Captain of Rome (31 page)

‘You have news?’ Hamilcar asked, his gaze suspicious.

‘Yes, my lord,’ the captain began, ‘from Naples.’

‘Go on.’ Hamilcar said.

‘As you know, my lord, the Maltese are no longer welcome in Ostia so we are forced to trade with the Republic further south where local loyalty leans more to the drachma and the denarius.’

Hamilcar nodded impatiently. Malta had been a province of Carthage for over one-hundred and fifty years, but her traders acted independently to those of the city, sailing their vessels into nearly every port in the Mediterranean, ally and foe of Carthage alike, their singular loyalty to trade recognised by all. Only Ostia forbade them entry.

‘And what have you heard?’ Hamilcar asked.

‘It is what I have seen, my lord,’ the captain said quickly. ‘A large Roman fleet sailing south from the city a week ago.’

‘How many ships?’ Hamilcar asked, his voice suddenly on edge.

‘At least three hundred galleys, my lord,’ the captain replied, ‘escorting transport ships carrying legionaries.’

Hamilcar stood silent for a moment, his mind racing. ‘Where were they heading?’ he asked.

‘The rumours in the city said Brolium on the Sicilian coast.’

Again Hamilcar remained quiet as he tried to discern the Romans’ intentions. He stepped forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘Why do you bring us this news?’ he asked, searching the captain’s expression.

‘The Romans have already closed the port of Ostia to our ships,’ the captain spat. ‘If they expand their territory then who knows what rule of law will follow? We Maltese want only trade and for generations Carthage has given us a free hand. Given a choice I would sooner have the Romans bottled up on their peninsula.’

Hamilcar nodded but he remained cautious. This information, taken with the rumours thus far, seemed to indicate a massive offensive. But against where? Panormus? Syracuse? Either way, he now had vital information to share with the supreme council, information that would decide the next move of the Carthaginian fleet.

‘Can we believe this message?’ the councillor said, looking to his colleagues, uncertainty in his voice, his question answered simultaneously by a half-dozen others. Hamilcar stood silently as the debate swung back and forth amongst the twelve members of the supreme council, waiting to be addressed directly having finished his report. As always he looked to his father surreptitiously, searching for some unspoken
advice, the intricate alliances and sub-groups of the council a mystery to Hamilcar, leaving him with little idea of who still supported him as military leader.

‘Do you believe this message?’ the suffet finally asked, looking at Hamilcar with hooded eyes.

‘I have dispatched a galley to Thermae with orders for the captain to make contact with our spies in Brolium,’ Hamilcar replied, carefully keeping all bias from his tone. ‘If the Roman fleet do indeed dock there, then I believe we will have verification of the message. In the meantime I have interned the Maltese captain and his crew. If his report is false then we shall exact the real truth from his lying tongue.’

‘If the report is verified,’ the suffet said, ‘what do you propose?’

‘To learn of their final objective and then take the battle to them with our entire fleet.’ Hamilcar replied boldly.

‘To what end?’ Hanno said with derision. ‘To attempt to regain the confidence of this council?’

‘No,’ Hamilcar replied, anger in his voice. ‘To wipe the Roman scourge from our seas.’

Hanno made to retort but the suffet held his hand up for silence. ‘I agree with young Barca’s plan,’ he said after a moment’s pause, looking to each council member in turn. ‘With such a Roman fleet at sea we must act decisively.’

Some of the council members nodded in agreement while more looked stonily ahead, Hanno amongst them. The suffet marked the division and, conscious of the need for agreement, turned directly to Hanno.

‘This reversal of Barca’s invasion plan,’ he said. ‘You no longer have faith in his ability to command?’

‘No, Suffet,’ Hanno replied, ‘I believe Barca has been blinded by his own ambitions.’

Hamilcar bristled at the remark but held his tongue, catching his father’s expression of warning in the corner of his eye.

‘Hamilcar Barca is our most able commander,’ the suffet began, ‘but perhaps Hanno is right, perhaps he is too determined, too aggressive. I propose that you, Hanno, sail with the fleet to ensure that assertiveness is tempered with experience.’

Hanno nodded in agreement, knowing he could do little else. To refuse would invite accusations of cowardice. The suffet noticed Hanno’s allies also comply and he quickly called a vote, one that was carried easily.

