Masters of the Sea
Master of Rome
John Stack

Dedication

For Adrienne

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Tunis, North Africa. 255 BC

Chapter One

The searing wind swept through the streets of Aspis and…

Chapter Two

Marcus Aemilius Paullus strode purposefully across the main deck of…

Chapter Three

Atticus sat in the stern of the skiff as it…

Chapter Four

Gaius Duilius sat motionless as the princeps senatus, the leader…

Chapter Five

Atticus stood on the foredeck of the Orcus as the…

Chapter Six

Lentulus, the master shipbuilder, stroked the threadlike grey hairs of…

Chapter Seven

Regulus walked slowly across the main deck of the Alissar,…

Chapter Eight

The quinquereme moved steadily through the crowded sea-lane, its course…

Chapter Nine

A single alarm bell was heard across the wide sweep…

Chapter Ten

Hamilcar watched impatiently as the small bird circled the tower,…

Chapter Eleven

Calix glanced at the wind-driven ripples across the surface of…

Chapter Twelve

The sentry pulled the rim of his helmet lower as…

Chapter Thirteen

Hamilcar looked out along the length of the city of…

Chapter Fourteen

The day dawned under a leaden sky, prolonging the long…

Chapter Fifteen

Baro looked anxiously beyond the wake of the Orcus as…

Chapter Sixteen

The crowd surged forward, straining against the line of legionaries…

Chapter Seventeen

The trading ship moved steadily over the dark sea, its…

Chapter Eighteen

Hamilcar looked up at the verdant slopes of the mountain…

Epilogue

The chariots moved slowly through the petal-filled air, the horses…

Historical Note

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Other Books by John Stack

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher

TUNIS, NORTH AFRICA. 255 BC

The colossal animal surged forward against the crack of the bullwhip, its momentum increasing into an unstoppable charge as it bellowed in anger and terror, the scent of men fuelling its rage. It lifted its head and gazed ahead through hooded yellow eyes. The scene before it was a blur of movement, a dark horde that threw up a terrifying wall of sound; the hammering of ten thousand shields, the war cries of a multitude. The elephant bellowed once more, sweeping its scimitar-shaped tusks high into the air as the whip cracked against its hide.

The ground beneath the beast trembled and shook. Dust smothered its throat, the thirst maddening, while slowly the host before the creature drifted into focus, the mass into individual men. A sharp pain shot through the elephant’s flank and it immediately turned its head to the site of injury, the blood stark against the grey hide. Every instinct called for flight, but years of brutal training demanded obedience and the bullwhip drove the creature on.

The elephant crashed headlong into a wall of shields and the war cries of men changed to screams of pain, the momentum of the creature’s charge driving it deep into the Roman maniples. The legionaries struck out with shield and sword while overhead volleys of spears rained down to strike deep into exposed flesh, the unceasing pain driving the elephant into frenzied terror. The creature swept its tusks before it, scything through the massed ranks, cutting through flesh and armour. It raised its trunk, a spray of pink blood gushing forth from the fluid filling its punctured lungs, while its feet crashed down on the fallen, crushing bone and cartilage as the death cries of man and beast filled the air.

The Roman line buckled and caved before the momentum of the elephant charge was absorbed and then slowly repelled, the strength of twelve thousand legionaries pitted against the might of a hundred elephants. The front ranks shattered but fought on, the inescapable fight driving them to mindless courage, with men standing their ground against creatures that killed and maimed relentlessly until the burden of countless wounds drove them to their knees. Those who remained advanced against the Carthaginian phalanx that shadowed the elephant attack, but again the Romans were checked as cries of alarm swept across their lines.

The Carthaginian horse, four thousand strong, raced across the open ground, the routed Roman cavalry in their wake, the light-horsemen loosing spears at full gallop into the exposed Roman right flank. The maniples turned to engage. The centre became a confusion of commands and alarm as the enemy cavalry swept around the rear of the Roman formation. The legions ceased to advance, the fight on all sides. The order to ‘steady the line’ was given, a desperate command to stand fast, to take strength and fight against all odds.

The Carthaginians pressed inward, the cavalry driving their mounts ever on against upturned shields, the riders striking down with spear and sword. The maniples stepped back, the fallen trampled under hoof as legionaries struggled to wield their swords in the crush, the men to their rear unable to assist as the battle descended into butchery. In the centre, desperate commanders roared hopeless orders, the ever-tightening vice robbing them of the chance to break out while the battle line closed in from all sides, the Carthaginians advancing relentlessly, giving no quarter, their hatred for the Roman invader feeding their strength and determination as warriors pushed forward to fight in the front line, eager to bloody their swords, the pressure on the Roman lines never abating until the last man fell under Phoenician steel.

CHAPTER ONE

The searing wind swept through the streets of Aspis and beyond to the harbour, the parched air whipping the wave crests of the gentle swell into a fine spray, as if greedily clawing at the water after its five-hundred-mile trek across the arid Sahara. Atticus stepped out from the lee of a building into the flow of air and turned his face into the wind, breathing in deeply, sensing the enormity of the mysterious land in darkness before him, the hostile territory of the Carthaginians that pressed against the boundaries of the Roman-held port. He spotted the man he had searched for at the end of the street, and approached, the centurion turning to acknowledge him.

‘Cursed wind,’ he said.

Atticus nodded. ‘The Sirocco,’ he replied, remembering his grandfather’s teaching, and how that same wind shrouded his home city of Locri on the south coast of Italy with oppressive humidity every spring. ‘Any sign?’ he asked.

‘None,’ Septimus replied, and the two men lapsed once more into silence as the predawn light began to illuminate the landscape before them.

The land along the coast was green and fertile, stretching east a thousand leagues to Egyptus and west to the Pillars of Hercules. For forty generations it had been home to the Carthaginians, protected along its length by a mighty fleet that controlled the trading routes of the southern Mediterranean; until a year before, when the Romans humbled the Carthaginian navy at Cape Ecnomus, and thereafter invaded the once inviolate shores of North Africa. Now, not fifty miles to the west, the Roman army, fifteen thousand strong, were engaged with the Carthaginians near Tunis while the men at Aspis, Atticus and Septimus amongst them, waited impatiently for news.

Atticus looked to the eastern sky, watching slowly as the crimson skyline dissolved at the approach of the sun, the orb finally cresting the horizon with a spear of white light that flashed across the blue-grey sky. He looked over his shoulder and turned to walk back down the deserted street to the harbour. He paused at the water’s edge, his gaze ranging over the forty galleys tugging gently on their anchor lines near the shore. As a praefectus classis, a prefect of the fleet, these ships were under his command, and his own galley, the quinquereme Orcus, was moored in the centre of the formation. Atticus studied the fleet with a practised eye, watching as men moved slowly on the decks without command, the routine of naval life dictating their actions, the only sound the howling wind that masked all others.

Atticus had come ashore an hour before, succumbing to a sudden compulsion to escape the confines of the Orcus, anxious to learn if any messenger had arrived during the night. It was an escape he had never sought from his previous ship, the Aquila, and he wondered if there would ever come a time when he would consider the Orcus as anything more than just another ship of the Classis Romanus, the fleet of Rome.

He turned once more to the figure standing at the end of the street, the centurion’s tall stature imposing even from fifty yards. Septimus was motionless, standing resolutely in the face of the wind, his attention still fully drawn to the far southern horizon. Atticus began to walk back towards him. He glanced left and right down the narrow laneways as he walked, briefly spying individual or small groups of legionaries, the men emerging slowly from the homes that had been commandeered to house them, just ahead of the clarion call of the vigilae, the night guardsmen ending their watch by rousing the camp. He looked once more to Septimus and immediately noticed the tension in the centurion’s shoulders, his body leaning forward at the waist. Atticus quickened his pace but, before he could cover the distance, Septimus swept his sword from his scabbard, the metallic sound caught and whipped away by the wind. The centurion turned, his eyes seeing beyond Atticus to the street behind.

‘To arms!’ he shouted. ‘Sound the alarm!’

‘What is it?’ Atticus asked, and Septimus indicated over his shoulder to the horizon beyond.

‘Drusus!’ the centurion roared, searching amongst the soldiers that were appearing from every street. He spotted him within a second, the optio pushing his way through to the front of the gathering force, his ever-stern expression hiding his surprise at the sudden call to arms.

‘Drusus, get to the officers’ quarters. Inform the centurions I want them to form a battle line from this central point.’

The optio saluted, hammering his fist into his chest plate and turned to push his way back along the street. Septimus was fundamentally of the same rank as every other marine centurion of the fleet; but, given his experience and his position as centurion of the Orcus, the prefect’s command ship, the other officers readily deferred to his orders. Within a minute the soldiers were forming on his position.

Septimus stood by Atticus as the prefect looked to the southern horizon.

‘How many do you think there are?’ Atticus asked.

‘Hard to be sure,’ Septimus replied. ‘Over a thousand at least.’

Atticus nodded, concurring with the estimate. He turned and grabbed a legionary from the throng behind him. ‘Get back to the Orcus and have my second-in-command report here,’ he ordered and the soldier was away.

Septimus stepped out from the confines of the street on to the flat expanse of beaten earth at the rear of the town. The soldiers surged out behind him and began to form into disciplined maniples, the shouted commands of centurions and optiones filling the air as the ranks were formed and the battle line was drawn. The manoeuvre was repeated along the length of the town, the men keeping their helmet-covered heads slightly lowered in the face of the wind. The entire marine complement of the fleet was ashore, sixty men for each galley, legionaries all, and the line was dressed to form a shield wall over two thousand strong.

‘Something’s wrong,’ Septimus muttered, his eyes focused on the approaching force. ‘They’re not formed into ranks.’

‘I see it,’ Atticus replied, noting the disorganized approach, so dissimilar to the serried ranks of the legionaries.

‘Prefect,’ Atticus heard, and he turned to see his second-in-command beside him. ‘Baro,’ Atticus began. ‘Ready the squadron for battle and station two galleys in the outer harbour.’

‘Yes, Prefect,’ Baro replied, and took off at a run.

‘Thermae,’ Atticus said by way of explanation, and Septimus nodded, remembering the simultaneous land and sea attacks the Carthaginians had employed there.

The minutes drew out slowly as the approaching force wheeled towards Aspis, its formation still chaotic, the cloud of dust raised by their feet whipping towards the town on the constant wind.

‘Two thousand,’ Septimus muttered as the decreasing distance increased his estimate, his eyes constantly checking the eastern and western approaches for additional forces, but finding none. He glanced down the line and saw many of the men inch forward, the anticipation of battle wrestling with ingrained discipline.

‘Steady, boys,’ he roared, and the shout was taken up by the other centurions, the legionaries redressing the line until it became firm once more.

Atticus glanced over his shoulder, seeing past the ranks and down the street to the sliver of harbour in view, watching as one galley then another passed through his field of vision, the wind robbing him of the sound of shouted orders only a hundred yards away. He looked to his front again, the approaching force now less than six hundred yards away, the horizon behind them clear. The sight puzzled Atticus, but he cast his questions aside, making ready to turn his back and return to the Orcus. The legionaries were more than a match for the disorganized men approaching and Atticus was anxious to return to his galley and take command of the fleet. He turned to the centurion.

