Master of Rome mots-3

by John Stack

  Like the unfolding wings of a hawk preparing to fly, the Carthaginian formation took shape before the Roman attack, the flanks advancing at a faster pace until the enemy galleys were sailing line abreast. They were manoeuvring for sea room, Atticus realized, abandoning any pretence of punching through the Roman formation. They were going to engage. Atticus smiled derisively. Although outnumbered, the Carthaginians were evidently confident they could prevail. After all, the fight would be on their terms, fought on the tip of a ram, but the Carthaginians were underestimating the skill of a trained Roman crew and Atticus vowed they would pay dearly for their imprudence.

  He glanced left, watching the opposite flank as it swept in behind the Carthaginian galleys to envelop the struggling mass of trading ships, many of them hopelessly trying to raise sail in the insipid wind, irrationally ignoring the odds. Any chance of a breakout was already being quashed, and with a hard stare he turned once more to the approaching Carthaginian galleys.

  The gap fell to four hundred yards and Atticus called for attack speed, the Orcus taking on the additional four knots within a ship length. Atticus pointed to the centre galley of the enemy formation, his silent order wordlessly acknowledged by Gaius as he adjusted the tiller a half-point. Hours of training came to the fore and the formation of Roman galleys behind the Orcus was forgotten as she cast off the fetters of combined attack to become a lone fighter.

  Atticus and Gaius spoke with one voice as the Carthaginian galley neared, the enemy crew having identified and responded to the singular line of attack. The opposing galleys weaved through an invisible line separating the rams, each helmsman subtly countering the feints and ripostes of the other, and the unrelenting drum beat from the rowing deck seemed to increase as Atticus braced for the final thrust.

  His mind cleared, the order forming in the back of his throat; he felt Gaius tense beside him, anticipating the command. The Carthaginian galley filled his vision, its dark hull a mirror reflection of the Orcus, two creatures born of the same design, forced to fight each other by their warring masters.

  ‘Now,’ Atticus said, almost in a whisper, and Gaius nudged the helm, taking the Orcus off its true line, a delicate and deliberate error to compel the enemy to commit. The Carthaginians responded instantly in an incredible display of seamanship, and they swept in to strike the Orcus on the starboard forequarter. Atticus had anticipated the move, but the enemy’s reaction was far faster than he predicted, their skill beggaring belief, and he roared out the final order before he drew breath.

  ‘Hard to starboard, ramming speed!’

  The Orcus was immediately transported back to the calm coastal waters of Fiumicino and the rowing crew accelerated to ramming speed even as Gaius brought the tiller hard over. A hundred hours’ training was realized in the span of a breath, and the Orcus cut inside the line of attack, bringing her ram to bear on the starboard flank of the Carthaginian galley.

  Atticus was thrown to the deck as the ram struck home, the six-foot bronze fist striking the strake timbers at an acute angle, snapping them cleanly from the bulkheads, the forward momentum of the Carthaginian galley adding to the force of the blow, the galley pushing itself upon the very spear that was slicing into its underbelly. Atticus regained his feet, the shock of attack and the fury of battle heightening his senses. Quickly he took stock. The Carthaginians were thrown by the sudden reversal but they were already recovering; Atticus could hear the angry bark of orders from the enemy decks. They were surging towards the side rails, preparing to board, to trade ship for ship.

  ‘Gaius, full reverse,’ Atticus ordered. ‘Drusus, prepare to repel boarders.’

  The newly promoted centurion commanded his men with crisp, decisive orders and they ran quickly to the foredeck, forming a wall of interlocking shields at the rail, their swords drawn in defiance, daring the Carthaginians to attack.

  The rowers of the Orcus began to back stroke but, even as they did, grappling hooks were thrown by the enemy, locking the ships together. The timbers of the stricken Carthaginian galley squealed and tore as the ram twisted in the gaping hole. The legionaries drew aside their shields to attack the lines, the ropes parting like bow strings drawn by the strength of two hundred and seventy rowers, but from ten feet the Carthaginians cast spears through the gaps in the shield wall, striking down any legionary who exposed himself. The embrace was sustained as more lines were thrown.

