Master of Rome mots-3

by John Stack

  Septimus withdrew his sword, ready to strike again, when he was arrested by a blood-chilling sensation down the left side of his body. An incredible surge swept through his shield arm and down his leg, a force that surmounted all that had come before, and he felt his body give way under the strain, his mind registering the cheer of the Carthaginians as the entire Roman line was driven back a pace.

  A sudden panic overwhelmed him and he shouted to his men to hold fast, the call taken up by Atticus by his side and Drusus to his rear. It was a forlorn command, and within seconds another foot of deck space was lost. Septimus lashed out with his sword, the blade finding exposed flesh, but the pressure never slackened. Cries of alarm to his rear rang out and he looked over his shoulder through the crush of legionaries that filled the six-foot deep sliver of Roman-held deck. The side rail was giving way and Septimus stared in horror as three men disappeared over the side, their fall to the sea lost in the rising chaos, their deaths sealed by their heavy armour.

  He spun around, his conscious thoughts receding under a terrible fury, and the knuckles of his bloodstained sword hand turned white under the strength of his grip. If his men were to die, they would die fighting the enemy, not like vermin cast overboard. He summoned up the full measure of his will, knowing he had to reverse the momentum of the enemy’s charge.

  ‘Men of the Ninth!’ he yelled, and the legionaries around him looked to their centurion. ‘Prepare to redeploy!’

  They roared in reply, a ferocious affirmation to a commander they had followed into the maw of death.

  ‘Wedge formation!’ Septimus roared, and he immediately twisted his body to the side and shoved forward with all his strength, his shield angled to drive between two Carthaginians to his front in a desperate attempt to negate the enormous strength of the Carthaginian line, to force a breach and give his men a fighting chance.

  Atticus followed Septimus without hesitation, pushing against the Carthaginian to the centurion’s left, his body angled to guard Septimus’s flank. The strength of the Carthaginian line was concentrated in the advance forward while sideways their cohesion was weaker, and the sudden lunge of the wedge formation drove the leading edge deep into the enemy ranks. The legionaries fought with brute aggression, punching their swords into the Carthaginian ranks, and they fed into the back end of the wedge, completely changing the aspect of their attack within seconds.

  The Carthaginians responded, absorbing the initial momentum of the Roman counter-charge, but the respite had been gained; the Romans were no longer threatened with being pushed into the sea. Now the fight was on two wings, their backs to fellow legionaries, but in escaping the fate ordained by the Carthaginians, Septimus had gambled all. If they could not force a breach and split the Carthaginian front, they would be surrounded, and slaughtered like the men who stood their ground at Tunis.

  Atticus grunted as he wrenched his sword free from the flesh of a Carthaginian soldier. His throat was dry, his breathing laboured, and he had a vile taste of blood and sweat in his mouth. His shield arm was numb, with only the straps to his forearm holding the hoplon in place, and his shoulder registered the strike of yet another blade while his body screamed for rest. He retched bile into the back of his throat as his battle lust demanded greater effort.

  He sensed Septimus beside him, the centurion cleaving a path through the enemy ranks, and Atticus fought to keep pace, knowing that if any man were to become isolated he would be overwhelmed in seconds. The tip of the wedge was halfway across the deck and the amorphous Carthaginian formation continued to adapt, concentrating their numbers ahead of the wedge, trying to blunt the head of the attack. But it was a forlorn hope; the Romans would not be stopped and they pressed further on, while overhead the pendulum of battle followed their course.

  Hamilcar shouted to his men to stand fast, his call lost in the din of battle, heard only by those closest to him; their scant numbers could do little to stem the momentum of the Roman advance. He had been moments from victory, but the disciplined Roman soldiers had broken out of his vice and Hamilcar realized that the fate that was befalling his fleet would soon meet his crew. Split in two, Hamilcar knew his men would founder, unable to stand against a wall of Roman legionaries who no longer feared an enemy to their rear. That moment of collapse was but moments away and Hamilcar accepted the inevitable, turning his fury to the fight within a fight he was honour bound to seek.

