John Stack - Ship of Rome

The sound of a tremendous crash caused Atticus to spin around to see a Carthaginian quinquereme drive home her ram into the exposed flank of a Roman galley. The Roman vessel had been stationary in the water, her bow transfixed by her corvus as a battle raged on a captured ship. The blow was incredible, the trireme buckling under the strike, the six-foot ram of the quinquereme disappearing into the hull of the smaller ship, pushing the trireme up onto the cutwater of the Carthaginian galley. The trireme was close to capsizing and Atticus watched as sailors were thrown over the side into the maelstrom of the churning sea.

‘Consul!’ Atticus shouted, immediately recognizing the quinquereme.

Duilius spun around to face the captain.

‘That quinquereme is the Carthaginian flagship. We need to take her.’

Duilius looked over the starboard rail across the two-hundred-yard gap to the enemy ship. He considered the position for a mere second.

‘Agreed,’ he said.

‘Lucius, prepare to get under way,’ Atticus ordered immediately.

Atticus’s order was accompanied by a shout of triumph from the legionaries on the enemy deck. The Carthaginians had finally broken, their nerve shattered by the ruthless advance of the Roman soldiers. Atticus took off at a run, rushing down the length of the galley and across the corvus. The enemy deck was slippery with blood, the brutal work of the legionaries. Atticus searched the ranks of the legionaries, instantly recognizing the imposing figure of Septimus. He called the centurion’s name, causing Septimus to break off a command to his optio in order to turn. He strode back to the foredeck, his sword bloodied by his side, his shield scored and dented.

‘We’re breaking off the assault, Septimus. The Carthaginian flagship is on our starboard flank. We’re going to attack her.’

Septimus nodded, his face grim. He turned to his waiting legionaries. They were still hungry. The remaining Carthaginians of the trireme had gone below decks to make one last stand.

‘Drusus!’ Septimus called, his optio reporting immediately.

‘Fire the deck. We’re withdrawing.’

The optio saluted, his face showing none of the surprise he felt at the decision to abandon the Carthaginian galley at the moment of victory. He ran to complete the order.

The demi-maniple formed up and marched quickly across the corvus once more. Atticus led them, making his own way once more to the aft-deck. Septimus watched as Drusus and two legionaries fired the deck, setting the main mast and mainsail alight before finally igniting the tiller. Once they were gone, Septimus had little doubt that the Carthaginians would be able to control the fire, but their ship would be hamstrung and useless. They would be lucky to escape.

The centurion was the last man across the corvus , the ramp immediately raised as he once more set foot on the deck of the Aquila. The galley was instantly away, swinging her bow to starboard as she came about to face her prey.

‘What’s the count, Drusus?’ Septimus asked.

‘Four dead and seven wounded. Two of those won’t fight again this day.’

Septimus’s face remained grim as he calculated the odds. Septimus had counted approximately fifty warriors on board the Carthaginian trireme they had just taken. The flagship would surely have twice that number. Septimus was left with forty-nine able men and five walking wounded. Good odds, he thought sardonically, the fire of battle still fierce within him. To him, the men of the Fourth had shown their courage. He would lead them again over the corvus , confident that they would follow him into the firestorm awaiting them.

The Aquila swung around in time to see the Melqart ’s first attempt to break free of the impaled Roman trireme. The bow of the quinquereme was buried deep within her victim’s hull, the untested, untempered timbers giving way completely under the hammer blow of the six-foot bronze ram. It was a killer blow, the water rushing past the ram into the lower decks of the stricken galley. Once the ram had been withdrawn, the trireme would sink like lead, taking two hundred chained slaves with her, and their cries of panic and fear could be heard above the clamour of battle.

Atticus watched the oars of the quinquereme dig deep into the water, the oar shafts straining to extract the ram. The Carthaginian was only vulnerable when stationary. Once free, her speed and power would give her unassailable odds against any Roman galley. The Aquila had to strike before she was released from her quarry.

‘Ramming speed!’ Atticus roared. ‘Steer dead amidships!’

The Aquila accelerated to thirteen knots, her ram thrusting forward at every oar-stroke. The strike would merely wound the larger ship, but it would also bind the Aquila inexorably to her hull, like a bull terrier attacking a wolf, refusing to release the grip of its jaws. The Aquila swung onto her final heading, her arrowed bow fixed on course. Atticus whispered a prayer to Jupiter, calling on him to remember the Titans and infuse his Eagle with strength.

‘Captain!’ Gisco bellowed in rage. ‘Get below decks and make sure those slaves are whipped to within an inch of their lives.’

The captain scurried away, fearful of the terrible wrath evident on the face of the admiral. The Melqart was stuck fast, the splintered hull of the Roman trireme gripping the bow of the larger ship like teeth. Gisco’s fury knew no bounds as he watched the tide of battle turn against the Carthaginians. The ramp he had seen so easily destroyed by the Melqart was spewing Roman legionaries onto the decks of the Carthaginian triremes, the deadly effect of the new tactic fully realized on the more evenly matched ships. All around him, Roman formations were sweeping his men from the decks of their own ships, slaughtering them with cold efficiency.

Every minute spent attempting to extract the ram from the Roman ship robbed Gisco of the chance to assuage his anger and satisfy his lust for vengeance. From the corner of his eye he saw an approaching galley on a collision course. He spun round to see her, watching in satisfied anger as the trireme advanced at ramming speed, willing the battle to come to him. As his gaze swept the galley, he caught sight of the name on the bow, Aquila. His hatred threatened to overwhelm him and he squeezed his hand until the nails dug into the flesh of his palm. Here was a focus for his revenge. The Aquila , the galley that had escaped him in the Strait of Messina.

‘Prepare to repel!’ he roared from his position on the aft-deck.

The bulk of his men were on the main and foredecks, the archers selecting targets on the deck of the trireme impaled on the ram. The order was lost in the noise of battle. Gisco turned to Khalil, the man’s massive frame tensed under the leather-bound chest-plate.

‘The Romans depend on discipline and command,’ Gisco snarled. ‘Bring me the head of the Roman centurion and I will grant you your wish.’

‘Yes, Admiral,’ Khalil replied, his mind already picturing the Roman consul he had once called master under his blade. The sight hardened his resolve and hatred for the Romans. Gisco sensed the hatred, smiling to himself. He too would have a target in the fight to follow, the captain of the Aquila. The man had disgraced him in the Strait of Messina, dishonouring him before his own fleet. Now he would extract the price of that humiliation in blood.

Gisco drew his sword, his personal guard following suit. He turned and marched quickly across the aft-deck, his eyes never leaving the approaching galley. He roared his order again, this time his command heard by many on the main deck. They turned into the sight of the Roman galley, their faces first registering shock and then cool determination as they formed up to receive the oncoming assault, eager to bloody their swords.