John Stack: Captain of Rome

Atticus pushed forward two more paces and then suddenly checked his advance, holding his ground as Vitulus began a counter-attack, his body already poised to step back, knowing how Vitulus would press forward, staying his own attack as he waited for the moment he knew was coming. Vitulus advanced, his attack instantly transforming into the innate sequence of the legions, the shield shoved forward, the sword striking out, the shield pushed forward again, the predictable rhythm that was so lethal when used in formation. Atticus drew Vitulus on, inch by inch, his anger screaming at him to strike but his instinct restraining his sword arm. He watched the rhythm take hold of Vitulus, the legionary’s expression turning to triumph as Atticus retreated further, the Roman shield pushing him back, the pressure unrelenting.

Atticus allowed the shield to push him back one final time, parrying the sword strike that followed, waiting for Vitulus to commit to the next shield thrust, his predictability becoming a fatal weakness in single combat and Atticus suddenly twisted his entire body as Vitulus shoved forward, the legionary falling as the resistance against his shield disappeared, his sword arm stretching out to regain his balance. Atticus continued his turn, spinning his body completely around, his sword following on a wide arc, the momentum building, the strength of his entire body behind the blade as he came full about, Vitulus’s exposed midriff drawing the tip of the blade. Atticus punched home the strike and the blade slammed into Vitulus below the ribs, the force of the blow accelerating his fall, the blade vanishing to the hilt before sliding out again, the legionary dead before he hit the deck.

Varro watched the fall from the fore-deck of the Orcus, his disbelief giving way to rage, the triumph he had felt swelling up only seconds before as Vitulus pushed home his attack now replaced with a fury that seemed to contract every muscle in his body. An intense urge overwhelmed him and he drew his sword without conscious thought. He ran across the corvus, his gaze never leaving the Greek spawn of Hades who defied him, whose every breath mocked Varro’s honour. He stopped amidst the dead strewn across the aft-deck of the Aquila behind the Roman advance, Carthaginian and legionary, a tangled slaughter of bodies. The Greek captain was kneeling over another man, the fight raging to their side, the Carthaginians refusing to relent under the pressure of the shield wall. Varro felt the bile of hatred course through him and he raised his sword.

‘Perennis!’ he roared, his voice cutting through the air.

Atticus’s gaze shot up, seeing the tribune standing only yards away, Varro’s eyes boring into him. Atticus rose to his feet. Seconds passed, a sudden pause in the vortex of battle as both men became locked in deadly enmity, Atticus slowly lifting a hand to his face, touching the scar there, his hand falling away, his eyes following to rest on the dying figure of Lucius. Varro charged with his sword before him, a slow, almost hypnotic movement as if time had slowed for both men and Atticus stepped forward, throwing his shield to the deck, the grip on his sword tightening.

Varro surged forward, a scream surging from his throat as he rushed to the attack and Atticus roared in defiance, a war cry of his ancestors as he ran to meet the Roman, the two blades clashing in a blur of iron and terrifying hatred. The fight descended into a brawl, both men lashing out in unforgiving fury, each strike parried and immediately reversed, neither man pausing.

The balance gave way within a minute, Atticus’s experience and battle-hardened strength coming to the fore, the pure hatred of Varro’s attack not enough to overcome a more-skilled opponent. Varro stepped back, his mind registering for the first time the escalating pain in his sword arm, the muscles burning, his counter-attacks regressing more and more to a desperate defence under the crushing onslaught. The Greek captain came on, never relenting and Varro felt the first threads of panic encircle his heart as he stared at the harsh determined expression of his opponent. His hatred suppressed his fear, forcing him to think and he immediately went on the offensive, knowing only one attack could save him against the better swordsman. Revenge filled his soul as the fight came to closer quarters, Varro pushing forward with all his strength until the two swords were locked between them, the pommels intertwined. Varro leaned in further, looking over the interlocked blades, his face only inches from his enemy’s, the green eyes of the Greek never leaving his own. Varro held the gaze, a malicious smile creasing the edge of his mouth, almost tasting the victory to come as he reached down with his free hand.

Atticus held the tribune’s gaze, anger tensing every fibre of his body, the sword blades shifting slightly, metal grinding against metal as Atticus readied himself for a final lunge to separate the weapons and finish the fight. He saw Varro’s lips curl slightly at the edge of his mouth, a vicious smile that spoke of some inner madness and as Atticus returned his focus to the Roman’s eyes, he saw them flicker slightly, darting low and left. Atticus reacted instantly, his own hand reaching out unbidden, his eyes dropping to follow Varro’s glance, seeing the deadly blade.

Atticus grabbed wildly for the dagger, his hand grasping Varro’s, his fore-fingers reaching over the pommel onto the blade, the edge slicing his flesh. He forced the knife up, turning the blade away from his stomach, the tip brushing against his tunic as he pushed the knife ever upwards. He looked to Varro’s eyes once more, seeing beyond the hatred there to the emerging fear. Atticus pushed harder, the muscles in his arm bulging, his grip tightening, the blade cutting deeper into his fingers, the pain ignored as the blade came up past his chest. Atticus held it there, feeling Varro’s arm tremble under the strain. He stared at the tribune again, nodding slightly as he witnessed the naked terror in Varro’s eyes.

Atticus eased the knife forward until the blade touched the skin of Varro’s neck. The Roman pushed back with one last effort but Atticus pressed on, the knife piercing Varro’s skin, bright red blood spurting out, splashing across Atticus’s face. The pressure against the knife held as Varro dropped his sword and reached up with his other hand. Atticus stood back, the knife still pressed across Varro’s throat and with a sudden swipe he whipped the blade across, slicing deeply, Varro’s hands immediately clutching his throat as blood gushed through his fingers, his mouth open in silent fear, his eyes wild, unseeing.

Atticus watched as Varro swayed and he shot out his arm, grabbing hold of Varro’s chest-plate, suddenly abhorring the idea of the Roman’s body defiling the Aquila’s deck. He hauled him to the side-rail and held him there for a second as he looked at his enemy one last time before throwing him over the side. Varro struck the sea eight feet below and sank beneath the water, surfacing a moment later, one hand still on his throat, the other flailing the water, his face a mask of absolute panic, his armour dragging him down, his blood staining the sea around him. He reached out to the hull of the Aquila, grasping for a hand-hold but the smooth timbers betrayed him and he slipped beneath the surface, the sea returning to calm as Atticus looked on dispassionately.

‘Enemy galleys approaching!’

Hamilcar shot around, running to the side of the foredeck of the Alissar to gain a better view of the sea behind. Scores of Roman galleys were approaching, the bulk of the spearhead. Hamilcar looked to the horizon beyond them, seeing the grey palls of smoke that marked each burning galley and he cursed Hanno’s name, realising the councillor had defied him and that that defiance had turned to failure, costing Hamilcar the time he had so desperately needed to overwhelm the Roman transport fleet. He turned and looked beyond the stricken Roman trireme, his gaze sweeping over the seascape, his galleys locked in combat, a lone few having broken through, a pitiful number of transport ships sunk with the others scattered across the horizon.