by John Stack
Atticus looked to the flanks and the neat formation of the line. The fleet had accelerated to battle speed almost as one, months of training dictating their approach. It was a fine display of seamanship, but one given in open water surrounded by their own galleys. He looked to the enemy, now only two hundred yards away. Once engaged and the battle joined, the lines would become fully entwined, and only then would the true strength of the Roman fleet be revealed.
He glanced at Catulus, the junior consul, standing on the other side of the tiller. No more orders could be given, no more preparations made. Once the gap between the fleets fell to one hundred yards, all would increase to ramming speed and every galley would become a lone fighter. Atticus, as fleet commander, would lose control for those first chaotic minutes, and only after they had passed would he be able to ascertain the level of parity between the crews. If both sides were evenly matched the battle would descend into a determined fight; if one or other crew were much stronger, the battle would become a slaughter. With an acceptance of fate that comes from a lifetime at war, Atticus placed the first assault in the hands of Mars.
One hundred yards.
‘Ramming speed,’ Atticus shouted, and he indicated a target ship to the helmsman, the Orcus shifting slightly beneath him as the attack line was set.
He swept his gaze across the centre of the Carthaginian line, picking out individual ships, the foredecks crammed with men, their faces grotesquely twisted as they roared defiance and hatred. The gap fell to fifty yards, the helmsman adjusting the course of the Orcus, countering the galley opposing him, gaining the advantage, bringing the ram to bear.
Atticus glanced to his left and right, at the extended line of the enemy. Suddenly he froze, his mind reacting to a moment of brief recognition, and he looked again, focusing on the masthead banners of a galley a hundred yards further down the line. He stepped forward instinctively, his mind transporting him back over a year to Drepana and a vision of a blood-soaked aft-deck, of Gaius’s head cradled in his arms, of Corin, crushed beneath the hull of a galley. It was Barca’s flagship.
Atticus looked to the front and the anonymous Carthaginian galley bearing down on the Orcus. The lines were now thirty yards apart. It was too late to change course and target another ship. The Orcus was committed, but Atticus now knew where the heart of the enemy lay. ‘Helmsman, forget the ramming run. Prepare to sweep the starboard oars,’ he shouted, and the order was carried forward to the rowing deck as the gap fell to twenty yards. The Orcus had gained the angle to ram but Atticus was sacrificing it to avoid the entanglement, needing to get beyond the battle line so he could seek out Barca’s galley. Catulus looked on without a word, not understanding the sudden change, putting his trust in the Greek commander.
‘Centurion Capito to the aft-deck,’ Atticus called, and he saw Septimus respond immediately.
Ten yards.
‘Withdraw!’ Atticus roared, and the helmsman leaned into the tiller, decreasing the angle of attack to stop the ram from penetrating.
The Orcus struck the bow quarter of the enemy galley as Septimus reached the aft-deck, the shuddering blow knocking him off balance, and Atticus shot out his arm to grab him. The ram glanced cleanly off the strake timbers, swinging the stern of the Orcus around. The momentum of her charge carried her down the length of the Carthaginian galley, her cutwater snapping off its starboard oars, the unexpected change of attack throwing the enemy crew into confusion.
‘All oars, re-engage,’ Atticus shouted as the stern emerged into open water and the Orcus continued on, the sea clear all the way to the fringes of the western horizon.
Catulus looked over his shoulder to the crippled Carthaginian galley, its crew shouting challenges to return, their individual voices lost amidst the deafening noise of battle — the sound of galleys striking deadly blows against each other, the crack of timbers and the screams of men. He spun around to Atticus, baffled by the decision to alter their attack at the last moment.
‘Why did we not ram?’ he asked. ‘The marines were ready to board. Now that ship will escape under canvas.’
‘Let them,’ Atticus replied. ‘They are minnows, and I have seen the heart of the enemy.’
He turned to Septimus
‘Barca’s galley is there,’ he said in explanation, pointing to a nearby melee of ships. ‘And we’re going to take her.’
Septimus nodded, agreeing without question, though he knew the flagship would be the most heavily manned galley, remembering the enemy command ship at Mylae.
