by John Stack
Atticus spurred his horse and rode out into the busy street, his eyes locked forward, not daring to look over his shoulder as he heard Septimus fall in behind him. The horses quickly settled into an easy gait, Atticus unconsciously steering his mount through the growing throng as the city came to life. His mind was flooded by visions of Hadria and what he had just witnessed in the courtyard. The confusion he had felt the evening before when she abruptly retired to bed was swept away by the message she had mouthed, a message so fleeting that he had almost missed it. But now, as he replayed the moment in his mind, he was sure not only of what she had said but of how she felt, for her message was, ‘I must see you again.’
Thirty minutes later the two riders were once more on the Via Aurelia heading northwards towards Fiumicino. Atticus was anxious to learn more about Hadria; as the previous confines of the city had kept them riding in single file, making conversation impossible, he now let the pace of his horse fall off, allowing Septimus to catch up and ride abreast.
‘We should be back in camp within twenty minutes,’ Atticus began, breaking the silence, wanting to broach the subject of Hadria indirectly.
Septimus nodded, his own thoughts guarded, but also on Hadria. He had decided during the thirty-minute ride through the city that he needed to confront Atticus, to forestall any intentions he might have regarding Hadria.
‘Atticus, by law Hadria must remarry within the year,’ he said bluntly, turning in his saddle so he could face his friend.
‘I know, Septimus, your father mentioned it on my last visit,’ Atticus answered warily, taken aback by Septimus’s unexpected comment.
‘Then you realize she cannot entertain advances from anyone other than a suitor.’
‘What are you saying?’ Atticus asked angrily, knowing the answer implied in Septimus’s comment.
‘I saw the way you were looking at her,’ Septimus shot back, his gaze hostile as he reined in his horse, ‘and I’m telling you to stay away from her.’
‘And why couldn’t I be a suitor?’ Atticus stormed, bringing his own mount to a halt.
Septimus was on the cusp of revealing the reason behind his demand when he realized how weak and pathetic his motive was. He was suddenly overwhelmed with shame and his pride made him angry at Atticus for putting him in this situation.
‘You could never marry her, Atticus,’ he spat.
‘Why?’
‘Because you’re not suitable,’ Septimus shouted, his words now twisted to suit his purpose.
There was a moment’s silence as Atticus recoiled. ‘Why?’ he shouted again, his horse shifting restlessly as he leaned out of his saddle, his face inches from Septimus’s.
‘Because you’re not Roman,’ Septimus countered, his own anger rising uncontrollably. ‘Hadria must marry someone of her class, an equestrian from a Roman family.’
‘Maybe Hadria should decide that for herself,’ Atticus said.
Septimus wheeled his horse to separate the two mounts before turning one last time to face Atticus.
‘I wanted to ask you, Atticus, but now I’m telling you,’ he said, his face a mask of determination. ‘Stay away from Hadria!’
Septimus spurred his horse and he galloped away, barging past slower travellers on the busy road, their irate shouts ignored.
Atticus could only watch him leave, his anger washing over him at what had just occurred, at how foolish he had been to think that Septimus was different from the arrogant Romans who believed they were above all others.
‘We need to lure them out, make them commit some of their fleet to an opportunity they cannot refuse.’
‘And then?’ Gisco asked.
‘Then we take them. We capture their force and learn their true strength.’
The admiral nodded, agreeing with Hamilcar’s logic. What they needed now, needed most of all, was information. The enemy were building a fleet, that much was known. What was unknown was what type of ship the Romans would deploy, when they would launch and how many there would be.
Gisco knew the Romans were aware of his fifty ships, the galley that escaped them in the Strait of Messina having surely reported their strength, with the loss of their transport fleet confirming that presence. He was confident that they did not know of the second fleet of sixty that had sailed up the west coast, but he could not be sure and he had learned early in his military career that – when making plans – it was best to assume the worst. He would assume they did know. The final piece, a piece he was sure no one knew, was that he had persuaded Hamilcar to return to Carthage to call up a third fleet, the home fleet of the sacred city of Carthage herself.
Gisco closed his eyes and pictured the Roman galley he had seen in the Strait of Messina. The sight before him made him clench his teeth in anger, but he swept the emotion aside and concentrated on the details. She had been a fast ship, faster than any trireme in the Carthaginian fleet, although she would be no match for a quinquereme, whose fourth row of oarsmen would give her enough speed to overtake any smaller vessel. Was she typical of the Roman fleet? Did they possess any quinqueremes of their own? Would the new fleet be a mix of the two? Her design had been lighter than his own vessels, the reduction in weight and smaller draught making her faster over the waves. Would the Romans use a heavier design to better match his ships? Had they found out the secrets of the Carthaginian design, the new concepts employed by the master craftsmen of the Punic empire that had allowed the Carthaginians to combine strength and speed? If they had captured any of his ships then those secrets would be laid bare before any trained eye. The fleet had lost four ships since arriving in northern Sicily, three in a squall while travelling from Panormus to the blockade, and Boodes had reported the loss of a galley sent on patrol a week before. Had she also been lost to bad weather or had the Romans captured her? There were too many unanswered questions and the frustration of uncertainty caused Gisco to stand up and begin pacing the room.
