by John Stack
Regulus looked down and studied the map before him, picking out the port of Tyndaris on the north-eastern corner of Sicily. He stared at the inscription, his eyes tracing the letters of the name until his concentration shifted once more to Varro. He looked up once more, staring surreptitiously at the young man he had sought to ruin. Perhaps he had underestimated him. He had believed his decision to ruin him to be sound at the time and Scipio’s subsequent intervention had only served to deepen his dislike for Varro, but now the commander’s apparent audacity and skill had resulted in the exposure of a Carthaginian plan to attack Rome. Varro had even resorted to modesty when he spoke of his squad capturing the pirate galley, taking none of the credit personally.
Regulus looked to the map once more as the galley lurched beneath him, holding the table for balance as the galley swung around. The spot denoting Tyndaris stared up at him again as he replayed Varro’s report in his head. If the Carthaginians were indeed planning an invasion, and Varro’s actions had led to its exposure, then Regulus realised it would be honourable to admit that he had been wrong about the former tribune.
‘Galleys off the starboard!’
Atticus moved to the rail and looked to the horizon, his eyes quickly assessing the dark shapes sailing in formation towards Falcone.
‘Identify!’ Atticus shouted up to Corin. Lucius and Septimus were standing ready beside him on the aft-deck, their gazes switching alternatively between the masthead and the distant galleys.
‘Roman!’ Corin shouted after a minute, and Atticus breathed out, realising for the first time that he had been expecting the worst.
Varro had ordered the squad to remain in a tactically indefensible position, hemmed in between the protective shoreline of Falcone harbour with little sea room to escape should a larger force attack. Over the previous hours Atticus had been on the brink of ordering the Aquila further out to sea but Septimus had persuaded him otherwise, partially because the chances of an enemy attack were negligible but primarily because Varro would be only too pleased to find the Aquila out of position and wilfully disobeying his orders when he returned.
‘Quinqueremes,’ Corin continued to shout. ‘Eight to ten at least and a smaller ship at the rear.’
Atticus focused his attention on the oncoming fleet, seeing and identifying for the first time the Roman banners that Corin had spotted moments before. The lead galley was particularly bedecked, with a large standard trailing from the head of the mainmast.
‘It’s the consul,’ Septimus said in amazement, pointing to the galley that Atticus had been studying. ‘That’s his standard.’
Atticus looked at it again, and as he watched the fleet changed course to run parallel to the shoreline. He had never seen ten quinqueremes in formation before and the sight amazed him. He smiled to himself. Fat sows, Lucius had called them and he looked over his shoulder to try and catch the older man’s eyes. The quinqueremes were anything but sows and Atticus knew he was seeing the future of the Classis Romanus sail before him, a triumphant march before a fleet of on-looking triremes.
‘Signal from the rear galley,’ Corin shouted. ‘It’s the Tigris.’
‘The Tigris,’ Atticus remarked, ‘in formation with the consul’s flagship? Varro must have sailed to Brolium with Albinus’s report.’
‘Which means…’ Septimus said, waiting for Corin to report the rest of the signal, knowing what was to follow.
‘The squad is to fall in behind and assume battle formation!’ Corin shouted, ‘We sail to Tyndaris!’
Atticus nodded and walked past Lucius as the second-in-command shouted out the necessary orders to the crew of the Aquila, his shouts repeated on the other galleys of the squad, the ships getting underway in the time it took for the last of the quinqueremes to sail past.
Atticus looked to the main deck and the sight of a fourth corpse lying silently beside the three others. With the Aquila sailing to battle, the chance to bury these men on land was now lost and although for the legionaries, casting two of their own over the side would be near sacrilege, Atticus knew that his crewman and Albinus would find peace beneath the waves.