‘Septimus, I’m returning to the Orcus. I’ll station two signal men on the shore to keep—’

‘They’re velites!’ a shout went up, and the men began to mutter as they looked to confirm the report.

‘Silence in the ranks!’ Septimus roared. He held a hand out to the left side of his face to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun, trying to single out individual men.

‘I don’t believe …’ he whispered after a moment. ‘They are velites, light infantry. They’re our own men.’

‘This could be a trick,’ Atticus said, the memory of Thermae still fresh.

Septimus nodded. ‘Ready pila!’ he shouted, and the hastati, the junior soldiers, raised their spears.

The men approaching were shouting, their voices borne on the wind sweeping over the Roman line, their words interlaced into a confusion of sound, until one command carried above the rest, ‘Hold! Do not loose,’ and many of the hastati began to lower their spears.

‘Stand ready!’ Septimus roared, not daring to relinquish the advantage until he was sure, the sight of the Roman uniforms in conflict with his caution.

The men swept on but slowed as they narrowed the distance, wary of the inflexible line of shields facing them, the spear tips visible above the ranks, ready to strike forward. Eventually the advance petered out, the men forming into a ragged line a hundred yards short of the shield wall.

Atticus stepped forward from the Roman line. ‘Who commands there?’ he shouted across, and a soldier stepped forward, his hand held away from the hilt of his sword. His uniform was dust-stained and his face was creased with fatigue, but he held himself tall and he crossed the gap quickly to stand before Atticus and Septimus.

‘I am Servius Salinator,’ he said, ‘commander of the Etruscan infantry.’

‘Atticus Milonius Perennis, prefect of the fleet, and this is Septimus Laetonius Capito, centurion of the Orcus.’

The man saluted Atticus and nodded to Septimus.

‘You are part of the proconsul’s army,’ Atticus said, and Salinator nodded, his expression strained. ‘Then where are the legions?’ Atticus continued. ‘And why do you march out of formation?’

‘The Sixth and Ninth legions are no more,’ Salinator said, his voice laced with anger and shock. ‘They have been defeated, near Tunis.’

‘By the gods …’ Septimus whispered, his thoughts immediately on the men of the Ninth, the legion he had served with for so many years.

Atticus stepped forward, his mind reeling as he grabbed Salinator’s arm. ‘Come with me,’ he said, and he led him through the shield wall, leaving Septimus standing alone. The centurion gathered his wits and turned to his men. ‘Stand down the line!’ he shouted, and the order was repeated, prompting the Etruscans to move forward once more.

Septimus quickly followed Salinator as Atticus led him to the officers’ quarters overlooking the harbour. The building was deserted and the three men stepped out of the warm breeze into the cool, dark interior, Atticus’s eyes never leaving Salinator as they settled around a table. ‘What happened?’ he asked.

The Etruscan drew the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘We met the enemy on a plain south of Tunis two days ago,’ he began, his eyes, unseeing, fixed on the rough grain of the table. ‘The Carthaginians attacked first, in the centre, with elephants, at least a hundred of the infernal beasts, charging in front of their infantry.’ Salinator shook his head, ‘The legions … they just stood their ground, to a man. It was the most …’ He trailed off and Septimus straightened his back as he thought of the incredible courage.

‘We were on the left flank, facing the enemy’s mercenaries,’ Salinator continued, his face showing the disdain he felt for the hired soldiers, ‘and the cavalry was on the right. We broke through easily but the cavalry were routed. They were outnumbered, four, maybe five to one. They never stood a chance.’

‘And the centre?’ Atticus asked.

‘After our horse fled, the Carthaginian cavalry attacked the right flank and swept around the rear. Some of the hastati broke through the elephant charge, but they were swallowed by the enemy infantry, and the bulk of the legions were trapped by the cavalry. We re-engaged on the right and the proconsul broke out with maybe five hundred men, but they were isolated and surrounded again and we were pushed back, so I ordered a fighting retreat.’

‘You fled and left the legions trapped?’ Septimus said, rising to his feet, his fists balled by his side.

‘There was nothing we could do,’ Salinator replied, standing to face down Septimus. ‘If we’d stood our ground we would have been slaughtered like the legions.’

‘So you ran,’ Septimus said contemptuously, ‘and saved your own skin.’

‘Enough!’ Atticus shouted, and stood to lean between the two soldiers. He turned to Salinator. ‘Did you see the proconsul fall?’ he asked.

The Etruscan tore his eyes from Septimus and looked to Atticus, the anger in his eyes never abating. ‘No,’ he replied after a moment. ‘I think he was captured but I can’t be sure.’

‘What does it matter?’ Septimus said, turning away from the table, concern for the Ninth overwhelming him.

‘Were you pursued?’ Atticus asked.

‘I don’t think so,’ Salinator replied and, looking at Atticus, he spoke aloud a thought that had plagued him during his flight from the battle. ‘But with the legions destroyed, nothing stands between Tunis and here.’

Atticus nodded and walked from the table. Salinator sat down again, his gaze moving to Septimus, his mouth creased in anger once more.

Suddenly a clarion call of alarm sounded, followed by another and then another, until they overlapped to form a continuous sound.

Salinator shot up once more, panic in his face. ‘We were followed; the Carthaginians are attacking.’

‘No,’ Atticus said, his expression equally dread-filled, but for another reason. ‘Those are naval horns.’ He rushed to the door, pushing it open to run outside, his eyes blinking rapidly in the sunlight after the gloom of the interior. His gaze swept the seaward horizon. He felt Septimus come out to stand beside him, but his focus never left the fearsome sight that had prompted the sound of alarm from the galleys of the fleet. Atticus instinctively reached for the hilt of his sword.

‘Poseidon protect us …’ he whispered, and he broke into a run as he headed down to the shoreline, calling to the nearest galley to launch its skiff. In the distance, the dark-hulled Carthaginian galleys continued to deploy across the mouth of the harbour, their number already exceeding a hundred, the windblown waves dashing against their rams as their oars crashed endlessly into the restless sea.

Marcus Atilius Regulus straightened his back as he heard footsteps approaching the door, the proconsul drawing himself to his full height in the darkened, airless room. He stepped into one of the shafts of sunlight permitted by the shuttered window, feeling the sweat roll down his back in the infernal heat. He blinked a bead of moisture from his eye. Regulus was nearing fifty years old but his body was that of a younger man, the harsh campaigning of the previous twelve months having stripped his frame of the softness that had accumulated over many comfortable years in the Roman Senate.

He was thirsty, the meagre amphora of brackish water he had been given the night before long since gone, and he licked his lips to moisten them, conscious that his first words should not be spoken with a cracked voice. He watched the door shudder as a harsh metallic sound cut through the near silence; the room was flooded with harsh sunlight as the door was opened. Regulus squinted against the light but he resisted the urge to wipe the blindness from his eyes, instead staring directly ahead to the two figures facing him. They were both soldiers, but senior in rank, their bearing revealing the arrogance and confidence of command.

The younger man entered first. He was Carthaginian, his uniform of the style that Regulus had come to loathe over the previous months. He looked the proconsul in the eye, staring at him as if in fascination, studying him, and Regulus returned the gaze, suddenly conscious of the soiled, sweat-stained tunic he was wearing. The other man stepped in. He was taller than the Carthaginian, his skin a paler complexion, and his gaze wandered the room before settling on the Roman, a half-smile of disdain creasing the edge of his mouth.

‘You are Regulus,’ the Carthaginian said; more a statement than a question, but the proconsul nodded in reply regardless.

‘I am Hamilcar Barca,’ the Carthaginian continued. ‘And this is Xanthippus.’

Regulus held his tongue, taking the moment of silence to study the men anew. He had heard their names many times over the course of the year-long campaign – from ally and captured foe alike. Hamilcar Barca was the overall commander of the Carthaginian forces, and Xanthippus, the Spartan mercenary, hired to command their army after their overwhelming defeat at Adys over a year ago, the man who had given the enemy victory only two days before at Tunis.

‘What of my men?’ Regulus asked, speaking for the first time, his voice low and hard in an effort to instil authority in his question.

‘Sit down,’ Hamilcar replied, indicating the single chair against the far wall.

Regulus glanced over his shoulder but remained standing. He stared into the Carthaginian’s face, keeping his expression unreadable. Hamilcar stepped forward.

‘Sit down,’ he repeated menacingly. ‘Or I will have my men come in and strap you to the chair.’

Regulus hesitated a second longer and then moved slowly to the far wall, sitting down in one fluid movement as if by choice.

Hamilcar smiled, although the gesture did not reach his eyes. ‘For now your men are in the prison beneath this fortress,’ he replied, his eyes never leaving those of the proconsul’s. ‘I have not yet decided their fate.’

‘They are soldiers captured in battle,’ Regulus said, leaning forward. ‘Their lives must be spared.’

‘They are Roman,’ Hamilcar shot back. ‘And their lives are forfeit to the whim of Carthage.’

Regulus made to retort but again he held his tongue, sensing that to antagonize the Carthaginian further was to risk the lives of the five hundred legionaries who had been captured with him. He repeated the number in his mind. Five hundred out of an army of twelve thousand. He whispered a prayer to Mars, the god of war, as he struggled to keep the burden of the terrible loss hidden from his enemy.

‘You are defeated, Roman,’ Hamilcar said, as if reading Regulus’s thoughts. ‘Your army is no more and your invasion is finished.’

‘Is that why you have come here, Carthaginian?’ Regulus retorted. ‘To tell me this. To mock me?’

‘No,’ Hamilcar replied, stepping forward once more until he stood over Regulus. ‘Your light infantry escaped our grasp at Tunis and have fled to Aspis. I have come here to demand you order those forces to surrender.’

‘Surrender?’ Regulus scoffed. ‘The fleet at Aspis will already have evacuated them. There will be no surrender.’

‘You are wrong, Roman,’ Hamilcar replied, the arrogance of the proconsul stirring his anger. ‘The port is blockaded and your fleet is trapped, and if you do not order those men to surrender, I will kill every last one of them.’

Regulus was stunned into silence, his mind racing to devise an alternative.

‘You have until tomorrow to decide,’ Hamilcar said, and he turned and left the room, Xanthippus following without a backward glance.

Regulus stood up as the door was closed, the room once more plunging into semi-darkness. He breathed in deeply, trying to clear his thoughts, but the warm air caught in his throat and he coughed violently. He reached out instinctively for the amphora and picked it up, remembering immediately that it was empty, and he threw it at the wall in anger, the clay shattering into a dozen pieces.

Over a year ago he had sailed south in triumph from Cape Ecnomus. He had met the Carthaginian army at Adys and swept them aside, had taken Tunis without a fight and had plundered the land around Carthage. The war was won, the enemy beaten on all fronts and, conscious that his consulship was nearing its end and that a successor could arrive any day from Rome to steal his victory, he had confidently sent envoys to Carthage with his terms for their surrender: abandon Sicily, disband the navy and admit total defeat.

