Captain of Rome (32 page)

‘They’re turning!’ Corin shouted from the masthead, the excitement in his voice impossible to contain. ‘The enemy are in retreat!’

Atticus ran to the foredeck to gain a better view, passing quickly through the serried ranks of legionaries on the main. He skirted around the newly replaced
corvus
, his shoulder brushing against the cumbersome ramp as he did and he mumbled an incoherent curse, his eyes never leaving the sea ahead until his legs struck the forerail. He glanced down, the surging water breaking over the ram echoing a rhythmic splash and he placed his palms on the rail, leaning his upper body forward as he stared once more ahead. The lead squadrons were over a mile away and beyond them was the enemy line, its aspect in complete disarray as the galleys turned away from the fight.

‘Something’s wrong,’ a voice said beside Atticus and he nodded to his second-in-command.

‘No collisions,’ Atticus remarked.

‘And I’ve never known the Carthaginians to run before,’ Lucius replied. ‘Not before the battle’s even started.’

‘Lucius,’ Atticus began. ‘Get aloft. Do a full sweep.’

Lucius nodded and turned, sidestepping past Septimus as he went.

‘They’re in retreat?’ Septimus asked, removing his helmet and rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand.

‘I’m not so sure,’ Atticus replied and Septimus looked to him.

‘It’s not like the Carthaginians to break so easily,’ Atticus continued.

‘But they are turning from the fight,’ Septimus insisted.

‘Without panicking,’ Atticus said, his gaze now sweeping across the entire seascape ahead. He turned to Septimus.

‘Have you ever known an enemy to retreat suddenly in complete order?’ he asked.

Septimus was silent for a moment, his head turning to the Roman attack. He shook his head. Something was wrong.

Hamilcar slammed his fist onto the side-rail as he watched the centre of his line turn in full retreat, the two hundred galleys of the Roman spearhead never pausing as their headlong attack transformed into a full pursuit. The lead galleys of the Roman formation were quickly in line with the
Alissar
’s advanced position on the landward flank, granting Hamilcar a perfect view across the half-mile distance, his professional eye immediately recognising the classic Tyrian design so loved by the Carthaginians in the new Roman quinqueremes. The reports from Brolium on the strength and size of the Roman fleet had been extensive and within seconds a malicious smile spread across Hamilcar’s face as he counted the larger hulls in the formation.

‘Two points starboard!’ Hamilcar ordered the helm and the
Alissar
turned quickly to her new course, the entire landward flank responding immediately, separating Hamilcar’s attack force from the galleys of the centre as they fled west away from the Romans. Hamilcar turned his gaze southwards once more, seeing through the single ranks of the Roman formation to the opposing flank of the Carthaginian line, watching as their aspect changed to mirror his own
course. He looked ahead once more, finally focusing all his attention on the true target of his attack, the soft underbelly of the Roman fleet.

‘Aspect change on the flanks!’

Varro looked up to the masthead, turning away from the sight of the Roman pursuit for the first time, his mind quickly deciphering the call, his brow creased in confusion. The sight of the extended Carthaginian line had shaken him but he had quickly buried his apprehension, the resolute signals of attack from the
Victoria
giving him confidence once more and he had cheered with the rest of the crew as the enemy centre turned in retreat.

Suddenly he was unsure once more and he looked to the enemy galleys closest to the shore. They were advancing, flanking the Roman spearhead, the lead galleys already turned to a course directly aimed at the centre of the third squadron, the galleys behind the vanguard sweeping out to form a line of battle. Alarm instantly swept through Varro, his gaze locked to the galleys in the centre of the line, quinqueremes all, ships that outmatched every galley in the third except the
Orcus.
They could not stand. There was no hope. The first and second squadrons were sailing further away with every passing minute, isolating Varro, cutting him off, abandoning him to the Carthaginian jackals.

Varro looked to the shore less than a mile away, a series of inlets and jagged headlands. If the
Orcus
could reach it first there was a chance they could fend off any attack, the shoreline protecting his rear. He spun around, searching for the captain, seeing the line of triremes still tethered to the transport ships. He froze for a heartbeat. There was nothing he could do for them. The enemy galleys were too strong, too numerous. To stand and fight was to die and Varro was
not willing to die for some forlorn cause. Fleeing was the only option for him; for everyone.

