Ship of Rome mots-1

by John Stack

  ‘We do not know what lies ahead for our fleet. At the very least we will be called upon to raise a blockade. We might even meet the Carthaginian fleet in battle. In either case you will need all your resources to stay alive and in the fight. The Aquila has three hundred and thirty men on board, two hundred and forty rowers, thirty sailors and sixty marines. She has fought in many battles and has survived them all. That is because I know that each man on board is valuable in the fight. To ignore any part of your crew is to doom your ship. The lesson is this…Know your ship. Know your crew. Know your strength.’

  Septimus woke at the sound of the clarion call announcing the start of a new day. He sat up on the cot in the cramped tent and reached out for the water basin on the ground. It was half full and he emptied the contents over his head, the cold water barely penetrating the deep fatigue he felt. Over the past two days he had had fewer than four hours’ sleep each night. Silanus continued to frustrate his attempts to properly prepare the legionaries of the V maniple, and so Septimus had stepped up the hours of training in an effort to force the issue. It was not working, and Septimus had realized during the night that he would have to confront Silanus once and for all.

  As Septimus walked out into the dawn light, the V maniple were forming on the training square for roll call, the procedure carried out with practised efficiency before the men were released for breakfast. Each contubernia of soldiers shared a single tent and the men ate in their groups, the arrangement more efficient in a temporary camp. Septimus noticed Silanus walking towards his own tent and moved to intercept him.

  ‘Silanus!’

  The centurion turned to the call and his expression immediately became dismissive as Septimus approached him.

  ‘We need to talk,’ he said.

  ‘Really,’ Silanus replied with a sneer, ‘about what, marine?’ Again the last word was spat out, but Septimus ignored the gibe.

  ‘About the training, about how your men aren’t ready for battle, not against an enemy trained on the deck of a galley where a legion’s formations count for naught.’

  ‘So you say, marine. I say my men are unmatched in combat and no matter how differently the Carthaginians fight, even one to one, my men won’t be beaten.’

  Septimus smiled, although the smile did not reach his eyes. Silanus had taken the bait.

  ‘Would you be willing to test that assertion in single combat?’ Septimus asked. ‘You against me?’

  ‘Gladly,’ Silanus nodded, returning Septimus’s smile with the same underlying enmity. He made to turn but Septimus grabbed his sword arm, arresting him.

  ‘But if I win,’ Septimus continued, ‘I want your word that you and your men will submit to the training.’

  Silanus looked wary. ‘And if I win?’ he replied.

  ‘Then I’ll back down and concede that your men are without equal.’

  Again Silanus nodded, jerking his arm to release Septimus’s grip, a malicious grin once more on his face, and walked away.

  Septimus watched him go before turning to find Quintus standing behind him. His optio moved forward.

  ‘Your orders, Centurion?’ he asked.

  ‘Form up the men around the training square, Quintus,’ Septimus said with a smile. ‘I’ll be teaching the first lesson today.’

  Fifteen minutes later the legionaries of the V were formed on three sides of the square with the Aquila’s twenty marines occupying the fourth side. The shouts of encouragement were sporadic as bets were exchanged between the marines and the legionaries, the odds agreed as even. Septimus and Silanus stood at the centre of the square, six feet apart as each limbered up, their heavy wooden training swords swinging with ever-increasing speed as the tempo of calls from the crowd increased. Quintus stepped forward between the two fighters and drew his sword, holding it straight out between them until both were ready. With a flash he dropped his blade and withdrew, the shouts from the crowd reaching a crescendo as the fight began.

  Septimus studied Silanus’s movements as the two began to circle, noticing immediately that although he was right-handed, his body was finely balanced, the natural weakness of his left trained out of him many years before. Silanus moved with practised ease, confident of his ability and yet not rushing his attack, sizing up Septimus with every turn, weaving his sword from side to side to distract the marine. The two men continued to circle.

  ‘The Fourth Legion, the boars – right, Silanus?’ Septimus said, his words breaking the silence between the men although they were surrounded by a wall of sound.

  ‘What?’ Silanus said after a moment, his face betraying the break in his concentration.