Even now Regulus remembered the anger he had felt when the Carthaginians refused his terms. Thereafter he had spent every waking hour preparing his army for the moment the enemy would dare to step outside the city. They had emerged, a new leader at their head, and Regulus had marched on to the plains south of Tunis, ready to deliver the fatal blow that would finally subdue the Carthaginians.

But that victory had been snatched from him, replaced with ignominious defeat, and Regulus cursed Fortuna for the ruination of his fate. He strode to the shuttered window and squinted through a crack in the timber to gaze at the city of Tunis spread out before him. In the distance, a dark pall of smoke rose from the plain, the funeral pyre of the battlefield, and Regulus whispered a prayer once more for the lives of twelve thousand men.

‘We should attack now,’ Xanthippus said as he followed Hamilcar across the battlements, ‘before the enemy becomes entrenched.’

‘No, I cannot risk the destruction of the Roman fleet. I need those galleys intact. We will wait,’ Hamilcar replied, turning to look out from the heights of the fortress over the city of Tunis, the late evening sunlight reflecting off the taller buildings. His gaze settled on the pillar of smoke to the south, its tentacles reaching towards the city, borne on by the eternal wind, the ghibli. The fires had been burning since dawn the day before, when Hamilcar had witnessed the lighting of the pyres under the Carthaginian slain, their bodies ceremoniously committed to Mot, the god of death, while nearby the Roman carrion were put to the torch, a separate fire to which Hamilcar had added ten more bodies – those of the members of the council of Tunis who had opened the gates of the city to the Romans.

‘You think this Roman will order his men to surrender?’ Xanthippus asked, following the Carthaginian’s gaze.

‘Regulus will comply,’ Hamilcar said with certainty. ‘He knows their situation is hopeless.’

‘Then surely those men know it too,’ Xanthippus replied. ‘Perhaps they have already surrendered.’

Hamilcar turned to the Spartan, a smile on his face. ‘They have not surrendered,’ he said. ‘Nor will they under force of arms.’

‘You are sure?’ Xanthippus said.

Hamilcar nodded. ‘I am sure,’ he replied. ‘For I know the resolve of the man who commands there.’

Over the previous year, Hamilcar had been determined to discover the identity of the lone captain who had frustrated his attack at Ecnomus. Learning that he had survived and had been promoted for his actions, Hamilcar had burned the man’s name into his mind, searching for it in every spy’s report that crossed his desk, tracking his movements during the course of the campaign, waiting for an opportunity to avenge his defeat at Ecnomus.

‘Who is this Roman?’ Xanthippus asked, seeing the expression of hostility on the Carthaginian’s face.

‘He is not Roman, he is Greek, like you,’ Hamilcar said, the words spoken slowly as the strength of his conviction coursed through him. ‘And when I have Regulus’s order, I will deliver it to this man and accept his surrender personally.’

Hamilcar turned from Xanthippus and looked to the east, the horizon rapidly slipping into darkness as the sun fell away in the west. In his mind’s eye he pictured the port of Aspis and the enemy within, his mouth forming the name of his foe. Perennis.

Atticus ran his hand along the forerail of the Orcus as he stared out across the thousand yards to the Carthaginian blockade, the two hundred dark-hulled quinqueremes slowly taking shape in the dawn light. He looked to the galleys of his command, each one with its bow facing the mouth of the harbour, the outgoing tide stretching their stern anchor lines behind them as if the ships themselves were eager to be let loose on the enemy after four days of silently watching the Carthaginian galleys.

‘Dawn, at last,’ Septimus said as he came up to the foredeck, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep, his face darkened by stubble.

Atticus nodded, the tension in his stomach easing, feeling the same relief at the sight of the rising sun. He had spent the night on deck, as had all his crew for the past four nights, ready for an attack that had never come, silently watching the Carthaginian running lights sweep slowly across the horizon under the star-filled, moonless sky, the enemy visibly holding station.

‘Day five,’ Atticus remarked, frustration in his voice.

‘And still no advance,’ Septimus said, finishing his friend’s thought. ‘You’re still sure they’ll attack at night?’ he asked after a moment’s pause.

‘I would,’ Atticus replied. ‘The confines of the harbour protect our flanks and reduce their advantage in numbers. They could attack by day but it would be a costly victory. A surprise attack at night would be their best bet.’

Septimus nodded, knowing also of the terrifying confusion that would accompany a night attack, chaos that would be an ally to the aggressors. He looked to the rising sun and then to the enemy, their formation the same as it had been when he last saw it at dusk the evening before. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword and silently muttered a challenge to the Carthaginians, daring them to make their play.

The bireme moved quickly through the swarm of larger galleys, the helmsman giving way to the towering quinqueremes as he skilfully exploited the agility of the smaller ship. Hamilcar stood beside him at the tiller, watching the crewman at work, admiring the display of prowess, a skill Hamilcar suspected had been taught to the helmsman by his father or grandfather in the tradition of all Carthaginian naval families.

Hamilcar looked to the multitude of galleys surrounding him, noticing their clean lines and ordered formation, the efficiency of the crews clearly evident even after five days of monotonous duty. The bireme progressed smoothly and Hamilcar glanced to his right, catching glimpses of the inner harbour of Aspis between the moving galleys, the stationary Roman ships indistinguishable across a thousand yards of water. A shouted hail caught his attention and he looked to the fore once more, the familiar galley ahead a welcome sight.

The bireme moved swiftly alongside the Alissar and, as it nudged the hull, Hamilcar jumped on to the rope ladder and ascended to the main deck.

‘Well met, Commander,’ Himilco the captain said as he extended his hand.

Hamilcar took it. ‘Report, Captain,’ he said brusquely.

‘As you predicted, Commander,’ Himilco began. ‘The Romans have made no move to surrender.’

Hamilcar smiled grimly and nodded, looking once more to the inner harbour, his view now unobstructed. The sight prompted him to reach into his tunic and he took out a brass cylinder, fingering it lightly as he turned once more to Himilco.

‘Come about, Captain,’ he ordered. ‘Take us in to the harbour.’

‘We are to attack?’ Himilco asked.

‘No, signal the fleet. Tell them to hold station: we go alone.’

Himilco saluted and within moments the Alissar broke formation and turned her bow to the inner harbour. Hamilcar looked to the cylinder in his hand, his expectation tightening his grip on the container. Within minutes he would finally be able to put a face to his enemy.

‘Carthaginian galley approaching,’ Corin called from the masthead, and Atticus looked to the outer harbour, the lone galley’s oars falling and rising slowly, the formation of enemy ships behind her unchanged.

‘An envoy?’ Septimus suggested. Atticus nodded.

‘But why now?’ he asked, and turned to look for his second-in-command. ‘Baro, get us under way. Signal the other galleys to make ready but to hold station.’

Baro nodded and the Orcus moved off at steerage speed before Gaius, the helmsman, brought her up to standard. Atticus and Septimus moved to the foredeck, the centurion ordering a contubernia of ten legionaries to accompany them, and both men lapsed into silence as they watched the opposing galley approach.

The two galleys approached each other warily, as if manoeuvring for position, the helmsmen testing each other’s skill. The Carthaginian ship was first to slow its advance and her oars dropped neatly into the water, their combined drag bringing the quinquereme to a halt within a half-ship length before two oars re-engaged fore and aft to keep the galley steady in the gentle current. Atticus turned and nodded down the length of the galley. Gaius acknowledged the gesture and carried out the same manoeuvre with similar ease; as the two ships covered the remaining distance, in silence now that the drum beat had halted, Atticus stared across at the group of armed men standing on the enemy foredeck.

Two Carthaginians stepped forward and Atticus and Septimus responded in kind, moving to the starboard forerail as the galleys kissed with a heavy thud, the timber hulls grinding against each other, each moving independently in the swell as the oars maintained the connection. Atticus focused his attention on the taller of the two Carthaginians, noticing how the other deferred to him. He was of a similar age to Atticus but his bearing was that of an older man, his self-assurance clearly evident in his expression. He stood with his shoulders slightly stooped as if poised to charge. Atticus made to address him but the Carthaginian spoke first.

‘You are Perennis?’ he asked.

Atticus was taken aback. ‘You have me at a disadvantage, Carthaginian,’ he said, and waited for the officer to introduce himself.

The Carthaginian smiled, as if relishing a private joke. ‘I am Hamilcar Barca,’ he said, and again Atticus was stunned. ‘You know of me,’ Hamilcar said.

‘I know of you, Barca,’ Atticus replied coldly. ‘You were the commander of the quinquereme that escaped Tyndaris.’ The memory formed quickly in his mind and he felt Septimus shift restlessly beside him, the centurion’s anger stirred at the discovery of whom they were addressing, remembering the desperate fight at Tyndaris that had cost him so many of his men.

‘And you, Perennis, were the commander of the trireme that attacked this ship at Ecnomus,’ Hamilcar replied, uttering the words to stoke the fire of his anger.

There was a moment’s silence.

‘What have you to say, Barca?’ Atticus asked, an edge to his voice, keen to forestall any inconsequential talk and draw the line of battle between them.

‘I have come here to offer you terms of surrender,’ Hamilcar said, struggling to control his temper at the Greek’s arrogant tone.

‘There will be no surrender, Barca. Not at Aspis.’

‘The Roman invasion of my country is finished, Perennis. Your pitiful force cannot stand alone.’

‘It will stand as long as I am in command,’ Atticus replied defiantly.

‘But it is not you who commands here, Perennis,’ Hamilcar smiled, and he tossed a brass cylinder across the gap between the galleys.

Atticus snapped it from the air and opened it, drawing out the scroll within. He broke the seal and quickly read the contents, immediately recognizing the handwriting from earlier dispatches. His mouth twisted in anger.

‘What is it?’ Septimus asked, noticing his friend’s agitation. Atticus handed him the scroll without comment and Septimus glanced through it. ‘An order to surrender?’ he said in disbelief.

Atticus nodded. ‘From the proconsul himself,’ he spat, knowing now why the Carthaginians hadn’t attacked over the previous days. He took the scroll from Septimus and read it through again in an effort to detect a subtext to the proconsul’s order, some sign that the order was written under duress and his true intent was for the fleet to resist the Carthaginians. There was none. The order was explicit.

‘Regulus knows of the blockade,’ Hamilcar said to compound the order, to gain the Greek’s surrender immediately by justifying the proconsul’s decision. ‘Given the odds, he has realized you can surrender with honour.’

Atticus looked up and stared at Hamilcar with an expression of disdain. ‘With honour?’ he said sarcastically. ‘There’s no honour in being chained to a galley oar.’

‘Nevertheless,’ Hamilcar said impatiently. ‘You have your orders, written by your own commander. You must surrender now.’

Atticus looked to the blockade and then to Septimus, the centurion’s defiant expression a reflection of his own conviction. He nodded slightly, and Septimus returned the gesture, in full agreement with his friend.

Atticus carefully placed the scroll back inside the cylinder and turned once more to Hamilcar. ‘There will be no surrender,’ he replied, and before Hamilcar could protest, Atticus dropped the cylinder over the side, the brass container striking the hull with a hollow clang before splashing into the water.

