Master of Rome mots-3

by John Stack

  ‘They are here for my protection, Calix,’ Hamilcar replied evenly. ‘You have worked with the Romans before and I wanted to be sure you would not be tempted to hand me over to the blockade. So, at the first sign of treachery, my men have orders to strike you down.’

  Calix bristled at the insult against his honour, and Hamilcar sensed the Greek crewmen around him react with similar anger, but he kept his eyes on the Rhodian.

  ‘There will be no treachery, Hamilcar,’ Calix replied with suppressed resentment. ‘I have also worked with your people in the past and my reputation is without stain.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ Hamilcar said firmly, ‘my men stay.’

  Calix stared at the Carthaginian commander for a moment longer. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We will discuss the price of their passage after we escape the blockade.’

  Hamilcar smiled. ‘Agreed,’ he said. He had known Calix would ultimately comply — how could he not, given he was yet to be paid? — but to have him back down so quickly and swallow the slight against his honour was a mark of his professionalism. For many men whose allegiance was for sale, loyalty could easily be secured by a higher bidder; but with the Rhodian, Hamilcar was now confident his loyalty was also bound by his word and his reputation.

  Calix ordered his crew to cast off and shouted down the open hatchway to the rowing deck to make ready. Hamilcar glanced down and was immediately surprised to see the rowers moving freely around the deck, many of them running to their oars in answer to Calix’s command.

  ‘They’re freedmen,’ he said almost to himself, and Calix turned.

  ‘The strongest rowing crew in the Mediterranean,’ he said with unassuming confidence, and he began calling orders at his crew again as the Ares moved sedately away from the dock.

  Hamilcar watched the rowing crew at work, their stroke even and clean. He had heard the Greeks used freedmen as rowers, but he had never encountered them before. For a fleet the size of Carthage’s, apart from the difficulties of procuring such manpower, the cost of using freedmen as rowers would be enormous, although Hamilcar could see the advantages.

  As the order was given for standard speed, the Ares jerked forward under their combined strength. He was poised to turn away when one other realization struck him, his ear so attuned to the sound that he did not notice its absence; there was no drum beat. Just as he wondered how the rowers kept time, they suddenly began to sing, a deep sonorous tune that matched the pace of their stroke. They bent their backs to the task with the enthusiasm of professional labourers who took pride in their work.

  The Ares swung her bow through ninety degrees and Calix called for battle speed. Beyond the inner shoals, two squadrons of ships were sailing slowly across the lagoon while the bulk still straddled the northern channel. As Hamilcar moved to the helm, Calix adjusted the course of the Ares once more, deciding on an inner channel that would take the Ares between the two squadrons but closer to the southernmost one, a calculated risk to lower any pursuit to a minimum.

  Hamilcar looked to the Roman ships less than a mile away and, with a sailor’s heart, he shrugged off the concerns of command to concentrate on the contest about to unfold. He was committed; his fate was in the hands of the gods and the skilled crew of a Greek mercenary.

  ‘Enemy galley, four points off the starboard bow.’

  It took mere seconds for Atticus to spot the approaching ship and discern its course and intent.

  ‘Battle speed, steady the helm,’ he shouted, running to the side rail. It was the Rhodian, there was no doubt. Making battle speed and heading for a channel in the inner shoals about half a mile away. Atticus looked to his other squadron nearer the northern end of the bay. They too were responding, coming about to close the vice, but Atticus could immediately see they were too far away. Only his squadron was in a position to intercept the Rhodian.

  ‘Gaius, your assessment,’ Atticus asked over his shoulder.

  ‘He’s making battle speed,’ Gaius replied, his hand steady on the tiller. ‘And if his channel through the inner shoals is straight, he’s going to reach the lagoon before we can intercept him. Recommend we go to attack speed and head for the outer rim of the lagoon.’

  Atticus nodded without turning. ‘Make it so,’ he said, and the Orcus accelerated, the staggered response of the rest of the squadron creating a slight gap behind the command ship.

  Gaius turned the helm through two points to port and the Orcus leaned into the turn, her ram slicing across the gentle swell, creating curved waves that marked her course.

  ‘Baro,’ Atticus shouted, and the second-in-command ran to the aft-deck.

  ‘Have Drusus ready the legionaries. It’s time they put their new skills to the test.’