  ‘You’re a man of the Fourth? A boar. One of the boars of Rome?’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ Silanus replied, the need to do so automatic.

  ‘Then what does that make your mother?’ Septimus said, loudly enough only for the centurion to hear.

  Silanus’s face was mottled with anger as he tore into the fight, the words striking rage into his heart. Septimus had been ready for the strike but he was shocked by the sheer speed of the movement, his anticipation of the style of attack saving him, giving his reactions the extra time needed to counter the lunge. Silanus had attacked in the manner of the legions, albeit in a stylized way born out of adaptation to one-to-one combat. He had feigned to his left, where training dictated he lunge with his shield, before following through with the sword in his right hand. Septimus countered the stroke before backing off, the centurion following him step for step, keeping the pressure up, raining blow after blow on the marine.

  The cheers from the legionaries of the Fourth becoming ever more strident as Silanus moved in for the kill, Septimus continuing to give ground before the furious centurion, waiting for the perfect time to counterattack. The moment came without warning and Septimus shifted the balance of his stance as he made ready. Where before Silanus had randomized his strikes, the sustained attack on Septimus had made his movements rhythmical, the years of training overcoming his individual style to reassert itself over his actions. It was the failure of all men of the legions in one-to-one combat and was the first lesson Atticus had taught Septimus on the Aquila. In one-to-one combat, predictability was death.

  Septimus allowed the centurion one more strike, his mind predicting the blow long before it began. Then he counter attacked.

  Septimus sidestepped the next expected strike and parried Silanus’s blade, breaking the centurion’s rhythm. He immediately followed with a thrust to the centurion’s groin, a killing blow that forced Silanus to react swiftly, his body turned off balance. Septimus reversed the strike at the last moment and brought the blade higher to the centurion’s stomach, again forcing Silanus to further shift off balance to counter the stroke, the original feint slowing his reactions. Silanus’s twisted torso exposed his kidneys and Septimus struck beneath the centurion’s extended sword at his lower back. The centurion grunted loudly as the tip of the heavy wooden sword struck his kidneys, driving a sharp pain into his stomach and chest. He immediately withdrew, pain etched on his face.

  Now the men of the Aquila were cheering with blood lust as Septimus pressed home his attack, this time Silanus giving ground as the marine rained unpredictable blows on him. Septimus’s training on the Aquila came to the fore as the marine gave full vent to the conditioning of his combat instincts, while Silanus’s reactions became erratic as desperation crept into his defence as he fought to break the cycle of attack. Septimus feigned a strike to the centurion’s lower left side and suddenly thrust his sword upwards, the point driving towards Silanus’s face. The centurion reacted instinctively, without thought to the consequences, and whipped his sword up, swiping Septimus’s blade away but leaving his entire torso exposed. Septimus circled his blade around the sideswipe and brought the blade under Silanus’s arm, turning his body around as he did to put maximum momentum behind what he knew would be the last strike. The flat blade of the wooden sword slammed into Silanus’s stomach with a force that drove the
wind from his lungs, and he pitched forward over the sword, falling heavily on all fours, his own sword thrown from his hand by the strength of the impact.

  Septimus stepped back from the defeated centurion and turned to his men, holding his sword aloft in victory. He made to walk over to them when a hand on his shoulder arrested him. He turned to find Silanus facing him, the centurion still hunched forward with his hand over his stomach.

  ‘By the gods, Septimus, you fight like Pluto, like the lord of the underworld himself,’ Silanus gasped as he drew himself to his full height, proffering his hand as he did so.

  ‘The same way the Carthaginians fight,’ Septimus said, accepting Silanus’s hand, noting for the first time a look of respect on the centurion’s face.

  Silanus nodded and turned towards his men, barking orders at them to form up and prepare for the day’s training.

  Septimus smiled as Quintus came up and slapped him on the shoulder. The twenty galleys would be ready to sail within days and the rumour around the camp was that the senior consul was taking the galleys to the castrum at Ostia where they would make a great show of arriving and disembarking. If Ostia was to become the new home for the V maniple of the Fourth, Septimus would arrange for his optio, Quintus, to accompany them to continue the training, safe in the knowledge that finally he had an ally in Silanus. With the completion of the entire fleet still weeks away, time was on their side, time enough to teach the legionaries of the Fourth the vital skills they would need to survive the treacherous decks of a Carthaginian galley.

