John Stack - Captain of Rome

‘What is it?’ Regulus asked, walking towards the captain, turning his head for a second to the enemy ships fleeing before his own.

‘The enemy flanks,’ the captain said, ‘the masthead lookout reports they did not turn.’

‘What’s their course?’ Regulus asked, suddenly uneasy.

‘They’ve turned into the third squadron, Consul,’ the captain replied, his own anxiety evident in every word.

‘The third squadron…’ Regulus whispered. The Ninth legion, ten thousand men. Only a single line of triremes stood between them and the enemy. He cursed loudly, striding past the captain toward the aft-rail. He had never thought to look beyond the enemy centre, too elated that they had turned so easily. He looked to the third squadron a mile and a half behind. Approaching fast to on its flanks was the Carthaginian attack, a now solid line of advance, at least a dozen quinqueremes in each line. It was impossible to make out any detail in the Roman formation but Regulus thought it was in disarray, as if Varro was redeploying his forces to make a stand against the enemy. It was a valiant attempt but Regulus knew any such stand was doomed without the assistance of some of his forces.

‘Captain!’ he shouted, glancing over his shoulder. He would cut his force in two, sending one half back to relieve Varro’s galleys. It would mean the escape of many of the Carthaginian centre but the transports had to be protected at all costs. The captain appeared beside him. Regulus turned.

‘Signal Consul Longus,’ Regulus began, ‘order him to take the second…’

‘The enemy are turning!’ a voice shouted out and Regulus looked to the waters ahead. The entire Carthaginian line was turning once more into the attack, every galley, a fluid coordinated manoeuvre as if some unseen hand had swept over their line.

‘Mars protect us…’ Regulus whispered as the full realisation of what he was witnessing overwhelmed him. There was never a retreat. It was a trap, and the Roman vanguard had taken the bait completely, leaving a vital part of the fleet vulnerable, risking a loss that would prevent the invasion of Carthage, the death of ten thousand legionaries.

Hamilcar glanced left and right as the last of his galleys slipped into formation, completing the battle line, creating a sweeping wave fifty ships wide bearing down on the Roman line at seven knots. The seaward flank was a mile to the south, its line equally formed on a convergent course with Hamilcar’s galleys and the Romans trapped between them.

‘Attack speed!’ Hamilcar ordered and the Alissar bucked beneath him, taking on the extra knots with a savage intent that matched the will of its commander. Hamilcar moved once more to the side-rail to gain a better view of the Roman squadron a half mile away, his elation growing with every passing oar-stroke, the decreasing distance confirming the masthead’s earlier report that the enemy were retreating. The line was in complete chaos, with galleys fleeing north towards the coastline and east, away from the line of attack. Only the transports remained relatively unmoved, the fickle insipid wind making a mockery of their attempts to manoeuvre by sail. Hamilcar had been ready for a fight, had already accepted in his mind the loss of many of his galleys, even the quinqueremes that would be vulnerable to attack as they rammed the transport ships. Now that fight was dissipating before his eyes, the shield wall drawing back to lay bare the unprotected.

Hamilcar looked back over his shoulder to the rear of the Roman spearhead, the enemy galleys slowly fanning out to counter the re-turned Carthaginian line that threatened to envelope them. Hanno had timed his counter-stroke perfectly. He had executed the first part of the plan exactly as requested and so now, for the first time, Hamilcar felt confident that Hanno would follow the second part of his plan, the order that dictated how the councillor would engage the enemy vanguard.

His back protected, Hamilcar brought his full focus back to the transport fleet and its retreating escort. He felt his elation surge again and he closed his eyes, breathing in deeply, sifting the smells in his nostrils, the clean salt, the stale dry land and underneath, something else, a smell he could almost imagine, a smell of sweat and bile, the fear of the ten thousand men trapped in floating timber coffins.

‘Enemy galley on intercept course!’

Hamilcar snapped open his eyes and looked to the masthead, seeing the outstretched arm and following the indication to the sea ahead. A lone trireme was approaching, her bow reared up in attack speed, her foredeck drenched in spray from her cutwater as she sliced through the gentle swell. Hamilcar looked to her flanks, to her rear and beyond, searching for other galleys, for the attack she must be leading but there was none. The trireme was alone, a single galley against a line of fifty. Hamilcar’s mouth twisted into a snarl as he stared at the lone galley, admiring the bravery of the suicidal charge but dismissing it instantly.

‘Hold your course!’ he shouted to the helmsman.

Hamilcar had seen how the Romans attacked their prey many times, striking them head-on, holding them firm before releasing their cursed boarding ramp. But the approaching galley was a trireme, sailing into a pack of quinqueremes and Hamilcar knew the Alissar would brush her aside with barely a check. He smiled at the prospect, his hand gripping the side-rail in anticipation of the hammer blow to come.

‘Steady,’ Atticus said as he placed his hand on Gaius’s shoulder, the helmsman gripping the tiller with a force that turned his knuckles white.

The solid line of Carthaginian galleys seemed to stretch forever before the bow of the Aquila, the quinqueremes in the centre a terrifying combination of speed and brute strength, their hulls dwarfing the smaller galleys on the flanks and the single galley that sailed towards them.

Atticus looked to the main deck and the sight of Septimus forming his men into protective ranks. The men moved with grit determination, their faces grim under iron helmets and cheek-plates, every sword drawn for the fight to come. Atticus checked his own weapon by his side, drawing the blade an inch out of its scabbard, feeling the familiar weight before slamming it home, his attention returning once again to the enemy.

Atticus counted to the centre galley, the lead ship, its masthead banners unfurling languidly behind and in an instant he was transported back to Tyndaris weeks before, remembering those same banners on a fleeing quinquereme, Hamilcar Barca’s galley. Atticus ran to the side-rail, locking his gaze on the masthead of the enemy galley, confirming what he believed, realising that his target was ever more deadly because it carried the military commander of Carthage.

Atticus stood back from the rail and moved to the centre of the aft-deck, his eyes sweeping once more over the deck of his ship. Corin had descended from the masthead and he stood with the rest of the crew on main deck, the men in a tight knot as Lucius issued final orders to each man. The legionaries beyond were in their own ranks but Atticus noticed glances being exchanged between the two groups, expressions that marked their shared fate, Roman and provincial citizen alike.

Septimus stepped away from his men and strode to the aftdeck. ‘They’re ready,’ he said, his expression grim, unrelenting.

Atticus nodded, ‘Expect two attacks at least,’ he said, tension in his voice for the first time as the distance to the enemy fell below four hundred yards. ‘My crew will try and hold the aft, you hold the main.’

Septimus nodded, looking at Atticus closely, seeing the shadow of uncertainty in his friend’s face.

‘This is something,’ he said and Atticus gave him a quizzical look.