Masters of the Sea - Master of Rome (20 page)

He looked to the setting sun, cursing the one missing piece that was vital if he was to overturn the blockade of the harbour and lift the siege. Eventually he would have to escape the encirclement of Lilybaeum to link up with his fleet in Drepana, and his escape depended on the second request he had made of his father. He had no way of knowing if Hasdrubal had been successful, if he had managed to contact the one man Hamilcar knew was capable of effecting his escape, who possessed the skills and local knowledge that none of the commanders in the Gadir fleet had, the one man who could carry him past the Roman blockade.

The
Orcus
moved slowly under a smooth press of canvas with the southwesterly wind off its port aft-quarter. The breeze had shifted hours before, allowing the squadron of ten galleys to ship their oars, and they sailed in near silence, with the noise of the water against the hull and the occasional shouted order being the only sounds heard in the absence of drums.

Atticus stood motionless and looked out over the side rail of the aft-deck, his thoughts given free rein in the silence, quickly becoming aimless after two monotonous weeks of manning the blockade. The sea around the
Orcus
was as smooth as polished marble but, only two hundred yards away, towards the harbour, the telltale ripples of troubled water were evidence of the treacherous shoals that bedevilled the inner approaches to Lilybaeum. Only a narrow channel on the northern end of the bay guaranteed safe access to the harbour, and it was here that the bulk of the Roman fleet lay under the command of a newly arrived Roman prefect, Ovidius. He had insisted on commanding this touch point, eager to attack any ship that dared to run the blockade, and Atticus had readily conceded the position, knowing that, unlike Panormus, there would be few who would try to escape such a tight noose.

Instead Atticus had ordered his ships to patrol the lagoon that ran the full width of the harbour between the inner and outer shoals of the bay. There were numerous other small channels that ran through both sets of shoals, known only to Poseidon and the locals, and if any Carthaginian were to attempt escape it would surely be through these straits. In the end, however, the efforts of both Atticus and the Roman prefect had counted for naught. No Carthaginian ship had run the blockade and the two weeks had passed slowly and without incident.

Atticus stared at the distant town of Lilybaeum, its whitewashed walls stained pink by the dying sun, the docks seemingly devoid of any activity. The sight sparked a memory of a similar scene and his forehead creased as he sought to capture it. Then, to his surprise, he realized that he was remembering his home city.

It was many years since he had last seen Locri, a place where he had grown up in squalor and poverty, a city on which he had turned his back at the age of fourteen to join the Roman coastal fleet. His only fond memories of Locri involved his grandfather, who took him fishing and enthralled him with stories of the ancient Greeks and their triumphs over the Persian Empire. For Atticus, that time had come to represent the old world, a world in which his grandfather had dwelt, when the Greeks were masters of Magna Graecia, Greater Greece, a network of colonized cities and states that included southern Italy, a period that the Romans had ended when they conquered the lands and imposed upon the people their own culture and laws.

That old world now existed only in memory, and to his shame Atticus could not remember the last time he had thought of Locri or his grandfather; when he had last rekindled the links within him to his ancestors. When he had captained the
Aquila
and hunted pirates in the Ionian Sea along the Calabrian coast, he had existed only on the fringes of the Roman Republic. Now he was immersed in it. Rome affected everything he did and everything he was, and Atticus realized he was glad his grandfather had not lived long enough to see how separated he had become from his own people.

‘Galley, off the port aft-quarter. One mile out, passing through the outer shoals!’

Atticus shot around to follow the call but he instantly shied away, the setting sun still too bright, although he did discern a darkened shape in the water. He looked instead to the mast-head.

‘Identify,’ he called up, and Corin leaned forward slightly at the waist, his hand up to his eyes.

‘I can’t, Prefect. He’s approaching directly out of the sun,’ Corin replied in frustration. ‘Definitely a galley under sail though.’

Atticus didn’t hesitate.

‘Baro, take in the mainsail. Ready the oars. Gaius, come about, battle speed.’

The
Orcus
spun neatly at the head of the squadron and the other galleys followed her course, reacting quickly to the signals sent from the aft-deck of the command ship, their oars extending as the sails were furled.

‘She’s sailing under canvas and oars,’ Corin called out, and Atticus cursed as he confirmed the lookout’s call, the changing aspect of his own ship affording him a better view. It took a highly skilled crew to sail a galley under a full press of sail with the oars engaged. The advantage was additional speed without taxing the rowers, but it relied heavily on tight helm control and a disciplined rowing crew. She was a bireme, a galley with two rows of oars; whoever the captain was, he was a clever whoreson and he knew the approaches intimately. He had avoided detection until he was a mile out, using the glare of the sun as a cover and the trailing wind to give him speed and the advantage. The galley was sailing apace, on an oblique line to the centre of the harbour and, as Atticus calculated the angle of attack, his brow furrowed. Even taking the combination of sail and oars into account, the bireme was moving way too fast for a ship of its class.