Hamilcar saluted to the council before turning on his heel to leave the chamber. He caught Hanno’s eye as he did, seeing there the latent hostility he felt surging through his own veins. Hamilcar closed the chamber door and stood silently for a moment, fully realising that battle-lines had now been drawn not only in the sea but also in the council of Carthage itself, battle-lines that Hamilcar had to cross if he was to destroy his enemies. A cold determination crept onto Hamilcar’s face as he savoured the thought. Gone now was the subterfuge, the snares and planning that had consumed him over the previous months, replaced with the clarity given only to a warrior when he stands, sword in hand, upon the battlefield, his vision filled with the sight of his mortal enemy.

T
he rough hewn hawser dipped and raised with the even stroke of the
Aquila
’s oars, the sea-water dripping from the fibres of the rope with every pull, creating a cascade that fell in time with the drum beat of the trireme. Atticus leaned over the aft-rail and took a grip on the rope, testing its strength, feeling the tension within. He looked back along its length, following the lines as it fell to the sea and then rose again to the bowsprit of the transport ship fifty yards behind. A crewman stood on station there and he waved across as he noticed he was being watched, a wave Atticus returned before turning away once more.

Lucius approached him from the helm. ‘Cape Ecnomus,’ he said pointing over the starboard rail. ‘We’re about eight hours out from Agrigentum.’

Atticus nodded in return and then turned his attention back to the line of his galley. The
Aquila
was near the centre of the long line of triremes that stretched from the shore, each one towing a transport ship, an ignominious task ordered of the third squadron the day before when the wind suddenly dissipated, becalming the sail-driven transports. Now only the command ship of the third squadron, the
Orcus
, was without a tether, Varro’s quinquereme sailing a full ship-length ahead
of the line as if in an effort to distance itself from the trireme dray-horses.

‘Eight hours out,’ Atticus said as Septimus approached from the main deck, a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, a wooden training sword loose in his hand, a weapon he had been rarely without over the previous week as he trained his new men to full battle-readiness.

‘Still no sign of Marcus?’ Septimus asked, indicating the transport ships behind.

‘No, I haven’t seen him,’ Atticus replied. ‘The Fourth must be on one of the ships on the flanks.’

Septimus nodded, ‘He’s there somewhere,’ he said, his eyes scanning the decks of the ships nearest to the
Aquila.
Each deck was crowded with red-cloaked legionaries, many of them leaning out over the rails, their sea-sickness staining the hull, their faces pale and drawn from the week long passage down the east coast of Sicily.

‘Signal from the first squadron,’ Corin shouted and Atticus looked to the mainmast, waiting for the lookout to decipher the full message, a sudden feeling of unease sweeping over him as he watched Corin spin around, his expression one of pure dread.

‘Enemy fleet ahead!’ the lookout roared and Varro felt a sudden knot develop in the pit of his stomach.

‘Confirm that message!’ he roared up the masthead as he walked quickly to the helm.

‘Signal from the first squadron is confirmed!’ the lookout shouted. ‘An enemy fleet has been sighted.’

Varro looked to the sea ahead but could see nothing beyond the first and second squadrons a half-mile ahead. They were sailing in arrow formation, each squadron forming one side of the spear-point with the two command ships at
the apex, the
Victoria
under Regulus at the head of the first squadron and a quinquereme under Longus at the head of the second.

Varro had been given command of the
Orcus
on the day the fleet had sailed from Brolium, the singular honour of commanding the third squadron bestowed upon him in recognition of his part in thwarting the Carthaginians’ plans to attack Rome. It had been a proud moment for Varro, standing on the main deck of the
Victoria
as Regulus announced the promotion before the assembled tribunes and senators, the consul speaking highly of Varro’s courageous action at Thermae which had saved so many
hastati
of the Ninth in addition to his capture of the pirate galley that had led to the exposure of the enemy’s subterfuge.

Now however, sailing a half-mile behind the consuls, Varro felt suddenly cheated. The
Orcus
was a powerful galley, a ship that belonged in the van of the fleet, destroying enemy triremes as the Roman quinqueremes had done so easily at Tyndaris. Instead Varro was leading a fleet of hulking transport ships and obsolete triremes, a reprehensible command that would ensure that the glory of the battle ahead would fall to other, lesser men.

