by John Stack
Atticus smiled inwardly at the sound of Roman voices heralding a Greek name, and his thoughts returned to the constant conflict of emotions that symbolized his loyalty to Rome. On this of all days he couldn’t help but feel part of the surging crowd that surrounded him on all sides, their cheers infectious, their own unquestioning loyalty to Rome impossible to ignore. It was a city like no other, populated by a race of men who constantly strove to expand their world at the expense of others, and Atticus looked over his shoulder to see what that ambition had wrought. An army of slaves followed behind, carrying the bronze rams of the captured enemy galleys, rams that would adorn a new column being raised in the Forum to mark Rome’s victory.
Atticus turned once more as the parade came to a halt at the foot of the steps of the Curia. He watched as Duilius dismounted from his chariot, his arm raised once more as the renewed cheers of the crowd mixed with the constant clarion calls of a thousand trumpets. The consul turned slowly to face Atticus, gesturing with his hand for the captain to join him on his triumphant walk up the steps of the Curia. Atticus stepped forward, never relinquishing his grip on the banner of the Classis Romanus as, side by side, the two men began their climb.
The sound of distant trumpets sent Marcus running up the steps leading to the parapet above the main gate. His heart soared at the sight before him, the long train of red- and purple-clad warriors approaching to the sound of drums and cheering from the men within the encampment. Two days before, on the ninth day, a troop of fifty Roman horsemen had reached Makella with news that the legions were following on a forced march from Brolium. The camp had cheered at the news before unceremoniously slaughtering the cavalry’s fifty mounts, the horse meat sustaining them as they waited for the coming rescue.
The gates below Marcus were opened without command and the legionaries of the Ninth spilled out to line the road to the camp. Marcus recognized a tall centurion accompanying the first maniple on horseback, his gaze steady, his back straight in the saddle. He rushed down from the parapet and pushed his way out into the middle of the road, standing with arms akimbo, a broad smile across his face. Septimus spotted Marcus immediately. He issued a terse order over his shoulder for an optio to take over, before dismounting and covering the last few steps on foot, his determined stride marked by a pronounced limp. Septimus had requested temporary leave from the Aquila, a request readily granted by Duilius; Septimus had arranged to be in the vanguard of the force that would relieve Makella and Segeste, wanting to personally discharge his promise to his old commander.
Marcus strode up to Septimus, his hand proffered in comradeship.
‘Welcome to Makella, marine,’ he said with a smile.
‘You look hungry,’ Septimus replied, shaking the centurion’s hand, marking the last time they had exchanged the gesture and the vow that was now fulfilled.
Scipio swallowed another mouthful of wine as the sound of the cheering crowd washed up from the Forum half a mile away. His town house was deserted, the servants dismissed, his guards commandeered for the triumphal parade of Gaius Duilius. Scipio’s hate swelled inside him at the thought of the consul’s name, a man who had taken everything that was rightfully his. He vividly remembered their last encounter on the deck of the Carthaginian flagship, the look of disdain and disgust on Duilius’s face, his dismissive tone as he ordered Scipio to be taken on board the Aquila, his rank of senior consul ignored. He also remembered a similar look of victory and success on the face of the young Captain Perennis as he stood amongst his battle-hardened crew. It was a sight that was for ever burned into Scipio’s soul.
The triumphal parade was coming to a head in the Forum Magnum, the crowd being whipped to a frenzy as Duilius marched victoriously up the steps of the Curia. Once there, the Senate would crown him with a golden wreath of olives, an everlasting symbol of his victory. Scipio retched at the sight in his mind’s eye, at the thought of the accolades stolen from him through deceit and betrayal. There was even a proposal before the Senate to award Duilius with a cognomen, an honorary title in recognition of his victory. Scipio’s political rivals had already bestowed on Scipio a cognomen of his own: Asina – ‘donkey’ – in recognition of his ignominious defeat at Lipara.
Scipio stood up suddenly as a figure entered the room. It was Fabiola, his wife. She approached slowly, her expression hard and cold. She took the goblet of wine from his hand and laid it gently on the table.
‘You were betrayed,’ she said simply.
Scipio nodded and sat back down, his hand reaching for the wine goblet again.
Fabiola stayed his grasp before taking his chin in her hand, raising his face so she could look him directly in the eye.
‘You were betrayed within this very house, by one of your slaves, a man in the service of Duilius.’