  Gaius Duilius rose from his bed at the sound of the incessant knocking on his bedroom door.

  ‘Who is it?’ he shouted irritably, trying to judge the time from the light in the room. It was just after dawn.

  The door burst open and his senior servant, Appius, entered, followed by one of his spies from the camp, a carpenter named Calvus. Duilius rose as they rushed across the floor, their agitation obvious.

  ‘They sail today, my lord,’ Calvus said, his anxiety etched on his face.

  ‘Today?’ Duilius replied. ‘All reports said tomorrow, the fourth day!’

  ‘That was the plan as everyone knew it, the schedule that Tuditanus had kept us to and swore us not to reveal to anyone – lest the enemy become aware of our plans,’ Calvus explained, ‘but last evening as we prepared to end our day, Tuditanus himself ordered the work to continue overnight. We were ordered to stay at our posts and finish the work by firelight.’

  ‘Why was I not informed of this?’ Duilius asked, turning to Appius. ‘Why didn’t one of the other spies report this?’

  Appius was speechless.

  ‘We were all ordered to remain in camp last night on pain of death,’ Calvus interjected, ‘so none could spread the news beyond Fiumicino. I was only allowed to leave when the work was completed.’

  Duilius swore at the simplicity of the plan that had thwarted him. By forcing the craftsmen and slaves to work overnight they had pushed the schedule forward twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours that Duilius had been planning on using to arrange a ‘surprise’ inspection by him and some of the senior senators. Once at camp the next day, the fourth day, they would all see the fleet was indeed ready to sail and Duilius would pursue the offer Scipio had made in the Senate to allow Duilius to sail with the fleet when she first put to sea. That plan was now frustrated, ruined by Scipio’s simple change in the schedule. Duilius cursed his lack of foresight.

  ‘Shall I saddle your horse?’ Appius asked.

  At first Duilius did not hear the question, furious as he was at being outmanoeuvred.

  ‘What?’ he asked, his mind still not in the moment.

  Appius repeated the question.

  ‘No,’ Duilius said, realizing that to turn up in Fiumicino alone without senatorial backup would be useless, his rank as junior consul second to Scipio’s.

  Duilius dismissed the two men and began pacing his room. He forced his mind to quiet so he could examine the problem from every angle. There was no solution; nothing to stop Scipio making his triumphant entrance into Ostia. Duilius might have won the first round in the Senate when he forced Scipio to back down over the command of the fleet, but the senior consul had won the second, a round that would give Scipio the backing of the people of Rome.

  ‘Today?’ Lucius said, disbelieving. He had been about to get the Aquila under way when his captain had came up to him on the aft-deck, his expression uneasy.

  ‘Yes, today,’ Atticus repeated, ‘I’ve just received the orders.’

  ‘But why the haste?’ Lucius asked.

  ‘Who knows?’ Atticus replied. ‘All I can be sure of is that the trainees aren’t ready. I’m going to have to confront Tuditanus again – at least make him agree to continue the training at Ostia.’

  ‘I’ll row you ashore,’ Lucius offered, and both men strode to the main deck and climbed down to a tethered skiff. Within minutes they were on the beach.

  The activity around them seemed chaotic as the two men ascended the beach towards the camp prefect’s tent. Sailors clambered over the decks of the twenty galleys to install the running rigging of each, and the voices of the boatswains so recently taught on the Aquila could be heard shouting orders to the men who scrambled to obey. Atticus surveyed the ship closest to him and studied the near-finished arrangement of ropes. The rigging, to a casual eye, looked perfect, but Atticus quickly spotted a mistake, one that would only become apparent when the crew tried to raise sail. The boatswain had used the wrong sequence in completing the rigging and the lifting yard would foul the instant the crew tried to raise it aloft. He shook his head at the sight. The crews were simply not ready yet.