Varro walked slowly to the foredeck; his gaze locked on the Roman formation ahead, the distance opening with every passing minute as the vanguard accelerated to battle speed. He looked beyond them to the horizon, seeing for the first time the dark shapes of the approaching enemy, their naked mainmasts like a wave of scorched grass against the sky. Varro’s dark mood deepened at the sight, his eyes sweeping across the enemy line, estimating their numbers to be less than a hundred, a pitiful force against the three hundred galleys of the
Classis Romanus.
Success for the Roman fleet was assured, a near slaughter given the odds and Varro cursed the fates
that robbed him of his part in a victory that would be gained on such easy terms.

The tribune was turning away from the sight but a flicker of darkness at the edges of the Carthaginian line made him turn once more, his mouth falling open slightly as he watched the enemy line extend on either side, the dark wave of galleys breaking towards the shoreline and the horizon to the south until it filled the entire seascape ahead, Varro’s dark mood dissipating without conscious thought to be replaced with a cold dread that filled his entire soul.

‘Battle speed!’ Hamilcar shouted, his heart racing as the line of enemy galleys unfolded before his eyes, a wedge of galleys that swept north and south; a formation his patrol galleys had sighted the day before. He ran back to the aft-deck, weaving through the scurrying crew as the
Alissar
was made ready for imminent battle. Himilco walked briskly towards him as he reached the aft.

‘Signal the fleet,’ Hamilcar said. ‘Advance the flanks!’

The captain saluted and ran to the aft-rail, issuing the order to the signal-men who quickly dispatched the message that would ripple down the three hundred and fifty-strong line of galleys in a matter of minutes.

Hamilcar looked to the shoreline not five hundred yards off his port quarter. Ahead was Cape Ecnomus, Roman-held Sicilian land and a point on a map Hamilcar remembered examining months before. At the time he had envisaged his land forces striking east across that very Cape, cutting off the city of Agrigentum from rescue, the Carthaginian flank protected by the army of Syracuse, the Romans in chaos and on the brink of surrender with the news that their vaulted city of Rome was on its knees.

That vision had been ripped from Hamilcar’s mind on the
day the Romans had attacked Tyndaris. Hamilcar still wondered how the enemy had uncovered his plan. Belus’s disappearance must be connected somehow but he was unable to link the two positively. The goddess Tanit had a hand in Hamilcar’s fate, of that he now had no doubt, her hand of fortune lifting from his shoulder at Tyndaris only to fall once more upon him with the deliverance of the Maltese captain’s report, the Carthaginian spies in Brolium initially confirming the fleets arrival and then revealing the true objective of the enemy fleet, the Roman town awash with the rumour as the legionaries boarded the transport barges, their destination; the shores of Carthage.

The Romans had indeed reversed his strategy, turning the blade until it now pointed directly at Carthage, their base at Agrigentum a close enough jumping-off point to Carthage as Tyndaris had been to Rome. It was a conceit that drove Hamilcar to a near frenzy of anger, a blatant arrogance that typified the Roman foe, the self-assurance that made them believe that the order of superiority could be so easily reversed. Carthage was not Rome. She was not the sleeping prey the Roman city had been, she was a leopard lying in wait, everfierce, ever-prepared to defend her progeny against any who would dare to attack.

The
Alissar
began to forge ahead at Hamilcar’s command to advance the flank, an invisible tether drawing out the galleys behind her, the manoeuvre mirrored on the seaward flank until the Carthaginian formation resembled a crescent moon. The lines were re-dressed quickly, deft touches that marked the fine seamanship inherent on every galley of the fleet. Hamilcar looked back along the formation, his gaze picking up the flagship
Baal Hammon
in the centre of the line. She was sailing slightly ahead, no doubt by order of her commander Hanno, the councillor’s arrogance demanding the
prominent position in recognition of his titular command of the fleet. Hamilcar’s strategy to defeat the Roman fleet had begrudgingly been accepted by Hanno before the fleet sailed, the councillor recognising the formidable logic of the plan. The agreement had created an uneasy truce between the men; their mutual animosity set aside, neither man willing to risk the fate of Carthage and, as Hamilcar stared across at the
Baal Hammon
, he felt his confidence rise, knowing the might of Carthage was for now united under one banner, one cause. Death to the Romans.

