Master of Rome mots-3

by John Stack

  Scipio was distracted by the approach of a contubernia of soldiers led by a centurion, and his eyes narrowed in curiosity as he looked at the long timber box they carried on their shoulders. The centurion stopped before Scipio and saluted. His expression was fearful and his forehead beaded with sweat.

  ‘Beg to report, Consul,’ he said haltingly. ‘We found this box inside our lines this morning. It must have been placed there during the attack.’

  ‘What is it?’ Scipio asked impatiently.

  ‘It’s…’ the centurion stammered and he looked to the box, unable to answer.

  ‘Set it down,’ Scipio ordered irritably.

  The soldiers quickly complied and then backed away. The box had already been opened, Scipio presumed by the centurion, but the lid had been reaffixed. Scipio could hear a faint buzzing sound emanating from within and his brow furrowed in puzzlement.

  ‘Open it,’ he commanded, and the centurion stepped forward, drawing his sword as he did. He crouched down and slid the blade under the lid and then turned his face away, before abruptly twisting and lifting the blade with one sweep of his arm.

  The lid flew off and a cloud of flies erupted from the box, causing Scipio to lean back and look away as the swarm dissipated. He waved his hand angrily in front of his face and stepped forward to peer down. His stomach heaved, a violent spasm from the depths of his bowels, and he turned away before looking back upon the rotting corpse laid out in the box. Regulus stared up at him sightlessly; his eyes long since devoured by the voracious flies that had nested there, the swarm resettling once more on his flesh.

  Scipio looked down to the butchery that was Regulus’s chest, unable to comprehend what would cause such a horrendous wound. It was as if… and Scipio suddenly realized what he was seeing, the shape of the elephant’s pad-like foot clearly visible around the lower edge of the wound. He fought against the wave of nausea that swept over him.

  ‘Cover him up,’ he ordered the centurion harshly, and he turned to enter his tent, anxious to be alone.

  Once inside he stumbled over to a basin and splashed water on his face, closing his eyes as he did so. The image of Regulus flashed before him and he opened his eyes wide again, his nausea suddenly coupled with a primal fear of retribution. Regulus had been his enemy and Scipio had wanted him destroyed, but he realized that the terrible fate the proconsul had suffered had affected him deeply. He had sent Regulus to that end, and again the image of his hollow stare flashed before him.

  Scipio brushed the vision aside, suddenly angry at his own weakness, that he should feel remorse for Regulus. The proconsul had brought his fate upon himself with his foolish attempt to broker a peace treaty, and the Carthaginians had carried out the barbaric execution, not Scipio. Yet a shred of culpability remained on his conscience. He poured a goblet of wine from an amphora and drank deeply, allowing the sharp taste to cleanse the last of the nausea from his throat.

  The return of Regulus’s body was no doubt meant as a personal warning to the Roman commander of the fate that awaited him, but for Scipio it merely hardened his heart. The Carthaginians had rid him of his enemy and, however merciless they perceived their method of execution to be, Scipio had witnessed the legionaries descend to the same level of savagery in their sack of Panormus. If Carthage believed that Rome had not the stomach for the fight, they were sorely mistaken. Scipio would open their eyes to that error. He would go back on the offensive, and wipe the stain of Regulus’s demise from his conscience by inflicting a terrible reprisal on the Carthaginian foe.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Hamilcar looked out along the length of the city of Drepana to the harbour as the Ares rounded the small islands at the head of the bay. The Gadir fleet was anchored in neat lines, the ships tethered by their sterns, their bows facing out, ready to slip their moorings at a moment’s notice. He heard warning cries carried on the offshore breeze, and from out of the inner harbour two quinqueremes approached, turning neatly together to intercept the unusual ship that had sailed brazenly into the jaws of the fleet.

