Captain of Rome mots-2

by John Stack

  The legionaries flooded across, forming a line, the strident commands of a centurion marching them forward. The Carthaginians faltered then quickly turned into the new threat, a ragged few joined by scores in a matter of seconds, the Punici slamming into the shield wall, hammering with all the frenzy of hate against leather and brass.

  Atticus called the remaining crew of the Aquila to the rails to continue their fight on the flanks, wary that in the confusion of battle the armourless crew might be mistaken for Carthaginians by the legionaries. He looked to the main deck and the embattled men of Septimus’s command, his attention drawn away from the Orcus, never seeing Vitulus run across the corvus, his own gaze looking beyond the front line of the legionaries, searching for his prey.

  ‘Hard to starboard! Withdraw oars!’ the captain of the Baal Hammon roared and Hanno leaned into the turn as the quinquereme swung to avoid the fall of a corvus, the Roman quinquereme sweeping past the bow, the cutwater of the Baal Hammon slamming into the extended oars of the Roman galley, snapping the fifteen foot spars like twigs underfoot, until the counter turn of the Roman ship dragged the remaining oars out of reach.

  ‘Attack speed!’ the captain called again, his eyes searching for open water, the second narrow escape from boarding tearing at his nerves. Hanno felt a contagious panic spread over his galley, seeping into his own mind, the complete dominance of the Roman quinqueremes over the equally sized galleys of his own fleet a terrible realisation that had suddenly thrust the Baal Hammon into the fight of her life.

  The Baal Hammon had rammed and sank two Roman triremes, charging them down and striking them deep with a strength they could not defy and Hanno had praised his decision to fully engage the enemy, sensing victory with every Roman who fell under the ram of his quinquereme. But beyond his own galley, Hanno had suddenly witnessed the real truth of the battle, the Romans triremes like jackals hunting down prey, attacking creatures their own size with a savage sabretoothed weapon that conquered relentlessly. And amongst them the larger quinqueremes, attacking the command galleys, the Carthaginian crews overwhelmed and slaughtered.

  The Baal Hammon found clear sea and the captain brought the galley around once more, the tangle of butchery that was the battle-line spread out before the bow once more, the helmsman holding his course, waiting for the command to re-engage. The captain looked to Hanno, his expression questioning, his eyes devoid of the confidence that befitted the captain of a flagship. Hanno looked beyond him, immediately seeing a number of Roman triremes holding fast to Carthaginian galleys, stationary in the water, perfect targets for the Baal Hammon. Hanno hesitated however, knowing that to ram the triremes was to expose his own ship to the threat of being boarded by another, a fight he knew could not be won and for the first time the unthinkable crept into his thoughts, the unendurable truth he had realised earlier but had buried beneath his honour.

  The Roman line swept ever forward, the Carthaginians falling before the onslaught, the rear ranks stepping forward as the front stepped back, creating a solid press of men before the legionaries, the Roman blades wreaking a terrible carnage. Atticus stood at the starboard rail, many of his crew at his side, turning the outer flank of the Carthaginian host, giving them no pause, the press of men increasing in the centre until the Roman line concaved, the sides of the line moving forward even as the centre came to a halt.

  Vitulus stood behind the starboard flank of the line, stepping forward slowly as the line advanced, his eyes never leaving the sight of the Greek captain standing only yards away, the gap closing with every Carthaginian slain. He readied his sword and moved to the rail, pushing forward until he reached the front line of the attack, slotting his shield to the end of the line, striking his blade forward with intuition; the instinct learnt during the years spent in the legions never leaving him. The Greek was but feet away, oblivious to the advancing wall, his eyes locked on the combat before him, his sword striking the shield of a Carthaginian warrior. Vitulus recognised the sailor to the captain’s left, the older man standing closer to the Roman wall, an obstacle Vitulus would avoid. He pushed forward, breaking out of the line, using his shield to push the Carthaginian before him away from the rail and into the maelstrom of the centre. Vitulus readied his sword, drawing the weapon back, his shoulder tensing as it reached the height of its arc, the blade pointing almost directly down, poised to stab forward, waiting for a path to open, for a moment when the captain would be exposed. He saw one and lunged without conscious thought.

