Captain of Rome

by John Stack

  The Roman line was ten feet beyond the head of the boarding ramp, its furthest advance after no more than four minutes of vicious fighting. The line was fifteen men across, two deep in places and Atticus saw that they could advance no further; the Carthaginians were too numerous, too tightly packed to give way under such a thin Roman line. Atticus ran to Septimus, standing at his left shoulder, clear of his sword arm that flashed back and forward at an implausible speed. Atticus waited a precious few seconds for the moment when the centurion would not be directly engaged.

  ‘Septimus!’ he shouted above the roar of war cries. Septimus glanced over his shoulder, his mask of determination showing a flash of surprise and then another emotion, anger, as if Atticus’s presence had defied him somehow.

  ‘The Carthaginian galley is breaking free! The corvus is going to fail.’ Atticus shouted and watched as his friend’s expression changed again, this time to one of dread. Septimus looked beyond Atticus to the ramp, his eyes rooted to its head, as if he expected to see it disappear at any moment. His hesitation lasted only a second longer.

  ‘Make ready!’ Septimus bellowed and again his men shouted in affirmation, confirming that they were awaiting his next command.

  ‘Fighting retreat…!’

  Septimus held them steady for a heartbeat longer, vying for the perfect moment to begin the retreat, knowing that the Punici would surge forward at the first sign of weakness.

  ‘March!’ he shouted and the line stepped back as one, each man careful not to stumble over the men who lay dead and dying behind them.

  The Carthaginians roared in attack as their enemy gave way, reclaiming their deck step by step.

  Atticus ran back behind the line, stopping once more at the head of the corvus. The tear along the deck was now three feet long with only a final foot of planking remaining before the aft-rail. Two more grappling ropes had given way in the thirty seconds Atticus had been on the Carthaginian galley, but as he watched four new lines were thrown and he quickly secured each one before signalling his men to pull them tight. He looked down the length of the ramp, whispering to his Gods as he saw the corvus buckle once more under the strain and the outer planking on one side suddenly gave way, splintering violently with a tormented crack.

  Septimus kept the pressure on his shield and stabbed wildly through the gap as he stepped back, shouting constantly to his men to remain steady and slow, needing to contain any semblance of panic that might cause one of the men to flee. A hand suddenly grabbed his leg and he looked down to the agonised face of one of his hastati. His other hand was clutching his groin, blood surging between his fingers with every beat of his heart. Septimus watched him mouth his name, a plea lost in the clamour of battle. There was nothing Septimus could do, no second line of legionaries who could gather the wounded in retreat, no way he could help the younger man without breaking ranks and threatening the cohesion of the line. Septimus marched on, dragging his gaze from the fallen legionary as he did, torment filling his soul as he heard the soldier’s scream for mercy. The Carthaginian front line stepped over him, swallowing him whole, his cries lost amidst the enemy horde.

  A legionary fell, then another, the Carthaginians pressing home their advantage with terrifying ferocity, making the Romans pay for every inch of timber. The line contracted to form a defensive ring around the corvus, Septimus front and centre, Drusus by his side. The line was now two deep, some eighteen men strong, a bristling semi-circle of defiant steel and shield, the Carthaginians pressing in on three sides. Atticus chose two legionaries as the line compressed further, ordering them back across the corvus. They hesitated to run, to leave their comrades but Atticus shoved them on, needing to stave off a fatal bottleneck. They stepped onto the corvus and turned to descend, walking resolutely across the precarious ramp. Atticus watched them go but as he turned to select two more, the men suddenly fell from the ramp, each man struck by arrows shot from Carthaginian archers who had gained the aft-rail on the flanks. Atticus watched in horror as they fell, both soldiers striking the bow of the Aquila, one of the men screaming in agony, before they fell into the sea to be swept under the hull of the trireme.

  ‘Archers!’ Atticus roared across at his own crew, his fury knowing no bounds. The sailors responded instantly, letting loose on the enemy archers, drawing their fire away from the corvus.