  The activity around the boat explained the sailors’ haste. In front of each galley, slaves were laying out cylindrical logs on the hard-packed sand. The logs stretched out a hundred yards in front of each ship and led down to the water line, now at low tide. The galleys were suspended two feet off the ground on a timber frame that had supported the hull during construction, and logs were now placed in the gap beneath, leaving a space of six inches. As the last logs were put in place in front of the ship nearest to Atticus and Lucius, whip cracks filled the air and the slaves, at least three hundred in total, took the strain of the ropes tethered to the galley. With a mighty effort the ship was pulled forward on her frame, the action snapping the timbers of the frame until the galley crashed the six inches onto the logs underneath. More slaves rushed forward to clear the majority of the debris, even as the galley lurched forward on its way to the water line, the gentle slope of the beach aiding its progress. Atticus could see that within the hour all twenty galleys would be at the lower end of the beach, awaiting the tide that would free them from the land.

  The two sailors of the Aquila were so engrossed by the unfolding scene that they did not notice the horsemen stationed fifty yards beyond them, the group also watching the galleys being made ready. Scipio turned to Tuditanus.

  ‘You’ve done well, Prefect.’

  Tuditanus’s eyebrow raised at the rare compliment, although he was sure not to let the senior consul see the gesture.

  ‘Thank you, Senior Consul. I have sent word to the legion’s camp to have the men made ready. The tide rises rapidly in this area, so the galleys will be afloat within three hours.’

  ‘Good,’ Scipio replied, his voice and expressions once more minimal. He calculated the time in his mind. All being well, he would be rounding the headland at Ostia before noon.

  Demades stood to attention as his task was dictated to him. He was not a military man – in fact he had never held a weapon in his hand in all his forty years; however, the stance seemed appropriate given the rank of the man speaking to him. The Carthaginian admiral had arrived unexpectedly an hour before, compelling Demades to race from his residence to the Council chamber, all the while fearing the worst, unable to think of a reason why Hannibal Gisco would want to visit the tiny island.

  Lipara, which was also the name of the only city
on the island, was located twenty-four miles off the northern coast of Sicily and was the largest of a group of eight islands. The island had been occupied since ancient times, primarily because of the hard black volcanic glass, obsidian, which was abundant under the soil. Its cutting edge had been prized by the inhabitants of the mainland, and the trade had made the otherwise insignificant island an important centre for commerce. The coming of iron had eradicated the trade in obsidian, but the islanders had adapted and now sold volcanic pumice to the rich inhabitants of the Roman Republic.

  The arrival of the Carthaginians two years before had originally caused great consternation to the inhabitants of Lipara, not least to their senior councillor, Demades, who saw their coming as the death knell for their trade and for the Council that controlled both the trade and government of the island. In the event, the Carthaginians had had little impact on the lives of the ordinary people, who simply switched their trading routes to serve the empire of Carthage. Never before, however, had a senior Carthaginian figure been in the city, least of all the supreme commander of their entire army and navy. It was for that reason that Demades had attended Gisco personally, one leader to another. Demades had tried to take the upper hand in the meeting – after all, Lipara was his city and he was the senior councillor – however, within a heartbeat, Gisco’s overpowering will had cowed him and thereafter he listened in silence.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Admiral, but you want me to do what?’ Demades asked as Gisco got to the crux of his plan.

  ‘I want you to travel to Rome and announce to their Senate that Lipara wishes to switch allegiance to the Roman cause,’ Gisco repeated, annoyed with the awkward fool before him.

  Gisco had met many like Demades before, and all had proved to be the same, big fish in small ponds. It was only when a bigger fish arrived that men like Demades realized that their power over a small city was naught when compared to the military might of an empire such as Carthage’s. Even in the face of this reality, however, Gisco had always noticed that these men still clung to the opinion that they were somehow equal to him. They were not, and in the past Gisco had been forced to draw blood to prove the point. It was only because Demades had been to Rome before and his face was known to all the traders that Gisco did not kill him now and replace him with an imposter. The traders would testify to the legitimacy of his claim to be the senior councillor of Lipara, a legitimacy that was required if the Senate was to be won over.