John Stack - Ship of Rome

‘Gaius! Two points to starboard. Prepare to sweep. Lucius, orders to below, attack speed!’

‘Hold!’

Atticus turned to see Scipio standing beside him, the consul’s face a mask of fury.

‘Explain yourself, Captain!’

‘I’m going to sweep the portside oars of the outermost galley. If we disable her we’ll open a gap in the line to allow some of the transports to escape,’ Atticus said quickly.

‘To Hades with the transports. Your orders are to escort me safely to Rome!’

‘With all due respect, Consul,’ Atticus growled, his expression hard, ‘we can’t abandon the transports to the Punici. Without our assistance they will be slaughtered to a man.’

‘I am in command of this galley, Captain, and my safety is paramount!’

Atticus stepped forward and leaned in slightly to respond, an instinctive movement to reinforce his argument.

Scipio’s guard commander spotted the move and instantly drew his sword, misreading Atticus’s stance as a prelude to attack. Within a heartbeat the four praetoriani followed suit. Gaius and Lucius drew their own daggers, their reactions instinctive.

Only Atticus and Scipio remained immobile, their faces inches apart, their expressions unwavering. Atticus could feel the blood thumping in his chest, the adrenaline coursing in his veins, his mind racing, his ears filled with the sound of two conflicting voices screaming within him. One called for caution, knowing that Scipio could kill any who disobeyed without remorse or recourse. The other demanded defiance, the fate of hundreds of men in the transport fleet in the balance. To his left and right Scipio’s praetorian guards stood with their swords drawn, outnumbering his crew on the aft-deck, their lives on the brink of forfeiture.

‘Gaius! Hard to port!’ Atticus shouted. His command was met with silence and he turned to the helmsman. Gaius was tensed, his body coiled to release at the first sign of an attack from the praetorian guard opposite him.

‘Now, Gaius!’ Atticus roared, breaking the taut spell that held each man ready on the aft-deck. The helmsman instantly obeyed, sheathing his dagger before leaning on the tiller, turning the bow away from the oncoming Carthaginian galley.

Scipio remained rigid, his eyes focused on Atticus before him, anger still threatening to overwhelm him. With immense will he suppressed the urge to order the captain killed, to expunge this questioning of his authority, this affront to his power. He reasserted his reason, knowing that, at least for now, the captain was invaluable.

‘Stand down!’ he ordered and his guards immediately obeyed.

‘Captain?’ Scipio said, his voice low and menacing. He drew Atticus over to the side rail.

‘This ship belongs to Rome, Captain, and on this ship I am Rome. This crew may look to you for command. But make no mistake, Perennis, I command here. Do not hesitate to follow my orders again.’

‘Yes, Consul,’ Atticus replied, suppressing the last of his defiance, allowing the consul to bend him to his superior will.

‘Attack speed!’ Gisco ordered with relish. ‘Steer an intercept course for the lead barge.’

The Melqart came alive under his feet, its two hundred and seventy rowers on four levels bending their backs to the task of bringing the quinquereme up to attack speed. ‘Like sheep to the slaughter,’ Gisco thought, with a smile as the rising rhythm of the oar-strokes matched the rising tempo of the blood pumping in his veins. There was no escape for the Romans. By now the other quinqueremes would be closing the trap behind the transport fleet, cutting off their escape back to Brolium. Against unarmed barges the fight would be no more than practice for the helmsman of each galley, a chance to exercise their skill at ramming and withdrawing from enemy ships. Gisco estimated the fleet at well over two dozen barges. Far off to his right a lone galley was preceding the transport fleet, her course set to collide with the far right flank of the Carthaginian attack. Gisco regretted that the Roman galley was not within easy range for his ship but then dismissed the thought. There would be plenty of Roman blood spilled on the waters this day.

‘Maintain course!’ Melus roared to the aft-deck.

The gap between his barge and the Carthaginian ships ahead was closing rapidly as the Onus set her bow against the centre galley. The sound of breaking timbers caused him to tear his eyes from the approaching galleys to the fleet behind him. Two transport barges had collided, their frantic efforts to escape causing them to accidentally turn into each other. They’re dead men, Melus thought with finality, knowing that the crew of the Onus would surely follow them to Elysium if he could not find a way out of the trap.

Melus’s twenty years’ experience on trading galleys flashed through his mind. There was only one chance. The galleys were better armed but the transport barges were bigger, almost twice the size of a quinquereme. Against ships that size, Melus knew the galleys could not ram them head on. They could only attack, and ram, on the flanks. His only chance was to run directly at the ship approaching him and hope that the Carthaginian would turn.

Strange, Gisco thought, noticing the barge his galley was targeting had not turned. She was coming directly for the Melqart , the gap down to two hundred yards and closing rapidly. Gisco instinctively braced as he contemplated a head-on collision with the larger ship. The adrenaline in his blood coursed through him, picturing the Melqart striking the barge through the bow at ramming speed. The collision would be terrifying, the combined speed of both vessels nearly twenty knots. The Melqart would survive, of that Gisco had no doubt, but the damage would be catastrophic and casualties high. But what of the story? he thought. What of the story sweeping through the fleet of how Gisco had faced a ship twice the size of his own and rammed her through the bow? No one would ever doubt the courage of Hannibal Gisco.

‘Ramming speed!’ Gisco bellowed. ‘Prepare for impact!

‘Cronus!’ Gisco’s commander of his personal guard was instantly at his side.

‘Commander, station two of your men on the aft-deck. If the helmsman alters course against my orders, run him through!’

‘Yes, Admiral,’ Cronus replied and was gone.

Gisco’s will hardened as the Melqart came to her top speed.

The Aquila swept across the bow of the Carthaginian galley at a distance of two hundred yards. Atticus waited for the enemy ship to alter her course to intercept, willing the Carthaginian to turn, to force the engagement, thereby allowing Atticus to circumvent the consul’s orders. The Carthaginian vessel stayed unerringly on course, the prospect of so many more vulnerable targets too great a temptation for the Carthaginian commander. Atticus cursed at the clear waters ahead of his galley. Over his shoulder the transport fleet was now in utter chaos, with every barge seeking to escape the Carthaginians’ trap. Lacking the speed and manoeuvrability of the enemy galleys, their attempts to flee were hopeless.

The Carthaginian galley was not turning. She was not altering her course. Melus replayed his plan in his mind and could find no flaw in his thinking. The Carthaginian should turn. A head-on collision would cause tremendous damage to the galley, damage that could easily be avoided if they turned and pursued.

‘She is commanded by a madman,’ Melus thought, his shaking hand holding the tiller, doubt and fear assailing him. He measured the distance between the converging ships. The enemy galley was one hundred yards ahead, her bow arrow-like on its determined course.

Eighty yards.