  He looked to the head of the Roman formation, seeing again the towering stature of the centurion and, at his side, through the crush of men, he saw the Greek’s scarred face. He went to press his way forward but just then he sensed the first ripples of retreat in the men around them, the temper of their war cries changing, many of them glancing over their shoulders, no longer looking to the enemy at hand. He shouted one last time at his men, calling on them to take heart for Carthage and the Alissar, but they were beyond hearing, the instinct to survive resurfacing through the fog of battle lust.

  The Romans reached the far rail and almost as one the Carthaginians stepped back, as if a command had been issued, the seasoned warriors knowing the Romans could no longer be defeated in formation fighting, knowing that from now, each man would stand alone, and that Mot already walked amongst them, selecting those who would be spared and those who would follow him through the gates of the underworld.

  Hamilcar alone stood steady, his eyes locked on the Greek, the separating mass of his men giving him a clear line of vision. Perennis was but ten yards away, his sword charged outward, the Romans already in a line that would sweep the length of the deck. One of Hamilcar’s men bumped against him as he stepped back but Hamilcar ignored him, the command of his men no longer important. He was a warrior of Carthage and his enemy stood before him: nothing else mattered. He drew in a breath, steeling his will for the fight and he roared out a single word of challenge: ‘Perennis!’

  Atticus heard his name clearly and he darted around, seeing Hamilcar standing square while those around him backed away. He reacted without thinking, surging forward from the Roman line, his sword held high as he roared Barca’s name in answer. Behind him he heard the command for the lines to advance, one facing forward and the other aft, but Atticus ignored them. He was unfettered, and the enemy who had taken much from him stood to his fore.

  The Carthaginians were retreating but one turned to challenge Atticus. Without check, he bunched his weight behind his shield and shoved him aside, never taking his eyes off Barca. His brought his sword down and, as he covered the final yards, he saw Barca drop into a defensive crouch, his face a belligerent mask of hatred, his mouth opened wide as he bellowed a war cry.

  Atticus slashed his sword around, using all the force of his momentum to land a strike on Hamilcar’s flank. Hamilcar dropped his shield, accepting the blade, but the force of the blow knocked Hamilcar off balance and he sidestepped before bringing his own sword around, looking to strike the Greek in the flank as he turned into the fight. Atticus parried the blade, circling his sword in a wide arc to expose Hamilcar’s centre, but the Carthaginian sensed the danger and he whipped his sword back to break the contact.

  The two men stepped in to close the distance between them, neither man fighting for space or looking to circle his enemy. Their blind hatred drove them deeper into close combat, their eyes locked on each other, silently repeating the curses and vows of retribution for losses suffered through years of warfare. Hamilcar slammed the edge of his shield into Atticus’s shoulder and stabbed forward with his sword. Atticus reacted reflexively, swiping down with his own weapon, and although he parried the strike, the tip of Hamilcar’s blade sliced across his thigh, drawing first blood.

  Atticus backed off but Hamilcar followed through, never allowing him to regroup, and the Carthaginian used his momentum to begin a series of sequenced strikes, his sword becoming a blur of steel that Atticus could only avoid by giving in to his instincts, his sword arm reacting faster than conscious thought. Again Atticus felt the weight of fatigue but he re
fused to relent, knowing that a second’s respite would cost him his life and leave the deaths of Gaius and Corin unavenged.

  The thought steeled his determination and he stood fast, drawing on Hamilcar’s attack, not willing to give one further step to his enemy. He matched Hamilcar’s ferocity, his strength finding reserves in his will to finally end the fight. He looked for the chance to counter-attack but Hamilcar’s assault never abated, his sword strikes constantly pushing Atticus to defend with ever-increasing desperation. A cold panic crept into his thoughts, a dread terror that Hamilcar was but seconds away from penetrating his defence. He furiously suppressed the growing fear in his mind, searching for a way through, and suddenly he saw a weakness in the Carthaginian’s attack.