  The gap between the foredecks fell to four feet, and the Carthaginians charged the shield wall, jumping fearlessly across, a desperate attack to escape their doomed ship. The legionaries stood firm and a dozen men fell between the grinding hulls of the galleys, their screams of terror lost in the din of battle. The stronger warriors gained the Roman deck but Drusus’s men held them fast, checking any breach before it could develop while the increasing momentum of the Orcus finally overcame the strength of the tethers and they parted in sequence, the lines whipping back to leave the Carthaginian galley reeling away. The stranded boarders fought to the last, their fate driving them to mindless fury, and many legionaries fell before they were finally overcome.

  The Orcus swung away under a final hail of arrows and spears from the sinking Carthaginian galley, the enemy’s curses reaching across the increasing gap. Gaius brought the galley back up to battle speed, her bloodied ram seeking out further prey.

  Atticus watched as the last arrows fell short. He looked to the foredeck and the casualties of the legionaries. The Carthaginians were a fearsome breed and their defiant attempt to board the Orcus was a mark of their courage. Nevertheless, they had been beaten on their terms, on the tip of a ram, and Atticus knew his confidence had been justified as he looked once more to the sinking enemy ship.

  ‘By the gods…’ Gaius began, and Atticus spun around, following the helmsman’s gaze.

  Eight Roman galleys were sinking fast in the waters behind the Orcus, prey of the Carthaginian rams; as Atticus watched in horror, another three ships were struck in rapid succession, second blood for the enemy ships. Only two Carthaginian galleys had been rammed on the first assault.

  Atticus had been certain of victory, the sheer weight of odds negating any chance the Carthaginians had. Yet the enemy ships were mauling the thirty-five galleys of the right flank and he realized with sickening dread that his previous confidence had been based solely on the skill and training of his crew. As a commander he had misjudged the situation, believing that all Roman crews possessed the same prowess as his own. But the Carthaginians had neatly exploiting the imbalance of skill, attacking many of the ships with near impunity, with only the more experienced Roman captains able to counter the enemy rams.

  With corvi, the Romans attacked head-on in line abreast, each galley protecting the flanks of its neighbour, an impenetrable wall against which the Carthaginians had no defence. The skill required of the Roman crew for a frontal attack was minimal compared to a ramming run, and therein lay one of the many strengths of the corvus, requiring only that the crew strike the bow of the enemy ship before the boarding ramp was released to hold the galleys together. Now the ram reigned supreme and seamanship was vital, a skill the Carthaginians had honed over generations, using it to deadly effect in the harbour of Panormus.

  Atticus roared a course change in anger and frustration and the Orcus came up to attack speed. In the waters ahead, a Roman galley was desperately trying to avoid the ram of a pursuing Carthaginian ship, their forlorn attempts to escape neatly countered at every turn. Atticus identified the target to Gaius, the helmsman grimly bringing the ram of the Orcus to bear. The Carthaginian crew realized the threat and although, as before, they reacted with lightning speed, Gaius was their equal and the Orcus accelerated to ramming speed.

  Atticus instinctively braced himself for the strike but his frustration refused to allow him to focus. A sudden crash of timbers caused him to turn and again he watched with dread as another Roman galley fell victim to the Carthaginians. The sound was repeated twice more in as many seconds and Atticus f
elt the weight of regret crush him. The Orcus would claim a second prize, maybe a third, but all the while other Roman ships would be lost, and Atticus was powerless to defend them all.

  Panormus had fallen, the town was theirs, but in the harbour the Carthaginians were exacting a measure of revenge, slowly drawing a blade across the exposed incompetence of the Roman navy, turning the waters red with their blood. The Carthaginians were once more claiming what was rightfully theirs: mastery of the sea.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Hamilcar watched impatiently as the small bird circled the tower, its wings flapping slowly in the updraught. It dipped suddenly, dropping to the height of the coop, but still it refused to enter and it wheeled away to continue its flight, oblivious to the annoyance of the observer below.

