Captain of Rome

Immediately the acting centurion was at Atticus’s side.

‘Have your men form up on the foredeck behind the corvus. Once you have control of the enemy main deck I want you to fire her and retreat. Don’t engage below decks.’

Drusus saluted, his clenched fist slamming into his chest armour. He turned and issued terse orders to his men, the soldiers breaking ranks to reform on the fore. Atticus hesitated a moment to watch him. He was an optio of the Fourth legion who had been drafted to the marines as Septimus’s second-in-command. With the centurion absent, Drusus was in full command of the marines, a position he had never held before in a naval battle. He was a quiet man who kept his own counsel, but Atticus knew him to be a strict disciplinarian and he followed orders to the letter, never questioning a command or commander. But he lacked experience and Atticus realised he would need to guide both galley and marines in the fight to come.

‘Thirty enemy galleys!’ Lucius roared suddenly from the masthead and Atticus lifted his gaze. ‘Three quinqueremes in the van! Moving in arrow formation!’

‘Captain!’ Varro shouted, breaking Atticus’s concentration, ‘What’s going on?’

‘A trap, Tribune,’ Atticus said brusquely, not looking at the Varro but at the Carthaginian galley to the Aquila’s fore, now less than a hundred yards away, ‘and we sailed right into it.’

‘A trap?’ Varro repeated, a slight edge of apprehension in his voice, his confidence of minutes before suddenly challenged.

‘Ready the corvus!’ Atticus shouted, watching Gaius from the corner of his eye as the helmsman lined up the bow of the Aquila.

‘What are you doing?’ Varro asked, his previous command forgotten. ‘We must withdraw.’

‘No!’ Atticus said angrily but then immediately instantly calmed his voice, needing the tribune to understand. ‘We must attack, Tribune. We’re too close, too committed. We need to wipe out the threat to our front before we turn. Otherwise we’ll be forced to fight on two fronts.’

Varro looked away, his face twisted in uncertainty, his eyes darting left and right. Atticus turned his attention once more to the attack.

With twenty yards to go Drusus ordered his hastati to release their javelins, the final prelude to attack that would shatter any confluence of men on the Carthaginian foredeck. The Aquila shuddered as the seventy ton galley struck the unyielding hull of the Carthaginian ship and the corvus was instantly released, its thirty-six foot length hammering down onto the enemy deck, the three foot long spikes on the underside of the ramp crashing into the seasoned pine of the enemy fore, securing the two galleys together in a deadly embrace. Only then did the legionaries roar, their bloodthirsty cry filling their hearts with anger and courage. Within seconds Drusus led all sixty of his men across and a battle line was formed at the head of the Carthaginian galley, the interlocking four-foot scutum shields of the legionaries creating an impenetrable barrier against which the Punici could not stand. Slowly and inexorably the Romans began their advance, their swords finding the gaps between the shields, each thrust searching for and finding the flesh of the enemy as man after man fell beneath Roman iron. The noise of battle carried clearly down the length of the Aquila to the aft-deck; cries of anger and pain mixed with the clash of weapons. It was a sound like no other in the world and Atticus was transfixed by the sight before him, the vicious struggle that he had known half his life, first as a pirate hunter and now as a galley captain in the war against the Punici.

Septimus gritted his teeth as he ran, almost stumbling as he favoured his right leg. All around him the sound of officer’s commands filled the air, their voices raised above the sound of five thousand men running towards the outer buildings of Thermae; their orders tightly controlling the panic that lingered just under the surface of every Roman infantryman at the thought of being caught in the open against enemy cavalry.

Septimus’s vision was filled with the throng of men in front of him but his senses also picked up the advance of the Carthaginians behind; the approaching thunder that infused the very air and his mind calculated their proximity from the sound. Less than two hundred yards. They weren’t going to make it and Septimus heard the legate issue a desperate order to try and check the Carthaginian charge.

‘Hastati! Prepare to form ranks!’