Scipio absorbed the words slowly.
‘You know his identity?’ he asked.
‘Yes, and he is oblivious.’
Scipio nodded, understanding immediately. If the traitor within his midst was unaware that his true identity was known, Scipio could manipulate the information Duilius received. He smiled at the thought, his expression mirrored in the face of his wife. Scipio closed his eyes as the cheers in the Forum reached a crescendo. For the first time the sound did not disturb him, and he filtered out the noise to allow his mind to focus on the faces of his enemies, the faces of senators and a naval captain, enemies that would pay dearly for their disloyalty and betrayal.
Gisco roared in agony as a second nail was driven through his right hand. The hangmen worked with silent efficiency, ignoring the grotesque, maniacal expression of their charge as they bound his wrists to the crosspiece. Hamilcar viewed the condemned admiral dispassionately, his disgust at the obscene ritual hidden behind a cold expression. Only yards away, Boodes screamed a silent scream as the garrotte around his neck was given one final turn. He collapsed to the ground, his swollen tongue purple from strangulation. Two guards walked forward and lifted the lifeless body of the former squad commander, throwing it onto the fire already fuelled by the bodies of the six other commanders of the fleet.
The hammer blows continued as Gisco’s feet were nailed to the sides of the cross, the position designed to support the upper body and prolong the agony. Gisco’s screams of pain continued unabated, the strength that had carried him through life depriving him of the oblivion of unconsciousness. The cross was hoisted up and made fast, the transfer of weight onto Gisco’s tortured hands and feet robbing him of every vestige of dignity, and he begged for the release of death.
Hamilcar ignored the cries, turning his back on Gisco to look out over the harbour. Ninety-six galleys lay at anchor in Panormus, ninety-six that had escaped the disaster at Mylae, a hollow prize given the loss of so many. Hamilcar would report the summary execution of Gisco, the admiral’s life a token consolation, along with a request to the Council for full command of the campaign to be given to him immediately. His first action would be to summon the fleet at Malaka on the southern coast of Iberia, a fleet of one hundred and twenty galleys that could be in Sicilian waters within a month.
Hamilcar turned once more to Gisco, the admiral’s screams now abated to a low murmur of incoherent cries. For an instant his senses seemed to return and his eyes looked past Hamilcar to the shattered fleet he once commanded. He roared a visceral challenge, the incomprehensible words born from an unrecognizable emotion. Hamilcar nodded to himself, deciding Gisco’s final fate. Tomorrow he would order Gisco’s legs broken, ending the admiral’s life by suffocation, the weight of his own body constricting his lungs, the end coming swiftly.
Hamilcar dismissed his guard and walked back along the beach towards the port. He cursed the island of Sicily, hating it anew, its arid shore and coarse mountains so different from the fertile hinterland of Carthage. The defeat at Mylae was a dark mark against the pride of his city, a mark he felt on his own heart, a mark that could only be removed with Roman blood. The enemy were now poised to strike at Thermae, the only o
ther port the Carthaginians held on the northern coast. The Romans would become careless in the aftermath of their victory, their confidence blinding them into believing the Carthaginians were all but beaten. Hamilcar vowed to shatter that illusion.
Atticus looked down at the Carthaginian war banners that carpeted the steps of the Curia as he and Duilius made their way up to the assembled Senate, remembering when and where he had last seen them.
‘You belong in Rome, Atticus,’ Duilius said suddenly, his voice barely audible over the constant cheers of the crowd. Atticus looked over at the man by his side, the consul’s expression proud and magnanimous.
‘Join me on my staff,’ he continued, ‘and I promise you, the city will always be at your feet.’
Duilius held Atticus’s gaze for a second before turning his face upward once more as they covered the last few steps to the top, the members of the Senate moving back from the edge to allow a place in the centre for their consul. Atticus walked on behind Duilius before turning, his breath catching in his throat as he drank in the sight before him, the assembled masses of Rome spread out from the foot of the steps of the Curia, the entire city at his feet.
Waves of sound crashed over Atticus as he watched Duilius being presented with a golden wreath of olives by the Senate, and he closed his eyes against the noise, his mind transposing the sound into that of the crashing waves of the sea against the cutwater of the Aquila. In that instant Atticus was sure his place would always be on the aft-deck of his galley, and in his mind’s eye he could see the clear horizon over the bow of the Aquila, taste and smell the salt-laden air of an onshore breeze, hear the sound of the canvas sail catching the prevailing wind in a crack of cloth and rigging as the finely balanced hull of the Aquila sliced through the white horses of the wave tops.