  Hamilcar smiled and moved to the foredeck to identify himself as the gap narrowed, impressed but not surprised by the alertness of the fleet’s commanders. Gadir was on the very fringes of the empire, and the fleet based there was one of the best: independent and resilient, it existed outside of the realm of the relative protection of Carthage and was often cut off for months during the winter. The crews were renowned for their strict sailing discipline and the fleet possessed the agility and reaction times of a force half its size.

  The Ares passed through the guardsmen and into the long neck of the harbour, while Hamilcar returned to the aft-deck to instruct Calix to sail past the fleet and tie up at the docks beneath the walls of the town.

  ‘An impressive fleet, Hamilcar,’ Calix said as the Ares moved slowly past the serried ranks.

  ‘There are few finer,’ Hamilcar replied, with the same unassuming confidence that Calix had shown when he spoke of his crew.

  Calix nodded, realizing the depth of pride the Carthaginian had in the men he commanded. They were indeed a race of skilled mariners, their expansive empire a fitting testament to that skill, but Calix believed they could not claim the mantle of the finest seafarers. That rested solidly on the shoulders of the Greeks, an ancient claim that was reasserted with each new generation.

  ‘You are right, Hamilcar,’ Calix said, looking proudly around at his crew. ‘There are few finer, and they are here.’

  Hamilcar smiled with amusement. ‘You must continue to prove that, Calix,’ he said. ‘I need to keep a line of communication open with the besieged garrison. You must return to Lilybaeum immediately.’

  Calix nodded. He had expected as much, given that only he could run the blockade.

  ‘Pay me for the passage for you and your men first, then we will negotiate a fee for running the blockade with dispatches,’ he said.

  ‘I will pay you what we agreed,’ Hamilcar replied. ‘And the same amount again each time you return here from Lilybaeum.’

  Calix’s eyes shone with avarice. It was more than he’d hoped for and Hamilcar had offered it without hesitation. The potential purse was enormous and, given that he had already bested the Romans, even the notable Greek prefect, it would be an easy task.

  Hamilcar saw the self-assurance in Calix’s face and felt his doubts ease somewhat. It was a risk sending the Rhodian back to Lilybaeum, given that — if he was caught — he would certainly reveal the strength and location of the Carthaginian fleet; but Hamilcar knew he had to keep in contact with the garrison, albeit only until he had readied the Gadir fleet for battle.

  Continuing to use the Rhodian also sorted out one other potential problem. If Hamilcar ended his contract, the Rhodian would be free to sell his information to the Romans. The alternative was to seize the Rhodian’s ship but, considering how dependent Hamilcar was on mercenaries, any such blatant persecution of one of their own kind would surely cause the others to question his loyalty to their agreements.

  ‘Then we are agreed,’ Hamilcar said to Calix’s silence. ‘When you reach Lilybaeum, submit yourself to the garrison commander.’

  Again Calix nodded and, as the gangplank was lowered on to the dock, Hamilcar beckoned to his men to depart.

  Calix followed with men of his own, anxious to receive the money he was due and depart the bottleneck of the port. He felt hemmed in, an unfamiliar feeling for a creature of the open sea, and he looked around him furtively, taking solace in knowing that he would soon be away, his bow turned to the southwest and the Aegates Islands, there to await a favourable wind that would carry him once more through the blockade at Lilybaeum.

  Atticus watched with interest as the trireme made its way slowly towards the Orcus, its familiar lines bringing a smile to his face. He glanced at Gaius, seeing the same satisfaction in the expression of the normally stern-faced helmsman. She was the Virtus, almost an exact replica of the Aquila, and both men looked past the differences to see the
galley on which they had once sailed with pride.

  The Virtus pulled alongside and Atticus jumped across the gap on to the lower main deck, followed by Gaius and ten other men. He looked over his shoulder and nodded curtly to Baro on the aft-deck of the Orcus, signalling the beginning of his nominal command of the quinquereme, and the Orcus pulled neatly away from the smaller galley. Gaius went immediately to the helm while Atticus took a moment to look about the ship and its assembled crew.