Hamilcar followed its fall, the gesture triggering a cacophony of conflicting voices in his mind. He looked up and focused once more on the Greek commander, his vision narrowing as the dispute inside him intensified. His pride called for immediate attack, to humble the insolent Greek and give his own men the victory their morale so desperately needed after the defeat at Ecnomus. But reason called for restraint, knowing he needed the forty Roman galleys to strengthen his depleted navy; to take them by force would cost him as many galleys as he would gain. He breathed deeply and forced his pride to yield, deciding to give the Greek one last chance, putting the needs of Carthage ahead of his own honour. He leaned forward over the forerail of the Alissar.

‘Hear me, Perennis,’ he said, suppressed hostility hardening his voice. ‘I will give you twenty-four hours to reconsider your decision.’

Atticus made to retort, but Hamilcar raised his hand to forestall him, no longer trusting his own temper, knowing that further words from the Greek might cause him to abandon his restraint.

‘Comply, Perennis, and you and your crews will live,’ he said. ‘Defy me and – I swear by my gods – you will all die.’

Hamilcar stepped back and turned, issuing orders for the Alissar to withdraw. Her oars were re-engaged, the ship turning neatly away.

Atticus watched the galley retreat, the Carthaginian’s ultimatum weakening his previously unassailable defiance. With Barca in command, the odds against him were now greater than ever. He tried to suppress his uncertainty, knowing that Fortuna alone controlled his fate and he would rather die facing the enemy than live as a slave. He turned to order Baro to get the Orcus under way, but as he did the wind suddenly ebbed and slackened, allowing, for the first time, the drum beats of the Carthaginian blockade to be heard. It was a staccato beat, two hundred strong, like the sound of oncoming thunder, a presage of the storm that was poised to break over Aspis.

CHAPTER TWO

Marcus Aemilius Paullus strode purposefully across the main deck of the Concordia, ignoring the salutes of the soldiers he passed on his way to the side rail. He looked out over the fleet, the three hundred and fifty galleys of the Classis Romanus spread out in formation behind his flagship, and his heart swelled, the sight overwhelming him, the power of his command filling him with pride.

As senior consul, Paullus had rushed to Sicily six months before, taking residence in the walled city of Agrigentum on the southern coast. From there he had sought to take command of the war in Sicily, to carve out a victory that would rival his predecessor’s triumph at Cape Ecnomus; but the enemy had withdrawn their naval forces south to Carthage and Paullus lacked the legionary army necessary to take the fight to the Carthaginians on land. He had led skirmishes to Panormus and Lilybaeum, the two main Carthaginian-held ports of Sicily, hoping to take the fight to the enemy, but his minor victories only served to deepen his frustration.

All eyes in Rome were on the conflict in Africa. There lay the glory, but Regulus had persistently evaded all efforts to recall him to Rome, his victories at Ecnomus and Adys giving him considerable support in the Senate, so he had maintained his position as commander of the expeditionary force. With defeat in Tunis, however, that command was no more, and Paullus couldn’t suppress his rising anticipation. When news of Regulus’s defeat had arrived from a supply ship that had escaped the harbour of Tunis, Paullus had immediately assembled the fleet to sail west, eager to take full advantage of his restored mandate.

Paullus made his way slowly to the aft-deck, surreptitiously watching the crew at work as he went, their frantic pace at odds with the consul’s unhurried movements. The consul had never before been on a galley sailing to Sicily but, over the previous months, he had learned all that was necessary to command a fleet, his two victorious skirmishes against the enemy confirming his belief in his natural ability to lead.

Paullus turned to look out over the length of the Concordia as he reached the aft-deck. The mainsail was taut against the rigging and, beyond that, the corvus boarding ramp stood poised. He breathed in the warm crosswind and looked across the deck. The junior consul, Servius Fulvius Paetinus Nobilior, was standing by the tiller and he nodded at Paullus, the senior consul returning the gesture before turning once more to the sea ahead, his mind already focused on his plan of attack once he reached Aspis. Audacity was the key to victory, and Paullus smiled as he imagined the fear that would sweep across the sea-lanes as news of his arrival spread.

The horizon before the Concordia darkened, a shoreline came slowly into view, and the call of land sighted echoed across the fleet. Paullus moved quickly to the foredeck, giving himself an uninterrupted view of the seascape and the shoreline beyond. A flicker of colour caught his eye and he focused on the intermittent movement. The crosswind caused his eyes to water and he rubbed them irritably. He saw them again, flashes of vibrant colours, stark against the dark shoreline, and he suddenly understood what he was seeing, the vivid masthead banners whipping furiously in the wind, their number growing with each oar stroke the Concordia took to narrow the distance. An instant later the lookout’s call confirmed his sighting.

‘Enemy galleys, dead ahead!’

‘Number and heading,’ Hamilcar roared as he ran the length of the Alissar.

‘At least three hundred,’ the lookout called. ‘Heading due west, directly for us.’

Hamilcar stopped as he came to the aft-deck and looked east to the approaching galleys. But for their masthead banners they could be Carthaginian ships, their design a copy of the galleys constructed by the master shipbuilders of Carthage, and Hamilcar cursed the sight. He looked over his shoulder to the inner harbour of Aspis and the forty Roman galleys that still faced him defiantly.

The deadline he had imposed was but hours away, and he reproached Tanit for her fickle nature. Many times during the preceding night he had been tempted to retract his proposal and order a full attack. He knew that tactically it would be a mistake, but his honour demanded a measure of retribution for the defeat inflicted on him and his men at Ecnomus. The Alissar had been his command ship on that day, the quinquereme in the vanguard of the main attack, a position of honour that Hamilcar had assumed with pride but one which had become forever tainted with humiliation when he had ordered the Alissar to lead the retreat from Ecnomus.

Many of the galleys of the blockade had been in battle that day and, even a year later, the shock of defeat still lay heavy on the morale of the crews, another reason why Hamilcar had been tempted to attack Aspis. A fight in the inner harbour would be on the Romans’ terms, and Hamilcar’s gains would be negated by his losses, but success was nevertheless assured by numbers alone. Hamilcar knew his men needed a victory over the hated Roman fleet that many perceived to be indomitable.

He had been racked with indecision during the night, perhaps touched by the same lack of confidence that was endemic in his fleet. Now fortune had swung against him, punishing him for his hesitancy, and Hamilcar looked once more to the east and the approaching Roman galleys, a quiet determination stealing over him.

The proximity of combat cleared his mind of any further thoughts of what might have been. He was outnumbered, and the enemy was on two sides. He could not hope to hold his position at the mouth of the harbour. Defeat would be certain. Equally he couldn’t order his fleet to disperse, knowing that fleeing before a blow had been struck would be the death knell of his command.

He would have to take the fight to the Romans, but first he needed to reduce the odds against him. He closed his eyes and pictured the surrounding coastline in his mind’s eye, searching his store of local knowledge of the shores around his beloved Carthage. He opened his eyes and checked the height of the tide on the nearby shoreline. He looked to the north, his mouth hardening into a thin line, his previous hesitation forgotten, and he turned to the helmsman.

‘Come about,’ he ordered. ‘Battle speed. Signal the fleet to form up on the Alissar. We sail for Cape Hermaeum.’

The helmsman nodded and sent a runner to signal the fleet as he put his weight behind the tiller, the quinquereme responding instantly to the rudder as the galley broke the formation of the blockade. Hamilcar leaned into the turn, his hand on the siderail as the drum beat intensified, the Alissar increasing speed to eight knots within a ship-length while all around him the galleys of his command responded in kind.

‘Aspect change on the blockade!’

‘All hands, make ready,’ Atticus shouted at the lookout’s call, quickly running to the foredeck to see the course change of the blockading galleys for himself. He stood poised to issue the order for battle stations, expecting to see the Carthaginians turning into attack, but instead their bows swung north, the blockade rapidly disintegrating.

‘Galleys approaching from the east!’

Atticus heard the call and tried to see past the Carthaginian ships, their hulls blocking his view of the eastern horizon. He looked to Corin, the masthead lookout, the young man’s gaze locked on the distant seascape.

‘Identify, Corin,’ Atticus shouted, his inadequate vantage point frustrating him. Was it another Carthaginian detachment? Maybe the blockading galleys were moving to redeploy for attack. Every passing minute counted, and Atticus had to fight the overwhelming urge to go aloft and see for himself. He focused on Corin’s face, and saw the answer a second before the lookout responded.

‘They’re Roman, Prefect.’

Atticus turned to look for his second-in-command, seeing him on the main deck. ‘Baro,’ he called. ‘Get us under way. Battle speed.’

Baro nodded and began shouting orders to the crew, their already frenzied pace increasing with the ferocity of his voice. Atticus moved quickly to the aft-deck as the Orcus lurched beneath him, her oars biting into the calm waters of the inner harbour, the galley increasing speed with every drum beat.

He suddenly thought of Lucius, his former second-in-command, and how the older man would have been on the foredeck with him, shadowing his every move. He had yet to achieve that same bond with Baro; he was a harsher man than Lucius, but effective in his own right, and Atticus knew he could trust the experienced seaman.

‘Over three hundred galleys,’ Corin called out in excitement. ‘Heading west on a direct course to Aspis.’

Atticus heard the report and checked the line of his squadron, the other galleys getting under way. He nodded to Gaius as he reached the aft-deck, but the helmsman did not return the gesture, his attention as always locked on the task at hand, his hand playing lightly over the tiller as he made minute course adjustments to the one hundred and ten-ton galley. The weeks of inactivity while the squadron waited in Aspis had driven Gaius to near madness, the fact that the hull lay stationary beneath his feet was contrary to his every instinct. Now, although his face was expressionless, Atticus knew that Gaius was charged with anticipation.

‘Your assessment,’ Atticus said, and the helmsman looked to him for the first time.

‘It looks as if the Carthaginians are running,’ Gaius said after a moment’s pause, his expression puzzled.

‘But,’ Atticus prompted, noticing the helmsman’s hesitation. He too had noticed an anomaly in the Carthaginians’ manoeuvre, but he wanted to draw out the helmsman’s thoughts, knowing that Gaius’s intimate knowledge of the capabilities of a galley, and his skill at attaining the best possible position in battle, made his opinion invaluable.

‘They’re staying in formation,’ Gaius replied, after a moment. ‘If they really wanted to flee then they would have broken formation and scattered, making our pursuit more difficult.’

Atticus nodded, looking to the rear of the Carthaginian formation a thousand yards ahead as the last of the galleys disappeared around the northern headland protecting the port of Aspis. By the time the Orcus reached that point, Atticus knew the distance to the enemy rear would be even greater, his pursuit from dead-stop giving the Carthaginians the initial advantage.

‘Maybe they’re planning to fight,’ Atticus said, doubting his own words even as he spoke them.

‘They’re too outnumbered,’ Gaius remarked, glancing to the approaching Roman fleet.

Atticus nodded again and set his mind to the task. He moved to the side rail to get a better view of the sea ahead. ‘Gaius, what’s north of here?’ he asked.

‘The coastline runs north for ten leagues to a cape and then turns southwest for forty leagues into the bay of Carthage.’

