensive circle. The Carthaginian front line struck the solid line of shields with all the momentum of their downhill run, their shoulders bunched into the charge in an effort to breach the armoured wall and expose the flesh beneath.

  The Roman wall bowed under the pressure before legs made strong from endless marches began to push the formation back into shape, the Carthaginians forced to spill around the edges.

  ‘Give ‘em iron!’

  The legionaries roared in attack as they began the rhythmical series of strikes made efficient through years of training. Marcus bunched his shoulder behind his shield and heaved forward against the press of the enemy. The surge opened a small gap between his shield and the next, a gap large enough for his gladius to seek out flesh and bone. The sword struck home and Marcus withdrew the bloodied blade, allowing the gap to close again as he readied himself for the next lunge.

  The wall buckled to Marcus’s left as a legionary fell, the flanks moving to close the gap and re-form the line. The Punic and Roman war cries were now mixed with the common cries of wounded men as the bloody slaughter continued, the Carthaginians maintaining the pressure of attack in a bid to break the back of the Roman defence. As commander Marcus detached his mind from the sound of battle to seek out signs of weakness or panic. All around him men were falling, Roman and Carthaginian, but neither side was giving quarter. Marcus knew he had to force the issue if a break was to be made.

  ‘Maniple! Prepare to manoeuvre!’

  Every Roman heard the command, their bodies tensing in anticipation of the change in formation.

  ‘Wedge!’

  Again the legionaries moved as if guided by an unseen hand, forming a wedge with the centre of the front line as its point. The Carthaginians were caught off guard by the sudden change in formation, their flanks left with a vacuum of enemy before them as the centre of their line now took the full brunt of the Roman attack.

  ‘Advance!’ Marcus shouted, pressing forward at the head of the wedge.

  The enemy line staggered under the hammer blow, its shallow depth unable to stem the press of Roman shields before suddenly collapsing under the onslaught, which split the Punic line and annihilated the cohesion of the formation.

  Marcus felt the pressure against his shield lift as the enemy turned, his gladius automatically striking out at the exposed lower back of a Carthaginian, the black blood of his kidney running down the blade of Marcus’s sword. A surge went through the Roman formation as the enemy fled, their blood lust aroused, calling for slaughter, the sudden release from imminent death provoking them to slay all before the line.

  ‘Hold!’ Marcus roared, his voice like a whiplash to break the spell of pursuit.

  The legionaries halted at the order, their ingrained obedience to a centurion’s command transforming their thirst for retribution into shouts of challenge and insult at the retreating enemy.

  ‘Testudo!’ Marcus commanded, the legionaries once more forming a protective barrier as the last of the enemy re-entered the copse at the top of the rise. Within seconds the Carthaginian archers recommenced their deadly barrage, their aim steadied by their desire for revenge.

  ‘Sound the advance?’ Corin asked.

  As Marcus considered the question he saw two Carthaginian runners break from the edge of the copse and run headlong down the far side of the rise. Messengers, he realized.

  ‘No, we withdraw. Out here in the open our tactics are superior. In enclosed woods it would be every man for himself. We need to withdraw to Makella before reinforcements are brought up and the Punici recover their nerve.’

  A cry to their left caused both officers to turn. Another legionary had been hit, the arrow finding the break in armour between breast and neck. The men around the fallen soldier bristled with anger at the sight, their exposed position offering no chance to repay the enemy in blood. Instinctively they took a step forward towards the copse, each man yearning for the command to advance and charge the Carthaginian position.

  Marcus sensed their mood and reasserted his command, dispatching men to cover the horses of the wagon fifty yards behind. The tortoise formation withdrew slowly, gathering up their wounded as they did, using upturned scutum shields as stretchers for those who couldn’t stand. The rain of arrows continued to punish any man left exposed in the formation. The maniple formed around the wagon, the meagre catch of dead animals thrown away to make room for the wounded. Men of the IV lay with soldiers of the VII, the shared fight and blood spilt casting aside previous loyalties to form new bonds.

  The maniple moved off slowly, their shields constantly charged against the threat of arrows or a renewed attack. Marcus ran his gaze over the rise before him, his sword sheathed, his hand pressed against his shoulder to stanch the flow of his blood. Romans and Carthaginians lay dead together, their overlapping corpses mocked by Pluto, who respected neither rank nor race, the god of the underworld counting them only as dead men for his charge. Marcus counted over a dozen fallen Roman warriors, men who had stood where others might have fled. The wagon to his back contained a dozen more, the boards of the wagon already soaked with their blood, a steady stream that marked their passage over the road to Makella.

  Once out of range of the copse, Marcus ordered the maniple to increase to double-quick time, the intensified pace chewing up the ground beneath their feet. The road behind them remained empty, Marcus knowing that pursuit was unnecessary. The enemy had made their point. The area around Makella was Carthaginian territory and a Roman maniple alone outside the encampment was no longer safe. From here on the Ninth Legion had two cho
ices. Either stay in the camp and starve or come out in full force. There was no middle ground.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Septimus walked out into the sunlit courtyard half an hour after dawn to find his mother, father and Atticus already there. The captain was mounted on one of the mares from the newly formed barracks at Fiumicino. She had all the hallmarks of a military horse, broad in the chest and barrel with a servile expression that bore witness to the hard life she led. Septimus paused and took a moment to study his friend closely, unsure of how he now felt. His sister’s abrupt end to the evening had left his challenge to Atticus unsaid, and now as they waited for Hadria he found himself re-examining the lingering gazes he had witnessed between them, the memory making him uneasy.

  Hadria appeared at the door a moment later and paused before walking out into the courtyard. Her gaze was on Septimus as she walked towards him, her emotions in turmoil at the imminent departure. From the corner of her eye she sensed Atticus staring at her intently, and she struggled not to return his gaze, knowing that to do so would reveal her heart to her brother. She reached for Septimus and hugged him tightly, her eyes welling with tears, a silent prayer passing through her mind for his safe return and for that of the man she could not hold. As she broke her embrace she sensed Septimus’s eyes searching her own and resolutely returned his gaze although her heart called out for one last look at Atticus.

  Salonina suddenly began to wail, her fears for her son surfacing in a wave of emotion, and Septimus turned to her. She hugged her son ardently, whispering a hope for him to be safe, and Hadria noticed that Septimus’s complete attention was on his mother. She seized her chance and turned her head towards Atticus. For a heartbeat their eyes locked and passion swept between them. Hadria silently mouthed a message, unseen by all except Atticus, before she whipped her head around as Septimus broke his mother’s embrace. He shook his father’s hand once more and mounted his horse.