by John Stack
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 fru
stration 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.
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br /> 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.