Hamilcar watched him pace, studying him anew. Three days before he had agreed, at Gisco’s persistent request, to sail to Carthage to commandeer the home fleet. It was a request that only a Council member like his father could grant, and Hamilcar was acutely aware that Gisco was attempting to use Hamilcar’s contacts on the Council to serve himself. By personally requesting the fleet on Gisco’s behalf, Hamilcar also knew he was tying his fate to that of the admiral’s. He had initially resisted, reluctant to intertwine his destiny with Gisco’s, but had finally relented when he realized that Gisco’s request served the greater needs of Carthage. The Carthaginians were a maritime people, a nation at home on the water. The navy was the strength and backbone of that empire and Hamilcar realized it was time for the city to flex that power.
‘So how do we lure them out?’ Gisco asked suddenly, turning towards the seated Hamilcar to find the man already staring at him.
‘We use the same tactic our forefathers used against Agathocles, the tyrant of Syracuse. We offer them a city,’ Hamilcar replied, the idea having been formed, developed and tested in his own mind over the past few days.
Gisco smiled at the simplicity of the idea, a tactic that had worked against a different enemy over forty years before. Agathocles, then ruler of Syracuse in the southwestern corner of Sicily, had broken the uneasy truce of the time by attacking and taking the Carthaginian stronghold of Messina. The Carthaginians held only one other stronghold on the island, the city of Agrigentum in the west. The Carthaginian leader Maharbal did not have sufficient forces to fight his way across the entire island of Sicily to regain Messina, and so he devised a plan to make the enemy come to him. He offered Agathocles the city of Agrigentum.
One of the city councillors had presented himself before Agathocles, claiming the inhabitants were ready to rise up against their Carthaginian oppressors. The leader of Syracuse had immediately taken the bait and led his army across the island to liberate Agrigentum, only to find the gates locked against him. In his anger he besieged the city, even though he was over a hundred miles
from the safety of his own territory. It was the mistake Maharbal had hoped for. The Carthaginian leader swooped down with his army to surround the enemy, trapping them between his forces and the hostile city.
The resulting battle had been a disaster for Agathocles, undone by his own greed and recklessness. Gisco was confident the Romans had the first trait in abundance, for why else would they have built their Republic if not to satisfy their appetite for the lands and wealth of others. But were they reckless? Gisco ran through the list of Carthaginian-held cities in his mind. He smiled as the perfect match for his purpose presented itself. Gisco would not need to rely on the Romans being reckless, for the city he chose would appear easily within their grasp. It was a city located on an island off the northern coast of Sicily, an island far removed from the blockade and any visible threat from the Carthaginian navy. It was the city of Lipara.
Gaius Duilius sat patiently as the camp prefect of Fiumicino made his report to the Senate. The battle-worn ex-centurion looked oddly out of place in the hallowed inner chamber of the Curia; however, he showed no sign of being intimidated by the surrounding senators. Duilius surmised that Tuditanus had faced more menacing foes over the course of his military career than this group of languid old men.
The junior consul’s mind wandered as the prefect outlined the progress of the fleet’s construction. Duilius already knew the main details of the report. Not by virtue of having seen Tuditanus’s written work, but from the reports of half a dozen spies in the camp who fed him updates both day and night. For that reason Duilius had not been to the camp, although he was fully aware of Scipio’s visit the day before and the thought made him turn to the senior consul now seated in the centre of the bottom tier of the semicircular rows. His attention returned to the present as he picked up an inaccuracy in the report.
‘Prefect,’ Duilius said, his interruption stopping Tuditanus in his tracks, ‘did you say the first batch of twenty galleys will be ready in six days?’
‘Yes, Senator,’ Tuditanus replied, his voice confident.
‘No sooner?’ Duilius asked, with an implied disbelief hidden beneath the seemingly innocent question.
‘No, Senator. Six days.’
Tuditanus held the junior consul’s gaze. He had been warned by Scipio to expect the question, the senior consul knowing that in a camp the size of Fiumicino there would be few secrets, and certainly none that would escape Duilius.
‘I see,’ Duilius said finally. He stood up.
‘Senators,’ he announced, ‘I humbly ask the senior consul, in your presence, to allow me to take the fleet to sea once it is ready.’
A light applause followed the submission. Scipio rose to reply.
‘The junior consul may personally take the fleet to sea in six days,’ Scipio said, his words neatly avoiding the trap that Duilius had set. More applause was heard and Duilius nodded a thank-you at Scipio, both men knowing that the gesture was not one of gratitude.
Duilius retook his seat. His spies had told him three days, four at the most, and the galleys would be ready to sail. He was acutely aware of the opportunity that would be afforded the first man to command the fleet to sea, even if the journey was from the construction site to the castrum in Ostia. It was an opportunity to stamp their command of the fleet in the minds of men, an opportunity that would negate any agreement made in the Senate. The rule of Rome was the rule of the mob. If the people chose Scipio as the fleet’s leader, there was little Duilius could do to point out the joint leadership agreement. The mob would only remember one name. Duilius needed to find a way of making sure that name would be his.
