Captain of Rome mots-2

by John Stack

  Atticus nodded, glancing past Septimus to the assembled ranks of his replenished demi-maniple on the main deck.

  ‘So, our first stop is Brolium?’ Septimus asked, changing the subject.

  ‘Naples first,’ Atticus replied, ‘to pick up the transport ships that have been assembled there along with the replacement troops for the Ninth. Then we sail for Brolium.’

  Septimus nodded, his thoughts straying to Marcus. The devastated Ninth legion had never been called to join the Second in fighting the Carthaginians to the south of Brolium but with the enemy now in full retreat and the replacement troops bringing the Ninth back up to full strength, they were the obvious choice to sail with the invasion fleet.

  ‘We should be in Brolium in about four days,’ Atticus added. ‘Two days to re-supply and embark the Ninth and then a full week to Agrigentum where the Sixth Legion will board.’

  Septimus nodded again, marvelling anew at the scale of the invasion force. Three years before four legions, forty thousand men, had crossed the Strait of Messina to invade Sicily, but that crossing had taken less than an hour over a mere four miles of calm coastal water. Now the invasion was striking at the very heart of the Carthaginian Empire.

  A sudden clarion call blasted from the vanguard of the fleet, the sound taken up and amplified until it rippled across the length of the entire formation, the air charged with the blare of a thousand trumpets as the head of the fleet reached the harbour entrance of Ostia. The flagship Victoria emerged, flanked by a dozen other quinqueremes, their banners heralding the family names of the senators on board, over fifty of them in total, many of them junior in rank, eager to associate their names with the impending invasion.

  Hamilcar paced incessantly across his room in the naval barracks in Carthage. He had spent all morning with delegates from the one-hundred-and-four, discussing with them the latest rumours arriving in the city from traders interacting with others who had been to Ostia. The rumours were of a gathering fleet, and of Fiumcino’s shipyards’ increased and insatiable appetite for raw materials; pine and oak, canvas and iron; of a brooding tension that was permeating the enemy military.

  He strode to the window and looked out over the harbour, subdued in the heat of the mid-day sun. In the military port, and beyond in the commercial harbour, the assembled fleets of the empire remained at anchor, over two hundred galleys, with only the Sicilian fleet still on station in the hostile waters surrounding the contested island. The galleys looked to be sleeping, tugging lazily on their anchor lines as the current shifted beneath them, the energy and anticipation that had infused the crews and commanders when they first arrived in Carthage now lost to apathy and tedium.

  Hamilcar was due to stand before the supreme council of Carthage within the hour, to outline his revised plan of campaign now that his proposed invasion was all but impossible. The massive fleet in Carthage’s harbour was a constant strain on the city’s resources, draining the grain warehouses and coffers alike and Hamilcar knew that a majority of the council, led by Hanno, were anxious to return the fleets to their home ports.

  The first knock on the door went unnoticed by Hamilcar, engrossed as he was in his thoughts, his eyes having lost their focus as he stared at the galleys before him. The second knock broke his reverie and he spun around, calling enter as he did. The door opened and Himilco stepped in, the captain’s face animated, his eyes darting to Hamilcar’s desk and then scanning the room until he saw his commander. He walked quickly to him.

  ‘My lord, I have further news of the Romans,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t you mean rumours?’ Hamilcar asked dismissively.

  ‘No, my lord,’ Himilco insisted. ‘There is a Maltese captain outside who you must hear.’

  ‘Maltese?’ Hamilcar asked, intrigued.

  ‘Yes, my lord. His ship approached the flagship Alissar in the commercial harbour and asked to speak to the commander. Once I heard his report I rushed him here.’

  ‘Very well,’ Hamilcar said. ‘Show him in.’

  Hamilcar studied the captain as Himilco escorted him in. The Maltese was tall but showed none of the bearing of a military man, his eyes alert and intelligent but without the hard determination of one who has seen battle.

  ‘You have news?’ Hamilcar asked, his gaze suspicious.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ the captain began, ‘from Naples.’

  ‘Go on.’ Hamilcar said.

  ‘As you know, my lord, the Maltese are no longer welcome in Ostia so we are forced to trade with the Republic further south where local loyalty leans more to the drachma and the denarius.’