  Lucius saw the blade from the corner of his eye, his weapon whipping instinctively away from the Carthaginian to his front to block the sword swiping behind him, the clash of iron jolting his forearm, the strength and direction of the sudden attack shocking him, knowing how close his captain had come to death. He turned in an instant, his sword already recovered, his mind screaming restraint as he suddenly spotted the red cloak of a legionary.

  ‘We’re Roman!’ Lucius shouted, the attacker’s face inches from his own, the expression of rage twisting the features of the legionary. The soldier spat back in fury, striking again with his sword, Lucius parrying the blow but staying his counter-strike, bringing his shield up in defence but keeping his sword at bay. He broke off and made to roar again, to breach the obvious trance that consumed the Roman soldier but the words died on his lips as he recognised the legionary for who he was. Vitulus noticed the change in Lucius’s expression and attacked without hesitation, driving his sword through, bringing his shield to the fore. Lucius tried to react, his sword sweeping back up into the fray, his soul consumed with hatred for the assassin but Vitulus’s strike was too quick and the hammer blow of the sword drove the air from Lucius, the blade slicing unchecked into his stomach until the pommel punched against his skin, knocking Lucius back. Vitulus stared into Lucius’s face, hold his gaze, seeing the hatred there, the emotion overwhelming the agony of the strike. The legionary held the gaze for a heartbeat and then twisted the blade, Lucius’s expression collapsing into a mask of pure pain as Vitulus withdrew the blade, the sailor falling to the deck, a scream dying in his throat.

  Atticus felt a weight fall against his legs and he glanced down, a cry of anguish escaping his lips as he saw Lucius beneath him, the sailor holding his hands tightly across an appalling wound, blood and viscera spilling from between his fingers, his eyes wide in terror and pain. Atticus made to crouch down but a hidden instinct caused him to look up and he immediately recognised Vitulus, his sword drenched in blood, the legionary’s eyes suddenly shifting from Lucius, catching Atticus’s stare. Vitulus reacted instantly, his sword darting forward with incredible speed. Atticus sidestepped, slamming his shield down to strike the top of Vitulus’s sword, the legionary bringing his own shield around to parry the counter-strike from Atticus.

  The first blows landed, the two men immediately backed off, finding their feet on the blood-soaked and body-strewn deck, fighting for balance as the tide of battle broke beside them, the Carthaginians checking the advance of the Roman wall, the sheer weight of numbers concentrating the slaughter along an immovable front line. Atticus charged into the attack, his mind wiped of all thought save one, his sword moving without conscious reason. Vitulus stood his ground, his shield absorbing the assault, his own sword stabbing forward, seeking a breach. Atticus ignored the sword strikes on his hoplon shield, his anger consuming him, the desire for revenge allowing him no respite. He pushed forward, stepping over his friend, forcing Vitulus to step back, the rail to their sides denying them room to circle.

  Atticus pushed forward two more paces and then suddenly checked his advance, holding his ground as Vitulus began a counter-attack, his body already poised to step back, knowing how Vitulus would press forward, staying his own attack as he waited for the moment he knew was coming. Vitulus advanced, his attack instantly transforming into the innate sequence of the legions, the shield shoved forward, the sword striking out, the shield pushed forward again, the predictable rhythm that was so lethal when used in formation. A
tticus drew Vitulus on, inch by inch, his anger screaming at him to strike but his instinct restraining his sword arm. He watched the rhythm take hold of Vitulus, the legionary’s expression turning to triumph as Atticus retreated further, the Roman shield pushing him back, the pressure unrelenting.

  Atticus allowed the shield to push him back one final time, parrying the sword strike that followed, waiting for Vitulus to commit to the next shield thrust, his predictability becoming a fatal weakness in single combat and Atticus suddenly twisted his entire body as Vitulus shoved forward, the legionary falling as the resistance against his shield disappeared, his sword arm stretching out to regain his balance. Atticus continued his turn, spinning his body completely around, his sword following on a wide arc, the momentum building, the strength of his entire body behind the blade as he came full about, Vitulus’s exposed midriff drawing the tip of the blade. Atticus punched home the strike and the blade slammed into Vitulus below the ribs, the force of the blow accelerating his fall, the blade vanishing to the hilt before sliding out again, the legionary dead before he hit the deck.