  They were a picked crew, the best from every ship in his entire squadron, ninety men in all, three times the normal sailing complement of a trireme, but the Virtus carried no legionaries as each sailor was a skilled boarder, a vital attribute given they were planning to take a larger galley.

  Atticus knew many of the men by name; others had been recommended by their captains, trusted men who knew what was at stake and would give their best to the task. He called the captain of the Virtus to his side and ordered him to organize the men into watches while he went below to the rowing deck.

  The space was overly crowded, with men squatting silently on the walkway that ran the length of the deck, while others filled the cabins of the trireme. It was a cumbersome arrangement, but Atticus had managed to increase the relief from forty to one hundred rowers, an additional weight that increased the draught of the trireme by a foot but still kept it under that of a quadrireme. Again the men had been hand-picked from amongst the entire squadron, seasoned rowers who had lived through many battles and whose nerve could be trusted. By necessity they would be unchained to allow for a frequent and fluid system of replacement, so, to ensure the rowers would remain at their oars, Atticus had promised them all their freedom should their assault be successful, a loss he planned to make up from his prey.

  Atticus nodded to himself, content that all was in order, and he went back on deck. He had no idea what cargo or personnel the Rhodian had ferried into or out of Lilybaeum, but he was convinced the Rhodian would return, for without his abilities the siege remained intact and the city cut off from supply and communication. He re-examined his plan, trying to anticipate every possible variant, relying the most on the skill of the crew he had assembled.

  He had concluded that he had beaten the previous time because he had blindly followed convention, forgetting the skills he and many of the other men had gained through years of skirmishing with individual pirate ships. His manoeuvres had been those of a fleet commander, not an individual captain, and the Rhodian had exploited that predictability.

  Atticus had forgotten the power of one ship, of one crew, believing instead in the strength of numbers, and he had dismissed the Rhodian’s first evasion as a fluke, the product of a surprise approach, confident that a ship so vastly outnumbered would be easily caught if they were vigilant. But the Rhodian had escaped him a second time.

  Now Atticus possessed, as nearly as he could, an equivalent ship; and although he did not know the exact location of the channels the Rhodian had used to escape, he had formed a reasonable approximation. He had positioned other ships of his squadron to tempt the Rhodian to use the same or nearby channels in his next attempt.

  Baro had asked if he believed he knew the Rhodian’s mind because he was Greek, but Atticus had realized it was because he had once been like him, relying solely on one ship and its crew, skilfully seeking out and exploiting an enemy’s weaknesses, fighting each battle from a chosen position of strength, stacking the odds in advance to ensure victory. It was the way of a lone wolf, a creature who shrugged off the safeguards but also the burden of a hunting pack to become a more efficient killer. With the Virtus, Atticus had become that creature once more and, as he looked to the western horizon, he sensed his prey was near at hand.

  Calix held up his hand as the distant features of Lilybaeum became more distinct and the helmsman immediately shouted orders for the running rigging to be released. The mainsail lost its shape, the corners of the canvas sheet flapping in the westerly wind coming in over the starboard aft-quarter, and the Ares slowed, the helmsman just managing to keep her bow steady in the swell. Calix moved to the side rail, his gaze sweeping across the width of the bay, and the altered disposition of the Roman blockade.

  The Ares had lain off the Aegates Islands for three days awaiting a favourable wind, and had set sail only hours ago. They had approached, as before, under canvas, keeping the strength of the rowers in reserve; but Calix was about to order them lowered when he noticed the revised Roman formation. The enemy galleys were now deployed in a blockade line that reached across the breadth of the lagoon, a tactical change to cover the hidden channels and deny their use to a blockade runner. It was a misguided approach, Calix thought, for the channels were not so numerous and the Romans were now too thinly spread to form any sort of protective barrier. Even in the centre, the location of the channels last used by Calix for his escape, the line was no stronger, with the Roman galleys separated by at least four hundred yards in the calm of the lagoon.

