by John Stack
Captain of Rome
( Masters of the sea - 2 )
John Stack
John Stack
Captain of Rome
CHAPTER ONE
‘ Battle speed!’
The Aquila sprung to life at Atticus’s shouted command, the ram-tipped bow of the Roman trireme slicing cleanly through the wave tops as the galley accelerated to seven knots, the drum master’s beat commanding the actions of two hundred chained slaves, a multitude working as one. The order was repeated on the aft-decks of the galleys surrounding the Aquila and the captain noted with satisfaction that the once inexperienced crews of the ships flanking his own now moved with alacrity and purpose. There were thirty galleys in total, each one based on the new cataphract design, although the Aquila bore subtle differences that set her apart and spoke of her experience; healed scars from forgotten skirmishes, timbers weathered by a hundred storms.
‘Two points to starboard!’ Atticus commanded.
Gaius, the helmsman, adjusted the Aquila’s trim, lining her up with the centre of the harbour mouth.
The Carthaginian-held port town of Thermae was nestled neatly beyond the enfolding headlands that protected the inner waters, her docks home to a fleet of enemy galleys and transport ships, their number beyond counting. Atticus moved to the side rail of the aft-deck, leaning out to look beyond the corvus boarding ramp that now dominated the foredeck of the Aquila. He instinctively cursed the unsightly device, its bulk out of place on the otherwise unobstructed foredeck, the arrow-like lines of the galley distorted by the new addition.
‘Masthead…report!’ Atticus shouted, his green eyes drawn upwards to the lookout and the figure of Corin standing precariously over the lifting yard fifty feet above. The youngest member of the crew was a fellow Greek from the city of Locri. His eyesight was akin to an eagle and he paused before replying to confirm his estimate.
‘No more than ten galleys! One quinquereme! Roughly twenty transport ships!’
Atticus nodded and turned to search for Lucius, his second-in-command. The familiar figure was striding across the aft-deck, his restless eyes continually ranging over the deck of the Aquila, noting every action of the crew, his forty-five years resting easily on his solid frame.
‘You there, Baro?’ he roared as he went, ‘One cubit on the starboard aft running line.’ The crewman reacted instantly, two additional men rushing to his aid as the sail was given an extra degree of tautness.
Atticus nodded to Lucius who immediately came to his captain’s side.
‘What’s your assessment Lucius?’ he asked, drawing on the older man’s experience; a knowledge that seemed to encompass many lifetimes.
‘It’s exactly as reported. One squad. Minimal activity.’ Lucius replied with a scowl, his expression troubled.
‘And…’ Atticus prompted, sensing the unease.
‘When have you ever known a report to be so exact, Captain?’
Atticus nodded, considering Lucius’s unspoken opinion. Since the Roman victory at Mylae three months before, all enemy activity on the northern coast of Sicily had dissipated, both on land and sea, and the Roman transports plying weekly from Brolium to Rome sailed unhindered through empty sea lanes.
Atticus looked to port and the rapidly rising sun an hour above the eastern horizon. It shone white behind a veil of light cloud and the surface of the sea split the morning light into a million shards, glare upon glare until Atticus was forced to look away, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. He looked starboard to an equally empty western horizon, the shoreline bleeding away until it was lost behind the curve of a distant headland. It was as if the Carthaginians had all but abandoned northern Sicily to the Romans.
‘Well, Captain?’ Atticus heard, turning to see Titus Aurelius Varro, the tribune and commander of the attack fleet of thirty galleys, crossing the aft-deck towards him, leaving a huddled group of four senators in his wake.
‘Enemy numbers as reported, Tribune.’ Atticus replied, the tone of his words voicing his underlying uncertainty.
‘Excellent!’ Varro replied, slapping his hands together, not understanding the sub-text. ‘Well then, ready the ship for battle.’
‘Yes, Tribune.’ Atticus saluted, his face betraying none of his inner thoughts.
