Masters of the Sea - Master of Rome (17 page)

Through hooded eyes he saw the enemy before him and he bunched his weight behind his shield, his feet instinctively finding purchase on the narrow, blood-soaked drawbridge, the memory of a dozen assaults across a
corvus
guiding his actions. He roared in defiance, his call taken up by a hundred men, and they tore into the Carthaginian front line, shattering it instantly as men were flung backwards from the battlements. He spun on his heel, turning the momentum of the charge along the narrow walkway, and once again the battle was transformed into two narrow fronts as the legionaries tried to sweep the Carthaginians from the walls.

Septimus tasted blood: the remnants of the legionary who had fallen beside him, his own from a shallow sword wound under his helmet, and also the blood of his enemy, a fine spray that covered his face as he twisted and withdrew the blade of his sword from the clinging flesh. The close-quarter combat reached a bloody peak as each side neared the limit of its strength and desperate commands were shouted in disparate languages, driving the men through barriers of pain and exhaustion.

Septimus stabbed his sword forward, his shield arm numb to the shoulder from countless blows but, as he stared into the eyes of his enemy, he began to see seeds of doubt there. Suddenly the tempo of the defence changed from tenacious to desperate. The number of legionaries on the battlements had reached a critical level and an instinctive recognition swept through the Carthaginian line.

The pressure against Septimus’s shield fell away and, over the shoulders of the enemy front line, he saw men retreating, fleeing down the steps that led to the street below. The warrior facing him sensed the vacuum to his rear and he stepped back in panic. Septimus stabbed through the Carthaginian’s open guard, slicing cleanly into his groin, and he pushed him from the battlements as he led his men onwards, the Carthaginian’s dying screams lost amidst the cheers of the Ninth.

They swept down off the battlements and along the narrow street that led to the eastern gate, clearing all before them, dealing quickly with any individual Carthaginian who stood his ground, running at full tilt as blood lust and victory combined to chase all restraint from their minds.

Septimus had led a hundred men from the battlements, but as he neared the eastern gate that number fell to a dozen, the others disappearing into the warren of streets, knowing they were the first, eager to ravage the virginal town before the horde descended. Four Carthaginians stood guard at the eastern gate, the brave remnants of a detachment that had already fled, and they threw themselves against Septimus’s men, screaming battle cries of hatred. They were quickly killed, and the legionaries sheathed their swords as they lifted the locking bar clear.

A wave of legionaries swept through the entrance, their cheers laced with a savagery born of a bloody fight. The assaults of the other siege towers had failed and the men of the Second had been badly mauled, a blood-letting that fed their desire for brutal revenge. Like feral animals they threw off all restraint, racing into the deserted streets, their swords drawn against a defenceless foe.

Septimus stood back from the tide, his mind still conditioned to the demands of his command, giving himself pause to still the blood lust in his veins as he took stock. The legion aries were beyond control and, although many of the enemy would stand, individually or in small groups, they were hopelessly outnumbered and the end was inevitable.

Panormus had fallen, and Septimus could hear the screams of terror from the populace, the cries of women and children, of men desperately trying to mount a defence against hardened soldiers who would kill any who stood in their path. Panormus had stood defiant, and for that the inhabitants had sacrificed all claims to mercy. The victors would take their measure of retribution. As the last cries of battle faded, a new, more terrifying sound resonated around the walls: the desperate pleas of a population given over to a cursed fate of rape and death.

‘Aspect change on the Carthaginian galleys!’

‘Report, Corin,’ Atticus shouted, running to the side rail of the aft-deck.

There was a moment’s pause as the lookout watched the enemy formation take shape.

‘Eleven galleys, looks as though they’re making battle speed, heading . . . west, towards the right flank.’

‘Baro,’ Atticus shouted, ‘make ready for battle. Drusus, assemble your men.’

The
Orcus
sprang into action, every man following the dictates of training or experience, the endless hours of drill transforming the galley from an inert state to battle-poised in minutes.

‘Signal from shore, the legionaries have breached the walls!’