  Hamilcar’s blade hammered off his shield and Atticus pushed out against the strike, knocking the Carthaginian’s sword away, exposing his centre. Hamilcar reacted to the threat, bringing his shield in close for the expected sword strike, but instead Atticus suddenly whipped his own shield back around, the heavy iron edging striking Hamilcar in the side of the face, and the Carthaginian wheeled away, stunned by the blow. Atticus seized the chance and stabbed forward with his sword, the tip finding Hamilcar’s exposed right shoulder. The blade punched through his defences, the sword driving deeply into his flesh before Atticus whipped it back, twisting the blade as he did. Hamilcar screamed in pain as he fell to the deck, landing at the foot of the Roman line, which had already advanced halfway across the main deck.

  A legionary made to finish the Carthaginian foe at his feet, but Atticus shot forward, his sword staying the fatal strike as the line advanced beyond the fallen Carthaginian commander.

  ‘Finish it,’ Hamilcar cursed as he looked up at Atticus, his hand clasped over his wound.

  Atticus stared down at his enemy, his thoughts still reeling from the fight, wondering why he had lunged forward to save Hamilcar from the legionary’s blade. Hamilcar saw Atticus’s hesitation and he tried to raise his sword, but Atticus swiped it away with a force that knocked the weapon from his hand and it clattered across the deck. Atticus brought the tip of his sword over Hamilcar’s chest but again he paused. The sounds of cheering and Roman trumpets signalling victory rang through the air.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ Hamilcar demanded angrily.

  Atticus searched his mind for the answer. Hamilcar was beaten, the fight was won, and although his battle lust called for the final strike, he could not deliver it. He thought of Gaius and Corin, of Lucius, and how they had always fought with honour. His enemy lay at his feet, unarmed, and for all the retribution his sword demanded, Atticus knew that if he killed Hamilcar now, the dishonour of slaying a defenceless foe would blacken the memory of the very men he had fought for. He lowered his sword.

  ‘It’s finished,’ he said and he stepped back.

  Hamilcar tried to struggle up, his face etched in pain and anger.

  ‘You would spare me?’ he asked, the dishonour of absolute defeat robbing him of the will to survive the fight.

  Atticus nodded, thinking once more of his fallen crew. ‘I will not kill an unarmed man,’ he said.

  Hamilcar scoffed. ‘Is this Greek honour?’ he asked scornfully.

  ‘No,’ Atticus replied. ‘Roman.’

  And he turned away, sheathing his sword as he did so, the base of the hilt slamming home against the locket of the scabbard, a solid strike that marked the end of the fight. He walked over to the side rail, stepping over the slain as he did, Roman and Carthaginian, their lives given in the final act of a bloody war. Beyond was the restless sea, its surface churned by a wind that swept the stench of battle from the air, its black depths oblivious to the fate of men who had fought to call themselves masters of its domain.

  EPILOGUE

  The chariots moved slowly through the petal-filled air, the horses nodding their heads skittishly as the deafening roar of the crowd washed over the triumphal march. The narrow streets were festooned with decorations and the spear tips of the legionaries brushed against the low hanging garlands, their ranks compressed by the cheering masses that lined the route to the Forum Magnum.

  Caius Lutatius Catulus, the junior consul, rode in the van, his chariot succeeded by a hundred slaves, carrying aloft a single Carthaginian bronze ram as a symbol of his victory, a prize that would take a place of honour at the foot of the column raised by Duilius after his victory at Mylae. He wore a purple toga, a symbol of victory, and he raised his hand to the sound of trumpets as he emerged from the street into the Forum.

  Behind the consul’s entourage, Atticus stood tall in his chariot with Septimus by his side, the IV of Ninth marching as a guard of honour in their wake, Drusus at the head of the maniple, his stern face at odds with the ecstatic expressions of the crowd. Both men were silent, any conversation impossible in the tumult, and they looked in awe upon the incredible outpouring of joy from the citizenry of Rome.

  Carthage had been defeated and made subject to an unequal peace; the island of Sicily had been gained and the enemy forced to pay an indemnity of 2,200 Euboean talents each year for the next twenty years, a staggering sum that would fill the coffers of the city and end the taxes levied for the war.