Titus Aurelius Varro was a young man, not yet twenty, but his father was a senior senator and magistrate and it was rumoured amongst the fleet commanders that he had paid a king’s ransom for his son’s commission. Atticus could only marvel at how fast fortune had transformed the Roman navy. Less than six months ago it was a provincial force of a dozen galleys and the sailors and marines who served in her ranks were treated with contempt by the vaulted legions of the Republic. Now the Classis Romanus, the Roman Fleet, numbered over two hundred galleys, both Roman and captured Carthaginian and the command of her forces was sought after by the elite of Roman society. It was for this reason also, Atticus suspected, that Varro had chosen the Aquila as his flagship, no doubt hoping to emulate the success of Gaius Duilius, Consul of the Roman Senate, who had sailed on the Aquila at Mylae.
Atticus turned to Lucius and repeated the tribune’s order. Within a minute the lifting yard of the mainsail was lowered and the huge canvas was furled and made secure. The lifting yard was quickly re-raised to half mast and swung through ninety degrees to be fastened parallel to the mainmast. The galleys surrounding the Aquila noted the action, the signal of commitment to battle and they followed suit, the order rippling down along the line.
The fleet of thirty galleys tightened up as the harbour mouth approached, an unconscious movement that sharpened the thin edge of the arrow head formation, the manoeuvre bunching the ships together, coiling the energy of their advance, a deadly force that would be unleashed on the unprepared enemy at Thermae.
The rhythmic beat of ten thousand footfalls filled the valley floor, the sound overlain with sporadic clinks of metal on metal as equipment and kit swayed with the repetitive march of five thousand legionaries. Forty maniples of the Ninth Legion had been assigned the task of securing the town of Thermae. They were the ‘Wolves of Rome’, a legion of men who carried with them a near fanatical lust for revenge against the Carthaginian foe who had humiliated them at Makella only months before. The Punici had brought the Ninth to their knees under the double burden of starvation and pestilence, isolating them in hostile territory. The Carthaginian blockade of Sicily had cut the legions off from the supplies of Rome and it was only the naval victory at Mylae that released the stranglehold, and freed the soldiers.
With the threat of starvation lifted the Ninth had slowly regained its strength, the influx of men and equipment, of food and supplies, sweeping away the last vestiges of weakness and vulnerability. The legionaries had kept the wounds open however, constantly picking at the scab to reveal the raw flesh beneath, never allowing the pain to abate fully less they forget the measure of revenge owed to them. Their wound could only be cauterised in the heat of battle, sealed with the blood of their enemy.
Septimus Laetonius Capito, marine centurion of the Aquila, marched with the IV maniple. At six foot four inches and two-hundred and twenty pounds, he stood tall in the front rank but his stride was marked by a slight limp, an injury suffered at Mylae when his demi-maniple of sixty legionaries swept the main deck of the Carthaginian flagship in that bitter and hard-won fight. After the battle Septimus had been amongst the first relief column to reach Makella and rescue the Ninth, the fulfilment of an oath to the man now marching beside him, Marcus Fabius Buteo, centurion of the IV and Septimus’s old commander before he had transferred to the marines. Marcus had a dozen years and a hundred battles on Septimus but his stride matched the youngest men of the legion and his will and discipline outs
tripped them all.
‘Anything?’ Marcus asked, noticing Septimus’s gaze sweep the hills on either side of their approach, trusting the younger man’s eyesight over his own.
‘Nothing,’ Septimus replied, his voice betraying his unease. ‘No sign on either flank.’
‘Bloody cavalry!’ Marcus spat, he like Septimus keeping any comment of disquiet to himself, knowing his men behind him were in easy earshot.
‘There’s still time,’ Septimus remarked as if to himself.
Marcus grunted a reply in agreement, both men lapsing back into silence.
Septimus shifted his gaze to the head of the column and the mounted figure of Lucius Postumius Megellus, legate and commander of the Ninth and Second legions in Sicily. He rode with his back straight and his head upright, his gaze to a casual observer seemingly transfixed on the town of Thermae now less than a mile away. Septimus knew however he had to be searching surreptitiously for the outriders of the cavalry detachment that protected the flanks of the marching column. They had ridden in as each mile of the approach was covered, reporting each time that the flanks were clear for the next mile of advance. Now they were overdue.