Atticus looked to Panormus. The siege towers were hard up against the eastern wall, like barbs stuck fast on the hide of an enormous beast, their size dwarfed by the featureless curtain walls and battlements. At least two of them were on fire and, although Atticus had watched their approach to the wall, he was suddenly in awe of the men who had scaled such crude devices to throw themselves against the waiting defenders. He looked to the inner harbour and the tight formation of Carthaginian galleys approaching his command. The town had fallen and soon every ship in Panormus would attempt to break out, many of them in the wake of the galleys, hoping for a breach. Atticus made his decision even as he spoke the command.

‘Signal to the left flank: full attack! Tell them to take the inner harbour. We’ll take the galleys.’

Gaius immediately called for battle speed and the
Orcus
shot forward from the static formation of the blockade, the galleys on its flank reacting quickly as the signal swept across their decks to be passed down the line.

‘Gaius, target the centre of their formation,’ Atticus commanded, and the helmsman swung the bow through two points. Their best chance was to overwhelm the Carthaginian galleys quickly and decisively, ending all hope of escape amongst the trading ships. Atticus moved to stand beside the tiller, bracing his feet against the pitch of the deck; he felt the crushing monotony of the past three weeks fall away as a spearhead of galleys formed behind the
Orcus
.

Like the unfolding wings of a hawk preparing to fly, the Carthaginian formation took shape before the Roman attack, the flanks advancing at a faster pace until the enemy galleys were sailing line abreast. They were manoeuvring for sea room, Atticus realized, abandoning any pretence of punching through the Roman formation. They were going to engage. Atticus smiled derisively. Although outnumbered, the Carthaginians were evidently confident they could prevail. After all, the fight would be on their terms, fought on the tip of a ram, but the Carthaginians were underestimating the skill of a trained Roman crew and Atticus vowed they would pay dearly for their imprudence.

He glanced left, watching the opposite flank as it swept in behind the Carthaginian galleys to envelop the struggling mass of trading ships, many of them hopelessly trying to raise sail in the insipid wind, irrationally ignoring the odds. Any chance of a breakout was already being quashed, and with a hard stare he turned once more to the approaching Carthaginian galleys.

The gap fell to four hundred yards and Atticus called for attack speed, the
Orcus
taking on the additional four knots within a ship length. Atticus pointed to the centre galley of the enemy formation, his silent order wordlessly acknowledged by Gaius as he adjusted the tiller a half-point. Hours of training came to the fore and the formation of Roman galleys behind the
Orcus
was forgotten as she cast off the fetters of combined attack to become a lone fighter.

Atticus and Gaius spoke with one voice as the Carthaginian galley neared, the enemy crew having identified and responded to the singular line of attack. The opposing galleys weaved through an invisible line separating the rams, each helmsman subtly countering the feints and ripostes of the other, and the unrelenting drum beat from the rowing deck seemed to increase as Atticus braced for the final thrust.

His mind cleared, the order forming in the back of his throat; he felt Gaius tense beside him, anticipating the command. The Carthaginian galley filled his vision, its dark hull a mirror reflection of the
Orcus
, two creatures born of the same design, forced to fight each other by their warring masters.

‘Now,’ Atticus said, almost in a whisper, and Gaius nudged the helm, taking the
Orcus
off its true line, a delicate and deliberate error to compel the enemy to commit. The Carthaginians responded instantly in an incredible display of seamanship, and they swept in to strike the
Orcus
on the starboard forequarter. Atticus had anticipated the move, but the enemy’s reaction was far faster than he predicted, their skill beggaring belief, and he roared out the final order before he drew breath.

‘Hard to starboard, ramming speed!’

The
Orcus
was immediately transported back to the calm coastal waters of Fiumicino and the rowing crew accelerated to ramming speed even as Gaius brought the tiller hard over. A hundred hours’ training was realized in the span of a breath, and the
Orcus
cut inside the line of attack, bringing her ram to bear on the starboard flank of the Carthaginian galley.

Atticus was thrown to the deck as the ram struck home, the six-foot bronze fist striking the strake timbers at an acute angle, snapping them cleanly from the bulkheads, the forward momentum of the Carthaginian galley adding to the force of the blow, the galley pushing itself upon the very spear that was slicing into its underbelly. Atticus regained his feet, the shock of attack and the fury of battle heightening his senses. Quickly he took stock. The Carthaginians were thrown by the sudden reversal but they were already recovering; Atticus could hear the angry bark of orders from the enemy decks. They were surging towards the side rails, preparing to board, to trade ship for ship.

