Belus fell to the deck, his sword and shield falling from near-lifeless fingers, his hands reaching for the wound in his
side as his blood stained the deck he had defended with his life. He looked up at the Roman standing over him, a younger man, the intensity of his gaze matching the ferocity of his attack, the rain streaming off his helmet and armour, his sword in his hand drenched with Belus’s own blood. The Roman held his gaze for an instant longer and was gone, leaving Belus staring at the grey sky, the terrible knowledge that he had failed Carthage haunting him as his life slipped away.
Narmer roared at the men around him, driving them forward, stirring their blood and savagery into a frenzy. The pirates responded with ever-increasing cries of defiance and challenge, giving the Romans no quarter in a fight that was becoming ever more desperate for the outnumbered defenders. Moments before, Narmer had seen Belus fall, struck down by the Roman centurion who was now rallying his men for a final push that Narmer knew would overwhelm his crew. He backed away from the line of battle, the final surge of his crew affording him the opportunity to make his escape below decks and he turned and ran to the hatchway at the aft-end of the main deck.
Narmer charged his sword as he landed on the walkway in the middle of the slave deck. The rowers beside him began to clutch at his legs in panic, begging him to release them. He struck out with his sword, fearful of being overwhelmed by clawing hands and a rower cried out in pain as the blade sliced through his wrist. The others backed off and Narmer rushed to the gangway leading to the main cabin, closing and baring the door behind him as he entered.
The sounds of battle continued on the main deck above. Narmer slowly paced the room, his sword hanging loose by his side, panic rising within him as his mind sought a way out. His flight below deck would buy him another few minutes,
perhaps longer, but Narmer knew there was no escape. A sudden anger welled up within him and he slammed his sword onto the table in the centre of the cabin, cursing the day he had placed himself in the midst of the conflict between Rome and Carthage. Belus had robbed him of his galley, Narmer realised that now, robbed him of his command and sailed him into waters infested with Roman galleys. Now the Romans were poised to rob him in turn, to plunder what was his and deprive him of the galley he had won through ingenuity and blood.
As Roman victory cries sounded from above, Narmer picked up his sword once more, a vow passing his lips as he examined the blade before sheathing the weapon. He had no need for it, for another blade would not stop the Romans from taking his ship. For that, Narmer would need another weapon, one more ancient and deadly, and he repeated his vow as he prepared, an oath to deprive his enemies of the galley they had dared to take from him.
‘Hold!’ Septimus roared, as his men began to chase after the half-dozen pirates fleeing below decks and the legionaries halted at the whip-crack of the centurion’s voice, ingrained discipline overcoming their blood-lust. They stood in silent sobriety for a moment, breathing heavily, their swords slowly falling as they realised the deck was theirs and a single shout of victory quickly became many.
Septimus let them roar, the ship was theirs but to finish the task they would have to clear the remnants of the pirate crew from below decks.
‘Drusus,’ he called to his
optio.
‘Take ten men and secure the fore main deck hatch. I’ll take the aft.’
Drusus saluted and gathered the men closest to him, leading them at a run in loose formation towards the hatch. Septimus
did the same, his eyes ignoring the dead and dying, ally and foe alike, as he ordered his remaining men to stand fast on the main deck.
Septimus paused at the hatchway for a moment before clambering down, his eyes adjusting quickly to the half light of the rowing deck. Stepping back, he allowed his men to follow and they formed a defensive ring around the ladder, their shields charged outwards. A walkway ran the entire length of the slave deck, with chained rowers on either side, their pitiful cries for release deafening in the confined space. Septimus ignored them, his gaze reaching forward seventy feet along the walkway to the fore hatchway and the sight of Drusus’s squad moving towards the forward cabins.
Septimus formed his men behind him and stepped towards the gangway that led to the main cabin at the rear of the galley. Its door was flanked by two others, smaller cabins to port and starboard. Septimus readied his shield and pushed the portside door open with the tip of his sword. It was a tiny cabin; no more than six foot across and it was empty. He spun around and pushed the door opposite, expecting the same but inside a man lay supine upon a low cot, his face horribly disfigured, his tunic bloodstained and torn. Septimus nodded for one of his men to step into the cabin to examine the apparently unconscious figure while he led the others to the final door, the main cabin.
