“Be advised, Centurion Savium,” the alert filtered back from the bow officer. “We have two Empire ships-of-war along the coast.”
Flictus Savium moved to the port side rail and allowed his eyes to scan the coastline. He sighted two Empire triremes just as they carved a U-turn in the water.
“What do you think, First Principale,” Savium, the ship’s senior officer, asked. “Can we catch them?”
“We could try, sir,” the deck officer admitted. “But they have a head start. And…”
He paused while looking beyond the Centurion at the retreating ships-of-war.
“And what? Go ahead and say it,” Savium encouraged. “That they are better? That their oars move together as if they are feathers on wings of a bird of prey?”
“I wouldn’t be that poetic,” the First Principale suggested. “But yes, sir. The Qart Hadasht oarsmen are too good for us to catch.”
“At least they don’t know the rest of the fleet is behind us,” the ship’s Centurion reasoned wrongly. “We may yet catch their fleet unaware.”
Flictus Savium pried his eyes away from the swift enemy ships-of-war and focused on the mast of the fore sail and the long beam attached to it.
“Find me, Sisera,” he instructed the first deck officer.
The Marine Optio and the five squad leaders talked only with their Legionaries. His sailors, like the oarsmen, also stuck with their own. Centurion Sisera, on the other hand, talked to everyone. The weapons’ instructor might be on the upper deck bent in a conversation or down on the rower’s walk, manning an oar and talking with rowers.
The First Principale shouted across the deck and down to the second officer, “Centurion Sisera to the steering platform. Centurion Sisera to the steering platform.”
It always amazed Flictus Savium that a man could disappear on a ship that was just one hundred forty-eight feet long and only twenty-four feet wide.
Shortly after the call, Centurion Sisera appeared from below deck. Soaked in sweat from taking a turn on an oar, the weapons’ instructor pulled a tunic over his head. Before it fell completely, the ship’s Centurion noticed the battle scars on the young man’s body.
“Sir, you called?” Alerio asked while saluting.
“You don’t have to call me sir or salute,” Savium advised. “We’re both Centurions.”
“Your ship, your rules, your command,” Alerio replied.
“That beam of yours,” Savium questioned while indicating the corvus. “will it work in war as well as it did in the war games.”
“I can’t imagine a foe more slippery than First Tribune Lubricum, sir. Except this time, they will really be looking to gut your ship,” Alerio answered. “You get us close. The Marines will spike the Qart Hadasht ship-of-war as sure as a hungry Legionary spears a catfish in a shallow pond. And earn you glory, ship’s Centurion.”
“And you?” Savium asked. “A chance to collect more accolades.”
“Not interested, Centurion Savium,” Alerio remarked. “I only care about protecting the citizens of the Republic and the occasional feast. Is there anything else?”
“No. Your confidence is contagious. I just hope it’s warranted,” Savium answered. “Dismissed.”
Alerio walked to the ladder and used it to go back to the rower’s walk. Apparently, Centurion Sisera had not finished rowing or whatever he was doing down there.
“Maintain your heading,” Savium ordered. “and remind the bow officer to keep sharp.”
“Are we going after them?” the First Principale inquired. He motioned at the tiny shapes of the Qart Hadasht ships-of-war.
“We’re going to herd them away from our fleet. They only saw ten ships. I want to keep it that way,” Savium informed his first deck officer. Then he glanced to the stern. “I don’t see our second line.”
“Maybe they were late getting off the beach,” the First Principale suggested.
“Maybe,” Savium considered. “Time to let Favonius do the work. Unroll the sails and save the rowers. Signal the squadron.”
Upon the signal from squadron commander Savium, the ten warships of the forward line increased their rowing tempo. When the First Principales felt the ships matched the wind, they ordered the sails raised and the oars shipped.
Below deck on the Deimos’ Claw, the oarsmen pulled in their oars and reached for waterskins. While the God Favonius filled the sails with a westerly wind, Alerio Sisera stood from the rower’s bench and thanked the men of the engine for the workout.