  Atticus grabbed three more legionaries, warning them quickly before sending them across, the three men descending backward, their shields raised in defence against arrow strikes. It was a slower retreat and Atticus waited impatiently before he turned once more to the fight. There were ten legionaries left, the semi-circle now crammed against Atticus shoulder. He grabbed two more men, the second turning defiantly, his sword raised in a trance-like rage, but he stayed his blow as he recognised the captain. Atticus pushed them onto the corvus, the legionaries backing down as the others had before, their shields taking strike after strike but the men protected.

  Sudden whip-cracks filled the air and Atticus saw the remaining grappling lines fall, severed by Carthaginian axe blows at the aft-rail of the quinquereme. The corvus tore left and buckled, its laboured timbers now the only link between the galleys. The two legionaries immediately lost their balance, one falling quickly to the sea to be crushed by the Aquila, the other instinctively dropping his sword and shield as he grabbed onto the edge of the ramp and hung precariously over the murderous chasm between the ships. Atticus never hesitated, running unguarded down the corvus, throwing himself onto his stomach as he grabbed the forearms of the legionary. He held him there, the wound in chest driving shards of pain through his mind. He gasped as he bent up his arms, lifting the soldier to give him a chance to swing up one of his legs. An arrow stuck the planking beside him, then another and Atticus heard his own crew shout warnings as they intensified their rate of attack to protect their captain. The legionary swung up his leg onto the ramp, grunting heavily as he lifted his own weight and Atticus released him, coming to his feet again as he pushed the legionary ahead of him down the ramp.

  Atticus turned as he got to the bottom, looking back up to the remaining five men standing, Septimus and Drusus still among them. The corvus was beginning to break up, the outer timbers snapping and falling away. There was no time.

  ‘Septimus!’ he shouted, watching as his friend’s head suddenly jerked sideways, an unconscious acknowledgement that he had heard Atticus’s warning.

  Septimus screamed through the burning pain in his arm as he shot his sword forward once more, the press of the enemy never ceasing, never abating. He felt the leading edge of the corvus against the back of his foot, felt it slide across his flesh as it struggled to hold its grip. Atticus’s call rang in his ears, the urgency in his warning. Septimus struck out once more, twisting his blade savagely to release it quickly from the sucking flesh of his enemy, an enemy that had taken nearly all of his men and given nothing in return. He had to save the rest, the men who stood beside him, the men he had led on a damned attack.

  ‘Legionaries!’ he shouted, ‘Full retreat on my order.’

  As always they shouted in affirmation, but the calls were without vehemence, the exhausted soldiers knowing the disintegrating ramp behind them was a treacherous path to deliverance.

  ‘Now!’ Septimus roared, and he sensed rather than saw the soldiers to his left and right turn and run down the ramp. He stepped to his right, taking the centre line at the head of the corvus, stepping up onto the ramp but never turning, willing to commit the last seconds of his life to save the lives of his men by giving them time to reach the Aquila.

  A sudden void was created by the retreating Romans and a Carthaginian rushed into the gap before Septimus, his sword raised in mindless attack, the last of the Roman defenders standing firm. Septimus hammered out with his shield, parrying the untargeted blow before striking out with his own sword. The tip of the blade deflected off the Carthaginian’s armour but Septimus continued the lunge, running the sword edge across the Carthaginian’s ex
posed side, slicing the muscle deeply, putting the man down. Septimus recovered in an instant but was already too late to fend off the next attack to his left, his balance off-set, his shield too high. His mind registered the oncoming Carthaginian, screaming at his body to react quicker, to turn into the attack but there was no time and Septimus knew his fight was over.

  The Carthaginian suddenly fell, his face twisted in agony and surprise as a blade ended his charge. Another rushed forward in his wake but a red-cloaked legionary stepped into the fight, protecting Septimus’s flank. It was Drusus.

  ‘Get back, man!’ Septimus shouted as more Carthaginians came forward, hammering on the shields of the two men. ‘The corvus is about to go!’

  Drusus didn’t answer, but held firm beside Septimus, repelling the attack of two Carthaginians, striking out methodically with his sword, half a life’s training commanding his arm. He put his sword arm in front of Septimus’s shield and pressed him back, both men stepping up onto the corvus.

  ‘Drusus!’ Septimus shouted, feeling the ramp move violently beneath him, the final death throes of the corvus, ‘I’ll hold them. Get back to the Aquila!’

