Master of Rome mots-3

by John Stack

  Atticus reacted without conscious thought, striking out with his left hand to shove Baro to the deck, dropping the sword from his right as he made to turn towards Gaius, his eyes still locked on Hamilcar, his mind registering the open mouth of his enemy, forming a single shouted command: loose.

  The Carthaginians released their drawn bows as one, the trajectory of the arrows almost flat across the narrow gap, and Atticus immediately felt a solid deadening punch in his right shoulder and leg, the realization of the dual strikes flooding his mind with alarm, numbing his senses as the deck fell away from beneath him and his gaze swept across the iron-grey sky.

  The air was blown from his lungs as he struck the deck. Sensations assailed him like waves crashing endlessly against a stricken hull; the struggle to breathe, the numbness in his shoulder and leg giving way to searing pain that built like heat in a furnace, his ears filled with cries of alarm as unseen bodies clamoured around him, the thud of arrows striking raised shields punctuating the endless noise.

  He rolled on to his side, crying out in pain as the shaft of the arrow in his shoulder broke under the weight of his body. His hand shot to the wound, the blood gushing through his fingers, and his vision began to swim, a darkness creeping in on all sides. He roared a guttural cry of defiance, pushing back the darkness, knowing he needed to stay alive, that his ship was in danger, his crew.

  He slammed his bloodstained hand on to the deck and pushed himself up, immediately seeing Baro taking cover behind the shield wall of Drusus’s men while the optio shouted for his hastati to let fly on the escaping galley with their spears, a furious, hopeless order to exact some measure of vengeance.

  Atticus turned his head, a wave of nausea sweeping over him; again he repressed it savagely. He looked to the helm, the tiller swinging steadily against the grey backdrop of the sky, and then he dropped his gaze to the deck, his heart breaking as he spotted Gaius not five feet away, the helmsman’s eyes wide in fear, his bloodied hands clutching the shaft of an arrow that was protruding from his neck.

  Atticus crawled across the deck, his own pain forgotten, his vision filled with the sight of Gaius. He reached out and grabbed Gaius’s tunic with his left hand just as the helmsman began to fall, and he eased him on to the deck. Gaius’s eyes locked on Atticus. He opened his mouth, blood gushing out to run down his cheeks. He tried to speak, his eyes opening wider in a silent plea as the words died on his lips, choked by blood and the terrible wound. Atticus put his hand to Gaius’s cheek, quieting him, nodding slightly as if in understanding, and the helmsman calmed, the pleading in his eyes turning to gratitude before death robbed them of their sight.

  Hamilcar continued to look over his shoulder as the Alissar made its turn through the empty waters beyond the Romans’ northernmost flank. The Greek’s ship was drifting aimlessly, its starboard side a tangle of broken oars, the rail lined with men waving wildly at the Alissar to return and fight. The taunts were lost over the increasing distance, but Hamilcar still felt their sting, a part of him wanting to strike again and board Perennis’s ship, to take it as a prize, to be the captain he once had been.

  He turned and made his way back along the main deck, his thoughts on the frantic seconds of the attack, the moment of clarity before the order to loose, when Perennis had looked him in the eye. He recalled the arrows striking the Greek, knocking him to the deck, and the sudden arrival of the legionaries, their wall of shields blocking Hamilcar’s chance to confirm the kill. He replayed the moment again and again in his mind, each time becoming more convinced that his attack had been successful, and with satisfaction he put the matter beyond doubt in his mind, knowing he needed to focus his energy on the greater battle.

  The Alissar came about behind the Carthaginian battle line, affording Hamilcar an uninterrupted view of the fight. No Roman ship had yet broken through, the disciplined ranks of the Gadir fleet preventing any escape. The southern flank was more exposed; the disparity in numbers allowed for some Roman galleys to fall outside the net, but Hamilcar dismissed the loss as inconsequential, knowing the Roman centre was ensnared, its doom already sealed.

  He would further concentrate his forces, squeezing the centre until it buckled under the strain, forcing a surrender that would give him a bounty of captured galleys, each one a replica of his own, save the calibre of the crew. At Drepana the sons of Carthage would prove their worth and write their claim upon the sea with Roman blood.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Baro looked anxiously beyond the wake of the Orcus as the dawn sun illuminated the seascape. The northern horizon seemed clear, devoid of any Carthaginian pursuit, the clouds dissipating over an empty sea. Nevertheless his fear remained, the endless tension of the previous twenty-four hours having shredded his nerves to breaking point, and his grip tightened involuntarily on the tiller, irritated by the slow rhythm of the drum beat below decks, wishing he could increase the tempo, despite the exhaustion of the remaining rowers.

