John Stack: Master of Rome

‘Drusus!’ the centurion roared, searching amongst the soldiers that were appearing from every street. He spotted him within a second, the optio pushing his way through to the front of the gathering force, his ever-stern expression hiding his surprise at the sudden call to arms.

‘Drusus, get to the officers’ quarters. Inform the centurions I want them to form a battle line from this central point.’

The optio saluted, hammering his fist into his chest plate and turned to push his way back along the street. Septimus was fundamentally of the same rank as every other marine centurion of the fleet; but, given his experience and his position as centurion of the Orcus, the prefect’s command ship, the other officers readily deferred to his orders. Within a minute the soldiers were forming on his position.

Septimus stood by Atticus as the prefect looked to the southern horizon.

‘How many do you think there are?’ Atticus asked.

‘Hard to be sure,’ Septimus replied. ‘Over a thousand at least.’

Atticus nodded, concurring with the estimate. He turned and grabbed a legionary from the throng behind him. ‘Get back to the Orcus and have my second-in-command report here,’ he ordered and the soldier was away.

Septimus stepped out from the confines of the street on to the flat expanse of beaten earth at the rear of the town. The soldiers surged out behind him and began to form into disciplined maniples, the shouted commands of centurions and optiones filling the air as the ranks were formed and the battle line was drawn. The manoeuvre was repeated along the length of the town, the men keeping their helmet-covered heads slightly lowered in the face of the wind. The entire marine complement of the fleet was ashore, sixty men for each galley, legionaries all, and the line was dressed to form a shield wall over two thousand strong.

‘Something’s wrong,’ Septimus muttered, his eyes focused on the approaching force. ‘They’re not formed into ranks.’

‘I see it,’ Atticus replied, noting the disorganized approach, so dissimilar to the serried ranks of the legionaries.

‘Prefect,’ Atticus heard, and he turned to see his second-in-command beside him. ‘Baro,’ Atticus began. ‘Ready the squadron for battle and station two galleys in the outer harbour.’

‘Yes, Prefect,’ Baro replied, and took off at a run.

‘Thermae,’ Atticus said by way of explanation, and Septimus nodded, remembering the simultaneous land and sea attacks the Carthaginians had employed there.

The minutes drew out slowly as the approaching force wheeled towards Aspis, its formation still chaotic, the cloud of dust raised by their feet whipping towards the town on the constant wind.

‘Two thousand,’ Septimus muttered as the decreasing distance increased his estimate, his eyes constantly checking the eastern and western approaches for additional forces, but finding none. He glanced down the line and saw many of the men inch forward, the anticipation of battle wrestling with ingrained discipline.

‘Steady, boys,’ he roared, and the shout was taken up by the other centurions, the legionaries redressing the line until it became firm once more.

Atticus glanced over his shoulder, seeing past the ranks and down the street to the sliver of harbour in view, watching as one galley then another passed through his field of vision, the wind robbing him of the sound of shouted orders only a hundred yards away. He looked to his front again, the approaching force now less than six hundred yards away, the horizon behind them clear. The sight puzzled Atticus, but he cast his questions aside, making ready to turn his back and return to the Orcus. The legionaries were more than a match for the disorganized men approaching and Atticus was anxious to return to his galley and take command of the fleet. He turned to the centurion.

‘Septimus, I’m returning to the Orcus. I’ll station two signal men on the shore to keep-’

‘They’re velites!’ a shout went up, and the men began to mutter as they looked to confirm the report.

‘Silence in the ranks!’ Septimus roared. He held a hand out to the left side of his face to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun, trying to single out individual men.

‘I don’t believe…’ he whispered after a moment. ‘They are velites, light infantry. They’re our own men.’

‘This could be a trick,’ Atticus said, the memory of Thermae still fresh.

Septimus nodded. ‘Ready pila!’ he shouted, and the hastati, the junior soldiers, raised their spears.

The men approaching were shouting, their voices borne on the wind sweeping over the Roman line, their words interlaced into a confusion of sound, until one command carried above the rest, ‘Hold! Do not loose,’ and many of the hastati began to lower their spears.

‘Stand ready!’ Septimus roared, not daring to relinquish the advantage until he was sure, the sight of the Roman uniforms in conflict with his caution.

The men swept on but slowed as they narrowed the distance, wary of the inflexible line of shields facing them, the spear tips visible above the ranks, ready to strike forward. Eventually the advance petered out, the men forming into a ragged line a hundred yards short of the shield wall.

Atticus stepped forward from the Roman line. ‘Who commands there?’ he shouted across, and a soldier stepped forward, his hand held away from the hilt of his sword. His uniform was dust-stained and his face was creased with fatigue, but he held himself tall and he crossed the gap quickly to stand before Atticus and Septimus.

‘I am Servius Salinator,’ he said, ‘commander of the Etruscan infantry.’

‘Atticus Milonius Perennis, prefect of the fleet, and this is Septimus Laetonius Capito, centurion of the Orcus.’

The man saluted Atticus and nodded to Septimus.

‘You are part of the proconsul’s army,’ Atticus said, and Salinator nodded, his expression strained. ‘Then where are the legions?’ Atticus continued. ‘And why do you march out of formation?’

‘The Sixth and Ninth legions are no more,’ Salinator said, his voice laced with anger and shock. ‘They have been defeated, near Tunis.’

‘By the gods…’ Septimus whispered, his thoughts immediately on the men of the Ninth, the legion he had served with for so many years.

Atticus stepped forward, his mind reeling as he grabbed Salinator’s arm. ‘Come with me,’ he said, and he led him through the shield wall, leaving Septimus standing alone. The centurion gathered his wits and turned to his men. ‘Stand down the line!’ he shouted, and the order was repeated, prompting the Etruscans to move forward once more.

Septimus quickly followed Salinator as Atticus led him to the officers’ quarters overlooking the harbour. The building was deserted and the three men stepped out of the warm breeze into the cool, dark interior, Atticus’s eyes never leaving Salinator as they settled around a table. ‘What happened?’ he asked.

The Etruscan drew the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘We met the enemy on a plain south of Tunis two days ago,’ he began, his eyes, unseeing, fixed on the rough grain of the table. ‘The Carthaginians attacked first, in the centre, with elephants, at least a hundred of the infernal beasts, charging in front of their infantry.’ Salinator shook his head, ‘The legions… they just stood their ground, to a man. It was the most…’ He trailed off and Septimus straightened his back as he thought of the incredible courage.

‘We were on the left flank, facing the enemy’s mercenaries,’ Salinator continued, his face showing the disdain he felt for the hired soldiers, ‘and the cavalry was on the right. We broke through easily but the cavalry were routed. They were outnumbered, four, maybe five to one. They never stood a chance.’