John Stack - Captain of Rome

The legionaries flooded across, forming a line, the strident commands of a centurion marching them forward. The Carthaginians faltered then quickly turned into the new threat, a ragged few joined by scores in a matter of seconds, the Punici slamming into the shield wall, hammering with all the frenzy of hate against leather and brass.

Atticus called the remaining crew of the Aquila to the rails to continue their fight on the flanks, wary that in the confusion of battle the armourless crew might be mistaken for Carthaginians by the legionaries. He looked to the main deck and the embattled men of Septimus’s command, his attention drawn away from the Orcus, never seeing Vitulus run across the corvus, his own gaze looking beyond the front line of the legionaries, searching for his prey.

‘Hard to starboard! Withdraw oars!’ the captain of the Baal Hammon roared and Hanno leaned into the turn as the quinquereme swung to avoid the fall of a corvus, the Roman quinquereme sweeping past the bow, the cutwater of the Baal Hammon slamming into the extended oars of the Roman galley, snapping the fifteen foot spars like twigs underfoot, until the counter turn of the Roman ship dragged the remaining oars out of reach.

‘Attack speed!’ the captain called again, his eyes searching for open water, the second narrow escape from boarding tearing at his nerves. Hanno felt a contagious panic spread over his galley, seeping into his own mind, the complete dominance of the Roman quinqueremes over the equally sized galleys of his own fleet a terrible realisation that had suddenly thrust the Baal Hammon into the fight of her life.

The Baal Hammon had rammed and sank two Roman triremes, charging them down and striking them deep with a strength they could not defy and Hanno had praised his decision to fully engage the enemy, sensing victory with every Roman who fell under the ram of his quinquereme. But beyond his own galley, Hanno had suddenly witnessed the real truth of the battle, the Romans triremes like jackals hunting down prey, attacking creatures their own size with a savage sabretoothed weapon that conquered relentlessly. And amongst them the larger quinqueremes, attacking the command galleys, the Carthaginian crews overwhelmed and slaughtered.

The Baal Hammon found clear sea and the captain brought the galley around once more, the tangle of butchery that was the battle-line spread out before the bow once more, the helmsman holding his course, waiting for the command to re-engage. The captain looked to Hanno, his expression questioning, his eyes devoid of the confidence that befitted the captain of a flagship. Hanno looked beyond him, immediately seeing a number of Roman triremes holding fast to Carthaginian galleys, stationary in the water, perfect targets for the Baal Hammon. Hanno hesitated however, knowing that to ram the triremes was to expose his own ship to the threat of being boarded by another, a fight he knew could not be won and for the first time the unthinkable crept into his thoughts, the unendurable truth he had realised earlier but had buried beneath his honour.

The Roman line swept ever forward, the Carthaginians falling before the onslaught, the rear ranks stepping forward as the front stepped back, creating a solid press of men before the legionaries, the Roman blades wreaking a terrible carnage. Atticus stood at the starboard rail, many of his crew at his side, turning the outer flank of the Carthaginian host, giving them no pause, the press of men increasing in the centre until the Roman line concaved, the sides of the line moving forward even as the centre came to a halt.

Vitulus stood behind the starboard flank of the line, stepping forward slowly as the line advanced, his eyes never leaving the sight of the Greek captain standing only yards away, the gap closing with every Carthaginian slain. He readied his sword and moved to the rail, pushing forward until he reached the front line of the attack, slotting his shield to the end of the line, striking his blade forward with intuition; the instinct learnt during the years spent in the legions never leaving him. The Greek was but feet away, oblivious to the advancing wall, his eyes locked on the combat before him, his sword striking the shield of a Carthaginian warrior. Vitulus recognised the sailor to the captain’s left, the older man standing closer to the Roman wall, an obstacle Vitulus would avoid. He pushed forward, breaking out of the line, using his shield to push the Carthaginian before him away from the rail and into the maelstrom of the centre. Vitulus readied his sword, drawing the weapon back, his shoulder tensing as it reached the height of its arc, the blade pointing almost directly down, poised to stab forward, waiting for a path to open, for a moment when the captain would be exposed. He saw one and lunged without conscious thought.

Lucius saw the blade from the corner of his eye, his weapon whipping instinctively away from the Carthaginian to his front to block the sword swiping behind him, the clash of iron jolting his forearm, the strength and direction of the sudden attack shocking him, knowing how close his captain had come to death. He turned in an instant, his sword already recovered, his mind screaming restraint as he suddenly spotted the red cloak of a legionary.

‘We’re Roman!’ Lucius shouted, the attacker’s face inches from his own, the expression of rage twisting the features of the legionary. The soldier spat back in fury, striking again with his sword, Lucius parrying the blow but staying his counter-strike, bringing his shield up in defence but keeping his sword at bay. He broke off and made to roar again, to breach the obvious trance that consumed the Roman soldier but the words died on his lips as he recognised the legionary for who he was. Vitulus noticed the change in Lucius’s expression and attacked without hesitation, driving his sword through, bringing his shield to the fore. Lucius tried to react, his sword sweeping back up into the fray, his soul consumed with hatred for the assassin but Vitulus’s strike was too quick and the hammer blow of the sword drove the air from Lucius, the blade slicing unchecked into his stomach until the pommel punched against his skin, knocking Lucius back. Vitulus stared into Lucius’s face, hold his gaze, seeing the hatred there, the emotion overwhelming the agony of the strike. The legionary held the gaze for a heartbeat and then twisted the blade, Lucius’s expression collapsing into a mask of pure pain as Vitulus withdrew the blade, the sailor falling to the deck, a scream dying in his throat.

Atticus felt a weight fall against his legs and he glanced down, a cry of anguish escaping his lips as he saw Lucius beneath him, the sailor holding his hands tightly across an appalling wound, blood and viscera spilling from between his fingers, his eyes wide in terror and pain. Atticus made to crouch down but a hidden instinct caused him to look up and he immediately recognised Vitulus, his sword drenched in blood, the legionary’s eyes suddenly shifting from Lucius, catching Atticus’s stare. Vitulus reacted instantly, his sword darting forward with incredible speed. Atticus sidestepped, slamming his shield down to strike the top of Vitulus’s sword, the legionary bringing his own shield around to parry the counter-strike from Atticus.

The first blows landed, the two men immediately backed off, finding their feet on the blood-soaked and body-strewn deck, fighting for balance as the tide of battle broke beside them, the Carthaginians checking the advance of the Roman wall, the sheer weight of numbers concentrating the slaughter along an immovable front line. Atticus charged into the attack, his mind wiped of all thought save one, his sword moving without conscious reason. Vitulus stood his ground, his shield absorbing the assault, his own sword stabbing forward, seeking a breach. Atticus ignored the sword strikes on his hoplon shield, his anger consuming him, the desire for revenge allowing him no respite. He pushed forward, stepping over his friend, forcing Vitulus to step back, the rail to their sides denying them room to circle.