  He recalled the desperate hour after the Carthaginian galley had swept the starboard oars of the Orcus. The prefect was grievously injured, the helmsman dead, and so he had taken command, redistributing the rowers and oars below decks, getting the Orcus back under way with only one purpose in mind: escape. He had broken away from the northern flank, his flight followed by three other Roman galleys, one of which had been rammed and was taking water. He had cursed their company, believing where one galley might slip away, a group would be followed, but the Carthaginians were concentrating their attacks on the centre and the small flotilla had sailed west unmolested, away from the carnage of battle.

  Now that flotilla was finally nearing Lilybaeum, and Baro looked again to the other ships. The damaged galley was off his starboard beam. The crew had strapped a canvas sail over the hull, lessening the inflow of water, but she was still listing badly, and the crew continued to fight a running battle against the ocean, with two lines of men baling out the lower hold. The others were undamaged but they maintained the same speed as their wounded sister ships, holding position on the outer flanks. A protective shield against an enemy that would overwhelm them in minutes, Baro thought sardonically.

  He looked over his shoulder again, his growing confidence causing him to unconsciously glance down at the deck under the tiller, and the fate that might have been his. The blood there was turning black, staining the deck timbers with an indelible mark, as if the Orcus wanted to remember its helmsman. Baro had cast Gaius’s body overboard during the night, the danger of pursuit — still existent at the time — forcing him to grant the helmsman only a perfunctory funeral. He looked away from the bloodstained deck, remembering the attack, a deep anger swelling within him.

  The Greek had saved his life, had pushed him to the deck as the first flight of arrows struck, and the thought stirred his anger further. Baro believed that Perennis, as commander of the ship, was the obvious target, while he and Gaius had been unfortunate bystanders, the helmsman paying for that misfortune with his life.

  ‘Lilybaeum ahead,’ the lookout called, and the crew cheered, the shout taken up by the men on the other galleys.

  Baro’s mind remained enraged, however, his eyes fixed firmly on the waters ahead, his grip still tight on the tiller. The Greek was still his enemy, but now he was beholden to that whoreson for his life, a debt that was abhorrent to him. As the Orcus sailed ever closer to Lilybaeum, Baro began to hope that one other man had survived the slaughter at Drepana.

  Scipio drew his sword with a fluid sweep of his arm and slashed the blade down with all his fury, striking the bulkhead timber with a force that embedded the blade two inches into the seasoned timber. He wrenched it aside, trying to free the weapon, shouting angrily as his temper slipped beyond control. Suddenly the blade snapped and he fell backwards. Regaining his balance in the middle of the cabin, he stared at the broken haft, his anger unbounded, and threw it away with all his might, the metal resounding off the timber bulkhead before falling to the deck.

  He stormed out of
the cabin and on to the main deck of the Poena, the crew moving quickly away, none daring to look at the enraged consul. Scipio looked to the sun, its arrival mocking him, as it illuminated the pitiful remnants of the Roman fleet that had escaped Drepana. Twenty-three ships surrounded the Poena, twenty-three from the southern flank that had fled behind their consul as the battle at Drepana descended into utter disaster.

  The Poena had been one of the last to take its place in the defensive line. The Carthaginians were already engaged, and Scipio had quickly realized that the situation was hopeless: the centre enveloped, Ovidius’s galley lost from sight, the Roman prefect trapped between the shoreline and the impenetrable wall of timber and iron that was the Carthaginian battle line. Time would have placed Scipio’s flank in the same net, and so he had ordered a retreat, turning his back on the lost to save what he could, beginning a headlong flight that had ended in the darkness of night in Lilybaeum. Only then did Scipio pause to examine his defeat. In the quiet pre-dawn gloom of his cabin, his plans for the future, his thoughts of glory and fame, had slowly unravelled.