Atticus ordered the helmsman to bring the ship around and the Orcus turned broadside to the swell before neatly coming about, giving Atticus an uninterrupted view of the battle. It was chaotic, as he knew it would be, but for an instant he thought the Roman fleet looked to have the upper hand, a judgement he knew was fraught with hope. He focused on the confusion of galleys off the port bow quarter, searching for his prey. He thought again of Corin, whose sharp eyes would have seen Barca’s galley by now, and Gaius, whose deft touch on the tiller would have sent the Orcus, like the arrow that slew him, into the heart of the enemy.
Within seconds he saw it again, Barca’s ship, withdrawing its ram from a stricken Roman galley. He shouted the course change to the helmsman, calling once more for ramming speed. The Orcus bore down into the attack, its ram smashing through each rushing wave.
‘You have the aft-deck,’ Atticus said to the helmsman, and he brought his hand to the hilt of his sword as he strode to the main deck, gathering up a hoplon shield as he came up to stand by Septimus’s side. The centurion glanced at his friend and nodded, understanding Atticus’s need to see this fight through to the end.
Septimus looked to the waters ahead and Barca’s galley, the enemy as yet unaware of the Orcus, since its attack run was coming from the reverse side of the battle line. He drew his sword, an action followed by Drusus, his prompt order bringing the legionaries to the cusp of battle, their swords singing out as they swept the blades from their scabbards.
Septimus turned to his men, holding his sword aloft. ‘For Rome!’ he shouted, and the men cheered as one, hammering the back of their shields with their swords, the noise coming to a deafening roar that put steel in each man’s heart for the brutal fight ahead.
‘And for her fallen,’ Atticus said to himself as he drew his own sword amidst the cheering of the legionaries.
The Alissar re-engaged her oars at attack speed, the helmsman swinging the bow away from the flagship’s first blood and Hamilcar cheered in triumph with his crew, memories of Drepana flooding his mind, and the incredible prize that was once more there for the taking, an entire Roman fleet ripe for capture. He looked to the battle beyond the Alissar, already forming in his mind the signal he would send to his ships to ensure that most of the Roman galleys be spared from sinking; but, as he looked out over the portside rail, the smile died on his face.
Not thirty yards away, one of his ships was being overwhelmed by a Roman boarding party, the attack being repeated on a dozen other galleys within his range of view, while others had fallen victim to Roman ramming runs. His own galleys had scored only a handful of hits. Even where they had boarded, the Roman legionaries were pushing back the assault and reversing the attack.
Hamilcar put his hands on the rail for support, a terrible dread overwhelming him. He had believed his understrength crews would still outmatch the hapless Romans, his faith based on his crushing victory at Drepana, but the enemy had come out fighting, somehow overcoming their previous inadequacies in seamanship and naval combat. The doubts that had consumed him after Ecnomus flooded back, deriding him for his blind faith in Carthage’s naval superiority. He felt helpless. How could he defeat such a foe? He had crushed their army at Tunis and their fleet at Drepana. The gods had commanded a tempest to shatter their galleys, and yet each time the Romans had returned, each time eager to fight on, rebuffing any talk of peace, their navy ever renewed, ever undaunted, relentlessly sailing out against every fleet Hamilcar co
uld muster, their strength of will an unconquerable force that knew no bounds.
In the past the Romans had succeeded using their cursed boarding ramps, or at Hermaeum using sheer weight of numbers, but at Drepana Carthage had finally been able to use the one advantage they had always possessed, seamanship, and the result was complete victory. Now it seemed that their one advantage had been surpassed. How had the Romans channelled their resources and strength of will to create a fleet that could outmatch one from the home waters of Carthage, and who amongst them could command such a force?
‘Galley on a ramming course off the starboard beam,’ the lookout called frantically and Hamilcar spun around.
A lone galley sailed stark against the empty seascape, approaching on an unanticipated angle of attack that only the vigilant lookout had spotted, the entire crew sharing their commander’s interest in events on the port side. Hamilcar was stunned and he lost vital seconds as the Roman galley came to within a hundred yards of the Alissar.