A sudden eruption of shouts from the front of the galley caused Septimus to look over his shoulder as the clash of iron signalled Drusus’s discovery of more of the crew. Septimus looked to one of his men at the rear. ‘Report to the
optio
,’ he ordered, ‘find out if he needs help.’
The soldier nodded and ran back along the walkway, his footfalls heavy on the timber deck. Septimus turned his attention to the main cabin once more and as before pushed against
the door with the tip of his sword. It did not open and he half turned to press his shield against the timbers, putting his weight behind it.
‘Barred,’ Septimus said to himself before turning to the two men behind him.
‘Break it down!’ he ordered and the legionaries stepped forward, reversing their swords and hammering on the door with the pommels, the hardwood spheres cracking and splintering the weathered door.
‘Ready, lads!’ Septimus said, preparing himself to surge forward. The door could only last for seconds more. He breathed deeply, tensing his muscles for the lunge forward, expecting to find the majority of the remaining crew behind the door. His intake of breath triggered an alarm in Septimus’s mind as he sensed the underlying dreaded smell that overwhelmed the stench of blood from his sword and the reek of filth from the deck beneath his feet. It was a smell that triggered the fear that dwelt in every man who lived on the timber ships of the age, a smell that foretold of an enemy that could not be contained, one that would consume the galley and all on board.
‘Stop!’ Septimus shouted and he crouched down in the silence that followed. He smelled the air again. There could be no doubt. Whoever was behind the door had fired the cabin. Septimus stood up instantly.
‘Back on deck. Now!’ he roared, his men responding, not yet sensing what Septimus had perceived but following his order without hesitation.
‘Centurion!’ Septimus turned to the soldier who emerged from the side-cabin.
‘This man is Roman,’ he said, indicating over his shoulder. Septimus looked beyond him to the man on the cot. ‘He’s says he’s the captain of a trader taken by these pirates,’ the
soldier continued in explanation. Septimus grabbed one of the fleeing legionaries by the shoulder.
‘You,’ he said, ‘help him get this man up top.’
The soldier obeyed and between them the two legionaries carried the Roman captain up the gangway. Septimus followed them, continually glancing over his shoulder at the main cabin door, seeing the first wisps of smoke appear even as he began his climb to the main deck. The sight caused him to quicken his step and he immediately ordered men forward to command Drusus to disengage the enemy. He spotted Atticus and made his way towards him, issuing orders for his men to form up as he did.
The captain was sitting amidst the Roman wounded, his face deathly pale against his blood-stained tunic, Lucius kneeling beside him.
‘The ship is ours?’ Atticus asked, his voice weak but the triumph of victory strong in his gaze.
‘No,’ Septimus spat in anger. ‘This ship is in the hands of Vulcan.’
‘By the Gods…’ Atticus whispered. ‘Fire?’ As Septimus nodded the first cries of panic rose up from the slave deck below, the terrifying sound ripping along the entire length of the galley in the time it took the unaware amongst the Romans to understand what was happening. Soldiers who had charged fearlessly into battle turned to flee, their eyes looking around in trepidation, searching for evidence of the fire that terrified them all. Shouts of alarm rang across the main deck as smoke suddenly billowed from the aft hatchway.
‘Everyone back across the
corvus
!’ Septimus shouted and he helped Atticus to stand, bearing his weight as he continued to issue orders to his men, ensuring that the wounded were all accounted for.
‘Wait!’ a junior
hastati
shouted from the head of the forward
hatchway, listening to the cries for mercy of the slaves. ‘I can hear Roman voices!’
‘Hold!’ Atticus roared, realising the danger but his order was lost amidst the cacophony of panic and desperation from the slave deck and he watched helplessly as the junior soldier disappeared down the hatchway to be immediately followed by two others. Atticus ran forward, the pain of his wound forgotten as saw that other legionaries were preparing to follow the first three below.
