John Stack - Ship of Rome

Septimus stood tall at the head of the assembled men. The ranks behind him were swelled by fifteen praetoriani , the consul releasing them in the desperate bid to take the Carthaginian flagship. They were the cream of the Roman army, each man a veteran of battle, and their strength reinvigorated the battered demi-maniple. Septimus waited as he judged the distance to the enemy deck, his hastati once more armed with deadly pila spears. At ramming speed the moment would soon be upon them.

At fifty yards Septimus could see the Punici form up into a knot of men on the main deck. They were well over one hundred in number. Beside them the rail of the foredeck was lined with archers.

‘Raise shields!’

The first of the Carthaginian arrows soared across the closing gap, many with their tips aflame. At thirteen knots, the Aquila was a difficult target, but the close range allowed for near-flat trajectories and Septimus felt the arrows slam into his shield on the exposed foredeck. Behind him he heard shouted commands as fires were doused on the main deck and one man cried out as an arrow found its mark.

‘Hastati , prepare to release on my command!’

The junior soldiers shifted their weight behind interlocking shields as they prepared to target the massed formation on the enemy main deck. Septimus breathed out slowly as he judged the distance with a trained eye. The volley would have to be perfect if the necessary chaos was to be instilled in the enemy ranks. He picked out individual men in the enemy formation, their shouted war cries lost in the noise of battle. Their faces were masks of fury and blood lust, of intense hostility. They would not die easily.

‘Loose!’ Septimus roared, as his body instinctively braced itself for the oncoming collision of the two ships.

The bronze ram of the Aquila struck the Melqart dead amidships, its blunt-nosed point striking the hull cleanly, the four-inch-deep cork-oak timbers splintering with the force of the collision. The Aquila seemed to reel from the blow, the impact transmitted down the long axis of the hull, as if the galley had struck solid rock. For a long second the men on both ships staggered under the impact, their balance and focus lost with the brute force of the blow.

Septimus didn’t wait for his men to recover. Knowing there would be no retreat, he swung his gladius in an arc to sever the line holding the corvus aloft. The ramp crashed down onto the main deck of the Carthaginian galley, crushing a man beneath its weight, its foot-long spikes biting down on the deck timbers to bind the fate of both galleys.

‘Advance!’ Septimus roared, running at full tilt across the twenty-foot ramp, never looking behind him, sure by the cries he heard that his lead was being followed. The massive centurion raised his shield to chest height and angled his body to put the weight of his shoulder behind the charging wall of reinforced, canvas-covered timber. Septimus’s momentum was duplicated to his left and right by the legionaries, who threw themselves across the six-foot-wide ramp. As one they slammed into the enemy formation, the brass bosses of their shields crunching bone and cartilage.

‘Wedge formation!’ Septimus ordered as the legionaries deployed from the head of the corvus.

Another Carthaginian fell under the centurion’s blade as he heard his optio , Drusus, shout orders to dress the flanks of the wedge. Septimus continued to push deep into the enemy’s centre, aiming to create a bridgehead that would allow his troops to form a solid line of battle. The gamble was significant. The wedge formation would shock the enemy and slow their response, but it was brittle, the thin edge exposed to the enemy on two quarters.

Septimus clearly heard Punic commands shouted in the pitch of battle. The Carthaginian commander was rallying his troops, aiming to reverse the momentum of the Roman charge. Septimus almost sensed the change in the enemy formation before it occurred, the Carthaginians at the rear pushing forward to check the retreat of their front line.

‘Line of battle!’ the centurion roared, an instant before the Carthaginian thrust reached the front.

The wall of interlocking shields formed up to create a semicircle around the boarding point.

‘Steady the line!’

The legionaries roared their acknowledgement of the command. Unable to advance against the mass of the enemy pushing against them, they would hold the line of battle where they stood. There would be no retreat, no forfeiture of the deck already held. From this moment their mettle would be tested. Whichever side broke first would be slaughtered.

‘Push them back into the sea!’ Gisco bellowed as the Romans’ initial thrust was checked.

From his position at the rear of the formation he watched the first steps backward as the Romans surged into his men. The sight enraged him and, sensing the panic ripple through his men, he watched for the first sign of retreat. A young soldier turned his back on the fight, a moment of hesitation that cost him his life as Gisco ran his sword into the man’s chest.

Gisco stepped over the body and pushed his way into the formation, his personal guard and Khalil following, forming a solid knot that drove directly at the apex of the Roman wedge. His shouted commands and presence amongst his men overcame the first heated moments of panic, and the Carthaginians turned into the fight with renewed vigour. Five men back from the front line, Gisco watched the Roman line re-form into a seemingly impenetrable wall of shields. His eyes scanned the Roman line for the man he sought and found him at the centre of the formation, his height setting him apart from the men on his flanks. Gisco turned to Khalil to single the man out but the Nubian had already identified his prey.

Gisco renewed his cry to advance and his men surged forward, the momentum allowing Khalil to push through to the forefront of the formation. Within seconds he would be poised to attack the very centre of the enemy line – his target, the Roman centurion.

Atticus ignored the strike of the arrow on his hoplon shield as he stood on the foredeck of the Aquila. From the moment Septimus had led his men across the corvus , Atticus had realized the magnitude of the task set for the legionaries. The enemy outnumbered them by at least two to one and, after the initial shock of boarding had been overcome, the Carthaginians would fight fiercely to defend their ship.

With victory in the balance, Atticus had assembled on the foredeck the best fighters from amongst his crew. The twenty men were veterans of countless battles and skirmishes with pirates, and they stood stoically as the battle unfolded before them. Eight of Atticus’s crew were skilled with a bow and they worked to keep the Carthaginian archers at bay, their own arrows seeking targets on the decks of the Melqart. Atticus suppressed the urge to rush across the corvus as he saw yet another legionary fall under the enemy’s onslaught. Atticus and his men knew nothing of legion tactics and would hamper the strict discipline of the line formation. If the enemy broke through, the battle would descend into a mêlée. Only then would Atticus unleash his men.

Septimus grunted as a fresh surge hit the shield wall and he shoved his shoulder forward to counter the lunge. His gladius sought the gap between the shields and he struck low, seeking the groin of an unseen enemy. His sword connected with flesh and he twisted the blade, hearing the cry of pain as yet another Carthaginian fell under the Roman attack. He withdrew his sword, its blade dulled with anonymous blood, before sending it out again to maim and kill.