They’ll never get as far as Carthage, Atticus thought, but, as he looked to the approaching Roman fleet, waiting for them to change course to intercept the Carthaginian formation, a sliver of doubt remained in his mind. Barca had been beaten before, but never due to error, and Carthaginian seamanship still outmatched that of most Roman crews. If the enemy were staying in formation, then their true motive was yet to be revealed.

‘They’re running,’ Nobilior shouted in elation.

Paullus turned to the junior consul and frowned, regarding the excessive display of emotion as undignified, although he too felt the satisfaction of seeing the enemy flee in the face of his command.

‘Helmsman, change course to intercept,’ Paullus ordered, and the Concordia turned two points to starboard, the fleet behind responding immediately.

The enemy fleet was still some five miles away, sailing parallel to the coastline, their galleys bunched together as if racing each other in a bid to escape. Paullus followed the line of their course, immediately seeing the land give way to the north as it turned a headland.

‘Helmsman,’ he said, ‘increase speed. I want to reach that headland before the enemy has a chance of rounding it.’

The helmsman nodded, calling for battle speed, and Paullus nodded in satisfaction as he felt the pace of the Concordia increase. He looked to the main deck and the ordered ranks of the legionaries, sensing their expectation, allowing it to feed his own impatience, and he sneered in contempt as he thought of the enemy’s futile attempt to escape his wrath.

‘The Romans are turning to pursue,’ the lookout called, and Hamilcar glanced over his starboard aft-quarter to confirm the course change of the enemy fleet before turning to look out over the aft-rail. The Roman galleys from Aspis were just breaching the harbour mouth, now more than two miles behind the last ship in his formation, and Hamilcar watched as they neatly formed behind the lead galley, beginning their pursuit in earnest.

Hamilcar turned to the sea ahead and the coastline to his left, silently naming the landmarks in sequence as the Alissar sped north, his intimate knowledge of the shoreline deepening his resolve to deny the Romans any part of his people’s sacred land. To his right the Roman fleet was slowly closing the gap as they sailed diagonally towards him, revealing their simple plan to cut his course as he made to round Cape Hermaeum. Hamilcar thanked Tanit for the Romans’ actions, forgetting her earlier duplicity.

His fleet was outnumbered, but Hamilcar knew he stood a reasonable chance of thwarting the Romans’ attempt to trap him if he could level the odds or – better yet – turn them in his favour. Victory might yet be possible or, failing that, retreat with honour. Either way, Hamilcar needed to keep his fleet together, and Cape Hermaeum would give him that chance.

Atticus stayed at the side rail of the aft-deck as the Orcus settled on a northerly track, the galleys of his command slipping into the wake of the Carthaginian formation, using the enemy’s course to avoid any hidden shallows along the coastline. He was joined there by Septimus, while the legionaries formed up behind Drusus on the main deck, the proximity of the enemy dictating every action on the quinquereme.

‘The main fleet will reach the enemy first,’ Atticus said, thinking aloud, judging the angles and speed of their attack.

‘Pity,’ Septimus replied, his hand kneading the hilt of his sword, the anger he felt at the loss of the Ninth increasing with every oar stroke, the fact that Hamilcar Barca was in command of the enemy fleet giving his aggression a keen edge.

Atticus looked to his friend and nodded, understanding his fury, his own battle lust rising within him. The Ninth was Septimus’s former legion, but Atticus had formed his own bond with the legionaries over the previous years, understanding and accepting the symbiotic relationship between the two forces. He had put his ship and his crew in harm’s way many times to protect the soldiers of Rome.

The Orcus sped on, her ram slicing cleanly through the calm water, the gentle swell separating cleanly across her cutwater to run down the length of her hull, her wake instantly sliced by the ships behind. The galley’s crew settled into silence, the drum beat dominating; the trailing wind tugged at the furled sail, the creak of running rigging and the rhythmic splash of the oars replaced the shouted commands. The pursuit demanded nothing more of the crew than patience as each man waited for the battle to come.

Atticus rubbed his fingers on the side rail, his eyes constantly darting to the four points of his galley, checking and rechecking her trim, the unconscious routine of a man who had spent his life at sea. Septimus stood immobile beside him, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his eyes focused two miles ahead on the enemy galleys, watching with the endless patience of a career soldier.

‘You’ll target Barca’s galley?’ Septimus asked, glancing at Atticus, whose gaze was locked on the two convergent fleets.

‘Don’t worry, Septimus,’ he replied, never taking his eyes off the waters ahead. ‘We’ll get him.’

The centurion nodded and looked to his men on the main deck. Once the battle was joined he would have no control over the course of the Orcus, depending entirely on Atticus to get him and his legionaries into the fight, the prefect deciding which galleys to target in the rush of battle. As a soldier, such reliance was second nature, but, as a commander in his own right, Septimus had developed a deep respect for Atticus’s ability. When the fleets engaged, the battle would swiftly descend into a mêlée, and a centurion leading his men over a boarding ramp on to an enemy ship needed to know his line of retreat was secure. Over the years he had fought alongside Atticus, Septimus had never once looked over his shoulder.

‘Barca is doing a bad job of trying to escape,’ he remarked, looking to the headland beyond the Carthaginian galleys.

‘I’m not convinced he is trying to escape,’ Atticus said, giving voice to the doubt that refused to subside.

‘The Carthaginians are no cowards,’ Septimus replied sceptically, ‘but they’re no fools either. The odds against them are too high.’

‘Then why haven’t they increased speed or taken advantage of this tailwind and raised sail?’ Atticus said. ‘Only ships going into battle would keep their mainsails furled.’

Septimus shook his head, unable to answer. ‘Either way,’ he said, putting his helmet on for the first time, ‘it looks like we’re in for a fight.’

Atticus nodded and slapped his friend on the shoulder, knowing the centurion was eager to confront the enemy. Septimus turned and left the aft-deck, taking up his position at the front of his men on the main deck. Drusus saluted smartly before falling into the ranks; the optio, like all of Septimus’s men, was ready for battle.

‘Nabeul,’ Hamilcar said to himself as the Alissar sped past the tiny fishing village, ‘over halfway there.’

He looked to the Roman fleet, now two miles off his starboard beam, their course still convergent with his own, both fleets aiming for the headland ahead. We’re moving too fast, Hamilcar thought, estimating that his own ships would reach the headland before the Romans and he immediately ordered the helmsman to drop to standard speed, the galleys behind the Alissar bunching up slightly as the pace dipped, before the crews brought their ships back into perfect formation.

Hamilcar relayed his orders to the squad commander at the rear of the fleet, keeping the command simple to avoid confusion or an error in signalling. The battle ahead was unavoidably going to be fought on two fronts, with the Carthaginians out numbered on both. Only a quick result would achieve victory, a prolonged fight could only end in defeat.

Hamilcar’s gaze fell across the deck of the Alissar, his men formed into loose ranks, many with their swords drawn as they prepared for battle. He spotted signs of nervousness amongst them – men moving restlessly; others with their gaze locked on the deck – and Hamilcar felt his anger rise anew. Before Ecnomus these same men would have stood resolute before battle, always with their eyes turned to the enemy, willing them on, eager for the fight. Now they were riddled with doubt and Hamilcar realized that his crews might easily panic should the tide of battle turn against them.

He looked to the sea ahead once more, the shoreline filling his vision on the left, the Roman fleet on the periphery on his right, and the headland dead ahead. For Hamilcar, his only hope was to get the larger Roman fleet to disengage and flee. He focused on the waters just beyond the headland, looking to the ally that could give him victory.

We have them, Paullus thought, slamming his fist on to the side rail in triumph. His galleys would reach the headland before the Carthaginians. He looked to the galleys flanking the Concordia, the earlier formation now ragged as ships competed to be first into battle, although none dared to overtake the flagship. The senior consul felt renewed pride in the overt display of confidence and aggression and he called for more speed, spurring his fleet to a greater pace, the thrill of battle surging through him.

The helmsman made minor adjustments to the Concordia’s course, steering the quinquereme to reach just beyond the headland to give the fleet room to turn into the fight and face the Carthaginians head on, allowing them to bring their deadly corvi to bear, the legionaries on every galley already moving forward to form up behind the boarding ramps, many of the soldiers whispering prayers to Mars, the god of war, to give them strength in the battle ahead. Paullus stood firm on the aft-deck, the junior consul beside him, a display of calm authority and steadfast courage in the face of battle. The headland was but a mile away and the enemy was now hopelessly trapped.

Something’s wrong, Atticus thought, his intuition sensing the change before he could confirm it, his eyes turning to the gap between the Orcus and the Carthaginian formation ahead.

‘Gaius,’ he called, turning to the helmsman.

‘I see it,’ he replied, his own gaze locked on the sea ahead. ‘We’re gaining on them.’

The Carthaginians are slowing down, Atticus thought, his instincts screaming alarm, his eyes darting everywhere as he tried to determine the cause. He moved to the tiller, his mind registering the steady drum beat from below decks, the steady pace of battle speed unchanged.

‘Baro, confirm our speed,’ Atticus ordered, and the second-in-command acknowledged the command, calling for a marker to be made ready on the foredeck. He ran to the aft and signalled for the marker to be dropped, counting the seconds until it passed his position. He paused for a moment as he calculated.

‘A shade over eight knots, Prefect,’ Baro said. Battle speed.

‘Something in the water ahead maybe, some hindrance?’ Gaius suggested.

Atticus shook his head. The water was calm, the only disturbance caused by the wakes of the Carthaginian galleys.

‘Barca wants our ships to reach the headland first,’ Atticus said, speaking aloud the only conclusion he could draw.

‘And our galleys will do exactly that,’ Gaius replied, feeling the same sense of alarm as his commander.

‘Baro,’ Atticus said. ‘We need to try and signal—’

‘Aspect change in the Carthaginian formation,’ Corin shouted from the masthead, and all eyes turned immediately to the fore. ‘The rear-guard is turning to engage.’

A squad of twenty-five galleys turned neatly from the rear of the enemy force and away from the coastline, moving swiftly into open water. They were increasing speed, coming about at a terrifying pace, the galleys transformed within seconds from escaping prey to ferocious attackers. Precious seconds passed as Atticus watched the enemy rear-guard deploy.

‘Your orders, Prefect,’ Baro said, an edge to his voice as he waited for the command to deploy the squadron into line of battle to counter the threat.

Atticus ignored the demand, but looked instead to the main Carthaginian formation, their course unchanged, the vanguard of the Roman fleet now obscured by the enemy ships as they swept in before the Carthaginians’ course.

‘Will I order the squadron to deploy, Prefect?’ Baro asked insistently, glancing briefly at Gaius, seeing the helmsman’s body braced for the command to come, his knuckles white on the tiller.

Atticus glanced at the enemy ships sweeping down at an oblique angle, poised to slice into his galleys, their foredecks crowded with Carthaginian warriors, their war cries growing louder with every passing second. His experience called him to order his squadron to turn into the fight, but the words would not come, a deeper instinct staying his command. He looked to the headland where the two main fleets would clash, the place where the battle would be won or lost, the place Hamilcar Barca had chosen to make his stand.