  Hamilcar nodded impatiently. Malta had been a province of Carthage for over one-hundred and fifty years, but her traders acted independently to those of the city, sailing their vessels into nearly every port in the Mediterranean, ally and foe of Carthage alike, their singular loyalty to trade recognised by all. Only Ostia forbade them entry.

  ‘And what have you heard?’ Hamilcar asked.

  ‘It is what I have seen, my lord,’ the captain said quickly. ‘A large Roman fleet sailing south from the city a week ago.’

  ‘How many ships?’ Hamilcar asked, his voice suddenly on edge.

  ‘At least three hundred galleys, my lord,’ the captain replied, ‘escorting transport ships carrying legionaries.’

  Hamilcar stood silent for a moment, his mind racing. ‘Where were they heading?’ he asked.

  ‘The rumours in the city said Brolium on the Sicilian coast.’

  Again Hamilcar remained quiet as he tried to discern the Romans’ intentions. He stepped forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘Why do you bring us this news?’ he asked, searching the captain’s expression.

  ‘The Romans have already closed the port of Ostia to our ships,’ the captain spat. ‘If they expand their territory then who knows what rule of law will follow? We Maltese want only trade and for generations Carthage has given us a free hand. Given a choice I would sooner have the Romans bottled up on their peninsula.’

  Hamilcar nodded but he remained cautious. This information, taken with the rumours thus far, seemed to indicate a massive offensive. But against where? Panormus? Syracuse? Either way, he now had vital information to share with the supreme council, information that would decide the next move of the Carthaginian fleet.

  ‘Can we believe this message?’ the councillor said, looking to his colleagues, uncertainty in his voice, his question answered simultaneously by a half-dozen others. Hamilcar stood silently as the debate swung back and forth amongst the twelve members of the supreme council, waiting to be addressed directly having finished his report. As always he looked to his father surreptitiously, searching for some unspoken advice, the intricate alliances and sub-groups of the council a mystery to Hamilcar, leaving him with little idea of who still supported him as military leader.

  ‘Do you believe this message?’ the suffet finally asked, looking at Hamilcar with hooded eyes.

  ‘I have dispatched a galley to Thermae with orders for the captain to make contact with our spies in Brolium,’ Hamilcar replied, carefully keeping all bias from his tone. ‘If the Roman fleet do indeed dock there, then I believe we will have verification of the message. In the meantime I have interned the Maltese captain and his crew. If his report is false then we shall exact the real truth from his lying tongue.’

  ‘If the report is verified,’ the suffet said, ‘what do you propose?’

  ‘To learn of their final objective and then take the battle to them with our entire fleet.’ Hamilcar replied boldly.

  ‘To what end?’ Hanno said with derision. ‘To attempt to regain the confidence of this council?’

  ‘No,’ Hamilcar replied, anger in his voice. ‘To wipe the Roman scourge from our seas.’

  Hanno made to retort but the suffet held his hand up for silence. ‘I agree with young Barca’s plan,’ he said after a moment’s pause, looking to each council member in turn. ‘With such a Roman fleet at sea we must act decisively.’
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  Some of the council members nodded in agreement while more looked stonily ahead, Hanno amongst them. The suffet marked the division and, conscious of the need for agreement, turned directly to Hanno.

  ‘This reversal of Barca’s invasion plan,’ he said. ‘You no longer have faith in his ability to command?’

  ‘No, Suffet,’ Hanno replied, ‘I believe Barca has been blinded by his own ambitions.’

  Hamilcar bristled at the remark but held his tongue, catching his father’s expression of warning in the corner of his eye.

  ‘Hamilcar Barca is our most able commander,’ the suffet began, ‘but perhaps Hanno is right, perhaps he is too determined, too aggressive. I propose that you, Hanno, sail with the fleet to ensure that assertiveness is tempered with experience.’

  Hanno nodded in agreement, knowing he could do little else. To refuse would invite accusations of cowardice. The suffet noticed Hanno’s allies also comply and he quickly called a vote, one that was carried easily.