***
Hannibal Gisco drummed his hands on the tabletop. Flesh pounding on polished wood sent banging noises echoing off the walls. The sharp sounds caused the thirteen Group Lieutenants of the fleet to face in the Admiral’s direction.
“Tell me again,” he commanded. “Why shouldn’t I be worried about the Republic fleet?”
“Their quinqueremes are heavy,” one group leader informed him. “Over built with thick beams and heavy hull boards. They are sluggish and slow to maneuver. We’ll be among them, gouging their ships with our rams before they can respond.”
“And Admiral, their oarsmen are inexperienced,” another fleet Lieutenant added. “They are years behind the experience of our crews. And not just the rowers but their commanders. I perceive no real threat from the amateurish Latians.”
“Back in Carthage, I heard the same talk about their Legions at dinner parties,” Admiral Gisco stated. “They had only fought tribes and provincial wars, the bragging went. No home-grown militia of farmers could stand against the might of our Empire.”
Hannibal Gisco rubbed his chin with a palm while reaching out with the other hand for a map of Sicilia. He tapped a finger on the town of Milazzo.
“We are here with one hundred and thirty ships-of-war. According to my collective brain trust, that should be enough to overwhelm the Republic fleet,” he proclaimed. “Gentlemen, I am not going to make the same errors our ground commanders did. I will see these floating blocks of wood and the inept ship handling for myself. Then we will sink them fast, and not get into a long-protracted battle with the Republic fleet.”
***
To the Legionaries and Centurions, General Gaius Duilius appeared cool and efficient. The type of commander they would follow to Hades and back. Even the Tribunes admitted that for one without a family name, Gaius Duilius handled himself and his affairs professionally. What he never let show was the pressure from the Senate on him to win, especially with Consul Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio a prisoner of the Empire. As a testament to the scrutiny, they had not elected a replacement for Scipio. Thus, all the expectations for a successful campaign season fell on the shoulders of Gaius Duilius.
“Centurion follow the first line out,” Duilius instructed. “I want to be close when we sight the enemy.”
“Yes, General,” Ship’s Centurion Pliny responded. He wanted to remind the General that there was a set pattern in place for launching from the beach. However, a ship’s Centurion did not argue with a General. Instead, Pliny ordered his first deck officer. “First Principale, launch us, now.”
“General, I must protest,” First Centurion Rogatoris complained. “It’s bad enough I don’t have my full Century available to protect you. But you are needlessly putting yourself in harm’s way by rowing with the first attack line.”
“What kind of commander doesn’t push to the front for a view of their foe?” Duilius asked.
“As you wish, sir,” Rogatoris responded. He went to speak to his forty First Century veterans. Under his breath, he responded to Duilius’ question. “A live commander, General.”
Kratos' Republic scraped off the pebbles of the beach, dipped oars, and glided away from shore. Named for the God of Sovereign rule, the warship was the perfect choice for a Consul of the Republic.
Unfortunately, the early launch of the Kratos confused the three squadrons of the second line. They hesitated, believing there must be new sailing orders coming from Fleet Praetor Sudoris. Seeing the second line s
till on the beach, the squadrons of the third line also delayed their launch.
While thirty warships and General Duilius' flagship confidently sailed west, believing they led a fleet, seventy confused quinqueremes and a handful of triremes rested on the shoreline.
***
The Qart Hadasht triremes waited until the last moment before backstroking. As a result, they hit the beach at Milazzo hard and the messengers leaping from the stern appeared to be ejected. Despite the sudden landing, they hit the sand running and sprinted for Admiral Gisco’s headquarters.
A short time later, they were ushered into Gisco’s office.
“The vanguard is reaching the Messina strait, Admiral,” one announced.
“Ten to a line,” the other added. “Estimated, thirty Republic warships, sir.”
“That’s all?” he questioned. “I was told they had assembled over a hundred warships.”
“It could be some are struggling to make the journey from Ostia,” fleet Lieutenant Ahinadab suggested. “It is a difficult trip.”