  Baro nodded with a conspiratorial smile. He had trained the legionaries relentlessly over the previous weeks and was anxious for them to cut their new teeth in battle. He ran back to the main deck and began speaking with Drusus, occasionally pointing to the quadrireme off the starboard beam.

  Atticus watched them for a moment longer and then turned his attention to the Rhodian. The quadrireme was approaching the inner shoals, still sailing at battle speed, an incredible pace considering the obstacle he was about to negotiate; but his committed course allowed Atticus to recalculate the angles, his confidence rising slowly as he drew his conclusions.

  Hamilcar instinctively leaned forward as the ram of the Ares approached the shoals, the speed of the quadrireme raising the hairs on his arms. He glanced at Calix, the Rhodian’s gaze locked on the Roman squadron on the far side of the lagoon. Hamilcar looked over his shoulder to Lilybaeum, wondering which landmark the helmsman was using to align the galley to the hidden channel, impressed by the confidence shown by all on board but, as he looked again to Calix, he saw his brow was wrinkled in puzzlement.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘The Romans,’ Calix replied slowly. ‘I had expected them to come straight at us as we emerged from the inner shoals and then give chase, but they have sailed to the far side of the lagoon. It is a clever move, one to their advantage…’

  He turned away abruptly and began talking to the helmsman, as if Hamilcar were no longer there, and both Greeks looked towards the Roman squadron. Hamilcar watched their discussion. Greek was the trading language of the entire Mediterranean and Hamilcar possessed a reasonable grasp of the language, but the dialect and speed of their conversation frustrated his efforts to listen. He saw them nod in unison as they reached a decision.

  He looked to the waters around the Ares and noticed they were almost through the shoals. Beneath the crystal-clear green waters he could see the shadows of the rocks, some of them reaching up to the surface not twenty feet from the bow of the Ares, jagged spires that would pierce even the strongest timbers, and again he marvelled at the skill and confidence of the Rhodian, knowing that any mistake would be punishable by utter ruin.

  The deck tilted suddenly beneath Hamilcar, and he centred his balance as the Ares accelerated to attack speed, her bow coming around to a point further ahead of the Roman squadron. The Rhodian had obviously abandoned his original course and was now striking for a more distant channel, forced to do so by the Romans’ initial perceptive reaction. Hamilcar felt a stirring of doubt but he shrugged it off. Despite the slight deviation in plan, he trusted the Rhodian.

  ‘Aspect change,’ Corin shouted. ‘The Rhodian is coming about two points to starboard. Moving to attack speed.’

  ‘I make it more like three,’ Baro said, but Atticus and Gaius remained silent, their concentration riveted on the quadrireme’s every move.

  ‘Helm, one point to starboard,’ Atticus said. ‘Give me a hundred yards off the port beam between us and the outer shoals.’

  Gaius nodded and made the change. The quadrireme was almost directly off their starboard beam on the far side of the lagoon, but their course was convergent, the Rhodian striking for a channel in the shoals somewhere ahead of the Orcus. Atticus was looking to close that apex, to in
tercept the quadrireme just short of its target, knowing that if the Rhodian reached the shoals the race would be over. The quadrireme’s draught was at least four or five feet less than that of a quinquereme’s, and Atticus knew, if the roles were reversed, he would choose a channel that only a lighter boat could traverse.

  ‘We should accelerate to ramming speed,’ Baro said, but Atticus ignored him. It was too soon for such a last-ditch move. The rowers could only maintain ramming speed for five minutes maximum and, given that the Rhodian might change course again, Atticus might need that reserve of strength. He looked to his other squadron, approaching on their position, but again, even with the convergent courses, they would still not intercept the Rhodian before he crossed the lagoon. The Orcus was leading the charge and only they could thwart the enemy.

  ‘Ramming speed,’ Calix ordered, and the Ares was transformed into the very creature its namesake watched over, the galley taking flight across the smooth waters of the lagoon, its sleek, shallow draught offering minimal drag. The ram surged clear of the water with each pull of the oars.

