Ship of Rome

by John Stack

  Septimus crested the dunes at the top of the beach and headed directly for the consul’s quarters, his pace quickened by the limited time available before the sea trials for the new corvus would take place and his presence would be required back on board the Aquila. A sliver of guilt caused him a heartbeat’s hesitation, but he dismissed it quickly, using the lie that Atticus had told him to justify his decision to seek out Lutatius. Septimus knew he had caught Atticus unawares, his decision to spend the night on the Aquila unannounced and unexpected and Atticus’s equally unplanned absence from the galley too unusual to go unchallenged.

  Septimus had been disturbed by the lie, not because he expected complete honesty from his friends, but because his earlier suspicions about a possible involvement with his sister had instantly reared their head. He had therefore decided to confirm his suspicions – at least in part – by calling in an old loyalty.

  Septimus reached the consul’s quarters and ducked inside. An optio was seated behind a desk, its surface covered by neat piles of parchments, the endless lists of a military operation.

  ‘I need to speak with the consul’s private secretary,’ Septimus announced, his voice and presence causing the optio to immediately stand to attention.

  ‘Yes, Centurion. Who shall I say is making the request?’

  ‘Septimus Laetonius Capito of the IV of the Ninth.’

  The optio nodded and disappeared into the inner room of the tented quarters.

  A moment later he reappeared, followed by an older man, the latter with a broad smile on his usually dour face.

  ‘Septimus!’ the secretary laughed. ‘I see a centurion before me where once stood a boy of Rome.’

  ‘Lutatius,’ Septimus replied, stepping forward to shake the hand of the former camp prefect of the Ninth. Lutatius had been a centurion when Septimus joined the Ninth, a training commander who moulded new recruits into fighting legionaries. A veteran of the Third Samnite War, he had been a hard taskmaster, but he had also seen in Septimus the potential that had eventually borne fruit at the Battle of Agrigentum.

  ‘I hear you’re training the pups of the Fourth,’ Lutatius said. ‘Are they as hard to train as you once were?’

  Septimus laughed, liking the older man, casting his mind back to his first months in the legions and the endless grinding pace that Lutatius had enforced. The two men continued to reminisce.

  ‘I need a favour…’ Septimus said finally.

  ‘Name it,’ Lutatius replied, noting the sudden seriousness in Septimus’s tone.

  ‘I need to know what destination was recorded on a pass given to Captain Perennis of the Aquila.’

  ‘Isn’t that the galley on which you now serve?’ Lutatius replied, the details of every command stored in his sharp mind.

  Septimus nodded, revealing nothing that might cause Lutatius to hesitate to reveal the information.

  ‘Wait here,’ the secretary said after a moment’s pause, and he re-entered the inner tent. He reappeared with a large bound ledger open in his arms, his eyes running down an unseen list of passes approved and issued.

  ‘Here it is,’ he said finally. ‘Atticus Milonius Perennis…eighteen-hour gate pass…destination?…Rome, the Viminal quarter.’

  For an instant Septimus’s face revealed the sudden flare-up of anger within him before he wiped the expression from his face. He had expected the information that Lutatius revealed, had even prepared himself for the confirmation of his suspicions, and yet when Atticus’s betrayal was spoken out loud, Septimus was almost overwhelmed by the force of his anger. The Viminal quarter, the home of Septimus’s aunt and the residence of his sister, Hadria.

  ‘Thanks, Lutatius,’ Septimus said abruptly, before striding out of the consul’s quarters, automatically setting out for the Aquila, his mind clouded by visions of his sister and the man he had come to respect and trust over all others. As he crested the dunes again and made his way down towards the shoreline, his eyes discerned the figure of Atticus standing on the aft-deck of the Aquila, the galley tethered to the pier, the gangplank lowered to receive Duilius and his praetorian guard. Atticus was making ready to sail and Septimus singled out his familiar voice amid the cacophony of sound on the busy beach.