Paullus stumbled forward as the Concordia lurched beneath him, the deck suddenly echoing with frantic commands and cries of alarm, the galley losing momentum as the rhythm of her two hundred and forty oars was fouled. Only moments before, the vanguard of the fleet had reached the headland, the Carthaginians still some two hundred yards short of the tip, while before the Concordia the sea stretched out far to the west, the coastline falling away around the sharp apex of the cape. The senior consul reached out and grabbed the side rail, looking to the galleys around him in shock as he watched their close formation disintegrate.

‘What’s happening?’ he roared, spinning around, searching for the captain, finding him standing at the tiller, the commander shouting orders to his crew. He looked to the consul.

‘A tidal stream,’ he shouted in frustration. ‘Rounding the cape. An ebb flow, at least four knots.’

The Concordia was now sailing in waters unprotected by the sweep of the headland. As the quinquereme steadied beneath him, the captain pointed her cutwater directly into the current, her forward speed reduced by the ebb flow but the ship once more in control. Paullus looked to the enemy, the Carthaginian galleys closing fast on his left flank.

‘Captain, come about. Order the fleet to turn into the enemy,’ Paullus shouted.

‘We can’t,’ the captain replied and, before Paullus could retort, a crashing sound ripped through the air as two Roman galleys collided, the first one having turned broadside into the current to face the enemy, the ebb flow pushing the galley out of position and into its neighbour.

‘We cannot form up in this current,’ the captain shouted in explanation, his own eyes darting to the approaching enemy galleys, the Concordia turned broadside to their rams, the swift current forcing the captain’s hand.

Paullus stood speechless, the oncoming enemy galleys dominating his mind, the air around him filled with commands and counter-commands from the ships surrounding the Concordia, the thread of panic in every voice as crews sought to avoid collision while turning to face the enemy, the galleys becoming further entangled as all control was lost.

‘Ramming speed,’ Hamilcar roared, as the helmsman of the Alissar settled the quinquereme on her final course, her bow pointing slightly obliquely to a line amidships of a Roman galley, the enemy crew’s hesitation in deciding between collision and the Carthaginian ram sealing their fate. The Alissar came up to fourteen knots, the six-foot-long blunt-nosed bronze ram sweeping cleanly under the surface of the water, the momentum of the galley keeping her hull down.

The helmsman made one final adjustment to her trim and Hamilcar watched with near awe at the display of seamanship, the sailor using the sudden onslaught of the current upon the Alissar’s hull as it cleared the lee of the headland to straighten the quinquereme’s course, perfecting the angle of attack, making the elements work to his advantage while the Romans floundered in the same conditions.

Fifty yards became ten in the span of a breath, and Hamilcar braced himself for the impact, his whole body willing the Alissar on, putting the strength of his hostility behind the charge of his ship. The Alissar struck the Roman galley six inches below the water line, the ram splintering the seasoned oak with a single blow, the relentless momentum of the quinquereme driving the ram deep into the rowing deck, crushing bone and timber, the screams of dying men merging with the screech of tortured wood as sea water gushed through the shattered hull of the Roman ship, overwhelming the damned souls chained to their oars.

Hamilcar roared in triumph with his crew, his every battle instinct commanding him to send his men over the bow rail on to the Roman galley and annihilate her crew, but he suppressed the urge, knowing he had to keep the initiative if he was going to turn the Roman vanguard.

‘Full reverse,’ he ordered, and the rowers of the Alissar put their strength to the task, the ram withdrawing reluctantly against the hold of the splintered Roman hull. In the brief minutes of contact the Alissar had drifted with the current, but the helmsman again used its force to swing the bow around, drawing on skills that had been forged over generations, and the galley turned neatly away from the Roman line to withdraw into the lee of the headland before turning once more to re-engage, the Alissar’s rowers bringing the galley back up to attack speed as Hamilcar sought out further prey, his gaze sweeping over the attack.

The Roman vanguard was in chaos, unable to form a battle line in the hostile current, while Hamilcar’s ships rammed them with near impunity. The Romans had only managed to deploy their boarding ramps on half a dozen careless galleys, their isolated resistance ineffective against the momentum of the Carthaginian attack.

Hamilcar quickly assessed his odds, looking to the four points of his ship. Beyond the Roman vanguard, the bulk of the enemy fleet had yet to engage, many of the ships still sailing in the lee of the headland, their formations intact in a coherent defence that the Carthaginian galleys could not challenge. For now, the main Roman fleet was stalled, the confusion of the vanguard robbing them of the sea room to advance to the battle line. Hamilcar knew the reprieve could not last and he turned his focus back to the battle at hand.

‘Two points to starboard,’ he commanded, and the Alissar moved deftly beneath him, the helmsman adjusting her course, compensating again for the current as he brought her ram to bear.

Hamilcar braced himself again, his heart hammering out the drum beats from the deck below, his gaze sweeping over the maelstrom of the battle in which over a hundred Roman galleys were fighting for survival. He looked to the enemy ship before him, her main deck crowded with legionaries, their shields raised, their voices raised in challenge and defiance. Hamilcar balled his fists, watching as the gap fell to fifty yards, and called for ramming speed. It was time to shatter their courage.

The sounds of battle carried clearly across the water, the crash of ramming galleys, screams of death mixed with cheers of success. The voices of command that called for greater slaughter as men fought for victory conflicted with calls for resistance as men fought for survival. Atticus watched the collapsing Roman vanguard in silence, the sounds washing over him and the crew of the Orcus, while his mind registered the approaching threat on his flank. Only Atticus’s squadron remained unfettered, a liberty the Carthaginian rear-guard was poised to take, completing a strategy that would give the Carthaginians full control.

Atticus turned to his crew. ‘Attack speed,’ he ordered as he looked to Gaius. ‘Hold your course.’

The helmsman nodded grimly in compliance, his eyes darting to the approaching Carthaginian galley three points off the starboard beam, and then to the headland ahead.

‘But the rear-guard, Prefect,’ Baro protested, the enemy ships now less than a hundred yards away. ‘We must turn into their attack.’

‘No,’ Atticus replied angrily. ‘We fight on our terms. We stay on this heading and follow the course set by the main Carthaginian fleet. Signal the right flank. Tell them they must only turn into a galley that targets them directly.’

Baro nodded and issued the orders, but he struggled to reconcile the decision with his own instincts, knowing that the inevitable losses the squadron would incur could be avoided if the entire command turned into the Carthaginian rear-guard. He made to protest again but he held his tongue. The Greek would not yield.

On a galley there were few secrets and Baro knew how the prefect had worked with Lucius, seeking the older man’s advice but always making his own decisions. Despite his promotion, Baro had been unable to adopt the same role as his predecessor. In the past, Baro – and all the crew – had taken their orders from Lucius, the normal command structure of a galley shielding Baro from interaction with the Greek. Now Baro reported personally to the prefect. He despised the direct subservience to a non-Roman and, as he watched the squad of Carthaginian galleys descend upon their flank, he felt the serpent of hatred uncoil itself in his stomach.

A collective shout of aggression caused Atticus to glance over his shoulder; he watched with dread as the Carthaginian rear-guard accelerated to ramming speed. The Orcus and many of the leading galleys were already beyond their reach, the unexpected continuation of their course and increase to attack speed giving the Carthaginians little time and sea room to react, but for the bulk of Atticus’s squadron there would be no reprieve.

The Auster was first to be threatened, her outermost position on the right flank drawing the rams of two galleys. She swung into the attack, her bow slamming obliquely into the first Carthaginian galley as the second turned sharply to strike her stern quarter, sweeping her oars, the ram gouging the strake timbers but failing to penetrate. The Carthaginian crew threw a flurry of grappling hooks to hold the Roman galley fast. The Auster deployed her corvus on to the first ship and the legionaries streamed across, but as they did the Carthaginians of the second boarded the aft-deck, sweeping the command crew aside before charging into the legionary rear-guard, the fate of the Auster already decided even as her crew fought on.

Eight other galleys were forced to follow the course of the Auster, two of them reacting too slowly as Carthaginian rams struck them cleanly below the water line, the enemy galleys withdrawing immediately, condemning all to the pitiless sea. Atticus felt the bile rise in his throat as anger and shame threatened to overwhelm him, seeing the same conflict in the eyes of his second-in-command, the urge to abandon their course and go to the aid of their comrades. He turned his back and focused on the waters ahead, his aggression narrowing to a fine point.

The main Carthaginian fleet were dead ahead, manoeuvring in the lee of the headland, while beyond, in the grip of the current, lay the chaotic remnants of the Roman vanguard, their flank still exposed to the deadly attack runs of the enemy.

‘Ramming speed on my command,’ Atticus said, his voice low and hard, his order almost unnecessary. Gaius made no reply, their attack from this point predetermined by the sea and the enemy. Atticus glanced around him to the remaining galleys of his squadron, their formation rapidly forming behind the lead galley, 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!’

The hastati roared as one as they shot their spears towards the enemy, the deadly torrent sweeping up and out over the water, where it seemed to pause for a heartbeat before falling once more, the spears accelerating through the fall, striking the crowded foredeck of the Carthaginian galley, the unprotected archers bearing the brunt.

Septimus stepped back to stand behind the corvus. He drew his sword slowly, the blade withdrawing smoothly from the scabbard, and his men edged forward instinctively, the charge only seconds away, their disciplined silence a fallacious mask.

‘Steady boys,’ Septimus growled, and he glanced over his shoulder to his optio. ‘Drusus, the Carthaginians are massed on the foredeck. Wedge formation.’

‘Yes, Centurion,’ Drusus replied, slamming his fist into his chest in salute. Septimus nodded, marking as always his optio’s inscrutable expression.

Septimus could no longer see the enemy’s faces, but he could hear their ferocious battle cries. He leaned forward, ready to charge, the proximity of the enemy driving every thought from his mind save the lives of his men and the fight to come. The galleys collided with a tremendous crash, testing the balance of every legionary, and Septimus quickly called for grappling hooks, the crew of the Orcus sending a flurry of lines across the gap to the enemy deck.

‘Release the corvus,’ Septimus shouted, and his men roared a battle cry, their aggression finally given vent. They surged as one behind their commander, their feet on the boarding ramp even as it fell.

The corvus swept down like a hammer of Vulcan, striking the Carthaginian foredeck a furious blow, crushing the men under its fall, the three-foot-long iron spikes of the ramp slamming into the weathered timbers of the deck, locking the two galleys together. Septimus bunched his weight behind his shield and ran across the corvus’s length, his eyes seeing for the first time individual faces of his enemy, their expressions twisted in belligerence, their mouths open, screaming defiance.

The centurion led his men across without check, the momentum of their charge driving them deep into the enemy ranks, a wedge forming, with Septimus at the apex. The Carthaginians attempted to counter-surge, but legs made strong from countless marches held them fast and the line became solid behind overlapping shields.

‘Give ’em iron,’ Septimus roared, and his men acknowledged the command with a visceral cry, the Roman line surging forward a foot, the legionaries pushing out with their shields, feeding their swords through the emerging gaps in the shield wall, striking the flesh of men they could not see, their exhaustive training guiding their blades to the groin and stomach, killing blows that drenched the deck beneath their feet.

‘Advance the flanks.’

Again the legionaries roared in affirmation and the Roman line began to straighten out, taking the enemy foredeck inch by bloody inch, the Romans giving no quarter, the Carthaginians asking for none.