  Hamilcar saluted to the council before turning on his heel to leave the chamber. He caught Hanno’s eye as he did, seeing there the latent hostility he felt surging through his own veins. Hamilcar closed the chamber door and stood silently for a moment, fully realising that battle-lines had now been drawn not only in the sea but also in the council of Carthage itself, battle-lines that Hamilcar had to cross if he was to destroy his enemies. A cold determination crept onto Hamilcar’s face as he savoured the thought. Gone now was the subterfuge, the snares and planning that had consumed him over the previous months, replaced with the clarity given only to a warrior when he stands, sword in hand, upon the battlefield, his vision filled with the sight of his mortal enemy.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The rough hewn hawser dipped and raised with the even stroke of the Aquila’s oars, the sea-water dripping from the fibres of the rope with every pull, creating a cascade that fell in time with the drum beat of the trireme. Atticus leaned over the aft-rail and took a grip on the rope, testing its strength, feeling the tension within. He looked back along its length, following the lines as it fell to the sea and then rose again to the bowsprit of the transport ship fifty yards behind. A crewman stood on station there and he waved across as he noticed he was being watched, a wave Atticus returned before turning away once more.

  Lucius approached him from the helm. ‘Cape Ecnomus,’ he said pointing over the starboard rail. ‘We’re about eight hours out from Agrigentum.’

  Atticus nodded in return and then turned his attention back to the line of his galley. The Aquila was near the centre of the long line of triremes that stretched from the shore, each one towing a transport ship, an ignominious task ordered of the third squadron the day before when the wind suddenly dissipated, becalming the sail-driven transports. Now only the command ship of the third squadron, the Orcus, was without a tether, Varro’s quinquereme sailing a full ship-length ahead of the line as if in an effort to distance itself from the trireme dray-horses.

  ‘Eight hours out,’ Atticus said as Septimus approached from the main deck, a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, a wooden training sword loose in his hand, a weapon he had been rarely without over the previous week as he trained his new men to full battle-readiness.

  ‘Still no sign of Marcus?’ Septimus asked, indicating the transport ships behind.

  ‘No, I haven’t seen him,’ Atticus replied. ‘The Fourth must be on one of the ships on the flanks.’

  Septimus nodded, ‘He’s there somewhere,’ he said, his eyes scanning the decks of the ships nearest to the Aquila. Each deck was crowded with red-cloaked legionaries, many of them leaning out over the rails, their sea-sickness staining the hull, their faces pale and drawn from the week long passage down the east coast of Sicily.

  ‘Signal from the first squadron,’ Corin shouted and Atticus looked to the mainmast, waiting for the lookout to decipher the full message, a sudden feeling of unease sweeping over him as he watched Corin spin around, his expression one of pure dread.

  ‘Enemy fleet ahead!’ the lookout roared and Varro felt a sudden knot develop in the pit of his stomach.

  ‘Confirm that message!’ he roared up the masthead as he walked quickly to the helm.

  ‘Signal from the first squadron is confirmed!’ the lookout shouted. ‘An enemy fleet has been sighted.’

  Varro looked to the sea ahead but could see nothing beyond the first and second squadrons a half-mile ahead. They were sailing in arrow formation, each squadron forming one side of the spear-point with the two command ships at the apex, the Victoria under Regulus at the head of the first squadron and a quinquereme under Longus at the head of the second.

  Varro had been given command of the Orcus on the day the fleet had sailed from Brolium, the singular honour of commanding the third squadron bestowed upon him in recognition of his part in thwarting the Carthaginians’ plans to attack Rome. It had been a proud moment for Varro, standing on the main deck of the Victoria as Regulus announced the promotion before the assembled tribunes and senators, the consul speaking highly of Varro’s courageous action at Thermae which had saved so many hastati of the Ninth in addition to his capture of the pirate galley that had led to the exposure of the enemy’s subterfuge.

  Now however, sailing a half-mile behind the consuls, Varro felt suddenly cheated. The Orcus was a powerful galley, a ship that belonged in the van of the fleet, destroying enemy triremes as the Roman quinqueremes had done so easily at Tyndaris. Instead Varro was leading a fleet of hulking transport ships and obsolete triremes, a reprehensible command that would ensure that the glory of the battle ahead would fall to other, lesser men.