Septimus ran on through the assembling ranks of the junior soldiers, each one preparing to deploy their pila javelins over the heads of the retreating legionaries, the decision to deploy them a desperate gamble to give the rest of the legion time to take cover. The troops were crowded together in the gaps between the buildings and on the main road into the town. Septimus pushed himself out of the throng and into an island of calm against the bare whitewashed wall of a house. He drew his sword and immediately began to command the men at the crush points to his left and right, his voice reprimanding the soldiers who were pushing those in front, ensuring that panic did not ripple across the men frantically vying for the safety of the town. He looked back towards the approaching enemy, their primeval war cries almost drowning the orders of the centurions commanding the hastati. The junior soldiers stood with their feet apart, braced for the throw of their weapons against the enemy bearing down on them. It was a sight to see and Septimus felt his pride swell at the fortitude of the younger men, many of whom had never faced down a cavalry charge. His trained eye judged the distance between the forces, counting the yards off in his head. At thirty yards they would release and the hastati would break for cover. Whether they reached it or not depended on the enemy’s courage.

Septimus instinctively muttered the command a heartbeat before the shouted order of ‘Loose!’ released fury upon the enemy.

Twelve hundred javelins were released as one, their trajectory almost flat at the short range and they hung in the air for a mere second before crashing into the enemy ranks, the iron point of each six foot spear slamming indiscriminately into the exposed flesh of the enemy with Fortuna’s hand separating the lucky from the damned. For an instant the force of the charge was repressed, its momentum struck as horses and men fell under the weight of Roman iron. Time slowed as Septimus locked his gaze on the front ranks of the enemy. From where he stood he could see the individual expression of each man and witness the critical moment when their courage would either rear up in defiance or collapse. It passed and his body moved before his mind could fully register the outcome, his survival instinct faster than his conscious mind.

Septimus was already through the now empty gap between the houses behind him when the order for the hastati to break was given. Only then did he replay in his mind the sight he had just seen, the moment to which he had borne witness. The Carthaginians had never wavered. They had run over their own dead and injured without check and the air behind Septimus was ripped by the terrible sound of the enemy cavalry striking the exposed ranks of the hastati as they scrabbled the remaining yards to the cover that many of them would never reach.

Hamilcar roared in triumph as a spray of Roman blood fell across his face, the legionary beneath his blade pitching backward with his arms outstretched; his chest slashed open, his defiant stand when all around him fled, ended by a Phoenician blade. Hamilcar continued the swing of his blade over his head as his mount thundered on, the momentum of their combined charge bringing the sword down with savage speed onto the helmet of another fleeing soldier, the forge-welded blade slicing cleanly through the thin metal helmet, dropping the legionary instantly.

All around Hamilcar the Carthaginian line enveloped the fleeing Romans, the slaughter unopposed as the exposed hastati ran for cover, many of them dropping their weapons in a futile attempt to speed their flight, the front ranks left with too far to run. They paid for the precious seconds they had given their comrades with their lives. Hamilcar violently reined in his mount only yards short of one of the outer buildings of the town while to his left and right more Carthaginians continued to butcher the bottlenecked legionaries. He drew his forearm across his mouth, tasting the blood of his enemy as he wiped the stain away, his heightened senses capturing each second of his first close-contact fight with the Romans.

A cheer erupted from the Carthaginians as the last of the Romans fell or fled, the men wheeling their mounts in tight circles as they held their swords aloft in triumph. Hamilcar scanned the scene around him. Fifty yards to his rear he spied his fallen men, their number laid out in a line marking the fall of the Roman spears, their loss repaid fourfold by the number of dead Romans who littered the horse-trampled ground and the Roman cavalry so easily dispatched in ambush only an hour before. Cries and alarm cut through the cheering and Hamilcar spun around to see a flight of Roman spears erupt from the confines of the town, the untargeted volleys falling loosely amongst his troops.

‘Withdraw!’ he roared, his men instantly obeying, galloping out of range of their unseen foe.

‘Commander!’ Hamilcar shouted as he spun his mount around fifty yards from the town. A senior cavalry officer was immediately by his side.

‘Re-form the line,’ he ordered. ‘Have your men rush any Roman who appears but do not attempt to breach the town.’