The pressure against the shield wall grew as desperation crept into the Carthaginians’ defence. Septimus responded in kind, the muscles in his sword arm burning from exertion, his left arm numb from the countless blows on his shield, the fury of the enemy defence reaching a crescendo as the Roman line neared the edge of the foredeck. Septimus glanced to his side, alarm flashing through his mind as he spotted that the shield wall was no longer straight, the unequal pressures testing the formation. He called for Drusus and the optio stepped out of the front line, quickly taking men from the rear ranks and feeding them into the weakest sections, dressing the line until it was straight once more.

Septimus continued to push ahead, his mind a blur of fury, the faces of men from the Ninth Legion flashing through his thoughts as he shot his sword forward. The blade found resistance but Septimus pushed it through, twisting it before withdrawing it once more, making ready for the next strike.

The Carthaginians broke, their courage finally giving way in the face of the inexorable advance of the Roman line. Septimus immediately shouted for his men to halt, knowing their instinct was to rush after the fleeing enemy. The Carthaginians were not beaten; they would regroup, almost certainly below deck, and if the legionaries followed in disorder they would be slaughtered. Septimus looked to the foredeck behind him, his battle lust slowly giving way to his other senses, the smell of blood and voided bowels assailing him, his mind unconsciously counting the slain.

He looked beyond to the Orcus and spotted Atticus on the aft-deck, the prefect signalling him, their prearranged gesture to withdraw. Septimus acted without hesitation, ordering his men to fire the deck of the Carthaginian galley, while others helped their wounded back across the corvus. Septimus was the last to leave, stepping across the foredeck that his men had so desperately fought for, the rising smoke from the fired main deck already masking the battle stench.

Septimus strode across the corvus and ordered it raised, standing motionless as the Orcus moved off, his eyes on the fire as it spread to the foredeck of the Carthaginian galley. The enemy crew had emerged once more on the main deck, their cries of panic echoing from the thick pall of smoke that engulfed them, but Septimus ignored the sound, watching in silence as the fire cremated the fallen of his command until the Orcus completed its turn into open water. Only then did he turn his back, his sword sliding once more into its scabbard as he made his way to the aft-deck.

The Orcus increased to ramming speed, Atticus ordering a minute course change as the next Carthaginian galley tried to turn away from a frontal assault, the enemy’s confidence giving way as their rear was overwhelmed. Gaius leaned into the tiller, the hull of the Orcus speeding through the water, her power concentrated on the blunt nose of the ram.

The crew of the Orcus roared in spontaneous hostility, a vengeful demand for the loss of their comrades, retribution for the Carthaginian attack. Atticus let them roar, knowing his men needed their measure of revenge. The corvus was a weapon of the legionaries, a device that distanced the sailing crew from the fight, but the ram was theirs, and with it the crew of the Orcus would bring death to the Carthaginians.

Hamilcar roared in frustration as he watched the defence of his rear descend into rout, many of his galleys turning away from the fight by mindlessly fleeing east with the current, their course taking them directly into the main body of the Roman fleet, a net that would trap them all. He shouted orders to the signalmen, who relayed them to the fleet in an effort to stem the retreat, but only the galleys in the immediate vicinity of the Alissar took heed, their proximity to the command ship steadying their nerve.

Hamilcar ordered the helmsman to turn northwest to cut through the previous battle line. The Alissar was followed by no more than a handful of Carthaginian galleys, their passage unnoticed in the chaos of battle. Hamilcar moved to the port side, his hands kneading the rail in anger as he watched the destruction of his fleet, his earlier plan to bolster the fragile morale of his crews having ended in catastrophe.

A lone galley caught his attention and he suddenly ran back to the tiller, pushing the helmsman aside to take command of the rudder. He looked once more to the Roman galley, more than a half league away, its banners clearly visible, the enemy ship slowly withdrawing its ram from a stricken galley. A surge of energy shot down his arm and his grip tightened on the tiller, his arm trembling with muscle tension, his every instinct calling on him to turn, the conflict filling his head.

From the moment the rear of his fleet had been attacked, Hamilcar had known who was leading the assault, the direction of attack precluding all other alternatives. He had sent the rear-guard back to pin down the Greek’s squadron, but Perennis had obviously refused the bait and sailed past them, a move that had cost Hamilcar the battle. During the frantic minutes when he had tried to rally his fleet, he had forgotten that realization, but now, with the Greek’s ship in sight, he remembered.

He became conscious of the tiller beneath his hand, the force of his grip numbing his fingers. Half a league separated him from the Greek, the sea between them dominated by the advancing Romans. With a shout of anger he ripped his hand away, striding across the deck to stand at the side rail, frustration assailing him.

As he was heavily outnumbered, Hamilcar had never hoped to overcome the Roman fleet; but to turn their vanguard and withdraw his own fleet in good order would have been a victory in itself, a victory the Greek had taken from him. Now all that remained was ignominious retreat.

CHAPTER THREE

Atticus sat in the stern of the skiff as it meandered through the crowded harbour of Aspis, the heat of the day and the gentle swell adding to his sense of fatigue as he watched the oarsmen thread their way through the Classis Romanus. He had barely slept in the two days since the battle at Cape Hermaeum, the demands of his rank too numerous, and even now his mind refused to quiet, the unknown fate of two of his galleys gnawing at his thoughts.

Atticus recalled the names of the two ships, adding them to the bottom of the list in his mind, beneath the nine galleys of his command that were already confirmed lost in battle. Given the enormous size of the Roman fleet and the addition of over a hundred captured enemy galleys, there was still hope that some of the crews had somehow survived. As a fellow sailor, Atticus had nursed that hope, but as a commander he had already accepted that the galleys were lost with all hands.

The constant noise surrounding Atticus finally interrupted his thoughts. The air was filled with the sounds of preparation and repair, of hammers resounding against timber and iron, with the din occasionally cut through by the lash of a boatswain’s command. Atticus sat straighter in the boat and dipped his hand over the side, cupping a handful of water and splashing it over his face, the salt smell filling his senses, refreshing him.

Ahead lay the inner harbour. Atticus scanned the rows of galleys. He saw the flagship almost immediately, standing apart from its neighbours, and he indicated his destination to the two oarsmen. As they changed direction, Atticus stood up and shuffled past them to stand in the bow, the skiff rocking gently beneath him as it moved into the shadow of the towering hull of the Concordia.

Atticus called up for permission to board and then clambered up the ladder to the main deck. A crewman was waiting for him and led him below to the main cabin, knocking on the door lightly before showing Atticus in. The room was cramped, with the normal spartan furnishing of a warship augmented by two couches in the centre of the cabin and an enormous strongbox against the stern wall. The two consuls were reclined on the couches and Atticus stepped forward, standing at attention and reciting his name.

‘Ahh, Prefect Perennis,’ Paullus said, swirling a goblet of wine in his hand, a wry smile on his face. He turned to the junior consul seated beside him. ‘This is the man I was telling you about, Servius. The Greek captain Regulus promoted.’

Nobilior nodded slowly, looking at Atticus with a studious gaze.

‘Your squadron fought well, Prefect,’ Paullus said.

‘Thank you, Consul.’

‘In fact,’ Paullus continued, his tone suddenly wary, ‘I would go so far as to say that although our victory was assured, your squadron’s arrival hastened our triumph.’

Atticus noted the inflection in the consul’s words, the implicit demand for agreement, and he was immediately on his guard.

‘Yes, Consul,’ he replied, and Paullus nodded, satisfied the prefect knew his place. The senior consul had already drafted his report of the battle for the Senate, taking special care to ensure full credit for the victory would fall on his shoulders, while the report also spoke favourably of the junior consul. Beyond that, Paullus had no intention of sharing his triumph with any of his subordinates, and certainly not with a lowly Greek.

‘Very good, Perennis,’ he said, his expression genial once more. ‘Report to the aft-deck and wait for me there with the other prefects.’

Atticus saluted, turned on his heel and left the room. Paullus watched him leave and then slowly raised himself from his couch, drinking the last of his wine as he crossed the cabin. He placed his goblet on a table, fingering the rim of it lightly as he glanced once more at the cabin door. Perennis had acquiesced without hesitation and Paullus was left with a sliver of doubt. The Greek was either very naive or very shrewd.

Atticus looked astern as he came back on deck. The aft-deck was covered by a canvas awning, a shade against the sunlight for the officers surrounding the chart table that had been set up in front of the tiller. The officers were legionaries and Atticus surmised they were all former tribunes, drafted from the army to serve as prefects in the expanding Roman fleet. As Atticus approached the table, one of them looked up.

‘What is it, sailor?’ he asked brusquely.

Atticus smiled. ‘Prefect,’ he replied, and he stood amongst them, looking down at the charts, conscious that every eye was on him.

‘Who in Hades are you?’ one of the officers asked, and Atticus looked up, the smile still on his face.

‘Atticus Milonius Perennis,’ Atticus replied, and he noticed the flash of recognition on the Roman’s face.

‘The Greek,’ he said, and Atticus’s smile evaporated, the Roman’s derisive tone enraging him. He made to respond but the officer looked past Atticus and suddenly shot to attention, the others following suit.

‘As you were, men,’ Paullus said, and the officers stepped aside to make room for the two consuls at the table.

‘We have won a great victory,’ Paullus began. Many of the officers tapped the table top with clenched fists in approbation, the senior consul smiling magnanimously. He held up his hand for silence.

‘But we cannot rest,’ he continued, looking to each man in turn. ‘We must strike while the enemy is weak. Without troops we cannot progress the campaign here in Africa; but Sicily remains the prize, and with this fleet I intend to take it.’

Paullus drew everyone’s attention to the chart on the table, his finger drawing a line along the map. ‘First we will return to Sicily. Then we will sail up the southwest coast of the island and use the might of this fleet to convince the cities of Heraclea Minoa and Selinus to defect to our cause. Then we will blockade Lilybaeum and force the surrender of the Carthaginian garrison there.’

The officers voiced their approval, the boldness of the plan inspiring their confidence. Paullus took a moment to listen to their praise for his strategy before he brought them to silence once more.

‘Now return to your ships,’ he said as the officers stood to attention. ‘We sail on the morrow.’

The men saluted and were turning to leave when a voice stopped them short.

‘We cannot leave so soon,’ Atticus said. All eyes turned to him, an astonished silence descending over the group at the Greek’s insubordination.

Paullus leaned in over the table and looked directly at Atticus. ‘You disapprove of my plan, Perennis?’ he said, a hard edge to his voice.

‘Your strategy is sound, Consul,’ Atticus replied, his tone confident. ‘But we cannot sail so soon. We must wait two weeks.’

‘Two weeks,’ Paullus scoffed. ‘The Republic was not built on timidity, Perennis, as I am sure your people know. We must strike now while we have the initiative.’

Atticus swallowed the insult, knowing it was important to persuade Paullus. ‘Orion has risen, Consul,’ he began. ‘We must wait for Sirius.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Paullus asked irritably.

‘The weather, Consul. Between the rising of Orion and Sirius there is too great a risk of severe weather in those waters.’