  Varro walked slowly to the foredeck; his gaze locked on the Roman formation ahead, the distance opening with every passing minute as the vanguard accelerated to battle speed. He looked beyond them to the horizon, seeing for the first time the dark shapes of the approaching enemy, their naked mainmasts like a wave of scorched grass against the sky. Varro’s dark mood deepened at the sight, his eyes sweeping across the enemy line, estimating their numbers to be less than a hundred, a pitiful force against the three hundred galleys of the Classis Romanus. Success for the Roman fleet was assured, a near slaughter given the odds and Varro cursed the fates that robbed him of his part in a victory that would be gained on such easy terms.

  The tribune was turning away from the sight but a flicker of darkness at the edges of the Carthaginian line made him turn once more, his mouth falling open slightly as he watched the enemy line extend on either side, the dark wave of galleys breaking towards the shoreline and the horizon to the south until it filled the entire seascape ahead, Varro’s dark mood dissipating without conscious thought to be replaced with a cold dread that filled his entire soul.

  ‘Battle speed!’ Hamilcar shouted, his heart racing as the line of enemy galleys unfolded before his eyes, a wedge of galleys that swept north and south; a formation his patrol galleys had sighted the day before. He ran back to the aft-deck, weaving through the scurrying crew as the Alissar was made ready for imminent battle. Himilco walked briskly towards him as he reached the aft.

  ‘Signal the fleet,’ Hamilcar said. ‘Advance the flanks!’

  The captain saluted and ran to the aft-rail, issuing the order to the signal-men who quickly dispatched the message that would ripple down the three hundred and fifty-strong line of galleys in a matter of minutes.

  Hamilcar looked to the shoreline not five hundred yards off his port quarter. Ahead was Cape Ecnomus, Roman-held Sicilian land and a point on a map Hamilcar remembered examining months before. At the time he had envisaged his land forces striking east across that very Cape, cutting off the city of Agrigentum from rescue, the Carthaginian flank protected by the army of Syracuse, the Romans in chaos and on the brink of surrender with the news that their vaulted city of Rome was on its knees.

  That vision had been ripped from Hamilcar’s mind on the day the Romans had attacked Tyndaris. Hamilcar still wondered how the enemy had uncovered
his plan. Belus’s disappearance must be connected somehow but he was unable to link the two positively. The goddess Tanit had a hand in Hamilcar’s fate, of that he now had no doubt, her hand of fortune lifting from his shoulder at Tyndaris only to fall once more upon him with the deliverance of the Maltese captain’s report, the Carthaginian spies in Brolium initially confirming the fleets arrival and then revealing the true objective of the enemy fleet, the Roman town awash with the rumour as the legionaries boarded the transport barges, their destination; the shores of Carthage.

  The Romans had indeed reversed his strategy, turning the blade until it now pointed directly at Carthage, their base at Agrigentum a close enough jumping-off point to Carthage as Tyndaris had been to Rome. It was a conceit that drove Hamilcar to a near frenzy of anger, a blatant arrogance that typified the Roman foe, the self-assurance that made them believe that the order of superiority could be so easily reversed. Carthage was not Rome. She was not the sleeping prey the Roman city had been, she was a leopard lying in wait, everfierce, ever-prepared to defend her progeny against any who would dare to attack.

  The Alissar began to forge ahead at Hamilcar’s command to advance the flank, an invisible tether drawing out the galleys behind her, the manoeuvre mirrored on the seaward flank until the Carthaginian formation resembled a crescent moon. The lines were re-dressed quickly, deft touches that marked the fine seamanship inherent on every galley of the fleet. Hamilcar looked back along the formation, his gaze picking up the flagship Baal Hammon in the centre of the line. She was sailing slightly ahead, no doubt by order of her commander Hanno, the councillor’s arrogance demanding the prominent position in recognition of his titular command of the fleet. Hamilcar’s strategy to defeat the Roman fleet had begrudgingly been accepted by Hanno before the fleet sailed, the councillor recognising the formidable logic of the plan. The agreement had created an uneasy truce between the men; their mutual animosity set aside, neither man willing to risk the fate of Carthage and, as Hamilcar stared across at the Baal Hammon, he felt his confidence rise, knowing the might of Carthage was for now united under one banner, one cause. Death to the Romans.