  Hamilcar listened to the rowers sing, their tune changing to match the increased tempo, their words sung on the exhalation of each pull of the oar. The Roman squadron was closing off the port beam, perhaps three hundred yards away, while ahead Hamilcar could not yet see the telltale signs that marked the beginnings of the outer shoals. He looked to the Rhodian, unnerved by his confidence. For Hamilcar the order to increase to ramming speed had come too soon, and he wondered if Calix was perhaps blinded by his own self-belief. He had thrown the final die and committed the Ares to its top speed. The Romans were sure to respond in kind and he tried to calculate the result, deducing only that it would be close. He was tempted to challenge the Rhodian but he held his tongue, and his nerve.

  ‘They’ve gone to ramming speed,’ Baro shouted. ‘I told you-’

  ‘Quiet,’ Atticus barked, thrown by the unexpected move. ‘Gaius?’ he said.

  ‘It’s got to be a mistake,’ the helmsman said. ‘He’s shown his hand too soon.’

  Atticus nodded but, regardless of any perceived mistake, the Rhodian’s move had to be countered.

  ‘Ramming speed,’ he shouted, and Baro needlessly ran to the hatch on the main deck to repeat the order, the drum master already responding to Atticus’s voice.

  The Orcus charged forward with the strength of two hundred and seventy rowers, making its ramming speed a shade faster than a quadrireme’s, and Atticus saw Baro nod to Drusus on the main deck, a final salutation of comrades before the fight.

  Atticus glanced to the four points of his ship, the waters ahead clear, the shoals off his port beam, his squadron taking up the rear, and the enemy galley sailing desperately to get ahead of the Orcus, their slight lead being eroded with every stroke of the quinquereme’s oars.

  ‘It’s the Greek,’ Hamilcar said venomously as he recognized the command ship of the Roman squadron.

  ‘Who?’ Calix asked, perplexed.

  ‘Perennis, the Greek prefect.’

  ‘Perennis,’ Calix repeated slowly, taking a greater interest in the lead galley. She had gained over a ship length on the boats behind, a testament to a more skilled crew. He had heard of Perennis, and had remembered his name: a Greek who had risen in the Roman navy, a testament to his abilities in itself. He nodded, feeling a slight tinge of regret that he would best one of his own people.

  Hamilcar kept his gaze locked on the Roman galley, less than two hundred yards away, its course locked on a point ahead of both converging ships, and he realized with sickening dread that the Roman galley would reach that point first and block the Ares ’s access to the shoals. There was no escape. Even if they turned inside they would be turning into the entire Roman squadron. There was no choice but to retreat; even then their chances were slim, given that the rowers could not maintain ramming speed for the time it would take to re-cross the lagoon to the inner shoals. The Rhodian had misjudged his run and Hamilcar turned to him with a murderous expression.

  ‘We can’t make it,’ he said angrily. ‘You pushed them to ramming speed too soon.’

  Calix did not respond but held up a hand to silence Hamilcar as he spoke rapidly to the helmsman, both men glancing over their shoulders to some distant point on the land behind. Calix nodded in agreement and then turned to Hamilcar.

  ‘Forgive me, Hamilcar, but our approach to the channel must be exact,’ he said calmly.

  ‘We’ll never reach that far. Perennis will cut us off. We must withdraw.’

  ‘We will yet outrun them,’ Calix replied, and shouted out an order for the rowing deck to make ready.

  ‘We are already at ramming speed and Perennis’s quinquereme is faster,’ Hamilcar said exasperatedly.

  ‘His rowers are slaves,’ Calix replied, never taking his eyes off the Roman galley. ‘As are yours, Hamilcar. Therefore you think like a master of slaves. They respond only to the beat of the drum; however well trained they are, they are bound by its beat. Ramming speed is merely the limit of the drum. Any faster and the beats overlap, causing the rowers to lose coordination. But my rowers are freedmen. They were not trained by the rhythm of a drum and for a crew such as mine, coordination is almost instinctive. Strength alone is their only limitation, and I know they have not yet reached that threshold.’

  He turned to Hamilcar.

  ‘Now you and Perennis will witness the true speed of a galley,’ and he ordered the rowers to increase their pace, leaving Hamilcar to watch in awe as the Ares accelerated to an incredible sixteen knots.

  ‘By the gods, they’re increasing speed,’ Gaius whispered, and Atticus ran to the side rail to confirm what he could not believe. The gap between the two ships continued to fall as their courses converged, but now the pace of the quadrireme was outstripping the Orcus. Atticus’s mind raced to try to devise some way to stop the Rhodian, exploring every conceivable course change and discounting it in the same moment. Speed alone would decide the contest and the Rhodian had somehow reversed the outcome.