‘You men stand fast!’ Atticus shouted and the soldiers hesitated, looking beyond the Greek captain to their centurion, the pull of the Roman voices desperately calling for help causing them to inch forward once more. Septimus couldn’t understand Atticus’s command but he repeated it without hesitation, ordering his men to get back aboard the
Aquila.
Only when he reached the hatchway did he question Atticus; the endless voices of terror from below drowning out his words to all others except Atticus.
‘Damn it, Atticus,’ he hissed, angry that he hadn’t considered the fact that there might be Romans amongst the rowers sooner. ‘Why did you stop more of my men from going below? We need to be sure we rescue any Romans amongst the slaves.’
‘The slaves are dead men,’ Atticus replied, his eyes locked on the retreated legionaries, many of them returning his gaze balefully, ‘and you condemn any man you send down there.’
Septimus instinctively looked over his shoulder, judging the spread of the fire, trying to ignore the endless cries of terror.
‘There’s still time,’ he said. ‘But the three men down there need more help.’
Atticus turned to Septimus, a look of despair on his face.
‘I’ve seen this before,’ he said, a haunted look in his eyes. ‘They can’t be helped.’ He nodded towards the hatchway, ‘Look for yourself.’
Septimus held Atticus’s gaze for a second before turning to descend. Atticus grabbed his forearm. ‘Stay out of their reach,’ he warned.
Septimus nodded and started down the ladder, instinctively drawing his sword as he was exposed to the full measure of the terrible screams of panic that seemed to stem from the very timbers of the galley. He stopped halfway down the ladder, crouching down to see back along the abyss of Hades that was now the slave deck. The fire had already taken hold of the stern end of the ship, the smoke consuming the aft-end of the deck, the slaves visible in front of the grey wall dragging desperately at the manacles around their ankles that held them fast, the deck beneath them stained red by their torn skin as terror drove many to near madness.
Septimus spotted two of his men not ten feet from the base of the ladder, their bodies only recognisable from the remnants of their armour, their flesh in places torn away by the frenzied horde who had clawed desperately at them for release, robbing them of their swords and daggers, of anything they could use to free themselves, their collective panic preventing them from recognising the men as rescuers and Septimus watched in dread fascination as a slave snapped the blade of a gladius against an unyielding chain, a dozen hands clamouring for the shattered sword.
Beyond the fallen soldiers Septimus spotted the last man, the legionary who had fearlessly led the others. He was screaming at the top of his lungs, his cries ignored, terror etched upon his face as he slashed his sword at the countless hands that clawed at him. He suddenly turned in Septimus’s direction and for an instant his terror cleared as he recognised his centurion, his eyes pleading for help, his instinctive half-step towards the ladder cut off before he could complete it. He roared something incoherent, his plea
lost in the maelstrom of fear and Septimus could only return the soldier’s gaze until the desperation of his fight forced the soldier to turn away once more.
Septimus hesitated for a second more and then turned his back on the doomed man, climbing back up the ladder and walking past Atticus without a word, the captain following the centurion back across the
corvus
, the ramp lifting behind them, separating the
Aquila
from her victim. Septimus moved to the fore-rail and stared across at the pirate galley as he sheathed his sword, his eyes ranging over the fallen legionaries on the deck, men who had given their lives for a hollow prize. The cries of the damned on the slave deck abated as the
Aquila
drew away, distance finally silencing their pleas.
V
arro stood alone on the foredeck of the
Tigris
as he watched the quiet fishing village of Falcone come to life. It was a squalid little place with a half-dozen decrepit wooden huts huddled around a single jetty and the people that Varro could see from his vantage point all seemed to possess the same sullen posture that bore witness to their miserable existence. The sight disgusted him and Varro turned away from the shore to look past the assembled galleys of his squad to the open seascape beyond.