Atticus looked once more to the fleet of quinqueremes, their aspect changing with every oar-stroke as the Aquila moved into position. By dawn the fleet would be off Tyndaris and only then would they know for sure if the information Albinus had provided them was accurate. Looking once more at the shroud-covered body of the Roman captain, Atticus could only hope that Albinus had been right and that the terrible ordeal he had suffered was not in vain. His body, like the others, would be cast over the side but the dark stain of their blood would remain on the deck, a stain that would put fire in the heart of the Atticus’s crew. If the Carthaginians did indeed hold Tyndaris, then the men of the Aquila would allow none to escape their wrath.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Even from his vantage point on the aft-deck of the Alissar, Hamilcar could see that something was wrong. The patrol galley was returning early, an hour after dawn instead of noon, and she was making at least seven knots, battle speed.
‘All hands, prepare to get underway!’ Hamilcar shouted, his order repeated to the galleys surrounding the Alissar in the middle harbour of Tyndaris. The drum beat of standard speed shattered the early morning calm, its repetition across the fleet creating a staccato beat that blended to somehow signify the urgency created by Hamilcar’s unexpected command.
Hamilcar steered the Alissar to intercept the incoming galley, his heart racing as his mind flashed to the possible explanations for the patrol’s early arrival. Belus was now two days overdue, a thought that was never far from Hamilcar’s mind. A storm had rolled over Tyndaris two days before, bringing heavy rain and a strong on-shore wind. In the confines of the harbour the wind had merely unfurled the banners and set them racing. Out at sea that same wind could have caused Belus to sail close to shore, lengthening his journey considerably although Hamilcar was forced to admit that even so, his old friend should have returned some twenty-four hours before.
The patrol galley slowed to steerage speed as she came upon the Alissar, the quinquereme mirroring her speed to allow the two galleys to pass alongside each other. Hamilcar moved to the side-rail, his eyes ranging over the approaching deck, searching for the captain. He spotted him instantly on the aft-deck, the captain’s agitation palpable even at a distance of fifty yards. The final gap was closed within a minute and Hamilcar watched with dread creeping through his stomach as the captain finally caught sight of his commander and ran the length of his galley to stand opposite Hamilcar across a distance of ten yards.
‘Enemy ships approaching!’ the captain shouted, pointing over his shoulder to the open sea beyond the mouth of the harbour and a sudden anger rose in Hamilcar as he sensed the captain’s naked fear.
‘How many?’ Hamilcar roared, his anger now mixed with a deeper fury that his plan, so close to fruition was in danger of exposure.
‘Near twenty!’ the captain shouted. ‘At least half of them quinqueremes.’
‘By Anath…’ Hamilcar whispered. He glanced at the galleys flanking his own, thirteen of them in total and all of them triremes except his own. They were completely outmatched.
‘Battle speed!’ Hamilcar suddenly roared, his crew, shocked by the news that all had heard, taking valuable seconds to respond.
Hamilcar drew his sword, the distinctive sound shattering the trance that seized the men around him and they ran to their stations, the order repeated to the slave deck, the Alissar again coming to life but this time with a fierceness in her pace that drove her ram deep under the swell with every oar-stroke. The Romans were not yet within sight but Hamilcar could see them in his mind’s eye, could see their approaching hulls, their decks crowded with armoured marines. It was a sight that struck determination into this heart, a sight that tensed his sword arm in anticipation of the fight to come.
‘Battle formation!’ he roared and this time his order was repeated without hesitation, the spirit of thei
r commander infusing every man on board the Alissar with a battle hunger that could only be sated with Roman blood.
‘Enemy galleys ahead!’
Varro looked along the length of the Victoria and beyond to the mouth of Tyndaris where a Carthaginian fleet was emerging at battle speed. He tempered his elation at the confirmation of Albinus’s report, keeping his expression hard and neutral.
‘It seems your Roman Captain was right, Varro,’ Regulus remarked beside him and Varro turned and nodded a simple affirmation, remaining silent, savouring the unspoken approbation.
‘Order the Captain to increase to battle speed,’ Regulus commanded and Varro nodded again, this time walking away from the consul to the captain stationed at the tiller.
‘Thirteen galleys!’ the masthead lookout shouted. ‘A quinquereme in the van, the rest look to be triremes.’