  The quadrireme passed within a ship length of the bow of the Orcus and Gaius swung the galley into its wake, knowing there was little else he could do. Atticus stared at the aft-deck of the enemy ship. There were Carthaginians amongst the mercenary crew, their faces indistinguishable across the distance, and Atticus felt overwhelmed by his frustration.

  ‘He’ll have to reduce speed once they hit the channel,’ Baro said. ‘We still have a chance.’ And he shouted forward to Drusus to make ready.

  ‘It’s over,’ Atticus said. ‘We can’t enter the channel. It’s too shallow for us.’

  ‘You can’t know that,’ Baro argued angrily. ‘We have to stop them.’

  ‘The Rhodian knew he would be pursued,’ Atticus replied. ‘And he would have picked a channel that he alone could traverse.’

  Baro looked to Gaius, but the helmsman remained silent, in tacit agreement with Atticus.

  ‘How do you know?’ Baro said, turning once more to Atticus. ‘Because he’s Greek, like you? Is that it? You all think alike?’

  Atticus’s expression became murderous and he stared into Baro’s face, causing the second-in-command to step back instinctively.

  ‘It’s over, Baro,’ he snarled. ‘Now get off my aft-deck.’

  Baro straightened up and stalked away. Atticus turned to Gaius, the helmsman nodding, and he ordered ‘all stop’, the Orcus drifting to a halt as the quadrireme reached the outer limits of the shoals, when it too reduced speed to navigate the channel. The squadron of galleys behind the Orcus responded to the command ship’s order, fanning out to allow themselves sea room to stop safely. All were given leave to watch the Rhodian complete his passage of the outer shoals, the quadrireme raising sail with impunity to strike away into the west.

  Gaius requested further orders, ready to bear away, but Atticus did not hear him, his entire being focused on the escaping galley. He recalled every detail of the chase, every manoeuvre the quadrireme had made, and sto
red it away beneath his anger, determined that he should use it to find a way to seal the loophole the Rhodian had exposed in the blockade and forge a new defence that would not break so easily.

  Scipio watched with a slight smile at the edge of his mouth as the legionaries flogged the trader with the flat edges of their swords, whipping their blades away after each strike with a slight twist of their wrists, causing the leading edge of the blade to cut neatly through the trader’s clothes and score his skin, shallow flesh wounds that would leave scars as a reminder of his crime. He was bent over almost double as he ran, his cries for mercy unheard by the jeering crowd, and the legionaries pursued him all the way to the main gate, stopping only when they reached the threshold to spit and curse at the fleeing trader, shouting unnecessary warnings that he should never return.

  In the charged atmosphere of the legionary encampment, the trader’s crime was simple. He was Greek. He was a camp follower, one of more than a hundred who had flocked to the stationary camps offering all manner of wares, from replacement kit to wines and exotic foods, and a taste of the local women. For some it was a full-time profession: they had travelled from Rome on foot for the profits that could be made over an entire campaign season. The Greek was one of these men, a trader who had shadowed the legions in Sicily for years and was well known amongst the quartermasters. He, like the other camp followers, had been tolerated — even liked, Scipio suspected — but that had all changed with the discovery that the surprise attack on the siege towers had been carried out by Greek mercenaries.

  Legionaries were conditioned to hate the Carthaginians by the hardships of the campaign and the loss of comrades in previous battles, but the discovery that it was the Greeks who were responsible for the destruction of the siege towers seemed tantamount to treason, given that the Republic encompassed former Greek territories that had always been treated magnanimously.

  For Scipio it was evidence of the beliefs he had always held about the treacherous nature of non-Romans: that their disloyalty was simply a mark of their innate inferiority. In watching the trader being beaten from camp, Scipio had pictured Perennis beneath those same swords, spat at and told never to return, as the Romans who had tolerated him for years finally became aware of the true nature of the outsider in their midst. For now, the Greek prefect still served a purpose, but Scipio was finding it increasingly hard to stick to his original conviction, and it was with difficulty that he suppressed the urge to summon Perennis to the camp under some pretext in order to expose him to the wrath of the legionaries. He calmed himself, conceding once more that time was on his side and that eventually he would dispose of the Greek as thoroughly as the legionaries had his compatriot.