Hamilcar Barca rode with his chest a mere inch from the withers, his body moulded to the shoulders of his mount as horse and rider moved as one. At full tilt the wind rushed in Hamilcar’s ears and the coarse hair of the mane whipped his cheek as his senses were filled with the warm smell of horse sweat and leather. He crooked his head and looked over his shoulder, blinking rapidly to clear the windswept tears from his eyes. Behind him rode five hundred of his men, Carthaginians all, riding with the same fury as their leader, but unable to match the pace of Hamilcar’s Arabian mare, a light horse bred in the desert for speed and stamina, an animal with a proud and fiery temperament that set her apart and above from the other races of horse.
Hamilcar returned his gaze to the ground ahead, judging the lie of the land with a skilled glance before shifting his weight slightly left, a signal to his mount to veer up the gentle slope that screened the Carthaginians from their enemy, the riders behind him matching their commander’s course. A sudden blaze of shame washed over Hamilcar as he rode but instead of suppressing it he nurtured the flame, holding it close to his core where his hatred for the enemy lay. Hamilcar had commanded the right flank at Mylae and had witnessed at first hand the staggering reversal of the once invincible Carthaginian fleet. It was he who issued the general order to retreat, a command both shameful and necessary that dishonoured him and his men. The anger he felt had been partly assuaged when he crucified Hannibal Gisco, the foolhardy and maniacal commander of the fleet, but now it returned anew at the thought of the Roman enemy just beyond his field of vision and he pushed his mount to increase her speed as she fought against the slope of the hill.
‘Captain, signal the fleet, full attack.’
‘Tribune?’ Atticus replied perplexed, spinning around to face the younger man.
‘Full attack, Captain!’ Varro repeated, his expression animated, his eyes restless as his gaze swept the inner harbour.
‘But Tribune,’ Atticus began cautiously, trying to read the young man’s intention. ‘The Carthaginians are heavily outnumbered. If we sent an envoy forward alone it is possible they will surrender without a fight.’
‘Surrender?’ Varro replied, his expression one of genuine shock. ‘Why would we wish for them to surrender? Where is the glory in that? We have come here for battle and by the gods we will have it. Order full attack.’
Atticus nodded but felt it necessary to point out one other important element, wondering if the tribune had considered it. ‘And a rear-guard, Tribune?’ he said, ‘I suggest five galleys from the third squad.’
‘A rear-guard?’ Varro asked, his tone now laced with impatience. ‘The enemy are there, Captain,’ he said, pointing forward.
Atticus made to reply but Varro cut him off-‘Order full attack, Captain. Now!’ he snarled, his expression no longer friendly, his eyes cold.
Atticus hesitated, every instinct of his experience calling on him to counter the asinine command. He was stunned by the tribune’s words, until suddenly realisation swept over him. Varro was looking to make his name in battle and he was going to force an all out battle if necessary. Atticus weighed up his options for a heartbeat longer. He had none.
‘Lucius, signal the fleet!’ he ordered.
Varro smiled once more and returned to the group of senators, talking animatedly as he went, expounding the genius of his strategy.
‘This is madness,’ Lucius said quietly beside Atticus. ‘We could take Thermae without a fight and I don’t like entering a hostile port without someone watching our backs.’
‘I agree,’ Atticus remarked, his own gaze shifting to the Carthaginian galleys. For fifteen generations the Punic navy had been masters of the Mediterranean, their seamanship and naval tactics second to none. The corvus had surprised them at Mylae but it was the only tactic the Romans could deploy. As Varro was going to force a fight, the Roman legionaries would have to board in strength, they would have to carry the fight to the enemy. It was going to be a hard fight, but more than that, Atticus knew it was going to be a waste of men’s lives, a pointless attack where none was required. He moved aside from the tiller and walked forward to look over the assembled legionaries of the Aquila on the main deck. On this day, their blood would be on Roman hands.
‘Form lines! Deploy the skirmishers!’
Marcus automatically began to relay the order from the front of the column to his maniple, an innate reaction borne from over fifteen years in command. The men moved with disciplined intent as they manoeuvred into the triplex acies formation, the three line deployment with the light hastati troops in the front line, the more seasoned and heavily armoured principes in the second and the older veteran triarii in the third. The lightly armoured and more independent velites broke off as skirmishers, their javelins light in their hands as they ranged over the ground immediately in front of the deploying legionaries.