  The optio continued to fight, ignoring his centurion; ignoring an order for the first time in his life as he held the Carthaginians off with the strength only a legionary could command. He turned to Septimus.

  ‘We go together,’ he shouted, his tone that of an order.

  Septimus nodded in reply.

  ‘Run! Now!’ Drusus shouted and he lunged suddenly against the wall of attackers, his shield pushing the enemy back momentarily, throwing them off balance, creating a vital second needed to escape.

  Septimus grabbed the collar of Drusus’s armour and wrenched him from the fight, pushing him down the corvus. He hesitated for a heartbeat longer and then followed, his shield dropping away, his legs pumping beneath him, his feet finding the remnants of the boarding ramp even as the air was split by the sound of snapping timber, the spar on the Aquila finally giving way at the instant the spike was torn from the quinquereme. Drusus jumped onto the foredeck as Septimus desperately threw himself forward, his gaze filled with the cutwater of the Aquila and the ram beneath, his left hand flailing, his right never letting go of his sword. The air was suddenly blown from his chest as he struck the forward rail of the Aquila, the galley’s ramming speed saving him from falling short and steady hands grasped his forearms and shoulders and hoisted him over the rail onto the deck.

  He stood up uncertainly, pushing away the hands that helped him, spinning around to gaze at the escaping quinquereme, ignoring the Carthaginian arrows that continued to strike the Aquila’s foredeck as the enemy crew screamed curses and taunts across at the vanquished Romans. The Aquila’s speed was dropping, any pursuit futile, the rowers already spent. The quinquereme began to pull away. Septimus watched it go, his gaze fixed to the aft-rail of the enemy galley. He turned suddenly to his remaining eight men, nodding to Drusus, the optio returning the gesture before looking to the enemy once more. Septimus continued to stare at his men. Eight legionaries left from the thirty he had led across the corvus no more than ten minutes before, the survivors’ expressions a mixture of anger and shame at having lived while others fell.

  Septimus looked away to the quinquereme again and suddenly, with all the strength of his body, with all of the rage filling his soul, he flung his sword after the Carthaginian ship, the blade soaring through the air before striking the stern of the galley, the tip hammering into the timbers. Septimus looked at it for a second longer, then to his empty hand before turning and brushing past the men of his command. In the distance, two miles behind the Aquila, the sound of trumpets heralded a Roman victory.

  Varro reached out from the skiff and climbed up the rope ladder on the top deck of the Victoria. He adjusted his scabbard and then strode purposefully to the aft-deck and the waiting figure of the senior consul.

  ‘Well?’ Regulus asked.

  ‘The jetties as you can see can accommodate some one hundred galleys,’ Varro began, gesturing over his shoulder to the shoreline of Tyndaris, ‘while the shallows have anchor points for at least another hundred.’

  Regulus nodded, his gaze shifting to the land beyond the shore, behind the line of jetties from where Varro had just travelled, ‘And?’ he asked, indicating the unseen terrain.

  ‘A supply-dump large enough to stock a significant fleet and quarters for at least twenty thousand troops.’

  Regulus shook his head slowly, amazed at how close the Carthaginians had been to fulfilling their plans, how ready they were, how their surprise land-attack west now made sense, their ultimate destination revealed. And what of Syracuse? Hiero was certainly complicit in some way, allowing the Punici to use his port. An alliance of convenience or maybe he was fully aware of their plans. Either way Regulus vowed the king of Syracuse would answer to the charge.

  ‘What news of the Alissar?’ Varro asked, interrupting the consul’s thoughts. The name of the Punic quinquereme and the identity of her commander had been ascertained soon after the Carthaginians’ capitulation at the point of a sword and Regulus had immediately ordered two quinqueremes in pursuit. Varro had seen that they had returned as he made his way to the Victoria moments before.

  ‘She has escaped,’ Regulus said regretfully. ‘Her lead was too great.’

  ‘And so Hamilcar Barca, the Carthaginian supreme commander in Sicily, has escaped our grasp,’ Varro added, twisting the knife of that loss in order to bait the consul.

