Master of Rome. John Stack

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СКАЧАТЬ the Orcus becoming the thin edge of a war-hammer poised to strike the enemy’s rear.

      ‘We must withdraw,’ Nobilior shouted above the din of battle, his eyes darting to every quarter, his face splattered with blood, a sword loose in his hand.

      Paullus looked beyond the junior consul to the main deck of the Concordia. It was strewn with the fallen, enemy and Roman alike, their blood soaking the timbers; while only yards away the Carthaginian galley that had attacked the flagship was now fully ablaze, the screams of the rowers, trapped below decks, terrifying to hear.

      Paullus closed his eyes, trying to focus his mind. Everything was happening too fast; the enemy swarming over his broken formation, his own galley narrowly avoiding the killing blow of a ram, the reprieve lasting mere seconds before the enemy boarded over the rails, the fight on the Concordia’s decks descending into a vicious brawl that was won at a terrible cost.

      The battle line surrounding Paullus was chaotic, a tangle of shattered and sinking galleys. The water was filled with survivors clinging hopelessly to debris, their cries ignored by men still in the fight, while the clash of iron could be heard on every side as men fought for the decks beneath them, the Carthaginians boarding over the side, the Romans attacking across the corvi, their few successes lost in the tide of battle.

      ‘We cannot hold,’ Nobilior said, grabbing the senior consul by the arm, impatient for the commander to react. ‘We must withdraw now.’

      Paullus heard the words, each sound a blow to his honour. Beyond the battle line the bulk of his fleet was untouched, the colossal force unable to deploy in the current, the fate of the vanguard slowing their advance, while all around him the momentum of the Carthaginian attack continued unchecked, the Roman galleys unable to recover from the initial chaos that had engulfed them. Paullus realized the junior consul was right. With the Carthaginians holding the initiative, the vanguard could not stand.

      The Alissar swept past the Roman galley at fourteen knots, the cutwater of her prow striking the extended oars of the enemy ship, snapping the three-inch diameter shafts, the shattered remnants of the oars swinging wildly on their mounts, killing and maiming the rowers below deck. Hamilcar immediately ordered the helmsman to steer away, the portside oars of the Alissar emerging once more as the quinquereme cleared the disabled Roman galley. Hamilcar looked over his shoulder at the carnage his galley had wrought.

      The Roman galley had turned unexpectedly, a desperate attempt to avoid the Alissar’s ram, but the skilled crew of the Carthaginian galley had reacted instantly, changing their attack run to sweep the port side of the enemy ship, and Hamilcar smiled coldly as the helmsman brought the Alissar around without command, lining the galley up to make another ramming run.

      Hamilcar could sense the instability of the Roman vanguard. The crew of the crippled galley in the Alissar’s sights was showing none of the defiance Hamilcar had previously witnessed, the Romans realizing they would be given no chance to fight back while, beyond the battle line, the as yet untouched enemy galleys were no longer moving to attack, their skittish manoeuvres testament to their hesitation.

      Hamilcar looked to Himilco, seeing in his stance and expression the same sense of expectancy. He nodded to the captain, granting him the honour of giving the fatal command; Himilco returned the gesture in gratitude and turned to the helmsman.

      ‘Ramming speed.’

      The crew on the aft-deck cheered the order, the Alissar surging beneath them as if unleashed from a sea anchor. Hamilcar looked once more to the stricken enemy galley only fifty yards ahead, his eyes focusing on individual Romans, marking each one.

      A sudden cry of alarm broke his trance and the masthead lookout’s shout was quickly taken up by the Carthaginian galleys closest to the Alissar. Hamilcar spun around to face the headland on his left flank, immediately seeing the danger, his mouth opening in shock before twisting slowly into a snarl of anger.

      The arrowhead formation behind the Orcus splayed as the distance to the battle line diminished, the ships clearing each other’s wakes to give themselves sea room. Atticus stood at the tiller, constantly issuing orders to the signalmen who relayed his commands across the squad, the disciplined crews responding with alacrity as Gaius lined up the attack run of the Orcus.

      Atticus watched the closest Carthaginian galleys react, the unengaged turning quickly into the attack, while those already committed to ramming runs remained on course to strike their prey. He looked to his flanks, conscious of the limited number of galleys under his command. A solid battle line favoured Roman tactics, the frontal assault giving them the best chance of deploying their corvi, whereas open water favoured the Carthaginians, affording them the sea room they needed for ramming. With the battle ahead in complete disorder, Atticus knew his line could not engage as one, and he could only hope his squad’s initial attack would carry enough momentum to break the Carthaginians’ stranglehold on the vanguard.

      The Orcus swept across the water to the battle line, every oar stroke propelling her ram through the wave tops, her two hundred and seventy oars sweeping as one through the arc of recovery before striking the water together, the rowers pulling through the drive, the drum beat pounding in every mind, controlling every movement.

      Atticus picked his target, Gaius nodding in agreement as signals were sent to the galleys immediately flanking the Orcus, every commander in the line taking this one opportunity to coordinate their attack, each knowing that after the initial blow turmoil would reign. Gaius shifted the tiller slightly, swinging the bow of the Orcus through two points, the Carthaginian galley ahead registering the course change, reacting swiftly to the challenge but forced to face the Orcus head on.

      Atticus sent a runner forward to Septimus, watching as the crewman relayed his intentions, the centurion nodding, never turning from the enemy ahead. They were committed, and Atticus felt the weight of commanding his squad lift from his shoulders. In the fight ahead he would be a captain once more, the Orcus his only charge, and the outcome of the battle was now in the hands of the gods.

      Septimus breathed deeply, the warm, dry air giving no relief from the heat of the day. He blinked a bead of sweat from his eye. He stood to the right of the raised corvus, the Carthaginian galley ahead filling his field of vision. Behind him his men stood silent; Septimus could almost feel their breath on his back, a hostile exhalation that spoke of their hunger for the fight.

      The gap fell to fifty yards and Septimus braced his legs against the sway of the deck beneath him as the rival helmsmen competed for the best line of attack. An arrow struck the corvus, then another, the enemy archers finding the range, and Septimus turned his head to look over his shoulder.

      ‘Shields up,’ he ordered, his voice low and hard, the proximity of his men ensuring his command was heard in the rear ranks.

      The legionaries raised their scuta shields to their chins seconds before the first flight of arrows struck the foredeck, the iron-tipped barbs striking deep into the leather and hide shields. Septimus felt the arrows thump against his shield, his taller stature and position at the front of his men making him an obvious target, and again he blinked the sweat from his eyes, marking the distance between the galleys, waiting for the moment to strike back, the killing urge rising slowly inside him. A legionary cried out in pain, the sound fuelling Septimus’s fury, and he breathed deeply once more, his gaze never leaving the enemy, the sound of their war cries washing over the foredeck of the Orcus.

      ‘Make ready,’ he shouted, and the hastati swept their shields aside to change their stance, drawing their spears back, the tips trembling slightly with suppressed energy. Septimus held them there, waiting for the gap to fall to thirty yards.

      ‘Loose!’

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