‘Gaius, attack speed,’ Atticus ordered, already sensing that he was too late, his simple calculations confirming it.

The
Orcus
was beating across the wind under oar power only, and the unidentified galley was already halfway across the lagoon, her bow aimed at some invisible channel. Atticus slammed his fist on the side rail, his mind racing to find some way to reverse the inevitable.

‘She’s a quadrireme,’ Gaius realized.

Atticus studied the hull more closely, knowing now how it was able to achieve such speed. On a bireme, with two rows of oars, each oar was manned by one rower. On a quadrireme that number was doubled, with each oar manned by two men. The two galleys were similar in height and draught but the quadrireme was broader in the beam, a necessary increase to accommodate the additional rowers. It was a rare breed of galley, slower than a quinquereme but more manoeuvrable, quick to turn with a very shallow draught.

This realization did not assuage Atticus’s frustration, however, and he watched in silence as the quadrireme passed a half-mile ahead of the bow of the
Orcus
, her course changing slightly as she negotiated the inner shoals. The
Orcus
was as close as it was going to get, and Atticus turned to issue the order to withdraw when he noticed Gaius’s troubled expression.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘The captain had all the cards in his favour and his approach was flawless. There was no luck involved, none,’ Gaius replied intently. ‘And he sails a quadrireme.’

The helmsman let his thoughts hang in the air, his gaze still locked on the galley, and Atticus considered the implied question, one he had not considered in his frustration. The captain of the galley was highly skilled, knew the approaches inti m ately and his ship was a quadrireme. He looked to Gaius and nodded, agreeing with his deduction. It was the Rhodian.

T
he sentry pulled the rim of his helmet lower as he peered into the darkness, his head turned slightly to pick up any sounds of approach. Huge torches burned high on the walls of the city four hundred yards away, playing havoc with his night vision, but he kept his eyes to the ground and the black space that separated the enemy from the Roman lines.

He was an
optio
of the II maniple, the unit whose turn it was to post the
vigilae
, the night guard, and although the sentry could take consolation in knowing this would be his only night watch all week, he was weary after working the entire day on the siege towers and his eyes were heavy with exhaustion. He sought to keep his mind active, knowing that any lapse in concentration would invite the mortal danger of falling asleep on duty, an offence punishable by summary execution. He felt an ache in his lower back and he suddenly noticed his shoulders had slumped. He quickly straightened and cursed under his breath, drawing his dagger from its scabbard.

He placed the ball of his thumb on the blade, pressing down slightly until the blade pierced his skin. He winced against the pain, but he felt his mind react sharply and he kept his thumb in place, shifting it slightly from time to time to keep his senses alert. It was an old trick, and the legionary’s thumb was laced with ancient scars that bore testament to his years in other legions. He scowled in the darkness. It was going to be a long night.

The commander of the Greek mercenaries heard the grating noise of a blade against a scabbard and he froze. In the darkness around him he sensed his men react, the tiniest rustle of disturbed grass giving way to total silence. He held his breath. Had the Roman sentry heard them? He remained still, opening his mouth slightly to improve his hearing and he began breathing again – short, shallow breaths that sounded no louder than the warm wind. In his mind’s eye he pictured the Roman sentry, perhaps poised as he was, and he waited for the inevitable challenge, knowing any sentry, however experienced, would feel compelled to call out. A minute of complete silence passed, however, and the mercenary commander felt confident they had not been discovered.

He moved forward again and smiled, his mouth closed. The Roman sentry was no more than twenty yards away and the mercenary commander moved his head from side to side to try to locate him, using the random torch-lights of the distant Roman stockade to silhouette the standing sentry. He had advanced with a hundred men in a spaced row towards the Roman sentry line, while fifty yards behind, a further five hundred men moved equally silently. Now he was poised to attack and he nodded to himself in the darkness. He had achieved surprise.

The mercenary commander advanced a further five yards and then stopped again, allowing time for his men to get into position. The main force would continue to move forward, unaware of their leader’s position, so he could not linger. His hand felt to his side and the hilt of his sword, the ivory handle familiar in his grip. He angled his body towards where he had heard the metallic sound and then slowly came out of his crouch, his legs tensed with coiled energy. He paused for a further heartbeat and then whistled. A sharp, short blast that signalled the charge. He shot forward, drawing his sword as he did, coming up to a full run as he sought out his prey.