‘Hard to starboard, turn into her,’ Hamilcar roared, his wits returning, and he ran to the tiller, putting his weight behind the helmsman’s turn. ‘Ramming speed!’
The Alissar came about swiftly, the sweep of the battle line passing before her bow. Hamilcar kept his eyes on the ram of the lone galley, watching it as it turned inside the Alissar ’s turn, its course ever locked amidships of his galley. His gaze swept up and suddenly his hand fell from the tiller, the sight of the masthead banners triggering an automatic grab for the hilt of his sword.
The Greek’s ship. Perennis.
He was alive, and in an instant Hamilcar’s questions were answered, his doubts falling away to be replaced by cold determination. Here was the enemy: not the forces of Rome, but the demon who had honed their strength.
The gap fell to fifty yards and Hamilcar ran to the main deck, his sword clearing his scabbard as he ran.
‘All hands, brace for impact,’ he shouted. ‘Prepare to repel boarders.’
He moved to the starboard rail, his men bunching behind him, ready for the assault. The oncoming galley filled his field of vision and he threw up his shield as a black rain of spears erupted from the bow of the Greek’s ship, falling heavily on his crew, the barbs finding prey in the massed ranks. His crew yelled in pain and anger, defiance steeling their nerves, and they called on the inexorable fight, eager to repay every injury, every drop of blood.
Hamilcar let them roar, his own mouth clamped shut in a thin line of hatred. The fate of his fleet might be beyond his control. The Alissar was moments from damnation and he could not save her. But Hamilcar vowed that if on this day he should pass under the hand of Mot, the god of death, he would not go alone. The Greek would go before him.
Atticus stood with every muscle tensed, the impact seconds away. His sword felt light in his hand, his shield was held tight against his shoulder and he breathed deeply as the final yards were covered. His mind was filled with the din of battle, and the utter conviction that comes on the cusp of mortal danger, when the spirit has overruled the instinct and committed the warrior to battle, when the enemy’s numbers become inconsequential, their strength irrelevant. Only the man who stands defiant before the warrior matters; in the midst of a greater battle, he fights not for victory but for survival.
Atticus was propelled forward as the Orcus struck home, the deck bucking wildly beneath him, the six-foot bronze ram of the quinquereme driving deeply into the hull of the Carthaginian galley, the air rent with the sound of timbers snapping under the hammer blow and the terrified cries of men who could foresee their death in the cold water that rushed past the ram into the lower decks.
Atticus used the impact to begin his dash to the fore rail, Septimus running at his right shoulder, the legionaries coming on behind like the scourge of Nemesis, bearing retribution for the loss at Drepana. Atticus jumped up on to the rail, never hesitating as he cleared the four foot gap to the main deck of the enemy galley, his shield and sword charged against the Carthaginians who were re-forming after the shock of impact. He slammed into an enemy soldier, his momentum throwing the man back against the throng behind, the Carthaginian ranks attempting to expel the invaders before they could gain a foothold.
Atticus lashed out with all his fury, knowing the first seconds were vital, that the enemy defence had to be checked until the legionaries could board in force. The attackers were few, heavily outnumbered, constricted by the narrow sliver of deck they controlled. The corvus put forty men on an enemy deck in twenty seconds, but now they crossed in twos and threes, and the momentum of their attack stalled as many took the place of fallen legionaries in the front line.
Atticus fought on, ever conscious of the hollow sensation at the base of his spine, the treacherous space behind him, a thin rail separating him from the oblivion of a pitiless sea trapped between two opposing hulls. He struck out low with his sword, concentrating on the enemy in front of him, constantly fighting the temptation to check his exposed flank, knowing he had to trust the legionary at his side, to put his faith in the skill of the man fighting next to him.
The Carthaginian line hardened as the initial strength of the Roman charge was absorbed and Atticus bunched his weight behind his shield as he felt the first counter-surge from deep within the enemy ranks. The pendulum had swung back in the Carthaginians’ favour, their numbers and command of a wider front allowing them to push their ranks forward from the back, giving their front line no choice but to step deeper into the Roman assault in an attempt to push the attack line back in turn.
