John Stack - Captain of Rome

‘I said we needed to do something,’ Septimus explained, a slight smile reaching the corners of his mouth, ‘and this is it.’

‘We had to give the Ninth some chance…’ Atticus said, glad that Septimus understood his order to charge the Carthaginian line. He looked to the advancing enemy, the odds overwhelming and he turned to his friend.

‘About Hadria,’ Atticus began, unsure of what he was about to say.

Septimus looked at Atticus, holding his gaze. ‘She told me,’ he said, the shadow of an emotion sweeping across his face, ‘that she won’t give you up.’

‘And you can’t accept that?’ Atticus asked, silently willing Septimus to relent.

Septimus looked to the waters ahead, each drum beat and oar stroke taking the Aquila closer to certain defeat and the very fate he had wished to shield his sister from, the loss of another love in battle. He turned once more to Atticus.

‘Not today,’ he said and walked back towards his men, his hand reaching for his sword and drawing it with one sweep of his arm, the metal singing against the scabbard.

Atticus watched Septimus for a moment longer. Not today, he thought and he drew his sword, the grip of the hardwood hilt solid between his fingers. He caught Lucius’s eye, nodding to him in command, the older man nodding back imperceptibly before ordering the crew to make ready.

The Aquila sped on, her two hundred oars never faltering, the banner at her masthead whipping out to release the eagle in flight, the seventy-ton hull like an arrow set loose from the draw, skimming the wave tops, taking deadly aim. Atticus stepped back to the helm, seeing Gaius’s hard stare, his gaze never wavering and Atticus took strength from the helmsman. He looked to the enemy. Two hundred yards.

‘Ramming speed!’

One hundred yards, thirteen knots, the enemy surging forward, the edges of the line disappearing as all focus turned to the centre, the drum beat crashing out, the oars slicing through the air and surging through the water.

‘Steady Aquila,’ Atticus whispered, placing one hand on the tiller behind Gaius’s grip, his vision filled with the sight of the charging behemoth bearing down.

Fifty yards.

‘All hands, prepare to be boarded!’

Forty yards. Thirty.

‘Now, Gaius!’ Atticus roared and threw himself against the tiller, the helmsman surging with him, their every strength throwing the rudder hard left, the Aquila responding in opposition, her bow slicing right into the path of the flagship, her hull turning in seconds to create a solid wall of timber, iron and men across the enemy front.

The Alissar struck the fore section of the Aquila with all the force of her one hundred ton hull, her eleven-knot momentum driving the ram cleanly into the Aquila, punching through the seasoned oak, the blunt-faced fist propelled deep into the slave deck of the trireme. Sixty yards along the hull, the second quinquereme struck, her ram taking the Aquila deep below the waterline, flooding the lower hold, the splintered timbers of the Aquila clawing at the lower cutwater of the quinquereme as if desperately trying to stay the blow.

Hamilcar regained his feet and charged to the front of the aft-deck, scarcely believing the sight before him. A huge crash and screech of timbers made him spin around in time to see two of his galleys collide, a quinquereme turning into the path of another as it swerved to avoid the aft-section of the Roman ship. He swore at the top of his lungs, cursing the idiotic captain who had caused the collision, cursing the Roman galley that shattered the centre of his line. He looked to the trireme, his gaze sweeping her chaotic decks, the galley somehow familiar but the thought cast aside as fury overwhelmed him, his sword leaping from his scabbard without conscious thought. He ran to the main deck, gathering his crew as he did, leading them on, a gathering storm, surging towards the fore and beyond to the enemy deck.

‘It’s the Aquila!’ the masthead roared and Varro whipped his head around, watching as the trireme was rammed by two of the enemy quinqueremes. The sight transfixed him, his mind flooded with doubt, anger and confusion.

‘We have to help them!’ a voice shouted beside him and the captain’s call was taken up across the deck. Varro snapped around, his expression furious.

‘Hold your course!’ he roared, striding over to the captain.

‘Helm! Collision course!’ the masthead roared, his voice manic.

Varro and the captain looked directly to the water ahead, to the three Roman galleys that had turned and were sailing directly across the Orcus’s line and towards the Carthaginian attack, their crews having also seen the Aquila’s lone charge, the sight spurring all to follow.

‘Helm, evasive course!’ the captain shouted and the Orcus turned to starboard.

Varro looked to the helm and beyond to the ragged anarchic formation that had once been his squadron, his gaze immediately picking up the sight of a dozen more galleys turning into the fight, the sound of shouted orders and angry calls for support gathering every ship to the fight, the effect rippling down the line with other Roman galleys turning directly into the seaward enemy attack.

‘Tribune,’ the captain said, his face stern. ‘Your orders.’

Varro turned to the captain, his eyes darting beyond to the empty sea ahead and the coastline. It was close, minutes away.

‘Your orders,’ the captain repeated.

Varro put his hand to the hilt of his sword, fighting the urge to draw the blade, to run the captain through, to escape. He looked at the captain directly, seeing the challenge in his eyes, the naked contempt for Varro’s indecision.

‘Hard to port,’ Varro growled and the captain instantly reacted, shouting the command to the helm, the Orcus turning once more, this time into the face of the oncoming enemy attack.

Varro watched the scene change before the bow of his galley, the coastline giving way to open sea and then the Carthaginian formation, a gaping maw in the centre of their line, a savage tear caused by the Aquila.

‘Perennis,’ Varro whispered, all his hate and fear forged into one man, the Greek captain who seemed set to ruin his fate once more, the Aquila’s lone attack exposing Varro’s retreat in all its shame. There would have been others to blame after the battle, the captain of the Orcus, of other galleys, men lost in a chaotic fight against overwhelming odds whose deaths Varro would use to tangle and bury the truth, but now that confusion was gone, replaced with the clarity of attack, the entire Roman third squadron taking the fight to the enemy. Varro’s order to retreat would be remembered, reported, his reputation ruined forever. One man had precipitated this, one man who had come so close before. Varro turned to the captain once more.

‘Steer a course to the Aquila,’ he said. ‘We will go to her aid.’

‘Yes, Tribune,’ the captain said, concurring unequivocally with the order. The Orcus was the largest galley of the squadron, only she could pass unmolested through the open centre of the Carthaginian line and save the brave men of the Aquila.

Varro caught the captain’s expression of approval and he turned away, hiding the rage that rose unbidden to his face.

‘Vitulus!’ he shouted. The guard commander ran to the tribune.

‘We will soon board the Aquila,’ Varro said, his voice low and menacing. ‘There will be confusion, chaos, many will be killed. Make sure one of those is Perennis.’

Vitulus nodded, his eyes cold as he saluted the tribune, stepping back to draw his sword, his gaze following Varro’s as both men turned to the sea ahead.

The Carthaginian warriors flooded onto the port-side fore and main decks of the Aquila in a savage wave of iron and fury, their war cries screaming hate and death to the Romans, their momentum a relentless force that swung towards the tightly packed semi-circle of legionaries backed up to the starboard rail. Septimus shouted the release of pila, the spears striking the mid and rear ranks of the Punic charge, the front line too close to maul, the Carthaginians bearing down behind their shields as they ran across the ram-tilted deck towards the Roman shield wall.