  It was only by chance that Hamilcar had seen the bird arrive fifteen minutes before. He had been standing at the window of his room, staring at the distant hills to the east of Lilybaeum, his thoughts focused, as they had been for weeks, on the stronghold of Panormus beyond the natural divide. The carrier pigeon had caught his eye as it flew in close to the ground, a grey-white flash against the verdant background. Hamilcar had immediately raced to the battlements beneath the coop, anxious to receive an update on the siege.

  The pigeon flew in close once more, but this time it landed on the protruding ledge of the coop. It stretched out its wings, the tips trembling slightly before they finally came to rest, and then the pigeon gracelessly stumbled through the entrance and out of sight. Hamilcar looked to the door at the base of the tower and a moment later the handler descended with the tiny brass cylinder that had been attached to the pigeon’s leg. He came up short in surprise as he encountered the commander waiting for him; he handed the cylinder over. Hamilcar, resisting the temptation to open it there and then, retraced his steps to his room, rolling the tiny capsule between his thumb and forefinger as he walked.

  He entered the quiet of his room and closed the door. It had been more than a week since he had received news and he noticed his hand was trembling slightly as he placed the cylinder on the table. Lilybaeum, on the northwestern coast of Sicily, was only a day’s sailing from Panormus, but the Roman siege, on land and sea, had placed a stranglehold on the town. The paucity of news, most of it from ships passing at a distance from the port, made the reports carried by the pigeon all the more important. He opened the cylinder and withdrew the tiny scroll from within. The message was encrypted, an overcautious step considering the Romans were as yet unaware of the unique ability of the carrier pigeons, an ingenious method of communication that the Carthaginians had learned from the Persians a generation before, and one Hamilcar’s predecessor had brought to Sicily. He decoded the report and read it through twice, the necessary brevity of the sentence in marked contrast to its weighty content.

  ‘Attack on siege towers failed. Roman assault imminent. Galley captains informed of your last order.’

  Hamilcar found that he was holding his breath and he exhaled. Panormus was doomed. The attack on the siege towers was a last desperate gamble that Hamilcar had ordered once he had learned of their existence, knowing the garrison commander did not have enough men for the task, hoping that Tanit, the goddess of fortune, might take a hand; but she had deserted Panormus, leaving it to its fate.

  The attack on the town had been a surprise move by the Romans, in hindsight a typically aggressive and ambitious step, but one Hamilcar had not planned for. The fleet from Gadir had arrived in Sicily, but with his army under Hanno’s command in Africa, he had no effective way to lift the siege. He had hoped for more time, to realize a strategy he had already put in motion, but, sensing defeat, he had prepared for its eventuality, and his lips soundlessly mouthed the last words of the report: ‘your last order.’ He had penned it more than a week before for the galley captains, and it had read: ‘If Panormus falls, scuttle or engage, but galleys must not fall into enemy hands.’

  Hamilcar knew three of the captains personally. They would consider it a grave dishonour to scuttle their own ships, but Hamilcar had wanted to give them the option, knowing the odds against them. In his heart he knew they would engage the enemy blockade. It was the course he would take in the same situation. As he reread the report he whispered a silent prayer to Baal to watch over the sons of Carthage.

  He stood up and slowly rubbed the thin slip of paper between his calloused fingers, the fibres breaking down quickly. He let the remnants fall to the floor. The Romans had defied him. He had sent them an ambassador with lenient terms and they had dismissed his magnanimity, compounding that insult with an aggressive attack that had taken Hamilcar by surprise. He looked to the scraps of paper at his feet and felt the heat of indignant anger build within him. He would not be made a fool of again. After Panormus, the Romans would surely turn their attention to Lilybaeum and here, Hamilcar vowed, he would break their arrogance against the walls. There would be no more talk of peace, no more benevolent terms, and to make this decision irrevocable, Hamilcar knew there was one symbolic act that needed to be made, one superfluous element that needed to be eradicated. He strode from the room, his decision hardening with each step into cold determination.