They had all arrived the day before, appearing individually throughout the daylight hours, like stragglers without conviction, with each reporting that the enemy had not been sighted. All save one, the one galley that had not arrived, the
Aquila
, and Varro smiled malevolently at the thought. Perhaps they had met the enemy and the
Aquila
with her Greek whoreson of a captain was now lost beneath the waves, or better yet, she was but hours away and Varro would be given the opportunity of having the captain flogged for insubordination. Either way, Varro relished the thought, a distraction from the news that had antagonised him since he had heard it only days before. Regulus had arrived in Sicily.
Brolium was only six hours’ sailing from where Varro now
stood but he knew the senior consul might as well be in Rome given the chasm that now separated him from the most powerful man in the Republic. Over the previous days Varro had fruitlessly searched for a credible reason to approach Regulus, to finally gauge the consul’s position given that since their last meeting in Rome, when Regulus had issued his order for Varro’s banishment to the northern frontier of the Republic, Scipio had interceded on Varro’s behalf and apparently persuaded the consul of his true loyalty and worth. Now Varro was anxious to expound those qualities in person, to reinforce Scipio’s words and regain the full measure of Regulus’s confidence.
‘Galley approaching!’
Varro looked to the masthead and then to the indicated direction, sighting the approaching ship, its course a direct line to Falcone, its oars rising and falling with deceptive ineffectuality as if the galley was stationary in the water. It could only be the
Aquila
’s and Varro’s thoughts turned seamlessly to the punishment he had decided would greet the captain of the errant galley.
‘Falcone ahead!’ Corin shouted from the masthead and Atticus looked up to the youth, anticipating the words to follow. ‘The rest of the squad are already assembled!’
Atticus nodded and looked out over his galley to the lowlying village ahead. It was some three miles away, thirty minutes at the
Aquila
’s current speed. He turned from the side-rail and walked over to the tiller once more, his eyes unconsciously checking and re-checking the rigging and the line of the mainsail, the gentle breath of the on-shore breeze filling the canvas sheet and pressing smoothly against the offcentre drag of the rudder with Gaius’s minute adjustments of the tiller keeping the
Aquila
dead on course.
Atticus’s gaze came to rest on the main deck and the sight that had drawn his attention so many times since dawn’s early light had given it clarity. The three men lay side by side, two legionaries and one of Atticus’s own, the soldiers lying with their shields covering their chests and faces, the sailor’s face covered with a strip of cloth, an act of dignity to hide their sightless eyes. They had all died of their wounds during the night, two of them succumbing mercifully while they were unconscious but the third screaming in pain until Mars claimed him, the deep wound to his kidney spilling black blood onto the deck, a stain that would never fade.
‘Fifteen men,’ Atticus whispered, recalling the faces of the three that were from his own crew, and with the resolution that only a commander could summon he buried the memory of them deep within his mind.
Atticus’s trance was broken by the sight of Lucius before him, the second-in-command’s face agitated.
‘You need to speak with Albinus immediately!’ he said.
‘Albinus?’
‘The Roman captain the legionaries found on the pirate galley,’ Lucius explained. ‘He regained conscious about an hour ago.’
Atticus was about to question Lucius further but he turned and walked to the hatchway leading to the cabins below, forcing Atticus to follow. He spotted Septimus approaching along the main deck, following a crewman and Atticus shrugged his shoulders to Septimus’s enquiring glance before descending the ladder leading to the deck below.
The Roman captain was lying on a cot in one of the smaller side cabins. He was propped up on his elbow, a sailor assisting him as he drank a mouthful of water from a goblet, the captain coughing painfully as he choked on the meagre sip. The crewman withdrew the goblet and the captain lay down once more, closing his eyes as he drew his arms slowly across his
chest and for the first time Atticus could see that all his fingers were broken, many of them sticking out at obscene angles.
‘Albinus,’ Lucius said, and the captain reopened his eyes. A shadow of some horrific memory swept across them before they came into focus.
‘Albinus, this is Captain Perennis and Centurion Capito,’ Lucius said and stepped aside to allow Atticus and Septimus to enter the cramped space. Atticus knelt down at the head of the cot while Septimus moved to the end, standing with his arms folded, anger etched on his face as looked upon the ruined body of the Roman captain.