The other Group Lieutenants chuckled at the absurd notion that following a coastline was hard. Admiral Gisco allowed the laughter. Although Ahinadab’s family was close to his, Hannibal wanted the young fleet Lieutenant seasoned. And a good way was to take ribbing from your peers.
“Where is Captain Ahumm?” Gisco asked.
“He’s on the beach with your ship, sir,” another Lieutenant remarked.
“Launch three Groups,” Gisco instructed. “And tell my Captain to ready my septireme. I’m going to have a look at the Republic fleet.”
Chapter 33 – Confidence Kills
As if one hundred mini banners, strips of blue silk flapped in the morning breeze. The other end of the silk flags circled and wrapped around conical steel helmets. Below the polished headgear, the Qart Hadasht mercenaries of Admiral Gisco’s personal guard lined the side rails of the septireme.
Their armor and shields were of uniform quality but a slightly darker shade of blue than the Admiral’s robe. And while the blue armor showed excellent workmanship, they didn’t come close to the richness of the gold thread sewn into the Admiral’s gown. The color scheme gave the stately guards the look of statues arranged around the deck and identified them as a unit dedicated to Hannibal Gisco.
“Captain Ahumm, let’s go review the Republic fleet,” Hannibal directed while pointing out to sea with a carved staff of dark wood capped by an ivory figurine.
Captain Ahumm gave orders to the first officer. Then oarsmen on the beach shoved the huge ship-of-war into the surf. Once afloat, oars set in banks of seven rowers dipped and propelled the septireme away from land. The heads and shoulders of the top tier of rowers was visible from the stern steering deck.
“With any luck, the Goddess Kore will bless us this morning,” Hannibal Gisco remarked.
“The Maiden, Admiral?” Ahumm inquired.
“Let’s see if she will allow us to harvest a few of their ships,” Gisco clarified. “before we sink the rest of the Republic’s fleet.”
“Very good, sir,” Ahumm replied.
An escort of three triremes launched and took up positions behind the flagship. They were there for two reasons. To run messages to Groups and to defend the septireme from attack. Before Admiral Gisco’s ship reached the mouth of the wide bay at Milazzo, thirty more ships-of-war pushed off and followed.
Hannibal Gisco looked to the stern as the ships eased into the water. Although only a quarter of his fleet, the Admiral was confident three Groups would be enough to pound the upstart Latian fleet into submission.
“We command the seas,” Gisco announced while facing forward and gazing at the blue horizon. “Granted to the Qart Hadasht people by the God Yam-Nahar, the oceans are ours. We honor the God of the Sea. Through his grace, we cannot fail.”
***
Ship’s Centurion Savium felt the Deimos’ Claw lurch sideways under his feet. Forward or even backward could be accounted for by strokes from the oars. But movement to the side gave him a start.
“Helm. What was that?” he asked.
“The Massina strait has reversed its flow,” the rear oarsman explained. “We are beyond the current but the ships behind us will be shoved northward. Not by much, sir, but enough to delay them.”
“Should we begin circling?” the First Principale inquired.
“No. I don’t want to tip off the Qart Hadasht fleet by lingering at the strait,” Flictus Savium advised. “Let’s continue to press those Empire triremes. At least as far as Milazzo, then we’ll go into a circular pattern and wait for the fleet.”
Confident, that except for a few ships-of-wars, the majority of the Qart Hadasht fleet remained at Palermo, Savium guided the Republic’s three squadrons westward along the coast of Sicilia.
***
Gaius Duilius threaded between the ninety Legionaries sprawled on the deck of Kratos' Republic. Once he reached the bow, he scanned the horizon.
“Where are the vanguard squadrons, Third Principale?” The General asked when he couldn’t locate any of his ships.
“Sir. I have only caught a brief glimpse of the third line, sir,” the nervous junior deck officer replied.
It was mostly addressing a Consul of the Republic that upset him. But the two scowling veteran Legionaries who went everywhere with the General added to the tension.
“How far ahead are they?” Duilius inquired.