  He moved to the foredeck and looked out over the remaining galleys, the cold onshore wind clearing the surface of his anger, allowing him to think. He would sail for Rome. It was his only choice if he was going to limit the repercussions of Drepana. He began to think of how he would formulate his argument to retain his consulship, knowing that, given time, he might yet salvage some semblance of dignity.

  Scipio knew from long experience that the crux of that argument would need to be the apportionment of blame. With defeat came retribution, and if Scipio could redirect the responsibility for the loss, he might be spared the full wrath of the Senate. He would begin by interrogating the Rhodian further. The mercenary had been in the paid service of Rome many times. He had said the Carthaginians were preparing for an attack. That testimony would justify Scipio’s decision to make a pre-emptive strike.

  But what of the battle? His fleet had outnumbered the Carthaginians’. How had he failed? He could blame Ovidius for the loss of the centre, or Perennis for not sealing the Carthaginian fleet in the inner harbour, but either way he would be blaming a dead man and Scipio knew that such an approach would be seen as cowardly: putting responsibility on a man who could not defend himself, who had given his life for Rome. He needed to put something or someone between him and culpability.

  A call from the masthead distracted Scipio and he looked to the northern approaches to the bay. Galleys were rounding the headland and many of the crew shouted warnings of a Carthaginian attack, their frantic voices tearing the thin veil of calm to reveal the panic hidden just beneath. Scipio moved to the rail, apprehension rising within him, until he saw they were but four ships, his anxiety turning to shame as the lookout identified the galleys as Roman.

  Scipio watched them slowly approach. They were a forlorn sight. Four ships, and only two of them undamaged. Of the others, one was listing heavily to port and the last… Scipio’s hands tightened on the rail, recognizing the masthead banners. He smiled coldly, nurturing the first seeds of confidence after many hours of despair. The Greek was alive, and with him Scipio’s chances of saving his political fortune.

  Septimus looked up at the familiar profile of the Orcus as the skiff approached the quinquereme. The starboard side of the galley was heavily scored, with many of the oar-holes damaged, the raw, exposed timber stark against the darker, sea-stained hull. He glanced into the open wounds, catching glimpses of shadows, and the lighter tone of the rowers’ naked flesh, the men moving slowly, still in obvious shock from the devastating attack.

  Septimus shook his head and turned away. The sun was beginning its descent to the western horizon, taking with it the heat of the day; he savoured the light breeze sweeping over the wave tops. He looked to Drusus sitting in the bow of the small boat. As befitting his usual reserved manner, the centurion was staring impassively at the shoreline over Septimus’s shoulder, and Septimus was forced to stay his impatient questions, knowing Drusus’s terse answers would only increase his frustration.

  Drusus had arrived in the legion’s encampment an hour before, formally reporting to Septimus that Atticus had been injured in battle. He had come personally, of his own volition, and yet, save to repeat his brief report, he had refused to be drawn in detail on any of Septimus’s immediate questions, prompting Septimus to forgo the attempt and go with all haste to the Orcus.

  The skiff nudged against the hull and Septimus clambered up on to the main deck. The galley was quiet, overlaid with a silence that seemed unnatural given the hour of the day and the number of men on deck. He went quickly to the main cabin, accepting the salutes of the legionaries he passed, nodding in silent greeting at those he recognized.

  Septimus entered the dark, airless cabin and immediately felt a wave of relief as he spotted Atticus lying on his cot. His shoulder and leg were heavily bandaged and his skin was pale under a sheen of sweat, but his eyes were alert and he smiled as he saw Septimus. He shifted slightly to sit up but a stab of pain caused him to wince and pause, prompting Septimus to cross the cabin to help him.

  ‘Take it easy,’ Septimus said with a smile as he helped Atticus prop himself up further on the cot.

  ‘How did you…?’ Atticus began.

  ‘Drusus told me,’ Septimus replied, and he stepped back to sit down on the only chair in the cabin. A silence drew out between them, both men suddenly uneasy in each other’s company, their previous conflict foremost in their minds. Atticus was first to speak, his face crestfallen.

  ‘Gaius and Corin are dead,’ he said.

  ‘How?’ Septimus asked, and Atticus used the prompt to relay the events of the entire battle, the recollection causing him to shift restlessly on the cot, his breathing becoming laboured as he dominated the pain of his wounds.

  ‘Barca…’ Septimus said maliciously as Atticus finished his account.

