John Stack - Ship of Rome

Gisco reached the side rail at full tilt, diving over the side in a single movement. He fell ten feet before striking the water, the weight of his armour and the height of his fall driving him deep beneath the surface. His powerful arms struck out and he regained the surface, the salt water bitter in his mouth. Strong hands grabbed his arms and lifted him cleanly from the water into the skiff, the two men immediately retaking the oars and sculling with all speed away from the flagship. Gisco coughed and pulled himself up to look back at the rail he had just jumped. The Roman captain was standing there, his face twisted in mottled rage. Gisco felt the equal emotion swell within him and his anger burst forth.

‘The curse of Mot on you, Roman!’ he screamed. ‘This fight is not over…’

‘Archers!’ Atticus roared for the second time, the impotence of his rage clouding his mind. The Carthaginian commander was escaping, the arch-fiend who had slaughtered Atticus’s countrymen at Brolium and brought the legions of Sicily to their knees. Atticus’s gaze swept the sea before him for another Roman galley, for any ship that could cut off the Carthaginian’s escape. He swung around in agitation, searching the deck again for archers. There were none. His eyes sought out the skiff again, watching in bitter frustration as the three men shouted to a Carthaginian galley beyond the entangled line of battle, her course change answering the call. Atticus threw his sword to the deck in anger, his mind barely registering the clarion calls of victory emanating from the Roman galleys on all sides.

Duilius walked slowly across the corvus , his eyes ranging over the scene of carnage before him. He had never witnessed a battle before and the adrenaline and euphoria of victory were lost at the sight of slaughter. He choked down the bitter taste of bile in his throat as he fought to control himself. The smell of battle was overwhelming, the air filled with the scent of blood and voided bowels, of burnt timber and flesh. Romans – legionaries, sailors, marines and praetoriani – lay strewn amongst the Carthaginian dead, their shared fate marking them as comrades in the hard-fought victory.

The Roman centurion, Capito, was lying on his back on the deck, his wound being tended to by one of his men. Beside him lay a huge Nubian warrior, his face bloodless in shock as he nursed the bloodied stump that had once been his hand.

Captain Perennis stood by the mainmast, surrounded by the remains of his crew, men who had rushed headlong across the corvus to seal the breach in the Roman line and save the battle for the Carthaginian flagship. He was issuing orders to his second-in-command, orders that would secure the Carthaginian vessel and release any Roman slaves below decks.

Beyond the Melqart , the sea to the west was strewn with fleeing Carthaginian galleys. Over half of their fleet was escaping, many scattering in panic and confusion, while a core number followed in loose formation behind the quinquereme. Duilius had stayed the order to pursue, conscious that the element of surprise that the corvus had afforded them was lost, and in the open sea the Carthaginians still held the advantage. He regretted the lost opportunity to eradicate the enemy fleet, knowing that soon the Classis Romanus would have to face them again.

Duilius watched as the optio led a group of slaves up from the lower decks. His eyes passed over their number without interest, their pathetic condition failing to evoke pity in Duilius’s weary soul. He was about to turn when the last man in the group arrested his attention. He was filthy, his only clothing a soiled tunic, but he stood tall, his eyes alive with intensity, and it was only when those eyes looked at Duilius, and the light of hatred cast itself upon him, that he finally recognized Scipio.

‘Curse you!’ Gisco bellowed as he stormed down the gangplank onto the dock at Panormus, his sword raised in anger, his face demonic at the sight of shattered crews disembarking their dead and wounded onto the dock, the spirit of each man broken by the sudden reversal in fortune. ‘Get back to your galleys, all of you: this fight is not over…!’

The Carthaginian crewmen on the dock scattered before Gisco’s flailing sword, some running back to their galleys but many more fleeing towards the town. A vacuum formed around Gisco on the dock, an empty void that he filled with his frustration and anger. He recognized one of the galley captains and ran towards him, grabbing the petrified commander by the arm before bringing the tip of his sword up under his chin, forcing the captain onto his toes.

‘Who gave you the order to abandon the battle?’ Gisco spat, twisting his blade until a drop of blood appeared.

‘Commander Barca…’ the captain stammered, his eyes alive with fear.

‘Barca!’ Gisco roared, throwing the captain to the ground. He twisted his sword and began to beat the captain with the flat of the blade, snapping the man’s forearm the instant it was thrown up in defence, his anger knowing no bounds. The captain cried out for mercy, his pleas ignored by the fanatical Gisco. Suddenly the fall of his sword was stayed by an outstretched blade, the unexpected strike causing Gisco to loose his grip on his weapon.

‘Seize him!’ Hamilcar commanded, keeping his sword charged against Gisco’s throat.

Hamilcar’s guards rushed forward and took hold of Gisco’s arms, the admiral struggling against their superior strength.

‘Release me! I will have you all flogged raw for this insult! And you,’ Gisco rounded on Hamilcar, his face a mask of fury, ‘I will have you crucified for cowardice.’

‘No, Admiral,’ Hamilcar replied, his voice cold and calm, ‘it is I who will have you crucified for failure.’

‘You cannot!’ Gisco railed. ‘I command here. These men answer to me!’

‘They answer to Carthage!’ Hamilcar roared back, his temper unleashed. ‘And on the island of Sicily, I am Carthage!’

‘You cannot!’ Gisco repeated, his voice now tinged with fear.

‘I am an envoy of the Council and a son of Carthage and you have failed both…Take him away!’

The guards hauled Gisco towards the barracks, the admiral bellowing a tirade of hate laced with accusations of treachery. Hamilcar ignored the shouts, ordering the men to continue their attendance of the wounded and dead.

The slain were laid ceremoniously in ranks, their arms folded across their chests, waiting patiently for their journey to the world of Mot. Hamilcar looked upon them with reverence, marking their faces in his memory. They had fought well for their city and Hamilcar murmured a prayer to Tanit, the queen goddess of Carthage, for their souls, his mind already picturing the funeral pyres that would cleanse the mortal remains of the fallen and release their spirits to the gods.

Today Hamilcar would grieve with honour for the dead. Tomorrow, he vowed, the living would pay the price for failure. And as the ashes of the pyres grew cold after the inferno, so too would Hamilcar harden his heart for the terrible retribution to come.

EPILOGUE

Gaius Duilius raised his hand in victory as he entered the Forum Magnum at the head of the triumphal parade. The whole area was thronged with the people of Rome, their number swelled by the promise of wine and food, a celebration of victory for the Classis Romanus at the Battle of Mylae four weeks before. Duilius wore the corona graminea , the grass crown, upon his head, an award given only to commanders whose actions saved a besieged army, and he was dressed in a ceremonial toga, its cloth solid purple, embroidered with gold, a gift from the gracious people of Rome.

The consul’s gaze swept across the crowd in front of him before resting on the men gathered on the steps of the Curia. Every senator was present, ally and foe alike, all save for one man. Duilius smiled at the sight, a response to the summons he had issued that none could ignore for fear of crossing the most powerful man in Rome. As tradition dictated, a slave stood behind Duilius on his chariot, whispering in his ears the words, ‘Memento mori; remember that thou art mortal,’ a reminder from the gods that he was just a man. Duilius ignored the slave, the truth of the words lost in the heady wine of victory and the potent aphrodisiac of power.