‘Tell them what you told me,’ Lucius prompted and the captain nodded imperceptibly, swallowing hard as if to clear his throat of some vile taste.
‘I’m Albinus Lepidus of the trading galley
Glycon
,’ the captain began, his voice a whisper but easily heard in the tiny cabin. ‘We were sailing to Locri when we were ambushed by the pirate galley.’
Albinus paused and was silent for a moment. ‘She came out of nowhere…’ he muttered and Atticus reached out instinctively and placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. The captain seemed to draw strength from the gesture and continued.
‘They captured many of my crew alive. I was taken to the main cabin and the others…the others were tortured to death.’ Albinus said, the act of speaking of the terrible memory seemingly drawing the life force from his body.
‘Tortured?’ Septimus asked, ‘Why?’
‘It was the Carthaginian,’ Albinus spat, suddenly angry and defiant. ‘He ordered the men to be tortured and then the bastard…’ He coughed violently from the effort of speaking and blood-stained spittle shot from his lips onto his tunic. The image of the Carthaginian officer on the pirate galley
immediately entered Septimus’s mind and he remembered his incredulity; not only seeing a Punic soldier on the galley but the fact that he seemed to be in command of the pirate crew.
‘Why was there a Carthaginian officer on board?’ Septimus asked. ‘And why was he in charge of the galley?’
Albinus swallowed hard again as regained his breath.
‘I don’t think it was permanent,’ he said, his mind sifting through the minutes before the Carthaginian started to torture him. ‘He told the pirate captain that the ship was under his command until they reached Tyndaris.’
‘Tyndaris?’ Atticus said. ‘The Syracusan port?’
Albinus nodded.
‘Why did he have the men tortured?’ Atticus asked, and he sensed Lucius leaning forward behind him. ‘What did he want to know?’
‘He wanted to know about our coastal defences,’ Albinus began. ‘If I had ever encountered any patrols. If there was an active defence line somewhere south of the city. Where the majority of the galleys were stationed? What activity I had seen?’
‘What city?’ Atticus asked, his mind searching the coast of Sicily for the enemy’s target. ‘Are they planning an attack on Agrigentum?’ he ventured.
Albinus shook his head and then turned to look directly into Atticus’s eyes.
‘No, Captain,’ he said, his voice raised above a whisper for the first time. ‘The Carthaginians plan to attack Rome’
Varro angrily paced the main deck of the
Tigris
as he watched the small skiff approaching. Vitulus was perched behind the bowsprit, the two rowers behind him the only other two occupants of the boat. The Greek captain, the man he had ordered
Vitulus to return with was nowhere to be seen and Varro looked beyond the skiff once more to the
Aquila
, now anchored a hundred yards away.
‘Well?’ Varro barked as Vitulus climbed up the rope ladder from the skiff.
‘The captain is on board,’ Vitulus began, rushing his words to explain himself before his commander could react further. ‘But he requests that you come across to the
Aquila.
He has a Roman captain on board who is too weak to be moved but who has vital information that you need to hear.’
Varro stepped forward without warning, and slammed his forearm into Vitulus’s chest, knocking him to the deck.
‘I do not take orders from a Greek,’ Varro roared, his sword suddenly in his hand, its tip held above Vitulus. ‘Assemble a
contubernia
and bring this galley alongside the
Aquila.
I will deal with this insubordination myself.’
Vitulus nodded and scrambled up, moving quickly to the aft-deck and issuing the necessary orders. The drum beat started a minute later as the
Tigris
got underway, the helmsman bringing her alongside the
Aquila
with practiced skill.
The gangway of the
Tigris
was lowered onto the deck of the
Aquila
and Varro strode across, followed by Vitulus and ten legionaries.
‘Where is your Captain?’ he asked, grabbing a crewman by the scruff.
The sailor indicated the aft-hatchway and Varro continued on, his mind barely registering the sight of three covered bodies on the deck. He descended the ladder with one hand on the hilt of his sword and upon seeing the opened door to a side cabin, prepared to enter, the men behind him crowding the corridor.