  Varro watched the fall from the fore-deck of the Orcus, his disbelief giving way to rage, the triumph he had felt swelling up only seconds before as Vitulus pushed home his attack now replaced with a fury that seemed to contract every muscle in his body. An intense urge overwhelmed him and he drew his sword without conscious thought. He ran across the corvus, his gaze never leaving the Greek spawn of Hades who defied him, whose every breath mocked Varro’s honour. He stopped amidst the dead strewn across the aft-deck of the Aquila behind the Roman advance, Carthaginian and legionary, a tangled slaughter of bodies. The Greek captain was kneeling over another man, the fight raging to their side, the Carthaginians refusing to relent under the pressure of the shield wall. Varro felt the bile of hatred course through him and he raised his sword.

  ‘Perennis!’ he roared, his voice cutting through the air.

  Atticus’s gaze shot up, seeing the tribune standing only yards away, Varro’s eyes boring into him. Atticus rose to his feet. Seconds passed, a sudden pause in the vortex of battle as both men became locked in deadly enmity, Atticus slowly lifting a hand to his face, touching the scar there, his hand falling away, his eyes following to rest on the dying figure of Lucius. Varro charged with his sword before him, a slow, almost hypnotic movement as if time had slowed for both men and Atticus stepped forward, throwing his shield to the deck, the grip on his sword tightening.

  Varro surged forward, a scream surging from his throat as he rushed to the attack and Atticus roared in defiance, a war cry of his ancestors as he ran to meet the Roman, the two blades clashing in a blur of iron and terrifying hatred. The fight descended into a brawl, both men lashing out in unforgiving fury, each strike parried and immediately reversed, neither man pausing.

  The balance gave way within a minute, Atticus’s experience and battle-hardened strength coming to the fore, the pure hatred of Varro’s attack not enough to overcome a more-skilled opponent. Varro stepped back, his mind registering for the first time the escalating pain in his sword arm, the muscles burning, his counter-attacks regressing more and more to a desperate defence under the crushing onslaught. The Greek captain came on, never relenting and Varro felt the first threads of panic encircle his heart as he stared at the harsh determined expression of his opponent. His hatred suppressed his fear, forcing him to think and he immediately went on the offensive, knowing only one attack could save him against the better swordsman. Revenge filled his soul as the fight came to closer quarters, Varro pushing forward with all his strength until the two swords were locked between them, the pommels intertwined. Varro leaned in further, looking over the interlocked blades, his face only inches from his enemy’s, the green eyes of the Greek never leaving his own. Varro held the gaze, a malicious smile creasing the edge of his mouth, almost tasting the victory to come as he reached down with his free hand.

  Atticus held the tribune’s gaze, anger tensing every fibre of his body, the sword blades shifting slightly, metal grinding against metal as Atticus readied himself for a final lunge to separate the weapons and finish the fight. He saw Varro’s lips curl slightly at the edge of his mouth, a vicious smile that spoke of some inner madness and as Atticus returned his focus to the Roman’s eyes, he saw them flicker slightly, darting low and left. Atticus reacted instantly, his own hand reaching out unbidden, his eyes dropping to follow Varro’s glance, seeing the deadly blade.

  Atticus grabbed wildly for the dagger, his hand grasping Varro’s, his fore-fingers reaching over the pommel onto the blade, the edge slicing his flesh. He forced the knife up, turning the blade away from his stomach, the tip brushing against his tunic as he pushed the knife ever upwards. He looked to Varro’s eyes once more, seeing beyond the hatred there to the emerging fear. Atticus pushed harder, the muscles in his arm bulging, his grip tightening, the blade cutting deeper into his fingers, the pain ignored as the blade came up past his chest. Atticus held it there, feeling Varro’s arm tremble under the strain. He stared at the tribune again, nodding slightly as he witnessed the naked terror in Varro’s eyes.

  Atticus eased the knife forward until the blade touched the skin of Varro’s neck. The Roman pushed back with one last effort but Atticus pressed on, the knife piercing Varro’s skin, bright red blood spurting out, splashing across Atticus’s face. The pressure against the knife held as Varro dropped his sword and reached up with his other hand. Atticus stood back, the knife still pressed across Varro’s throat and with a sudden swipe he whipped the blade across, slicing deeply, Varro’s hands immediately clutching his throat as blood gushed through his fingers, his mouth open in silent fear, his eyes wild, unseeing.