  The sight and sound stopped Septimus dead in his tracks and he stood rooted to the spot halfway down the beach, feeling for the first time the tightness of his grip on the handle of his sword. He released the pressure slightly, flexing his fingers, never relinquishing his touch on the moulded grip. Septimus’s mind was in utter turmoil, one moment determined to challenge Atticus and an instant later feeling that he should give his friend the benefit of the doubt; after all, the Viminal quarter was vast and he had no proof that Atticus had been visiting Hadria. As if his thoughts were projected to the aft-deck of the Aquila, he saw Atticus suddenly turn, the captain’s face breaking into an excited smile as he spotted Septimus, his hand raised to beckon the centurion so the sea trials could begin. Septimus automatically stepped forward, his stride once again determined.

  By the time Septimus reached the gangplank of the Aquila, his mind had chosen a course. He lacked proof but the evidence was damning. When the opportunity presented itself, he would confront Atticus and demand an answer. The decision allowed him to push the impending confrontation to the back of his mind, his focus shifting to the all-important part he would play in proving the worth of the corvus. He nodded to Atticus as he reached the main deck, his friend nodding in reply. For an instant Septimus’s mind fixed on the one aspect he had not yet faced, the answer to the question of how he would react if Atticus had indeed been with his sister. A renewed flash of anger revealed the only answer he knew was possible.

  The Aquila cut through the calm water at her attack speed of eleven knots. Duilius gripped the side rail and steadied himself against the swell of the deck, his legs slightly splayed for balance. From his position on the aft-deck the demi-maniple on the foredeck looked like a solid mass, the linked scutum shields forming a wall that seemed barely able to restrain the soldiers behind. Beyond the bow of the galley Duilius could see the ‘enemy’ galley making her way towards their position, the convergent course bridging the gap between the ships at a frightening pace. The galley was one of the new fleet and, as the two ships jostled for position, the disparity in skill level between her helmsman and that of the Aquila was obvious even to the untrained eye of the consul. In battle a Carthaginian galley would be harder to engage for the inexperienced crews of the new fleet, but Duilius could see that the manoeuvre was nonetheless achievable.

  The ‘enemy’ galley was trying to gain the broadside of the Aquila, a tactic the Carthaginians would use to ram their prey. All the helmsman of the Aquila had to do to counter the move was mirror each turn his opponent made, thereby keeping the galleys bow to bow. The gap closed inexorably and at the last turn, when the galleys looked set to simply sweep past each other, the helmsman of the Aquila turned her bow into the ‘enemy’s’. The two ships collided with tremendous force, the reinforced bow of each absorbing the blow and transmitting it down the length of the ship, the reverberation almost throwing Duilius to the deck. The collision robbed both galleys of most of their speed but they continued to slide past each other.

  ‘Now!’ Duilius heard, and there was a flurry of activity as grappling hooks were thrown onto the opposing deck.

  The ropes were instantly made taut and the two ships came to a stop, their fates now linked together by the precarious threads. Duilius watched as the crew of the other galley attacked the lines with axes, severing the ropes in single blows. Within seconds the two ships would be free once more.

  ‘Release!’

  This time Duilius watched in awe as the huge boarding ramp was dropped from the foredeck. The underside of its forward section revealed three vicious foot-long iron spikes that seemed to reach out to the ‘enemy’ foredeck. As the ramp crashed down, the spikes were hammered home into the deck, locking the two ships together in an inescapable grip. The legion
aries instantly surged across the ramp, the first row of three presenting a solid shield wall at the front of the charge. Duilius counted aloud in his head. The entire attacking force of sixty legionaries was across in less than twenty seconds. The demi-maniple now stood together on the foredeck of the ‘enemy’ galley, their shields linked in a classic battle formation, facing down the length of the opposing galley. There was no enemy to engage on board the allied galley, but Duilius could immediately appreciate the deadly effectiveness of the attack.

  ‘Hold!’

  The order was shouted from within the ranks of the legionaries and Duilius watched a centurion disengage from the centre of the line. He was a tall young man, one Duilius recognized from his frequent visits to the training camp at Fiumicino. The centurion recrossed the ramp and made his way up along the galley. He mounted the steps from the main deck and stood beside the captain and shipbuilder who were already standing expectantly in the centre of the aft-deck. The centurion saluted the consul. Duilius looked at the three men.

  ‘How long before these devices can be installed on every galley?’ he asked, the question his explicit approval of the tactic.

  Lentulus smiled, the other two men suppressing the smile behind cold military expressions.

  ‘A week at most, Consul, in time for the launch of the last batch of thirty galleys.’