Atticus heard a roar of command from his side, and out of the corner of his eye he noticed that Septimus stood beside him, the centurion’s voice carrying clearly above the clash of steel and the cries of death and fury. Behind he could hear the deeper tone of Drusus’s voice, urging the men forward against the crush, harnessing the stamina of soldiers bred on the march, their strength halting the Carthaginian surge.
The battle line became compressed, forcing Atticus to shorten his sword thrusts, each riposte and recovery of his blade testing the strength of his sword arm as he drove his weapon back into the fray, a defender not inches from his chest, the man’s eyes locked on Atticus’s, his roar of defiance lost in the noise of battle, the spittle from the Carthaginian’s war cry mingling with the sweat on Atticus’s face as he fought on and on.
The front line was a shambles, a place of butchery, where men’s lives were sacrificed for inches of deck space and the slain fell only where the crush allowed. The deck underfoot was coated with the blood of both sides, the battle line becoming static as the pressure equalized on all sides. The pendulum of advantage had swung back from the Carthaginians, but only to the nadir of its arc. It dangled over the capricious battle line, waiting to see which side would break first.
Hamilcar stood in the midst of his men, calling to them to push ever onwards, to sweep the enemy from the deck of the Alissar, to fight as if the Romans were threatening the very walls of sacred Carthage. His senses picked up the slight tilt in the deck beneath him, his galley already dying, its final demise stayed only by the Roman ram deep within its bowels, keeping the Alissar afloat. It was a realization that put further steel in his heart and he heaved forward with his men, robbing those fighting at the front of the room to wield their swords, sacrificing them in an effort to reverse the Roman attack.
The pressure increased and again Hamilcar called for his line to advance, his breath catching in the crush of men, the grunts and gasps of the heaving mass overcoming the sound of clashing steel in the battle line. Hamilcar looked to the row of Roman helmets not six feet away, his eyes drawn to the tallest man in the centre. He was the centurion who had stood beside the Greek before the battle of Cape Hermaeum.
The sight caused Hamilcar to redouble his efforts and the men around him took heart from the determination of their commander, their war cries reaching a ferocity that emboldened the Carthaginian ranks. The line seemed to tremble, like a bow drawn to its furthest limits, a shudd
ering tension that threatened release, and Hamilcar felt his blood lust intensify as he suddenly took a full step forward, the pressure abating in front of him, his men responding with a savage cheer as the Carthaginian line advanced.
Septimus stared coldly over the leading edge of his shield at the Carthaginian soldier inches from his face, the man screaming a curse in guttural Punic, his face twisted in exertion as he tried to push the Roman line back. Septimus struck out with his sword, blindly judging the angle of attack, and the Carthaginian’s scream turned to one of agony, blood erupting from his mouth as Septimus twisted his blade to savage the flesh and free his sword. The man slumped, unable to fall freely, and Septimus turned his shoulder slightly to clear his sword, ready for the next attack.
The fight seemed unrelenting but, while his legs ached from the effort of holding back the flood of Carthaginian warriors, his sword arm felt tireless, the close-quarter fighting a natural environment for the gladius in his hand, the simple thrust and withdrawal of the blade an almost reflex movement.
His men around him fought without check or mercy, the bodies of the enemy slain laid thick before them, and Septimus judged the Carthaginians were losing two or even three men to every Roman lost. Again the pressure increased and Septimus tensed the muscles on his lower legs, pushing the hobnails on his sandals into the timber deck to give him purchase under the surface of viscous blood and viscera. He was staggered by the intensity of the Carthaginian defence, the sheer blind fury of an enemy that would use the leading edge of their ranks as a ram to break through the Roman line.
A Carthaginian soldier heaved over his fallen comrade and Septimus struck out again, stabbing low, the crush turning his blade off true. He sliced through the edge of his opponent’s inner thigh, a brutal injury that was a death sentence in a fight where rotation out of the battle line was impossible, and Septimus stared into the terrified, pain-twisted face of the Carthaginian before striking out again with impunity, his opponent unable to defend himself in the agony of his injury.