Atticus opened his eyes once again as Duilius turned to accept the adulation of the crowd, but the sense that he belonged elsewhere stayed with him in his heart. Rome would never be his home but Atticus knew that for now his destiny was intertwined with hers, his fate and future commanded by a city his forefathers had called their enemy. He, like the Aquila, was no longer alone, no longer a solitary warrior of the sea. He was now a commander in the Roman fleet and the Aquila was a ship of Rome.
HISTORICAL NOTE
The First Punic War began in 264 BC when the inhabitants of the city of Messina, fearing occupation from Hiero II, the tyrant of Syracuse, sent envoys to both Rome and Carthage pleading for an alliance that would protect their city. Carthage was the first to react and after persuading Hiero to call off his advance, promptly occupied Messina themselves, installing a garrison and effectively taking control of the city.
Rome had been slow to react, believing the conflict between Syracuse and Messina to be an internal conflict. However the permanent presence of a Carthaginian force so close to Italy prompted the Republic to land a force of their own on Sicily, the first time the legions had ever deployed off the mainland. By the end of 264 BC, and after several defeats, Hiero concluded an agreement with Rome that allowed Syracuse to remain independent but confined her forces within her own borders on the south-east corner of Sicily. The conflict was now transformed into a contest between Carthage and Rome with each vying for complete control of Sicily.
In 262 BC the Romans besieged the city of Agrigentum. The siege was finally lifted after several months by the Carthaginian navy but in the ensuing land battle the Romans prevailed and the city fell into their hands. The city’s commander, Hannibal Gisco did not suffer censure for the defeat although the loss of Agrigentum was considered a significant blow.
Polybius, the Greek historian, states that the Romans did indeed build an entire fleet within the space of two months. For narrative purposes the Roman fleet in Ship of Rome consisted entirely of triremes however it is generally accepted that the majority of the fleet were quinqueremes based on a captured Carthaginian galley. Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio, the Senior Consul in 260 BC, was given command of the fleet while Gaius Duilius, the Junior Consul, was given command of the army.
Roman history records that the Carthaginians tricked Scipio into sailing a small detachment of approximately twenty galleys to Lipara in the belief the city was poised to defect to the Roman cause. The Carthaginians, commanded by Gisco and Boodes, were lying in ambush and the inexperienced Roman crews promptly panicked and surrendered. Scipio was captured and was thereafter given the cognomen Asina to signify his foolhardy mistake.
Little is known of Gaius Duilius before his election to Consulship in 260 BC. As a novus homo, a new man, his family lineage was not of historical importance. After the capture of Scipio at Lipara, Duilius was elevated to command the new fleet and led them into battle at Mylae.
The Battle of Mylae took place in late 260 BC. The sides were evenly matched although the Carthaginians anticipated victory given their superior experience. The inventor of the corvus is not recorded however the device is similar to the one described. It was this that assured the Roman fleet’s first victory, an invention that allowed them to deploy their superior soldiers at sea.
Gisco escaped after the Battle of Mylae although his flagship was lost in addition to half his fleet. The remaining Carthaginian galleys fled to Sardinia where Gisco was relieved of his command by his own men. He was subsequently crucified for his incompetence. A commander named Hamilcar replaced Gisco although it was not Hamilcar Barca as stated in Ship of Rome. I have introduced Barca at this earlier stage in the war for narrative purposes.
Scipio was shamed upon his return to Rome but his career survived and he subsequently returned to power. Duilius enjoyed a triumphal parade for his victory and a column was raised in the Forum in his honour, the remains of which are enshrined in the Capitoline Museum in Rome. Although he secured Rome’s first naval victory he never again commanded the fleet.
The command structure on board a Roman galley was as described, with a naval captain and a marine centurion sharing authority. It involved a delicate balance, a partnership between career officers, men like Atticus and Septimus.
The Battle of Mylae was a significant victory for Rome but the Carthaginians were far from beaten. They would reform and challenge the Classis Romanus again and within a short time the two fleets would meet in the largest naval battle of the ancient world, the Battle of Cape Ecnomus.
Copyright
HarperCollinsPublishers
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Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2009
FIRST EDITION
Copyright © John Stack 2009
John Stack asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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