  ‘Make it so,’ Duilius commanded. ‘I want daily progress reports.’

  ‘Yes, Consul.’

  Duilius turned his back on the men and walked once more to the side rail. He watched as the legionaries were ordered to return to the Aquila and the corvus was once more raised. The galley swung away and turned her bow again to the beach. The sound of the drum signalled the re-engagement of the oars and the deck became alive beneath his feet once more. The sound of the beat allowed Duilius’s mind to organize what he would need to achieve in the coming week. He had barely finished the first day in his mind when the galley reached the southernmost wooden pier at Fiumicino.

  Atticus watched from the aft-deck as the junior consul disembarked from the Aquila. He had noticed the galley had not docked with its usual agility and he turned to see the frowning face of the helmsman, Gaius.

  ‘Something troubles you, Gaius?’ Atticus asked as he approached the more experienced sailor.

  ‘It’s the corvus, Captain,’ Gaius replied. He had discovered a distinct disadvantage to the device, something that could jeopardize any vessel on which it was deployed. He understood the importance of the weapon and how it was Atticus’s discovery, but he also knew the captain would expect nothing less than an honest appraisal, the safety of the ship paramount.

  ‘The trim of the ship has been severely altered,’ he continued. ‘With the weight of the corvus on the foredeck the Aquila is heavy in the bow. It makes little difference in calm waters, but I fear in a storm the galley would be unmanageable.’

  Atticus nodded. He admitted to himself that neither he nor Lentulus had considered the impact the heavy ramp would have on the finely balanced galley.

  ‘Unmanageable to what degree?’ he asked, knowing that Gaius would not have raised the issue if the problem wasn’t significant.

  ‘To the point of being unseaworthy.’

  Atticus nodded once again, this time in silence. He would discuss the issue with Lentulus, although he had no doubt that Gaius’s prediction was accurate. Ultimately they would have to inform Duilius.

  Atticus turned again to the bow and the unfamiliar sight of the corvus on the once-empty foredeck. He could not suppress the sense of hope he felt at the sight, even though his mind called for caution. The Carthaginians were far from beaten, but at last Atticus could picture their defeat in his mind’s eye. This new device, this corvus, had made that possible. The legions of Rome were unequalled in their fighting prowess. With the corvus, Rome could carry that killer ability onto the sea itself.

  ‘Ninety-six!’

  Marcus repeated the number in his head as the centurion of the IX maniple, the centurion of the watch, prepared to strike again, his expression grim, his bloody work almost done.

  ‘Ninety-seven!’

  The sound of the whiplash filled the very air, its strike no longer accompanied by the cries of pain that had struck at the heart of every legionary of the Ninth.

  ‘Ninety-eight!’

  The legionary of the VII maniple hung like a butchered carcass across the interlocked pila spears, the flesh of his back in tatters, his legs soaked with his own blood.

  ‘Ninety-nine!’

  Marcus darted his eyes left to Megellus, the legate standing alone in front of the I maniple, his armour hanging loosely from his shadowed frame, his gaunt face set in a mask of determination.

  ‘One hundred and all done!’

  The centurion of the IX stepped back from the stricken soldier, his own torso and face spattered by the blood of the man he had beaten. The whip hung loosely by his side, its flayed tip dripping flesh and blood into the hard-packed sand of the parade ground. Megellus nodded a dismissal to the centurion before stepping forward.

  ‘Soldiers of the Ninth!’ he shouted, his voice carrying easily over the nine thousand men who could still do duty. ‘We are soldiers of the Republic, legionaries of the Ninth, the Wolves of Rome. The Ninth will not tolerate insubordination. Rome will not tolerate dereliction of duty!’

  Megellus let his words hang in the air for a minute before he gestured to two orderlies to cut the legionary down. They ran forward and quickly cut the bonds that splayed the soldier across the X profile of the two spears, lowering him gently onto a stretcher. One of the orderlies ran his hands deftly over the still body, searching for a sign of life. There was none. He looked at Megellus and shook his head before they lifted the lifeless soldier and removed him from the parade ground. The entire legion followed their progress, ignoring the standing order of eyes front.