Varro took in this information as he passed the consul’s order to the captain. If this was the sum total of the Carthaginian defence then the Roman fleet had a considerable advantage. He walked back to where Regulus was standing and stood once more at his shoulder, a privileged position that had been afforded to Varro ahead of the tribunes of Regulus’s staff. With this confirmation that the enemy did indeed control Tyndaris, it was a position Varro was determined would remain his.
He felt his confidence rise with a sense that victory was there for the taking and he smiled at how inexperienced he had once been, how the Carthaginians and the men who were supposed to be under his command had tricked him at Thermae. In the battle ahead Varro would ensure that Carthaginian slur was reversed. His courage was bolstered by the formation spread out behind the Victoria. The Roman ships were larger. They outnumbered the enemy nearly two to one. There was no trap this time, no hidden forces to overwhelm the Roman fleet and in leading the consul to Tyndaris, Varro had ensured his name would be associated with the victory.
The Aquila was positioned on the starboard flank, her speed a shade over her normal battle speed in an effort to keep pace with the larger quinqueremes in the centre of the Roman line of attack. Atticus kept his gaze locked on the approaching enemy, now less than a mile away, a lone quinquereme holding the centre line with six triremes flanking her on each side, a desperate sight given the superiority of the Roman forces. Atticus sensed the deck shift slightly beneath him but he kept his eyes on the enemy, trusting any changes Gaius might make to the Aquila’s course to keep her in formation.
‘Any chance you’ll stay on the aft-deck this time?’ Atticus heard and he turned to see Septimus standing behind him.
He gave the centurion a quizzical look, not understanding the insinuation.
‘That wound,’ Septimus said, a half-smile on his face but an underlying seriousness in his voice as he pointed to Atticus’s chest. ‘I don’t want you spilling more blood on an enemy deck.’
Atticus smiled, perplexed at Septimus’s request that sounded very much like an order. He was tempted to point out why, on the last occasion, he had been on the enemy’s deck in the first place. ‘I doubt you’ll get a chance this time either,’ he replied, nodding to the centre of the Roman line. ‘Those quins will see all of the action.’
Septimus followed Atticus’s gaze and then looked across to the approaching enemy.
‘Unless one or two of them attempt to break out?’ he ventured.
‘Any trireme will be easily run down by one of our quinqueremes,’ Atticus said, but the prospect did leave him with a lingering thought and he turned to discuss the point with Gaius. If a trireme did attempt to break out, he wanted the Aquila to be ready.
‘Attack speed!’ Hamilcar roared and his voice carried clearly to the two triremes immediately flanking his own ship. They increased speed immediately and the order was carried down the line with an alacrity born of experience and age old naval discipline.
The enemy ships were less than four hundred yards away and Hamilcar’s professional eye began to take in every detail. The quinqueremes were almost identical to the Alissar, no doubt copies of the Melqart that was seized at Mylae although with one glaring difference, a hideous deformity that marred the foredeck of each, the cursed boarding ramp behind which unseen ranks of Roman legionaries lay in wait.
The sight sobered Hamilcar and he realised that his order to sail headlong into battle was rooted in frustration. The fleet was near full strength in Carthage and he had planned to order it to Tyndaris in less than a week, to firmly establish the supply depot and base of operations his invasion plan so vitally needed, and await the infantry who were currently fighting their way east, a force he would be free to release to the invasion once Hiero switched his allegiance to secure Hamilcar’s flank.
Now the Romans were poised to expose and destroy his preparations at Tyndaris and thwart his plan at the moment of its fruition. The thought enraged him once more and for a second he was filled with the same abandonment that roared at him to ram his galley down the very throats of the enemy and be damned, to drench his sword in Roman blood as he had at Thermae and die honourably in defence of his city. Again his mind cleared, this time at the thought of Carthage. If he was to fall this day then his city would be at the mercy of Hanno, a man who would abandon two hundred years of settlement on Sicily without hesitation.