‘Captain!’ Varro shouted, finally seeing the man. ‘Attack speed. Make for the coastline!’

‘Yes, Tribune,’ the captain replied and quickly issued the orders. ‘What will I signal to the rest of the squadron?’ he asked as the
Orcus
broke formation.

Varro looked to the line once more, weighing his options. If they all cut loose and ran the confusion would better hide the
Orcus
from the enemy. He turned once more to the captain. ‘To Hades with them.’

Atticus watched the Carthaginian flanks complete their turn around the rear of the advancing Roman spearhead, Lucius continually shouting down aspect changes from the masthead, the second-in-command’s voice level and unhurried. Atticus glanced briefly to the ship tethered to the
Aquila
, calculating the maximum speed his galley could drag the dead weight against the distance and speed of the approaching Carthaginian line. They could not run, not without cutting loose and condemning the entire Ninth legion. The triremes of the third squadron would have to stand and fight.

‘The
Orcus
is breaking formation!’ Lucius shouted, tension in his voice for the first time.

Atticus ran to the side-rail and looked to the command ship, the quinquereme already accelerating to attack speed, her course cutting across the Roman line as she started to flee. A ferocious anger surged through him as he spotted Varro on the aft-deck, the tribune standing tall by the helm, his back turned to his own line as he stared at the approaching enemy attack.

‘Varro!’ he roared, but the tribune stood unmoved.

‘The
Pomona
!’ Lucius shouted and Atticus spun around to
look at the trireme two ships further down the line. She had cut her tether and was falling into the wake of the
Orcus
, following the command ship in headlong flight. Within a minute a dozen more galleys had broke from the formation, the crack of axe blows resounding through the air as lines were cut and more transport ships were cut loose, panic quickly sweeping through the ranks, the sight of the command ship flight unleashing the survival instinct in every galley.

‘We can’t run!’ Septimus said as he ran onto the aft-deck, his eyes sweeping past Atticus to the galleys on all sides, confusion transforming to outright panic before his very eyes. ‘The Ninth!’

Atticus looked to the ships again, the sails of the released unfurling in a futile attempt to gain some headway in the tepid breeze, their hulls turning slowly, barely making steerage speed. A sudden crunch of timbers cracked through the air as two galleys collided, the total chaos turning Roman against Roman as they sought to escape.

‘By the gods, Atticus,’ Septimus said, grabbing his friend by the shoulder and spinning him around, his face a mask of terror for the lives of the Ninth. ‘We have to do something!’

Atticus stared at Septimus, his mind racing, a thread of panic reaching up and clawing at his spine. Lucius arrived on the aft-deck, his eyes dark with anger and frustration. Atticus looked to the
Orcus
, the command ship holding a direct line to the coast. Varro had destroyed the squadron, had broken its back as surely as the
Punici
would have done. Every galley was fleeing. It was every man for himself and no one man could stand alone, no one galley could stop the Carthaginians. Atticus looked down to the deck beneath his feet and then raised his head as he looked along the length of the
Aquila.
She was a fine ship.

He turned to Lucius, his eyes hard and cold.

‘Sever the line,’ Atticus said, his voice steady, a captain of the
Classis Romanus.
‘Attack speed’.

Regulus watched the runner sprint onto the aft-deck of the
Victoria
, his head darting left and right, searching for his captain. He spotted him and ran to his side, speaking quickly, pointing over the aft-rail. Regulus saw the captain turn, his expression apprehensive.

‘What is it?’ Regulus asked, walking towards the captain, turning his head for a second to the enemy ships fleeing before his own.

‘The enemy flanks,’ the captain said, ‘the masthead lookout reports they did not turn.’

‘What’s their course?’ Regulus asked, suddenly uneasy.

‘They’ve turned into the third squadron, Consul,’ the captain replied, his own anxiety evident in every word.