He spotted the sentry to his right, a shadow within a shadow, the legionary standing beneath one of the massive siege towers. The mercenary commander leaned into the turn, bringing his sword up high as the Roman reacted, the beginnings of a call of alarm escaping his lips as he tried to draw his weapon. The Greek struck him down with a single blow, his sword striking the legionary in the neck, and he fell instantly. The mercenary commander continued on, running directly to the siege tower; as he reached it he heard the first cries of alarm from sentries who had reacted faster.

Their calls were quickly silenced but, like a spark to tinder, the Roman soldiers guarding the towers exploded into action. A figure surged out of the darkness towards the mercenary commander, a misshapen beast with shield and sword held outwards in attack. The commander crouched low and slashed his sword across the legs of the oncoming legionary. The Roman screamed out in pain and fell to the ground. The Greek spun around and stabbed his sword down into the legionary’s exposed back, the blade glancing off the spine before plunging into the kidneys.

The mercenary commander stood up quickly and charged his sword once more. The main body of his men were rushing past him and the darkness hid a growing maelstrom of sound as they struck the centre of the Roman night guard behind the towers. The enemy had reacted fast, as the mercenary commander knew a disciplined army like the Romans would, but within seconds they were hopelessly outnumbered. The commander stayed out of the desperate fray, his eyes on the growing lights of the nearby legion encampment; and, as the last of the valiant night guard were put to the sword, a momentary semblance of calm descended around the towers, at odds with the growing cacophony of shouted orders from the encampment.

The Greek mercenary commander knew they had to act fast before the full force of the legion arrived to counterattack. He could not stand against such numbers, but with luck his task would be complete before then. He stepped back from the tower as the first of his men bearing buckets of pitch arrived. They threw the pitch at the base of the tower while others ran around to ascend the ladder to the platform above, spreading the viscous liquid over as many of the timbers as they could. Once lit, the pitch would give the flames purchase on the newly cut timbers that were still heavy with sap, but it would take several minutes for the fire to take hold and become an unquenchable inferno. Vital minutes that the Greek mercenaries would pay for with blood.

Septimus was jolted from his sleep by the first calls. He jumped up, his mind fogged by fatigue as he shrugged on his armour and grabbed his weapons. By the time he emerged from his tent, the cries of alarm had given way to a general call-to-arms. He automatically repeated the order, shouting at individual men of his command as they emerged from their tents, ordering them to form up and make ready.

He looked to the ramparts of the encampment, trying to discern the point of attack from the rush of men responding to the strident orders. It was difficult to see in the half-light, but a dozen torches quickly became fifty and then a hundred and uncertainty suddenly gave way to realization. His mind became fully alert following the first rush of action, and he ran towards the main gate, a feeling of dread rising from the pit of his stomach.

His maniple ran after him in a confused rush, his
optio
shouting orders for the men to form up on the run, understanding sweeping through the ranks as the whole encampment became aware of the enemy’s target and the legionaries of the IV maniple increased their pace. Septimus barged into the bottleneck at the main gate, his size and rank giving him the advantage as he pushed through into the open ground beyond the gate. The darkness outside the ramparts was almost total and he stumbled on the uneven ground, his eyes locked on the siege towers two hundred yards away. They were silhouetted against the torches mounted on the distant town walls, four massive shadows, and Septimus could intermittently see figures surging around their bases, indistinguishable as friend or foe.

He glanced to his right and the Second Legion’s encampment half a mile away. It too was coming to life, reacting to the din coming from the Ninth. The ramparts bristled with torch-lights, the soldiers wary of the surrounding darkness, not knowing if they were witnessing the main attack or a diversion. Septimus had no such doubts and he drew his sword as ran on, his ears filled with the sounds of hundreds of men snarling and panting, of swords rasping against scabbards, of heavy footfalls as they charged towards the towers.

When the Carthaginians had attacked the siege towers at Panormus the arrival of reinforcements from the main encampment had quickly routed the enemy and saved the beleaguered maniple on guard duty. Now the enemy had repeated that action and, as Septimus ran, there were legionaries on all sides, with only those who had reacted more quickly in front of him, the soldiers advancing to defend the towers without orders, and all semblance of manipular order lost in the headlong charge.

Two hundred yards became fifty and Septimus shouted out the first commands, the men responding immediately to the centurion amongst their ranks; but only a ragged line was formed, distorted by the darkness and the rush of attack. Septimus tightened the grip on his sword, tensing his arm behind the bulk of his shield. He peered ahead into the darkness, searching for prey, expecting them to be already in flight in the face of the Roman charge.