  Regulus stared at Varro, annoyance in his eyes that Varro should see the need to mention the obvious. ‘The Alissar could not be stopped,’ he said. ‘She was already two miles ahead when the first of our quinqueremes broke through the line.’

  ‘One galley should have stopped her,’ Varro added, ‘but they failed.’

  ‘The Aquila?’ Regulus asked sceptically. ‘Everything they could have done, they did.’

  ‘Even still,’ Varro persisted, ‘the chance to capture Barca was lost and the Captain of the Aquila should pay the price of that loss.’

  Regulus waved his hand dismissively, ‘You are too harsh, Varro. The match was too uneven, a trireme against a quinquereme and the crew of the Aquila were badly mauled. I am satisfied they did all they could to stop the Alissar.’

  Varro nodded, deciding not to pursue the point, knowing that his argument was not strong, content to know that he had already achieved a great deal in only the past two days.

  As if reading his thoughts Regulus turned to Varro. ‘You have done well, Titus,’ he said. ‘If you had not revealed this plan, Rome herself could have been threatened.’

  Varro straightened his back at the compliment, knowing it to be well deserved but expressing nothing beyond humility on his face. ‘It was my duty to Rome,’ he said modestly.

  ‘Yes, you are loyal,’ Regulus agreed. ‘But you also demonstrated abilities far beyond my previous expectations, capturing the pirate galley and releasing the Roman captain. It is only because of those actions that Barca’s plans lie in ruins.’

  Varro nodded in gratitude, knowing now his fortune had changed irrevocably for the better.

  Regulus nodded back, silently making the decision he knew to be just. ‘Inform the captain, Tribune Varro,’ he said. ‘We sail for Rome immediately.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Hamilcar paced impatiently across the ante-chamber, his eyes darting regularly to the inlaid gold on the ten-foot high doors to the king’s chamber. He had been waiting for over an hour, his only company the two royal guards standing silently at either side of the door. He instinctively reached for his sword, an impulse to knead the hilt with his hand, to ease the tension in his body but he remembered that his weapon had been confiscated at the first guardhouse, an insult he had been forced to swallow before being allowed to advance to the inner castle.

  The Alissar had arrived in Syracuse only an hour before, her crew exhausted after a four day journey down the east coast of Sicily. Hamilcar h
ad spent the entire time trying to salvage his plan in his own mind, trying to formulate alternatives that would ensure Hiero’s support and create the alliance he so desperately needed with the Syracusan. Hamilcar had also devised how best to deliver the news of the Romans discovery of Tyndaris, confident that the Alissar would arrive in Syracuse long before any local or Roman vessel. Now however he was not so sure. The change in the manner he was being treated did not bode well and Hamilcar’s carefully rehearsed report began to unravel in his mind.

  The double-doors opened suddenly, Hamilcar spinning around to see two more guards ready to escort him into the king’s chamber. He followed them in, this time his eyes ignoring the ornate beauty of the room, his gaze fixed firmly on the dais and the figure of Hiero. As before, immediately to the king’s left, his advisor sat, the same wizened older man whom Hamilcar had all but ignored before but whose presence now irritated him, knowing the advisor had had the king’s ear for the past hour while he was kept waiting.

  Hamilcar reached the foot of the raised platform and bowed as before, maintaining the same outward show of confidence he had always possessed in Hiero’s company. He waited to be spoken to. Hiero made him wait, his eyes fixed firmly on the Carthaginian’s, a trace of a smile at the edges of his mouth.

  ‘What news, Barca?’ he asked finally.

  Hamilcar was immediately on guard, the tone of the king’s voice suggesting the question was not clear-cut, that Hiero somehow knew more than Hamilcar had hoped. But how much?

  ‘A setback, sire,’ Hamilcar said, reaching for a half-truth. ‘The Romans are aware that my forces have been using Tyndaris as a base of operations.’

  ‘How did they find out?’ Hiero asked and again Hamilcar sensed the king already had some knowledge of the answer.

  ‘A skirmish,’ Hamilcar said, deciding that Hiero couldn’t possibly know the whole truth, not from a first-hand source, ‘just west of Tyndaris. A small force of Roman ships approached and we were force to engage.’