The officer saluted and galloped down the line, shouting orders as he did, the men falling back once more into a battle line that effectively imprisoned the Romans in Thermae. Hamilcar watched the officer for a minute, his gaze ranging over the extended formation, the expressions of his men still manic from the frenzied attack only moments before. They would need a firm hand to keep them in check and the uneasy stomp of their horses’ forelegs betrayed the pent-up aggression of the riders. Let loose they would charge the very heart of the town, their blood lust blinding them to the danger of attacking infantry in enclosed streets where their superior speed and manoeuvrability would count for naught. He watched as discipline reasserted itself, and turned his attention back to the town. Between the buildings and on the entrance road he could see a multitude of red cloth and burnished steel, the Romans rushing across his line of sight as their officers fought to regain control of their shattered formations. Hamilcar smiled although his eyes remained cold. No fewer than four hundred Romans lay dead before him and yet the wound to his pride was still raw, his heart calling for greater vengeance. He spurred his mount and raced off towards the southern end of the town and to the flank that would take him quickest to the shores of the inner harbour. As he rode he looked back once more over his shoulder and to the cavalry that had wrought such slaughter. Their fight was fought and won. Now Hamilcar would unleash the next wave, the attack that would wipe out the Romans and restore his honour.

‘By the Gods…’ Atticus whispered as a horde of Carthaginian soldiers suddenly emerged from the hatchways of the Carthaginian galley now transfixed to the Aquila. There were scores of them, many more than the normal complement of a Carthaginian galley; a multitude rushing towards the thin battle line of Drusus’s men. They stormed forward as one, the weight of their charge barely checked by the disciplined legionaries as they were pushed onto the defensive by a number three times their own.

A cheer emanated from the Carthaginian galley on the Aquila’s left flank and Atticus spun around to see the Roman line of the Minerva collapse under a similar assault, the legionaries retreating across the corvus as the enemy followed them onto the deck of the Roman galley. Atticus spun around to the waters of the outer harbour behind him. The Carthaginian galleys were forming a battle line across the width of the harbour, but Atticus noticed that they were slowing their advance and he hesitated, his mind racing to understand the enemy’s rationale, why they were not attacking. He swept aside the question and turned once more.

‘Lucius!’ Atticus shouted, his voiced raised above the Punic war cries that carried from the Minerva not thirty yards away, ‘All hands forward, send a runner across to Drusus and tell him to withdraw. We’ll cover his retreat!’

‘Yes, Captain.’ Lucius replied and was away.

As Atticus ordered his crew forward, the first flight of arrows from the enemy on board the Minerva flew across the narrow gap between the galleys and struck the main deck of the Aquila. A shiver ran down Atticus’s spine as an arrow swept past him and he fought to suppress it, standing resolute in the centre of his ship. He muttered his familiar prayer to Fortuna, knowing that if her hand was upon him this day he would live to see another. If not then Hades, the Lord of the Dead, would take him across the Acheron before the sun set. He felt his nerve strengthen as he ended his prayer, the initial panic every soldier felt at the start of close combat quickly subsiding within him and like countless times before, with a warrior’s heart, he gave his life to fate.

Atticus looked beyond the fight before him to the buildings surrounding the docks of Thermae and his thoughts strayed to Septimus. If the fleet had been baited into a trap then surely the legion had suffered the same fate. He turned to the town beyond the inner harbour and as his eyes strayed over the whitewashed buildings he saw a fire arrow take flight, its golden orange tip followed by a black tail of smoke that stood out against the cobalt sky. Even above the noise of battle all around him, Atticus clearly heard the visceral war cry emanating from the bowels of the town and he instinctively recited his prayer once more, this time for his friend. The dread war cry of the Punici whipped through the still air, the sound causing Septimus to turn his head to the western end of the town and the source of the cry, the men who roared it as yet unseen beyond the confines of the narrow streets now crammed with legionaries. High above his head he spied a lone fire arrow, its purpose immediately clear as a roar emanated from the eastern end of Thermae and the enemy on the reverse flank. Septimus immediately began to form the men around him, his officer’s voice joining the confusing disharmony of commands as centurions and optios fought to bring a semblance of order to the chaos.

The Ninth had run into Thermae in confusion, the ordered formations created on the open space at the edge of the town destroyed as the men fled the Carthaginian cavalry. Septimus searched around him for the banner of the IV maniple and the men under Marcus’s command but it was nowhere to be seen within his field of vision, a scene choked with men pushing and shoving to regain their own units.

The war cries to the west intensified and Septimus charged his shield in that direction, the men around him following suit, many taking their lead from the taller centurion in their midst. Septimus frantically looked for a unit of hastati, the sequence of defence ingrained into his command psyche but none were intact and he realised that even if a unit were available there wasn’t enough room for them to deploy and release their spears in the crush of men. With a rush of understanding he realised the brilliance of the Carthaginians’ trap. A Roman legion was born and bred on an open battlefield where her ordered formations were impenetrable. In the narrow confines of a town, without room to manoeuvre, the disciplined structure that made the legions near unbeatable was lost.