Suddenly an orange plume appeared on the nearest tower, a dancing light that pierced the skin of legionary disci p line, and the Romans roared in anger, their shouts becoming a terrifying battle cry as they saw the flames whip up the height of the tower. Septimus saw a host of men suddenly appear as if from nowhere, exposed by the light from the fire, twenty yards away, their ranks steady, their swords charged against the oncoming counter-attack, and Septimus yelled a desperate order for the line to coalesce, alarmed by the apparent discipline of the enemy force, their coordination in marked contrast to the night attack at Panormus. His command came too late, though, and the Romans charged into the enemy line as a multitude of individual fighters.

Septimus thrust his sword forward in anger and frustration, alarm still ringing in his mind as he sensed the chaos around him. The fight was already a desperate brawl where enemies and weapons were veiled in the half-light of the fires consuming the siege towers, a confusion of thrashing limbs where sword and shield were used with equal force, the men whipping around to face the enemy that was suddenly on all sides, the lines becoming completely enmeshed.

*

The clash of swords resounded in the shadows and men shouted angrily in attack and defence. The Greek mercenaries added to the noise, hammering their shields and shouting out conflicting commands, raising the level of confusion, calling out orders to advance while their lines remained steady. The mercenary commander stood back from the fight, his eyes locked on the fires that were on the cusp of becoming uncontrollable infernos.

He cursed the Romans’ swiftness, their unholy charge from the encampment that had brought them sweeping into his ranks long before he thought it possible. Any other enemy would have been wary of the darkness, advancing only in numbers, but the Romans had counterattacked at the pace of the quickest man, a ragged charge that would not defeat his men but would increase his casualties. He dared not withdraw too soon for that would give the Romans the opportunity to douse the fires; however, every passing second brought the risk that the ever-increasing enemy numbers would overwhelm and trap his forces.

He drew in a deep breath, a blast of warm air from the surging fire drying his throat, and he reached for the horn at his side, bringing it slowly to his lips, his eyes ever locked on the fires. He paused, waiting for the right moment. ‘Now,’ he decided, and he spat to wet his throat before sounding the order to disengage, a command that was normally tantamount to suicide in close combat, but the Greek mercenaries were well drilled and prepared for the order and the commander was counting on the Romans ignoring their flight as they rushed to save their siege towers.

The air was filled with the lowing sound of a horn, a continuous, steady note. The attackers swiftly disengaged from the fight, many of them surging forward one last time, only to turn and run through the guiding light of the flaming towers into the darkness beyond. Septimus instinctively shouted at his men to continue the fight, to exploit the moment of maximum weakness when an enemy turned his back; but in the darkness and confusion of the tangled skirmish his order was meaningless, and the attackers swept from the fight like a wave receding over a pebble beach, carrying some Romans in their initial wake but ultimately escaping unencumbered.

Septimus quickly forgot the enemy’s withdrawal at the dread sight of the fires consuming the siege towers. He slammed his sword into his scabbard. He swept around and shouted at the bloodied, winded legionaries to run for water, but his command was unnecessary as hundreds of men emerged in ordered ranks from the encampment bearing buckets and amphorae of water. Going as close as they dared to the raging fires, they attacked the flames, throwing the meagre contents of each container at them.

Septimus stood back, the skin on his face burning with the intensity of the fire. He leaned against his shield, allowing the other centurions to command their own maniples in the fight to save the towers. It was hopeless, and Septimus mourned the loss of so much hard work. He looked at the ground surrounding the towers, littered with the slain who had fought to defend the hollow wooden prizes.

The II maniple had been all but wiped out, along with dozens more legionaries who had charged fearlessly from the encampment into the chaotic vortex where the enemy had stood resolute and disciplined. The attackers had anticipated the counterattack, had fought hard and withdrew only when the fires had taken hold, their staunch defence dissipating at the sound of a horn.

Septimus searched for their slain and saw they were but a fraction of the total, barely visible in a sea of red-cloaked soldiers. He walked over to one and kicked over the body, noticing, even in the half-light of the fires, that his uniform and armour were unlike any he had ever seen on a Carthaginian. His anger flared unbidden as he realized the attackers had been mercenaries, hired swords, their loyalty extending only to money and plunder. To a legionary they were the lowest form of vermin, and to have been bested by them was a bitter insult that compounded the dishonour of defeat.

Septimus was distracted by a scuffle nearby and he watched as a group of legionaries beat a captured mercenary. He was badly wounded, but the legionaries, enraged by their loss, showed little mercy. A centurion struggled to call them off, needing to keep the mercenary alive for interrogation. The legionaries refused to back down, wanting the mercenary dead, and the centurion drew his sword to enforce his will. Septimus watched apathetically. What did it matter if the mercenary had any information? The defeat was irreversible. He turned again to the pyres that had once been the siege towers, the men no longer trying to douse the flames but standing back, breathing heavily, their blackened faces twisted in anger and frustration.