‘Gaius, full reverse,’ Atticus ordered. ‘Drusus, prepare to repel boarders.’

The newly promoted centurion commanded his men with crisp, decisive orders and they ran quickly to the foredeck, forming a wall of interlocking shields at the rail, their swords drawn in defiance, daring the Carthaginians to attack.

The rowers of the
Orcus
began to back stroke but, even as they did, grappling hooks were thrown by the enemy, locking the ships together. The timbers of the stricken Carthaginian galley squealed and tore as the ram twisted in the gaping hole. The legionaries drew aside their shields to attack the lines, the ropes parting like bow strings drawn by the strength of two hundred and seventy rowers, but from ten feet the Carthaginians cast spears through the gaps in the shield wall, striking down any legionary who exposed himself. The embrace was sustained as more lines were thrown.

The gap between the foredecks fell to four feet, and the Carthaginians charged the shield wall, jumping fearlessly across, a desperate attack to escape their doomed ship. The legionaries stood firm and a dozen men fell between the grinding hulls of the galleys, their screams of terror lost in the din of battle. The stronger warriors gained the Roman deck but Drusus’s men held them fast, checking any breach before it could develop while the increasing momentum of the
Orcus
finally overcame the strength of the tethers and they parted in sequence, the lines whipping back to leave the Carthaginian galley reeling away. The stranded boarders fought to the last, their fate driving them to mindless fury, and many legionaries fell before they were finally overcome.

The
Orcus
swung away under a final hail of arrows and spears from the sinking Carthaginian galley, the enemy’s curses reaching across the increasing gap. Gaius brought the galley back up to battle speed, her bloodied ram seeking out further prey.

Atticus watched as the last arrows fell short. He looked to the foredeck and the casualties of the legionaries. The Carthaginians were a fearsome breed and their defiant attempt to board the
Orcus
was a mark of their courage. Nevertheless, they had been beaten on their terms, on the tip of a ram, and Atticus knew his confidence had been justified as he looked once more to the sinking enemy ship.

‘By the gods . . .’ Gaius began, and Atticus spun around, following the helmsman’s gaze.

Eight Roman galleys were sinking fast in the waters behind the
Orcus
, prey of the Carthaginian rams; as Atticus watched in horror, another three ships were struck in rapid succession, second blood for the enemy ships. Only two Carthaginian galleys had been rammed on the first assault.

Atticus had been certain of victory, the sheer weight of odds negating any chance the Carthaginians had. Yet the enemy ships were mauling the thirty-five galleys of the right flank and he realized with sickening dread that his previous confidence had been based solely on the skill and training of his crew. As a commander he had misjudged the situation, believing that all Roman crews possessed the same prowess as his own. But the Carthaginians had neatly exploiting the imbalance of skill, attacking many of the ships with near impunity, with only the more experienced Roman captains able to counter the enemy rams.

With
corvi
, the Romans attacked head-on in line abreast, each galley protecting the flanks of its neighbour, an impenetrable wall against which the Carthaginians had no defence. The skill required of the Roman crew for a frontal attack was minimal compared to a ramming run, and therein lay one of the many strengths of the
corvus
, requiring only that the crew strike the bow of the enemy ship before the boarding ramp was released to hold the galleys together. Now the ram reigned supreme and seamanship was vital, a skill the Carthaginians had honed over generations, using it to deadly effect in the harbour of Panormus.

Atticus roared a course change in anger and frustration and the
Orcus
came up to attack speed. In the waters ahead, a Roman galley was desperately trying to avoid the ram of a pursuing Carthaginian ship, their forlorn attempts to escape neatly countered at every turn. Atticus identified the target to Gaius, the helmsman grimly bringing the ram of the
Orcus
to bear. The Carthaginian crew realized the threat and although, as before, they reacted with lightning speed, Gaius was their equal and the
Orcus
accelerated to ramming speed.