  Megellus cursed inwardly. One hundred lashes was a brutal punishment, a heavy coin that was warranted for the crime of insubordination, but it was rarely a death sentence and was never envisioned as such. Given the soldier’s malnutrition, his chances of survival had always been slim, but regulations were clear and the punishment could not be changed. The legate’s gaze ranged over the massed troops before him, sensing their hostile mood, a mood that had turned inward over the previous week to focus on the commanders of the legion, the men they believed were condemning them daily as their comrades fell from typhus, malnutrition and exhaustion.

  ‘Troops dismissed!’ Megellus shouted, his order echoed by the centurion of each maniple. Where before the men would snap to attention before dismissal, the majority simply shuffled off the parade ground, many glancing back over their shoulders with hooded eyes at the legate.

  ‘Prefect,’ Megellus commanded, ‘assemble the senior centurions in my tent.’

  The legate heard the slap of a fist on armour as he strode into his quarters, the camp prefect recalling the manipular commanders.

  Five minutes later Megellus’s tent was filled with the senior officers of the legion, each one a veteran of more than twenty years, each one acutely aware of the precariousness of their situation.

  ‘Ten days,’ Megellus said simply, his face unable to hide the bitter disappointment of this final decision, ‘ten days and our final supplies will be exhausted. Ten days and we march, first to Segeste and the Second and then south to Agrigentum.’

  Many of the centurions nodded; others, Marcus among them, simply held the legate’s gaze.

  Ten days, Marcus thought, ten days during which the Ninth could still hold its head high amongst the legions of Rome. After that it would be stained with the mark of utter defeat, and Marcus felt the bitter bile of shame rise in his throat at the thought. For an instant his mind pictured a scene played out between three men nearly three months before at Brolium. He recalled the words vividly, the deal struck between them, the strength of their bond forged over a vow of honour. The memory straightened Marcus’s back and he stood tall am
ongst his commander and comrades. Whatever happened, he would stand tall for ten more days.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The light breeze accompanying the rising sun caused the war banners to billow out from the mastheads, the first rays of sunlight stroking their linen cloth. The dawn was heralded by the low baritone call of a sounding horn, its resonance signalling to the fleet to make ready to sail. Gisco gave thanks to Shahar, the god of dawn, for the westerly wind, its sudden arrival a further fortuitous omen for the battle ahead.

  As the light strengthened the admiral could see the surrounding ships of the Carthaginian fleet nestled in the harbour of Lipara. Never before had he seen such a confluence of galleys. He held out his right hand and surveyed the calloused skin of his palm. He had heard that the Greeks could see the pattern of a man’s life and fortunes in the lines on his palm. Gisco wondered what mark represented his control of the most powerful fleet Carthage had ever assembled. He bunched his fist at the thought, feeling the strength of his grip. He smiled at the prospect of using the fist and the power of the fleet within its lines to hammer his enemies.

  Six hours before, in the dead of night, a sentinel galley had returned from the north with news that the Roman fleet was beating southwards towards the northern coast of Sicily, a fleet of war galleys followed behind by transport barges. Their course was set for Brolium and the blockade around it, a formation of galleys that Gisco had already withdrawn into the main fleet two days before to swell his command to one hundred and sixty-one galleys. The fastest route for the Romans would take them between the Aeolian Islands and the Cape of Mylae on the north coast of Sicily, a channel only five miles across. It was there that Gisco would meet the enemy, leaving the Romans no route to circumvent his line of battle.

  As the outermost galleys of the fleet raised their sails and began to manoeuvre out of the harbour, Gisco re-examined his battle plan. He could find no flaw in his strategy. His fleet surpassed the Romans’ in experience, seamanship, and numbers. If the Romans decided to attack his line head on they would be slaughtered. If they tried to turn and run in the narrow channel they would be slaughtered. There would be no escape and no quarter given. As the Melqart got under way beneath him he hammered his fist onto the side rail, feeling his blow connect with the power of his ship. Within minutes the quinquereme’s superior speed took her to the vanguard of the fleet, giving Gisco an uninterrupted view of the horizon. His pulse began to rise as he anticipated the sight of the Roman fleet breaching the solid line of the sea ahead. Remembering the complete victory he had accomplished in the harbour of Lipara, he almost regretted the ease with which he knew he would crush the Roman fleet.