Atticus marvelled at the gleaming hulls of the twenty triremes beached just above the high-water mark of the beach. He and Septimus had arrived back in Fiumicino two days before and had immediately recommenced their training routines, although Septimus now spent all his time in the camp of the Fourth. Anger flared up within Atticus as he recalled their sudden argument on the ride back from Rome and Septimus’s demand to stay away from Hadria, and he consciously swept the memory from his mind, concentrating instead on the Aquila as the galley slipped her mooring and the order was given to get under way.
Training the new recruits on how to ram when all his reason demanded he should train them for boarding had frustrated Atticus, but at least on this day he knew he would be teaching them a lesson that was vital, regardless of the galley’s method of attack. All of the trainees under his tutelage were already skilled sailors, and so in many cases it was simply a matter of adapting their skills, teaching them how best to manoeuvre a galley while choosing the most appropriate oar-stroke. Today’s lesson would concentrate on that second element.
The Aquila moved away from the beach at two knots, steerage speed. Her pace was not dictated by the nearest of the sea-lanes running perpendicular to her course, as Gaius could easily negotiate the tricky passage at standard speed, but by the need to conserve the strength of the rowers for the lesson ahead, a lesson that would be learnt at their expense. Atticus had kept this lesson until last, knowing it to be the most important for any command crew of a galley. When the assembled men on the main deck took to their own galleys in the near future, they would remember this day well.
Once the Aquila cleared the sea-lane, Atticus ordered all twenty-five trainees below to the slave deck. As they descended, he ordered the slaves to be chained to their oars, knowing that what he was about to do would endanger the trainees crowded on the narrow walkway along the length of the deck. He re-examined his decision on the method he had chosen to teach this all-important lesson and satisfied himself that there was no alternative, not if he wanted the lesson to be remembered.
With an additional twenty-five men below decks, the area was claustrophobic and, for some of the trainees, frightening. Many had never been on a slave deck before and the sight of two hundred near-naked men chained to their fifteen-foot oars struck dread into their hearts. The slaves’ expressions were unmoving and yet the trainees could feel the open hostility in the confined space. The slaves were men like the Romans who stood over them, the difference in their circumstances dictated only by the ever-fickle fate that controlled all their lives.
‘Men,’ Atticus shouted, his voice muted by the press of bodies and the surrounding timbers, ‘this deck represents the strength of your ship. These men, although slaves, are part of your crew. You must treat them accordingly. To abuse them is to sap your own strength.’
Atticus watched as the message was absorbed by those men who had never owned slaves and had never become callous in their treatment of them. Others, Fulfidias among them, had slaves of their own and had worked with them all their lives. For men like this, Atticus’s words sounded weak, unbecoming for the master of a ship.
‘In battle,’ Atticus continued, ‘you will face many challenges. The principal one will be your ability to know and understand your own ship and its capabilities. Of all your ship’s capabilities, one of the most important is the strength of the slaves at your oars. These men give you the ability to outmanoeuvre your enemy and escape or close in for attack. The crucial thing you must know is that their strength is finite. Once it is spent your ship is lost.’
The trainees listened in silence and then looked around them at the chained men an arm’s length away. A shouted command shocked them back to attention.
‘Battle speed!’ Atticus roared.
The two hundred oars of the Aquila increased with the command of the drum beat to battle speed, seven knots.
‘The galley slaves of the Aquila can row at battle speed for two hours. During that time the forty reserve rowers will also be used to keep that pace.’
Atticus let them row for thirty minutes. At that point the first few reserves were called up to replace the weaker rowers of the crew. The trainees in the centre of the walkways were pushed aside as the hatchway to the lower deck was opened and some of them were given a brief glance of the twilight hell beneath them; the stench of the bilges combined with the f
oul smell of the confined quarters of the reserve rowers rose up through the open hatchway.
The rowing continued on at battle speed, the only sound being the beat of the drum keeping time on the crowded deck. As the sweat began to increase on the backs of the slaves and their breathing became more laboured, many of the trainees began to form an understanding of what Atticus had spoken about.
‘Attack speed!’
Again the order had come as a surprise to many and again they turned their attention to Atticus.
‘At attack speed the Aquila is moving at eleven knots.’
Many of the trainees, some of whom had never been on a galley before their indentured service, marvelled at the incredible speed. For a sailing ship it was the equivalent of running before a strong wind, a tricky manoeuvre that was rarely attempted.
‘The rowers of the Aquila can maintain this speed for fifteen minutes. It is only three knots faster than battle speed, but the extra effort required cuts their ability to an eighth of the time.’
Again the trainees looked around them. Many now began to count the minutes. Ten passed.
‘Ramming speed!’
The drum master of the Aquila repeated the order and increased his beat. The slaves redoubled their efforts, many grunting through the pain of the backbreaking pull. Others cried out as cramped muscles gave way under the strain.
‘At ramming speed, even the best rowers will collapse after five minutes!’ Atticus shouted over the cries of pain and suffering. He secretly gritted his teeth to force his will to continue.
The first rower collapsed after two minutes.
Within another sixty seconds twenty more were down.