Septimus moved without hesitation into the second line although he was no longer one of the principes of the IV maniple of the Ninth as he had been at the Battle of Agrigentum. As he did so he examined the sudden command of the legate to deploy into battle formation. Thermae was less than two hundred yards away and seemed completely devoid of activity. This in itself was not surprising given that the advancing Roman legion would have been seen from over a mile away and would have prompted every civilian to flee into the interior of the town. What was unusual however was that the outriders of the Roman cavalry had not reappeared, and since the legion was in enemy territory, albeit to subdue a town that was reported to be sparsely defended, it seemed prudent to deploy for battle rather than advance without proper reconnaissance. Legate Megellus was a cautious man, Septimus thought.
Within five minutes the forty maniples of the Ninth had deployed into battle formation and the air grew quiet again as they waited patiently for the order to advance. Septimus blinked a bead of sweat from his eye, overcoming the urge to lift his hand and wipe his face, the ingrained discipline of the legions still strong in his blood. His gaze shifted left to right at the skirmishers who were now reaching the outskirts of the town, the closed shutters of the low whitewashed buildings revealing nothing to the advancing soldiers. He watched as one of the velites negotiated his way around a tethered dog, the sharp bark of the mongrel breaking the silence before a yelp of pain cut the sound short. In the centre of his vision, the approach road to the town was crowded by a detachment of the velites, their commander signalling orders as they prepared to advance into the town proper.
Septimus dropped his gaze, ignoring the unspoken order of eyes front as he sensed a tiny vibration beneath his feet. His mind registered and processed the sensation within a heartbeat, triggering a memory and a corresponding sense of alarm. As if to confirm his dread a sound began to fill the air around him, a sound like distant thunder to the uninitiated, but unmistakable to a vet
eran. His mouth began to form the warning but a dozen other men in the rear ranks beat him to it, their uncoordinated voices overlapping into a jumble of sound, but their warning nonetheless distinctive.
‘Enemy cavalry to the rear!’
The low sun blazed into Hamilcar’s eyes as he crested the hill and he blinked away the momentary blindness, his eyes taking in the entire vista before him in an instant. To his left, a mile away and less than two hundred yards from the town, the Roman legions seemed to be in disarray but Hamilcar’s military eye could see they were deploying into a battle formation, their cohesion evident even at this range. His gaze did not linger long on the enemy however, but shifted to a point directly across from his own on the other hill flanking the valley approach to Thermae. He was half way down the slope, his men following en masse behind, before he spotted the second attack force breach the top of the hill, the second unit of five hundred cavalry that would link with his own on the valley floor.
Hamilcar wheeled his horse into the centre of the valley and his men formed a line of battle on his flanks as they continued at the gallop. He straightened up in the saddle, shifting his weight and locking his legs against the barrel of his mount. His horse, a veteran herself of many battles, sensed the shift and, raising her head slightly, allowed Hamilcar to guide her with his legs, thereby freeing his hands from the reins. He reached behind and drew his sword from the scabbard strapped to his back, drawing the blade in a high arc, a fluid motion that signalled to his men the commitment to battle.
Hamilcar set his gaze firmly on the Roman formation a thousand yards in front of him. He had prepared for this moment for the past three months, from the day he had watched Hannibal Gisco suffer and die on the cross, punishment for the arrogance that had been the Carthaginians’ undoing at Mylae. He had marshalled his forces and then almost immediately concealed them, hiding them from the Roman enemy who sailed unopposed across north-eastern Sicily. He had surreptitiously watched their every move, expecting and then confirming the imminent attack on Thermae and with tempered hate he had laid his trap. Now Hamilcar’s eyes glazed over as he muttered a prayer to Anath, the Carthaginian goddess of war, for her favour in ensuring the enemy had approached unawares. With her good grace he prayed the Roman fleet had advanced under the same veil of ignorance and arrogance. As his vision cleared, the enemy ranks, although still eight hundred yards distant, seemed to fill his vision. A visceral war cry reared up within him and he roared his defiance at the Romans, a shout that was taken up by the thousand men who followed him without question.
