John Stack: Captain of Rome

‘Steady the line!’ Septimus roared, no other command to give, the sea behind them an enemy as merciless as the Punici.

The Carthaginians struck the legionaries with an incredible force and the Roman line buckled and caved, the men behind pushing forward against the front, heaving the formation back into shape with the desperate strength of sixty against two hundred. Septimus struck out with all his might, driving his sword home with a ferocity born of a forlorn hope, his roar giving vent to all his bravery, all his strength, the men to his sides matching his savage aggression, giving no quarter, expecting none, remorseless enemies on all sides.

The Carthaginians surged around the Roman shield wall, enveloping it, hemming it in against the fragile starboard rail, sensing the kill, their blood-lust unleashed while others ran towards the aft-deck, a baying pack of wolf-hounds searching for prey. Atticus stood unmoved; the crew of the Aquila to his back, Lucius and Gaius to his side, anger wrought on every face, knowing their ship was dying beneath them. The Carthaginians gained the aft-deck, spreading out, never faltering as they ran onwards. Atticus raised his sword, holding it high, the unsullied forged iron blade light in his hand. He summoned up his will and let fly with a roar: ‘Aquila!’ The call unleashed his crew and their war cry surged out before them as they ran full-on into the Carthaginian charge, Atticus running deep into the enemy ranks, sweeping his sword down into enemy flesh, the blade drenched with blood that fell to the deck of the dying galley. The crew were swallowed by the Carthaginian horde, the fight on all sides as Atticus held his ground at the centre of the aftdeck with a small knot of men, every man fighting with a demonic fierceness that defied the greater strength of the Punici.

Beyond the decks of the Aquila the Carthaginian flanks struck the ragged attack of the Roman third squadron, the galleys colliding head-on, the quinqueremes breaking through, the Carthaginian triremes held fast, the Romans streaming across boarding ramps as the battle descended into single combats. A single Roman quinquereme slipped through the line, tearing through the water at twelve knots with the ranks of a full maniple forming on her decks, their shields raised and swords drawn, the standard of a Roman tribune flying from the masthead.

The Baal Hammon reversed oars, her ram at first resisting the pull, the splintered hull of the Roman trireme clawing at the bow of the Carthaginian galley. Hanno watched the death throes of the enemy ship from the aft-deck, his gaze darting left and right, to the archers on his own galley who ceaselessly rained death on the Roman decks, the legionaries hidden behind shield ramparts, forestalling the certain death that awaited them and their ship.

Hanno looked beyond the galley to the fight at large, the lines of battle now a tangled net. He suddenly thought of Hamilcar’s strategy, the plan Hanno had agreed to before the battle, to feign retreat and then counter-attack but to avoid a full engagement against the corvus-armed Roman galleys, Hamilcar warning Hanno that the enemy could not be beaten on their terms, that the ramp still held sway in open battle. Hanno looked to the sinking trireme before the Baal Hammon, the Romans dying before his eyes, the quinquereme, finally released, turning quickly to seek new prey. He smiled derisively. Hamilcar was a fool, or worse he was hoping to take the lion’s share of the victory, his strategy a clever ruse to minimise Hanno’s impact on the outcome.

The Baal Hammon came full about and Hanno was afforded a wider view along the length of the battle. Carnage was everywhere, the sea strewn with wreckage, rammed Roman galleys amidst Carthaginian pyres, the galleys set aflame by victorious legionaries. Half of the fleet on each side was engaged, most of the galleys fighting in desperate ship-to-ship battles, the Romans fighting to take Carthaginian decks they had boarded across the infernal ramps.

Hanno felt a sudden sliver of doubt as he stared at the dozen fights closest to the Baal Hammon. The Romans were prevailing in every clash where they had managed to deploy their boarding ramps, the Carthaginians only succeeding when the ram had decided. In close quarters, with little sea room, the Roman tactics had the advantage and the words of Hamilcar’s warning echoed once more in Hanno’s mind.

Atticus punched hard with his hoplon shield, the copper boss slamming into the Carthaginian’s chest, driving him back, robbing him of his balance and Atticus lunged forward, striking low, his blade tearing through the enemy’s groin, the Carthaginian falling even as Atticus withdrew his sword. Lucius stood to his side, the seasoned veteran drawing on the strength of a thousand fights, his sword arm never tiring, his thoughts still firmly locked on sweeping the Carthaginians from his ship and somehow saving her from the sea’s grasp.

Atticus felt the side-rail slam into his lower back as he backstepped away from a furious assault, the Carthaginian soldier’s blade a blur of iron in a deadly sequence of sword-strokes, Atticus’s arm going numb under the shield that bore the brunt. He stabbed out with his sword, a desperate jab to force his enemy to relent and through sweat-stained eyes he saw the Carthaginian block left with his shield, giving Atticus the opening he needed. He pushed forward from the rail, his sword instinctively following a series of strikes, the years of single combat commanding his every action, every move and the Carthaginian gave ground slowly until he backed into another fight, forcing him to stand firm. The Carthaginian responded with a frenzied counter-attack and Atticus turned his shield once more in defence, his eyes locked on the Carthaginian’s, seeing the fury there, the eyes anticipating the sword. Atticus shortened his defence, closing the distance to beneath a swordlength, breaking the Carthaginian’s assault and Atticus pushed forward until the two were chest to chest, the stink of sweat and aggression filling his senses. Atticus ignored the continued blows on his shield, the close quarters negating their strength and he swung his sword out low and wide, bringing the blade in behind the Carthaginian, sweeping it back until it sliced into the enemy’s hamstring, the Carthaginian screaming out in pain as his tendon split, his leg buckling under his own weight and he fell to the deck, dropping his sword to reach for his wound, his face a mask of agony.

Atticus jumped back, bringing his sword up quickly, the fight pressing in on all sides as two Carthaginians quickly stepped over the man he had downed, their swords charged against Atticus, their expressions malevolent, taunting, their quarry singled out before them. Atticus brought his shield up to his shoulder, his sword dropping low for the first attack, his eyes darting from the first man to the second, crouching slightly to coil the energy of his legs, ready for the lunge. The two Carthaginians moved in, one of them smiling viciously and Atticus smiled back, his eyes ever cold. He paused as the moment to attack neared and he tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. He was about to charge but he checked himself, realising a sudden unease on the faces of his attackers, their eyes no longer on Atticus but to a point behind him and they began to back off.

Atticus glanced over his shoulder, the breath that he had held releasing as the sight before him overwhelmed his mind. The Orcus was less than fifty yards away, her corvus already partially lowered, the serried ranks of a full maniple drawn up behind, a solid wall of shields above which iron helmets and cheek-plates framed hostile and determined faces. The Orcus closed the gap in seconds, her oars dipped and held to slow the galley and the bow of the quinquereme struck the stern of the Aquila lightly, the corvus falling firmly onto the aft-deck, the spikes hammering into the timbers.