There was still time. He could disperse his ships and flee from the Romans. They would give chase but with thirteen targets sailing in different directions the confusion would allow at least half to escape. If battle was joined then all would be lost, including the Alissar. As proximity increased the sound of Roman war cries, Hamilcar realised what he had to do; realised he had to commit a dishonourable act that only an honourable commander could undertake.
Hamilcar took his gaze off the approaching enemy and turned his back on them, walking slowly to the helmsman.
‘Order the triremes on the port and starboard to tighten in against the Alissar,’ he ordered and the signal was immediately relayed, the galleys minutely adjusting their course to bring them as close as possible to the quinquereme. Hamilcar nodded as the manoeuvre was completed. The captains on the triremes would no doubt be perplexed by his order, a risky manoeuvre at attack speed but they had followed it nonetheless, their loyalty unquestioning. It made his choice all the more difficult to endure and although he had made the decision he knew to be right, Hamilcar couldn’t stop the foul bile of ignominy rising in his throat.
Varro roared with the rest of the crew as the Victoria accelerated to attack speed. She was a behemoth in comparison to a trireme and Varro felt invincible, standing on the same deck as the senior consul of Rome, a hundred marines formed in tight ranks behind the corvus, the beat of the rower’s drum pounding out sixty beats a minute. The enemy galleys were a hundred yards away, their own decks packed with warriors, a host of spear tips and shields, impossible to count.
To the left and right the other quinqueremes were keeping pace, their hulls dipping and rising with each oar stroke, their blunt-nosed rams crashing through the white horses, creating a fine mist of spray that fell across the entire deck. On the extreme flanks Varro could see the triremes were falling behind, unable to match the gruelling pace set by the larger galleys, powered by the might of two hundred and seventy rowers.
Varro looked ahead once more. Eighty yards. He could see individual Carthaginian faces, many contorted in defiance, screaming challenges that were caught and whipped away by the wind. Fifty yards. A flight of arrows shot across from the Carthaginian galleys. Cries of pain and anger split the air. A centurion roared in command and a swarm of spears flew forth from the main deck, striking the Carthaginian force, a hail of carnage on the packed deck. Thirty yards. Varro braced his legs against the blow to come, his hand tightly gripping the hilt of his sword, the power of Rome surrounding him.
‘Now!’ Hamilcar roared. ‘All stop! Come full about!’
The Alissar immediately broke ranks; her speed cut away until her bow was clear of speeding galleys on either side and the helmsman threw the tiller hard ove
r, the Alissar turning away from the line of attack as the order was given for battle speed.
Hamilcar kept his eyes firmly on the enemy line, less than thirty yards away, visible through the narrow gap the Alissar had left in the line, a gap that no quinquereme could thread at attack speed without striking the oars of the triremes that had flanked the Alissar, a clash that would foil their own and break their speed.
Seconds later the air was filled with the crack of tortured timber and shattered wood as the two forces collided, the cacophony followed a heartbeat later by the lesser sound of a dozen Roman boarding ramps plunging down, a death grip for every Carthaginian trireme. War cries of anger and hate swept over the Alissar as she came full about, the din of battle now firmly in her wake and Hamilcar turned his back to stare straight ahead into an empty sea. An order rose to his lips, a command to turn once more into the fight, his warrior instincts roaring at him to join his doomed countrymen in the forlorn battle. He swallowed the words, the taste of them foul in his throat. He had sacrificed a dozen ships to make his escape, not to save his life but to save the life of Carthage; to save her fate from lesser men. As a commander the order was his only choice. As a warrior, the order desecrated his very soul.
‘Three points to port!’ Atticus shouted. ‘Swing around their flank!’
Gaius responded immediately, the Aquila maintaining her attack speed even as the other triremes on the right flank slowed their speed and held station, the battle joined in the centre was an obvious mismatch that would soon be over.
Atticus’s gaze was dragged to the melee that was the collided lines but as the Aquila reached, then rounded the southern tip of the line the open waters revealed a sight that caught the attention of all on board.
‘Enemy galley on easterly course!’ Corin shouted.
‘The quinquereme,’ Atticus muttered, the galley plainly visible a half a mile away.