Regulus felt the deck rise and plunge beneath his feet and he gripped the side-rail on the aft-deck for balance as he stared ahead at the oncoming Carthaginian line. The false wind created by the galley’s speed blew fresh onto his face and he breathed deeply, drawing in the salt-laden air, tasting it as if for the first time. A lifetime ago he had commanded a legion in the field, had tasted battle, both bitter defeat and sweet victory. It was a time he had long forgotten, the memory fouled by the listless air of the Curia and the leaden air of the bathhouse. Now a new memory was being forged, a latent vigour re-discovered and Regulus looked to the forces that were his to command.

The main deck of the
Victoria
was crammed with troops, a full maniple, the I of the Fifth, in addition to a further sixty legionaries of the
praetoriani
, each man a veteran, every soldier on board the flagship battle-hardened and ready, their swords drawn in anticipation. Regulus looked once more to the Carthaginian fleet, wondering anew what skill the enemy possessed that allowed them to anticipate the approach of the
Classis Romanus
and assemble such a host against it. They had appeared as if from nowhere, their battle-line fully deployed and prepared and Regulus had realised that near
disaster had only been averted by the fact that his fleet was already deployed in an aggressive posture. It was a formation Regulus had insisted upon only days before for the protection of the helpless transports and he looked skyward; a whispered prayer on his lips to Mars, the god of war who he believed must have had a covert hand in his decision, his guiding hand granting Regulus the opportunity to take the fight to the enemy.

‘Captain,’ Regulus commanded to the man at his side. ‘Order attack speed and signal the third squadron to stand fast.’

‘Yes, Consul,’ the captain saluted and issued the orders over his shoulder, turning once more to stand tall beside his commander, the flagship accelerating to twelve knots, her clean lines and unblemished hull causing her to skim over the gentle swell, steadying her deck. Regulus left go of the rail and moved to the helm, his eyes darting to the lead ship of the second squadron, picking up the figure of Longus standing apart on the aft-deck. He looked over suddenly at Regulus, as if he knew he was under scrutiny, and he nodded to the consul, a brief but confident gesture that Regulus returned.

The spearhead created by the convergent lines of the first and second squadrons flew onwards, the helmsmen of the lead ships keeping the formation in perfect balance, their thrust directly towards the centre of the Carthaginian line. Regulus watched the I of the Fifth walk forward to take position behind the
corvus
, his gaze tracking up the height of the raised boarding ramp. It was a fearsome weapon, poised to strike and Regulus felt the anticipation of battle unfurl itself within his heart as the men of the Fifth roared a war cry in answer to the call of their centurion.

The consul looked beyond the
corvus
to the enemy line less than four hundred yards ahead. The breath in his throat stilled
for a heartbeat, his eyes darting left and right and he ran once more to the side-rail to gain a better line of sight. Now he was certain and Regulus felt his heart rate rise as elation surged through him. The Carthaginian formation was as yet unbroken but it had become concave, as if the centre was recoiling before the Roman thrust, an instinctive reaction to an aggression they had not expected of the Romans, the Carthaginians obviously believing that they would catch the
Classis Romanus
unawares.

Regulus locked his gaze on the centre of the Carthaginian line as the gap decreased, anticipating what he was about to witness, praying that he was right, knowing that victory would be assured. He raised his hand up and clenched his fist, holding it still above his head, the muscles in his forearm trembling with the force of his grip, his entire being focused on one galley, a flagship, sailing slightly advanced of the line. Regulus waited, the seconds passing as the oars fell and rose in unison.

The change happened suddenly and Regulus roared in triumph, his fist slamming down on the side-rail, a death knell for the
Punici.
The Carthaginian flagship was turning, her deck keeling over violently as the galleys around her reacted in kind, the Carthaginian line disintegrating into confusion and fear within seconds, the roars of defiance and aggression on board the Roman galleys turning to baying cries of triumph and mercilessness.

‘Maintain attack speed!’ Regulus shouted, striding to the helm. ‘Hunt them down! Prepare to release the
corvus
!’

The command was quickly passed along the deck and outward to the other galleys of the spearhead, the legionaries hammering their shields in affirmation of the order. Regulus drank in the sound, feeling his Roman heart match the beat of ten thousand blades raised at his command.

The enemy centre was now fully turned, fleeing before the Roman spear, the gap of three hundred yards a pitiful defence against the unleashed Roman advance. Regulus was staring once more at the Carthaginian flagship, his gaze now sweeping her aft-deck, trying to single out the cowardly enemy commander who believed he could run from his fate, the consul’s fixation blinding him to the enemy galleys beyond the centre of the Carthaginian line.