Atticus spotted Varro the moment he appeared in the doorway.
‘Commander,’ Atticus began, relief in his voice, ‘thank the Gods you’re in time,’ he said indicating the man lying on the cot. ‘He is near death.’
‘You!’ Varro spat, drawing his sword, the movement awkward in the confines of the cabin. ‘You have disobeyed me for the last time.’
‘Commander!’ Septimus roared, his voice deafening in the confines of the narrow room. Varro’s sword immediately froze, his murderous gaze darting to the tall centurion at the end of the cot.
‘It is vital you hear this man’s report,’ Septimus continued, the natural commanding tone of his voice causing Varro to hesitate. He shoved Atticus aside and looked down at the haggard face of the Roman captain.
‘Who is he?’ he barked, shaking the captain’s shoulder roughly until he stirred and his eyes opened.
As if in a trance the captain began to tell his story again, seemingly oblivious to whom his audience was. It took him ten minutes to recite his report, his voice trailing off a number of times, his eyes rolling in his head as his consciousness fled to be forcibly reined in again by Varro, his impatience and mounting excitement extinguishing any tolerance he had for delays caused by the captain’s weakness. He stood up as the captain finished his report and turned to face Septimus.
‘He speaks of a pirate ship,’ Varro said. ‘Tell me what happened.’
Septimus immediately reported the events of the battle the day before.
Varro nodded, remembering the corpses he had seen on deck. ‘He has made this report about an attack on Rome to you already?’ he asked.
‘Yes Commander,’ Septimus replied. ‘And to the captain and second-in-command.’
‘And each time it has been exactly the same?’
‘Yes, Commander,’ Septimus said.
Varro nodded, dismissing any lingering doubt he had that the story was a delirious tale brought on by the man’s obvious wounds. A feverish ramble would not be repeated so succinctly.
‘Very well,’ Varro said and left the cabin without another word, Vitulus and the other legionaries making way for him in the corridor before following him back on deck. Varro did not pause until he was back on board the
Tigris.
‘Cast off immediately,’ he ordered the captain, ‘and set course for Brolium.’
The captain saluted and roused the crew to action.
‘Shall I signal the rest of the squad to follow?’ Vitulus asked.
‘No, order them to stand by on station here.’
Vitulus saluted and proceeded to the aft-deck. Varro watched him go before turning to gaze over the other ships of his squad, many of their crews curiously watching the
Tigris
get under way. He spotted the Greek captain and the tall centurion on the main deck of the
Aquila;
the two men in conversation. They were more than just captain and marine, Varro thought as he watched them closely, they were obvious friends and Varro was left to wonder why a Roman centurion would befriend such a man as the Greek. Whatever the reason Varro marked the friendship in his mind, knowing that when the time came the centurion’s loyalty to his friend could supersede his loyalty to Rome.
Varro re-examined the information the Roman captain had given them, information that the consul would need to hear and that Varro would deliver personally, ensuring that his name was associated with the discovery of the enemy’s plan. He smiled triumphantly. His rank and honour were within his grasp.
Varro looked upon the flagship of the consul with awe. It was a quinquereme, one of a fleet of ten anchored at the northern end of the harbour at Brolium, their massive hulls dwarfing the single trireme that Varro could see amongst them, a galley that was being used to ferry supplies and equipment between the larger ships, a stark omen of the fate that surely awaited the suddenly obsolescent smaller galleys of the
Classis Romanus.
Varro commanded the captain to lay the
Tigris
alongside the flagship, his eyes ranging across the deck of the taller ship in the hope of confirming whether the consul was on board or not. He spotted Regulus almost immediately, the consul standing amidst a group of staff officers with the ever vigilant
praetoriani
flanking his position on the fore and aft-decks. He was easily distinguished, the consul’s heavier frame in marked contrast to the leaner younger tribunes who accompanied him and Varro felt his resolve weaken, knowing the dismissive glances that would greet him from his former contemporaries on the deck of the flagship.