  The group of horsemen moved slowly through the deserted street, the unnatural silence broken only by the occasional sound of iron-shod hooves hitting random stones beneath the loose straw that was strewn across the hard-packed soil of the road. The horses were skittish and they snorted nervously, sensing the mood of their riders. The group closed ranks, keeping to the centre of the street.

  Ahead they spotted the crumpled body of a woman on the road. She was naked below the waist, her legs twisted grotesquely, and she had been savagely beaten, the pool of blackened blood beneath her drawing a swarm of glistening bluebottle flies. Her face was hidden by her matted hair, making her age difficult to guess, but she had the slender lines of a younger woman and the riders looked away as they passed, their own faces pale with shock.

  Further on a man was hanging by the neck from an upper storey window, his face blackened from the fire that had consumed his clothes and scorched his flesh. His body twisted slowly in the gentle wind. Beneath him the door of his house stood open and the riders peered in as they passed, unable to resist the animal instinct that compels a man to gaze with morbid fascination upon the very thing that he abhors. The room was mercifully dark, obscuring the fate of the family the man had tried to protect, but the meagre light reflecting off the naked flesh of tiny limbs created a terrible scene in the mind’s eye and again the men looked away in horror.

  A sudden shriek broke the near silence and the tribune beside Scipio jumped with fright, his mount darting forward ten yards before the young man could bring it under control. Scipio scowled at the officer, a silent admonition, although he too had been startled by the sound. Panormus resembled the far bank of the Styx, a cursed place where the damned lay awaiting their passage to the inner depths of Hades. It had been forty-eight hours since the walls had been breached and the carnage was absolute. No inhabitant had been spared and the outnumbered garrison had been butchered to a man.

  Scipio had allowed the men to gorge themselves on the town, wanting to set an example to every other town in Sicily, but even he was shocked by the level of savagery to which the legionaries had descended. In his youth, when he’d served his time as a tribune, Scipio had witnessed the brutality of close-quarter fighting, the fury men displayed in battle when the instinct to survive overrode all others, and where barbarity separated the living from the slain. But never before had he seen that fury unleashed on a civilian population. Although Scipio had long since hardened his heart to the plight of his enemy, he knew that few deserved the fate meted out to the inhabitants of Panormus.

  That morning Scipio had ordered in the remainder of the Second Legion to take charge. These men, an unneeded reserve, had not taken part in the assault. They had marched through the open gate in disciplined ranks, tasked with gathering up the scattered legionaries within the walls and
ensuring no enemy strong points remained. They had taken to the task with a ruthless efficiency, many of them no doubt angry that they had missed the spoils of victory, and within hours every legionary had been banished from the town, save a garrison force that now occupied a barracks near the docks.

  Scipio spurred his horse to a canter and his tribunes came up to match his pace, following the slight downhill slope that led to the docks. They quickly reached the wide expanse of beaten earth that straddled the shoreline and Scipio reined in his mount, his gaze sweeping across the bay. Nearby, a group of legionaries stood guard as Carthaginians, brought ashore from the captured trading ships, gathered up the corpses that lay about the ground, loading them on to carts to be taken outside the town walls, where they would be cremated in an effort to stave off the dreaded pestilence that followed on the heels of every battle.

  Scipio ignored them, focusing instead on the galleys anchored fifty yards from the docks. He instinctively searched for the Greek’s ship, looking for the prefect’s masthead banner; his eyes narrowed as he spotted the Orcus in the midst of the fleet. Their losses had been heavy, nineteen galleys in total, although the blockade had been a success and no enemy ships had escaped, vindicating Scipio’s decision to leave the Greek in command. He smiled coldly, remembering a story his father had told him as a child of how Dionysius II of Syracuse had demonstrated the precariousness of life by suspending a sword over the head of a retainer, held by a single horse hair. It was an appropriate image, although in this case the Greek was totally unaware of how immediate the threat was.