The blare of a Roman military trumpet reverberated through the streets, Septimus spinning around to find its source. An order rippled down through the street. ‘Fighting retreat to the docks!’ a centurion shouted and Septimus repeated the order to all within his own earshot, continuing the relay of the order. Soldiers began to push back past Septimus as they made for the centre of the town and the road to the docks while others stood confused and dazed, lost without their unit. Septimus stood firm, his eyes locked on the street ahead of him, unable to see beyond the abrupt turn to the right not thirty yards from his position. A number of principes, the battle-hardened core of the legion, spotted Septimus’s stand and fell in behind him, creating a wedge of men that separated the flow like the cutwater of a galley.

The sound of the oncoming enemy filled the air around, their voices now intermingled with the sound of their running footfalls, the noise ricocheting off the walls of the town, tricking the ear so Septimus was forced to turn his head left and right to judge the distance of direction of the oncoming onslaught.

‘Form line!’ he roared, the soldiers spreading out across the twenty foot wide street to form a shield wall.

Septimus took his place immediately behind the first line, his gaze sweeping over the men around him, their insignia from a dozen different maniples marking them as strangers but their uniform making them one. The wall of sound to their front increased in intensity and Septimus focused his attention on the corner to their front.

‘Steady, boys!’ Septimus growled, ‘Steady!’

The men in front of Septimus visibly bunched their shoulders into the back of their shields, bracing themselves against the rush of enemy that was bearing down on them.

‘Here they come!’

Septimus watched with a determined expression as the first of the Punici raced around the corner towards them. Their pace checked for a heartbeat at the sight of the shield wall but their expressions of pure aggression never varied and they ran headlong without pause.

‘Steady the line!’ Septimus shouted.

The legionaries roared a primeval battle cry in response, acknowledging the order. Steady the line. Not one step back until the enemy was held.

The Carthaginians crashed against the front line as one, their momentum absorbed and then repelled by men tempered in the forge of the Roman legions. The legionaries heaved forward against the press of the enemy, creating gaps between their shields through which they fed their gladius swords, the iron blade seeking a death stroke against an enemy’s groin or stomach. The Punici battered the wood and canvas shields, hammering the iron edging, their brute strength fuelled by their hatred of the Roman aggressor. A legionary fell, then another, their place rapidly filled as Septimus fed replacements into the breach.

‘Fighting retreat!’ Septimus shouted. The line was strong and holding but the weight of the enemy against it was increasing with every passing second. The battle around Septimus filled his senses, the sound of iron on iron, wood and flesh, the incoherent overwhelming war cries mixed with cries of pain and death, the smell of blood and voided bowels as dead men fell beneath the butcher’s blade.

‘Hold!’ Atticus growled to his men on the foredeck, ‘Steady, boys!’

The crew of the Aquila were fanned out on each side of the corvus, with archers deployed on the forerail, the men forming a funnel through which the legionaries could retreat in order. Atticus was given a second to look around him and he spotted Varro standing near the back of the line. He stood amongst his own personal guard, commanded by a veteran of the legions named Vitulus. In front of these many of the older senators, former military commanders in their own right, had drawn their swords, their time spent in the legions commanding their actions even now in their later years.

With one fluid movement Atticus drew his sword, the iron blade singing against the scabbard, his arm instantly accepting the familiar weight of the weapon. The rear ranks of Drusus’s men had reached the corvus and they were edging back along it. Within a minute the front rank, Drusus amongst them, were coming across the boarding ramp, his line continuously pushed by the press of Carthaginian warriors to his fore, the enemy war cries increasing in ferocity as they sought to board the Roman galley.

As the last of the legionaries crossed, the crew of the Aquila instantly engaged. Atticus took a step to his front as a Punic warrior pushed towards him, a battle axe in his hand. The Carthaginian swung the axe high and Atticus collapsed his body into a defensive stance, coming to his full height—again chest to chest with the enemy fighter, instantly stabbing upward and behind with his sword, the blade biting deeply into the exposed kidneys of his enemy, the man collapsing with a cry of pain. Atticus fought on without check, his instincts screaming at him to rush the enemy before they could form a coherent bridgehead on the foredeck of the Aquila, his heart damning any man who would dare to set foot on his galley.