  Atticus watched as Varro swayed and he shot out his arm, grabbing hold of Varro’s chest-plate, suddenly abhorring the idea of the Roman’s body defiling the Aquila’s deck. He hauled him to the side-rail and held him there for a second as he looked at his enemy one last time before throwing him over the side. Varro struck the sea eight feet below and sank beneath the water, surfacing a moment later, one hand still on his throat, the other flailing the water, his face a mask of absolute panic, his armour dragging him down, his blood staining the sea around him. He reached out to the hull of the Aquila, grasping for a hand-hold but the smooth timbers betrayed him and he slipped beneath the surface, the sea returning to calm as Atticus looked on dispassionately.

  ‘Enemy galleys approaching!’

  Hamilcar shot around, running to the side of the foredeck of the Alissar to gain a better view of the sea behind. Scores of Roman galleys were approaching, the bulk of the spearhead. Hamilcar looked to the horizon beyond them, seeing the grey palls of smoke that marked each burning galley and he cursed Hanno’s name, realising the councillor had defied him and that that defiance had turned to failure, costing Hamilcar the time he had so desperately needed to overwhelm the Roman transport fleet. He turned and looked beyond the stricken Roman trireme, his gaze sweeping over the seascape, his galleys locked in combat, a lone few having broken through, a pitiful number of transport ships sunk with the others scattered across the horizon.

  Hamilcar looked once more to the approaching Roman vanguard less than a mile away. They would be upon him within minutes, an overwhelming force that could only end in defeat and capture for the remaining Carthaginian galleys in the fight and his eyes fell across the fight on the Roman trireme transfixed to the ram of the Alissar; the battle-lines clearly drawn by the shield walls of the Romans, one across the aft-deck and a defensive semi-circle on the main, the quick victory Hamilcar had expected turning into a bloody stalemate with the arrival of a Roman quinquereme. His indecision lasted a second longer and he called the captain to his side, the order catching in his throat as he cursed his fate.

  ‘Sound the withdrawal,’ he said, his heart consumed with thoughts of the consequences that would follow his decision. ‘Full retreat.’

  The trumpet calls of retreat were followed an instant later by triumphant
shouts, the Roman lines surging forward as the Carthaginians ran to the two quinqueremes, many of the Punici dropping their weapons in their haste, the men leaping across to the foredecks to escape the unleashed legionaries. The rowers of the Carthaginian galleys began to backstroke, slowly withdrawing their rams, the sea-water gushing in around them, filling the lower holds of the Aquila as retreat rapidly descended into rout, the Carthaginians left on the Aquila trying to jump the ever-increasing gap, many falling to the water below, easy prey for the hungry sea.

  Septimus led his men to the foredeck of the Aquila, attacking the bottle-neck of retreating men; giving no quarter to an enemy who had offered them less and the fight became a desperate slaughter as the Romans purged the Aquila of Carthaginians, the remnants throwing themselves into the sea to avoid the vengeance of a merciless foe. Septimus called his men to order, breathing heavily, his blood-soaked sword falling to his side, his gaze drawn to the retreating Carthaginian quinqueremes and beyond to the Roman vanguard.

  Septimus suddenly became aware of the desperate screams of panic beneath him as the battle noise on the foredeck abated and he looked across the Aquila, noticing the tilt of the deck that was worsening with each passing second, the Carthaginian rams that had supported the Aquila supplanted with an unstoppable flood of sea-water.

  ‘Every man to the Orcus!’ Septimus roared, his men reacting instantly and they ran the full length of the Aquila to the corvus of the Roman quinquereme, the legionaries of that galley following without hesitation. Septimus took up the rear, ensuring that every injured legionary was taken aft, his eyes sweeping the decks, ignoring the dreadful screams of the dying rowers chained to the dying galley. He reached the aft-deck and immediately spotted Atticus, the captain kneeling at the side-rail with a man’s head on his lap. He ran to them, recognising the pale bloodless figure as Lucius.