“Sir, over three and one quarter miles,” the Third Principale responded. “We’ll catch up when they pause at Mylae off the coast of Milazzo.”
“And the squadrons following?” Duilius questioned.
“Sir, I haven’t noticed any trailing in our wake,” the young deck officer admitted. “But my focus has been forward and not to stern, sir.”
“Very good,” Duilius said before threading his way back to the steering deck.
While maneuvering between sprawled infantrymen, the General peered at the horizon. There were none of his warships in sight and that was curious. But he wasn’t worried. The Empire’s fleet was headquartered at Palermo over one hundred and twenty miles to the west.
***
“Stand by to lower sails,” Captain Ahumm instructed his second in command. “We’ll take advantage of the morning breeze. And save our oarsmen.”
The Empire septireme crossed the bay under oars. Just before rounding the point of land that jetted out at Mylae, the sails puffed out with wind and the oars were drawn into the hull. From the steady drum beat of strokes, the Empire ship fell silent except for the rush of water brushing against the hull.
On board the Republic’s Deimos’ Claw, the Third Principale studied the land mass poking out into the water. There were a few beaches suitable for hulls but most of the coastline on the low finger of land was rocky.
It almost didn’t register when the tops of sails appeared over the land mass. Before the young bow officer could shout a warning to ship’s Centurion Savium, the biggest Qart Hadasht ship-of-war he had ever seen rounded the point.
As soon as the septireme reached the end of the hook of land, the bow lookout screamed, “Republic warships, dead ahead.”
By then the Third Principale found his voice and shouted, “Qart Hadasht ship-of-war, ahead off our port side.”
Act 9
Chapter 34 – Spiked Islands
Ship’s Centurion and squadron leader Flictus Savium pivoted to face the First Principale.
“Bring us about and signal the squadron to fold back,” Savium barked.
“It’s only one ship-of-war,” the deck officer suggested.
“A septireme is a command vessel,” Savium informed him. “I fear we have found the Qart Hadasht fleet. Or rather, they have found us.”
The ten quinqueremes of the first squadron carved a half circle in the water. Behind them, the second line of Republic warships mirrored the maneuver. Except for two equipped with corvus ramps. They closed in on the third ship with a boarding ramp, the Deimos’ Claw.
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“Can we out row them, sir?” a navigator inquired upon seeing ranks of Empire ships sweep around the big septireme.
“The Empire ships-of-war are lighter and faster,” Savium explained. “We have to fight. Or they will run us down like a pack of wolves on a herd of deer.”
When the first line neared the third squadron, Savium ordered a reversal of course.
“First Principale. Signal a separation between the corvus ramp ships,” Savium ordered. As the ramp carrying warships spread apart, they moved to the front of the attack line. Vulnerably positioned, three warships appeared to be a sacrifice of some kind.
While the situation developed, Savium glanced at his deck. Not seeing who he was looking for, the ship’s Centurion demanded, “Someone, find Centurion Sisera for me.”
Flictus Savium was delighted with the synchronized movements of the two squadrons as they fell back to the third squadron. But he was most pleased by their transition from sail to oars as they changed direction. The maneuvers went almost as well as they had during training.
***
Captain Ahumm could not stop himself. He roared with laughter.
“Would you care to share the humor of the situation?” Admiral Hannibal Gisco asked.
The Qart Hadasht fleet commander didn’t look at the Captain. He had his eyes on the operations of the three Groups of ships-of-war as they rowed past the septireme. His fleet Lieutenants were shifting to a single rank. Rather than an attack line, they were using a whip maneuver designed to encircle the enemy.
“Admiral, I apologize,” Ahumm begged. “Please forgive me. But the Republic warships lurched when they turned, and their oarsmen spent more time beating the water than powering the ships.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” Gisco admitted. “What I did see were stout timbers and steady top decks. It’s a good thing we’re out in open water.”
“Why’s that Admiral?” Ahumm questioned.
“Because dodging around land masses would break our attack runs,” Gisco explained.
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