‘The third squadron…’ Regulus whispered. The Ninth legion, ten thousand men. Only a single line of triremes stood between them and the enemy. He cursed loudly, striding past the captain toward the aft-rail. He had never thought to look beyond the enemy centre, too elated that they had turned so easily. He looked to the third squadron a mile and a half behind. Approaching fast to on its flanks was the Carthaginian attack, a now solid line of advance, at least a dozen quinqueremes in each line. It was impossible to make out any detail in the Roman formation but Regulus thought it was in disarray, as if Varro was redeploying his forces to make a stand against the enemy. It was a valiant attempt but Regulus knew any such stand was doomed without the assistance of some of his forces.

‘Captain!’ he shouted, glancing over his shoulder. He would cut his force in two, sending one half back to relieve Varro’s
galleys. It would mean the escape of many of the Carthaginian centre but the transports had to be protected at all costs. The captain appeared beside him. Regulus turned.

‘Signal Consul Longus,’ Regulus began, ‘order him to take the second…’

‘The enemy are turning!’ a voice shouted out and Regulus looked to the waters ahead. The entire Carthaginian line was turning once more into the attack, every galley, a fluid coordinated manoeuvre as if some unseen hand had swept over their line.

‘Mars protect us…’ Regulus whispered as the full realisation of what he was witnessing overwhelmed him. There was never a retreat. It was a trap, and the Roman vanguard had taken the bait completely, leaving a vital part of the fleet vulnerable, risking a loss that would prevent the invasion of Carthage, the death of ten thousand legionaries.

Hamilcar glanced left and right as the last of his galleys slipped into formation, completing the battle line, creating a sweeping wave fifty ships wide bearing down on the Roman line at seven knots. The seaward flank was a mile to the south, its line equally formed on a convergent course with Hamilcar’s galleys and the Romans trapped between them.

‘Attack speed!’ Hamilcar ordered and the
Alissar
bucked beneath him, taking on the extra knots with a savage intent that matched the will of its commander. Hamilcar moved once more to the side-rail to gain a better view of the Roman squadron a half mile away, his elation growing with every passing oar-stroke, the decreasing distance confirming the masthead’s earlier report that the enemy were retreating. The line was in complete chaos, with galleys fleeing north towards the coastline and east, away from the line of attack. Only the transports remained relatively unmoved, the fickle
insipid wind making a mockery of their attempts to manoeuvre by sail. Hamilcar had been ready for a fight, had already accepted in his mind the loss of many of his galleys, even the quinqueremes that would be vulnerable to attack as they rammed the transport ships. Now that fight was dissipating before his eyes, the shield wall drawing back to lay bare the unprotected.

Hamilcar looked back over his shoulder to the rear of the Roman spearhead, the enemy galleys slowly fanning out to counter the re-turned Carthaginian line that threatened to envelope them. Hanno had timed his counter-stroke perfectly. He had executed the first part of the plan exactly as requested and so now, for the first time, Hamilcar felt confident that Hanno would follow the second part of his plan, the order that dictated how the councillor would engage the enemy vanguard.

His back protected, Hamilcar brought his full focus back to the transport fleet and its retreating escort. He felt his elation surge again and he closed his eyes, breathing in deeply, sifting the smells in his nostrils, the clean salt, the stale dry land and underneath, something else, a smell he could almost imagine, a smell of sweat and bile, the fear of the ten thousand men trapped in floating timber coffins.

‘Enemy galley on intercept course!’

Hamilcar snapped open his eyes and looked to the masthead, seeing the outstretched arm and following the indication to the sea ahead. A lone trireme was approaching, her bow reared up in attack speed, her foredeck drenched in spray from her cutwater as she sliced through the gentle swell. Hamilcar looked to her flanks, to her rear and beyond, searching for other galleys, for the attack she must be leading but there was none. The trireme was alone, a single galley against a line of fifty. Hamilcar’s mouth twisted into a snarl as he stared at the
lone galley, admiring the bravery of the suicidal charge but dismissing it instantly.

‘Hold your course!’ he shouted to the helmsman.

Hamilcar had seen how the Romans attacked their prey many times, striking them head-on, holding them firm before releasing their cursed boarding ramp. But the approaching galley was a trireme, sailing into a pack of quinqueremes and Hamilcar knew the
Alissar
would brush her aside with barely a check. He smiled at the prospect, his hand gripping the side-rail in anticipation of the hammer blow to come.