  ‘We just weren’t ready,’ Atticus said, and again he began to speak at length, telling Septimus of his warning to Scipio.

  Septimus’s brow furrowed at the mention of the consul’s name.

  ‘Scipio’s campaign against Lilybaeum has been a complete failure — on land, and now at sea. He is sure to be recalled to Rome to answer for that failure.’

  ‘He has already given the order,’ Atticus replied. ‘What’s left of the fleet sails for Rome on tomorrow’s tide.’

  Septimus thought for a moment. ‘He wants to defend his defeat on his own terms,’ he said. ‘Why else would he face the Senate voluntarily?’

  Atticus nodded, having already reached the same conclusion after receiving Scipio’s pre-emptive order to return to Rome. Septimus stood up and began to pace the cabin. He stopped and turned to Atticus. ‘You must look to your back,’ he said, and Atticus raised his eyebrows in question.

  ‘The attack on the siege towers…’ Septimus began.

  ‘I saw the fires from the bay,’ Atticus said, sitting straighter on the cot.

  Septimus nodded. ‘But what you might not have heard is that the Carthaginians used Greek mercenaries for the attack.’

  ‘Greeks?’ Atticus said in shock.

  Again Septimus nodded, and he told Atticus of the skirmish in detail; in particular how the II maniple had been wiped out to a man by the skilled Greek fighters. He then went on to describe the anger amongst the legionaries of the Ninth and how they had driven a Greek trader from the camp.

  Anger coursed through Atticus as Septimus relayed the story, and he watched the centurion closely for any indication that he agreed with the actions of his fellow Romans. There was none, and Atticus suddenly felt ashamed for having thought so little of him.

  ‘You and I both know Scipio for the man he is,’ Septimus said. ‘He will not accept blame for his failure. He is sure to look elsewhere; as you were one of the commanders at Drepana, he might try to implicate you.’

  Atticus nodded thoughtfully, and the two began to talk through the defeat at Drepana in detail, concluding at leng
th that Atticus had nothing to answer for.

  ‘But just be wary,’ Septimus said finally. ‘Scipio will not concede without a fight.’

  ‘We’ve known worse odds,’ Atticus said with a wry smile, and again they settled into a protracted conversation, this time recalling the battles they had fought over the years, the enemies they had faced and vanquished together. The slivers of light entering the cabin slowly turned from white to red as they spoke, and it was near dark when Septimus rose once more.

  ‘I have to return to the encampment,’ he said, and he reached out with his hand and clasped Atticus’s uninjured shoulder, glad once more that he was not seriously wounded.

  ‘Will the legions continue the siege?’ Atticus asked.

  ‘Doubtful, given the blockade has been lifted. The land behind the city is putrid and already we have had men fall ill with soldier’s fever. I suspect we’ll pull back to higher ground.’

  Atticus nodded, and again a silence descended, both men remembering when last they had spoken and the irresolvable fight that had prompted Septimus’s transfer to the Ninth. Atticus thought of how Septimus had come immediately to see him when he’d heard he was injured, of the battles and trials they had faced together in the past, and of the comradeship the centurion had shared with Gaius and Corin, with all the crew of the Orcus, and with Atticus himself.

  He held out his hand and Septimus took it without hesitation, his grip firm. He nodded slightly to Atticus in silent acknowledgement before turning to leave the cabin.

  Hamilcar felt the thrill of victory at hand surge through his veins as the Alissar rounded the headland, the drum beat hammering out attack speed, the flagship sailing at the head of a seventy-strong fleet. He shouted out the order to deploy, the signalmen relaying the command, the fleet responding swiftly and the flanks advanced to cover the width of the bay at Panormus, trapping the pitiful Roman force that was moored within.

  He had captured ninety-three galleys the day before at Drepana, with only a few escaping south as the battle raged, but Hamilcar had been content to let them go, knowing their destination. After the battle he had moved quickly to secure the remnants of the Roman fleet before assembling a reduced fleet of galleys, drawing additional soldiers from the remainder of his ships at Drepana to supplement the crews of those chosen to sail, anxious to continue the fight, to maintain the momentum his victory had granted him. He had put to sea, taking two Roman captains from the captured enemy fleet at Drepana with him, and had steered his fleet north, rounding the northwestern tip of Sicily in the still hours of the night, confident that no landward warning would reach his destination before him.