  He moved once more to the tiller, conscious of the fact that, if he could see the Romans, so they could see the Ares, and they might rush to group around his line of approach. He shouted for full ahead and the mainsail was made taut once more, the wind taking the lion’s share of the load as the rowers engaged their oars at battle speed. He ordered the helmsman to make for the same outer channel as before, one of only three available to him and the only one in the centre, and he locked his gaze on the Roman galleys directly opposite that point, confident that he could easily shred such a thin veil. The channel was a dogleg and so could only be negotiated safely under oars but, once in the lagoon, Calix would have a choice of three channels through the inner shoals, each one too shallow for a quinquereme. For the Rhodian the pieces had moved but the game, and the inevitable outcome, remained the same.

  ‘Galley approaching.’

  ‘Identify,’ Atticus shouted animatedly.

  ‘It’s him, Prefect,’ Corin replied from the masthead of the Virtus. ‘He’s heading is on a line bearing two points off our starboard quarter, between us and the Copia.’

  It must be the same channel as before, Atticus thought with a smile, but aloud he cursed, unable to see the approaching ship from behind the hull of the Orcus. He looked to Gaius.

  ‘Shadow her every move,’ he said, and the helmsman nodded, holding the Virtus steady on station behind the Orcus, keeping her hidden from the open sea.

  The order for battle speed was shouted from the aft-deck of the Orcus by Baro and the quinquereme moved off, the Virtus sailing in her shadow, Gaius handling the tiller with gentle, deft strokes, trusting Baro to keep a steady line.

  Atticus looked to the other ships of the blockade, the nearest ones already converging on points inside the outer shoals where it was estimated the Rhodian might emerge, a natural re action to his approach. He cursed his line of sight again and on an impulse he ran to the rigging and climbed hand-over-hand up to the masthead, keeping his grip firm on the rough-hewn ropes until he reached the top, and he lifted himself up on to the mainsail lifting yard. Corin smiled beside him and moved over to allow Atticus to stand tall and find his balance.

  At the head of the mainmast the gentle roll of the deck was multiplied, and Atticus was suddenly conscious that he had not been aloft in many years. His grip tightened on the mast and his movements were exaggerated in contrast with Corin’s almost innate sense of balance, but he steadied his breathing and looked out over the deck of the Orcus sailing alongside the Virtus to the horizon.

  The Rhodian was approaching as before, under sail and oars, but Atticus knew he would need to slow as he passed through the channel. Despite this, the converging Roman galleys would still not be in a position to challenge him as he emerged into the lagoon, and again Atticus begrudgingly admired the Rhodian’s utmost use of the prevailing elements to his advantage. His grip remained firm on the mainmast, only now it was an outward sign of his inner determination and, as the Rhodian furled his sail to begin his run, Atticus shouted down the order
for battle stations.

  Calix’s head darted from side to side as he tracked the approach of the four Roman quinqueremes. As he suspected, they had left their positions in the blockade line to converge on his approach but, with the Ares already halfway through the outer shoals, he would reach the lagoon before they had a chance to close the neck of the channel.

  The Ares swung neatly through the turn in the dogleg and Calix called for attack speed, turning briefly to nod at the helmsman in silent commendation for a perfect approach. The quadrireme moved quickly over the surface of the water and the crew worked with silent efficiency as they readied the ship for the run across the lagoon, securing the mainsail, its broad canvas too easy a target for a fire arrow; while below the rowers shouted encouragement to each other over the sound of their own singing.

  The Ares tore out of the channel at twelve knots, Calix standing firmly beside the helmsman, his eyes darting from the approaching Roman galleys to seemingly random points on the inner shoals a mile away. The helmsman began a series of evasive manoeuvres in an effort to keep the Romans guessing; but, before they had covered two hundred yards, Calix had made his decision.

  ‘The centre channel,’ he ordered, and the helmsman confirmed the course, shifting his rudder a half-point, already looking to the landmarks that would allow him to make the final adjustments as he neared the shoals.