  The Roman prisoners taken at Tunis and Drepana had been returned, reuniting men thought dead with their families, while the Carthaginians had paid extortionate ransoms for the return of their own. Though many of them had already been returned to Africa, Catulus had insisted on delaying the departure of a select few so they could be paraded in his triumphal march.

  Hamilcar marched at the head of this group, followed by the senior commanders and noble-born captains of his fleet. His head was held high, an outward display of pride that he could not marshal, and his gaze bored into the back of the Greek, Perennis, and the Roman centurion by his side. His father had paid a crippling sum for his release, a shame that went unfelt in a heart cauterized by defeat and ignominy. What remained was utter hatred, and Hamilcar felt his lungs burn with every breath he took of the cursed air of Rome.

  The torment was pitiless, the crowds around him jeering and spitting curses in a language that had become abhorrent to his ear. His thoughts turned to home and his sons and how he would have to stand before them. Hasdrubal and Mago were too young to understand, but Hannibal was astute beyond his years and he would understand his father’s humiliation. It was a realization that fed Hamilcar’s hatred and he had already decided he would not shield his boys from the truth. In time they would all know of his hatred for Rome; it would become central to their characters, their ambitions and their loyalty. Carthage would always have enemies, in Africa, Iberia or beyond, but for Hamilcar, the Barcid clan would bay only for the blood of one people, the Romans, and he held close the hope that one day the sons of Hamilcar Barca would exact a terrifying measure of revenge in the name of Carthage.

  Atticus stepped off the back of his chariot at the foot of the Curia steps. He began to ascend with Septimus by his side, the cheers of the crowd increasing as they recognized the commander of the fleet and his centurion. Their names were known throughout Rome, endlessly proclaimed by the orators hired by Duilius to stand at the corners of every Forum, and the crowd surged forward against the cordon of legionaries.

  Atticus walked with his eyes upturned to the top of the steps and towards the assembled leaders of Rome: Aulus Postumius Albinus, the senior consul in the centre, Catulus by his side and, behind them both, Duilius, who nodded with a smile as he caught Atticus’s eye. Atticus had trod this path before, after the battle of Mylae, but so much had changed since then. On that day, Duilius had offered him a place by his side in the heart of the city, but Atticus had declined, believing he would never call Rome his home, that his destiny lay elsewhere. Now he was about to confound that belief and forever bind his fate to Rome’s. He turned at the top of the steps and looked out over the crowd, hearing his name amongst those shouted in celebration, the sound filling his heart with pride.

  The senior consul stretched ou
t his arms and the noise abated to a clamorous din. Albinus began his speech, his words reaching only those at the front of the crowd. He spoke of Catulus and the defeat of the Carthaginian fleet, of the strength of Rome and how none could stand against her, and how Sicily was merely the beginning of a new and incredible opportunity for the Republic to expand its borders across the sea that had once marked the boundary of their ambitions.

  The crowd roared in support, their cheers rippling across the breath of the Forum, an infectious celebration that touched even those who could not hear the consul’s words. Albinus called for quiet once more and he ordered Atticus to stand before him.

  ‘Citizens of Rome, people of the Republic,’ he announced. ‘Today we honour one man who stands shoulder to shoulder with Consul Catulus, a man who commanded the fleet to victory and made safe the future of this city. For this deed and all others, I hereby declare Atticus Milonius Perennis to be a citizen of Rome of the equestrian class.’

  Again the crowd roared in approval, their cheers reaching a crescendo as the senior consul took Atticus’s hand. Amidst the tumult, the senators nearest to Atticus offered their congratulations. Atticus smiled as Duilius stepped forward, knowing that the senator had orchestrated the endowment of citizenship, and they shook hands as they had many times before, as allies and friends. Atticus turned and sought out Septimus, the centurion shouldering his way through a knot of senators to reach his friend and they stood before each other.

  ‘Welcome to Rome, citizen,’ Septimus said with a smile, and Atticus laughed as he took his friend’s hand.

  Septimus stretched out his other hand and turned Atticus towards the crowd.

  ‘Down there,’ he said, and he indicated the front row of the crowd at the foot of the steps.