This time Paullus laughed, a mocking tone that brought a smile of derision to the lips of many of the Roman officers. ‘The weather cannot stop the will of Rome,’ he said curtly. ‘My order stands. We sail with the tide tomorrow.’

The officers saluted once more and walked away. Only Atticus did not move.

‘You’re dismissed, Perennis,’ Paullus said angrily, the Greek’s stubbornness irritating him.

‘Consul, the southwest coast is hostile and there are no safe harbours north of Agrigentum,’ Atticus continued, knowing his chance was slipping away. ‘Ask any of the experienced sailors in the fleet. If we hit bad weather—’

‘Enough,’ Paullus snapped, his patience at an end. He stepped forward and leaned in until his face was inches from Atticus’s.

‘You fought well at Cape Hermaeum, Perennis,’ he said coldly, ‘and for that I will forgive this insubordination. But only this one time. Now get off my ship.’

Atticus stood back and saluted, his expression unreadable. Underneath, frustration consumed him.

Hamilcar looked up at the soaring height of the Byrsa citadel as he made his way towards the columned entrance to the Council chamber. He paused and traced the ancient walls from their base to the towering battlements, oblivious to the people stepping around him, many of them muttering curses of annoyance, the teeming streets having little tolerance for the unhurried.

The citadel was a sight that had never before failed to lift Hamilcar’s spirits, but on this day it did not lighten his mood and, after a moment, he continued on, slipping into a current in the crowd that brought him quickly to his destination. He stepped into the cool interior, his eyes adjusting quickly to the gloom, and made his way across the marble floor, his footfalls mingling with the echoing sounds from the outer hall. He stopped at the antechamber door and knocked, entering as he heard a muffled summons from within. He closed the door behind him and looked to the two men in the room in turn. He was conscious of keeping a neutral expression, though, hiding his respect for the first man and his loathing for the second.

Hasdrubal smiled and stepped forward, his hand outstretched, and Hamilcar took it, matching the strength of the older man’s grip, the brief contact invigorating him.

‘It is good to see you, Father,’ he said.

‘And you, Hamilcar,’ Hasdrubal replied, although his face showed his concern at how exhausted his son looked.

Hamilcar released his father’s hand and turned to the other man, Hanno. He was a massive figure, broad in the chest and stomach, and Hamilcar nodded to him perfunctorily, his gesture ignored. He turned once more to his father.

‘I came as soon as I got your message.’

Hasdrubal nodded. ‘The meeting with the One Hundred and Four went well?’

‘As well as I could have expected,’ Hamilcar replied. ‘On balance, the victory at Tunis outweighs the loss at Cape Hermaeum. The city is secure for now and I retain my command.’

‘Congratulations, Hamilcar,’ Hanno said sardonically, stepping forward, his movements slow and deliberate. ‘I see your ability to delude those old men continues to save you.’

‘My record alone speaks for me, Hanno,’ Hamilcar replied scathingly. ‘And the One Hundred and Four know my worth.’

Hanno smiled, as if conceding the point, although Hamilcar sensed the councillor could see through his confident tone.

The One Hundred and Four was a council of judges that oversaw all military matters in the empire, their number drawn from the retired commanders who had served Carthage with distinction. Hamilcar’s mandate to command was based on their approval, with success being the main criterion; although Hamilcar had been victorious at Tunis, he had been forced to defend his actions at Cape Hermaeum, an argument that had fully tested the oratorical skills his father had taught him.

‘The Supreme Council meets at noon,’ Hasdrubal said, conscious of the time and impatient of the conflict between Hanno and his son. ‘We need to reach a consensus on how best to proceed.’

Hanno grumbled in agreement and walked once more to the far side of the room. Over the previous years, two factions had emerged on the Supreme Council. One, led by Hanno, was opposed to the war in Sicily and believed that the empire should expand in Africa, and the other, led by Hasdrubal, supported the Sicilian campaign. Prior to the current alliance, the two factions had frequently hamstrung each other, with neither cause prevailing. Coupled with this, Hanno had shared command with Hamilcar in their defeat at Cape Ecnomus. It was only their agreed mutual support after the battle that had saved both their careers. Hanno despised his coalition with the Barcid clan, but for now it was in his best interest to maintain the union, his fate inexorably tied to each man. So before he turned back to face the father and son, he buried his animosity beneath a thin veneer of unity.

‘Where is the Roman fleet now?’

‘Our spies tell us the entire fleet sailed east for Sicily two days ago,’ Hamilcar replied.

‘Do we know their final destination?’

‘No,’ Hamilcar conceded. ‘Although, given the time of year, I suspect they will make directly for the safety of their harbour in Agrigentum and wait there until Sirius has risen.’

‘How long?’ Hasdrubal asked.

‘Less than two weeks. After that the weather will once more be in their favour.’

‘Then you must be in Sicily when they move,’ Hasdrubal said.

‘I will sail for Lilybaeum,’ Hamilcar said. ‘The Romans will strike either there or Panormus.’

‘What do you need?’ his father asked.

Hamilcar didn’t hesitate. ‘The fleet stationed in Gadir.’

‘Impossible,’ Hanno scoffed, stepping forward to argue. ‘It is the only fleet we have left in Iberia.’

‘Nevertheless,’ Hamilcar replied, ‘I need those galleys if I am to protect the northwestern approaches to Sicily and continue the war there.’

Hasdrubal remained silent and looked to Hanno, knowing there was no point in trying to persuade his rival. The One Hundred and Four appointed commanders and approved strategy, but it was the Supreme Council that steered the direction of any conflict, and that included the disposition of the empire’s forces. Hasdrubal wished only to know Hanno’s counter-proposal, the price he would demand for supporting Hamilcar’s request.

‘What will it take for your support?’ Hasdrubal asked of Hanno.

‘I will agree to release the fleet at Gadir to Hamilcar’s command,’ Hanno said to Hasdrubal after a pause, ‘on condition that his land forces now based in Tunis are given over to my command.’

‘You still intend to continue the war against the Numidian kingdoms?’ Hasdrubal asked incredulously, and Hanno simply nodded, not deigning to argue his position. Hamilcar made to interject, but his father shot him a look, warning him to hold his tongue. His son had no voice in negotiations at this level.

Hasdrubal held Hanno’s gaze, but behind his eyes he was examining his rival’s proposal. Throughout the conflict with the Romans, Hanno had also pursued a land war against the Numidians to the south. That campaign had only been suspended when the Romans invaded Africa, every resource having been recalled to defend Carthage. Now that the Roman threat had been eliminated, Hasdrubal was forced to concede there was no argument to prevent Hanno from restarting his campaign.

‘Agreed,’ he said.

‘Good,’ Hanno replied. ‘I will take command of those forces by the end of the week.’

‘And what of Xanthippus?’ Hamilcar asked.

‘The mercenary?’ Hanno replied with disdain. ‘That Spartan has served his purpose. Pay him off.’

Again Hamilcar made to speak but his father forestalled any further conversation. ‘It will be done,’ Hasdrubal said.

Hanno nodded curtly and left the room without another word.

Hamilcar waited until the councillor’s footfalls receded before turning to his father.

‘I needed those men in Sicily,’ he said angrily. ‘You conceded too much, too quickly.’

Hasdrubal’s eyes narrowed. ‘I agree the army at Tunis is a heavy coin to pay for a provincial fleet,’ he said. ‘But if we are to continue the war in Sicily, then Hanno must be appeased, now more than ever. He will be suffet this year, nothing can prevent that, and as leader of the Supreme Council he will have considerable influence on the uncommitted Council members, perhaps enough to permanently tip the balance in his favour.’

Hamilcar was silent, unable to see a way through the enemies ranged against him. Previously his thoughts had dwelt solely on overcoming the massive naval force of the Romans. But now he realized that the political threat to his flank, which he had believed neutralized, was re-emerging. He looked to his father, regretting his earlier criticism. He knew Hasdrubal’s political instincts were far superior to his own.

Hasdrubal saw the uncertainty in his son’s expression and he reached out, placing his hand on his shoulder. ‘Look to Sicily, Hamilcar,’ he said. ‘Your enemy is there. Hanno is my responsibility.’

‘But what of my men? I will need land forces if I am to defeat the Romans.’

‘I will petition the Council to make mercenaries available when you need them. Until Hanno becomes suffet, I can garner enough support for such expenditure.’

Hamilcar nodded, his renewed trust in his father allowing him to focus his mind once more. Whatever the internal conflicts with the Council, Rome was the true enemy and Sicily the battleground. The northwest of the island was still firmly in Carthaginian hands, but it was only a matter of time before the Romans launched an attack.

Hamilcar clasped his father’s hand in farewell and left the antechamber, passing quickly out on to the busy streets. He paused and looked briefly up at the Byrsa citadel, the sight steeling his determination as he set off towards the harbour below.

The cutwater of the Orcus sliced cleanly through the crest of the wave, the galley sailing close-hauled, with the wind sweeping in over the starboard forequarter, catching the spray and whipping it away towards the Sicilian shoreline two miles away. The mainmast creaked against the press of the mainsail, the canvas whacking like a clap of thunder; Baro’s shouted commands sent the crew racing to tighten the running rigging as Gaius dropped the galley off a touch.

Atticus stood at the tiller with the helmsman, his eyes on the southern horizon, the wind striking him directly in the face, pushing tears back from the corners of his eyes, his skin covered in a fine sheen of sea spray. He was silent, as was Gaius and many of the crew, their unease creating a tension that stifled every word. The sea around the Orcus was crammed with the galleys of the Classis Romanus, their formation loose and pliable, with each individual ship guarding its own sea room as the crews struggled against the adverse wind using a subtle mix of oar and sail power.

Septimus came up from below decks and made his way towards the aft-deck, shifting his balance with every step like a drunken man on solid ground, the centurion cursing softly with every pitch of the deck. He nodded to Gaius but the helmsman seemed not to see him. Septimus moved around to stand before Atticus, his friend’s intense stare causing him to look over his shoulder.

The sky to the south was shrouded in iron-grey clouds, reaching from the distinct line of the horizon into the towering heavens, the anvil-head formations clawing ever upward, while beneath the cloudscape the sea was streaked with dark bruises as enormous shadows moved across the troubled surface. Septimus was mesmerized by the sight, his gaze locked on a cloud as it seemed to consume the remnants of the blue sky above it, unable to believe that when he had gone below deck an hour before the southern horizon had been all but clear. He turned to Atticus.

‘This is the weather you warned Paullus about, isn’t it?’

Atticus nodded, taking no pleasure in seeing his prediction fulfilled. Septimus turned back to the storm front, the wind flattening his tunic against his chest, the sea spray holding it there. ‘Have you sailed through weather like this before?’ he asked.

‘Not with that thing on board,’ Gaius answered, indicating the corvus with a scowl.

Atticus ignored the helmsman’s reply, concentrating instead on the seascape. ‘I sailed the Aquila through twenty-five-knot winds once,’ Atticus said, ‘but I had a lot of sea room. If that storm advances, we’ll have the shoreline on our flank.’

‘How far is Agrigentum?’ Septimus asked.

Atticus looked to the coastline, not recognizing any feature that would indicate their position. An hour before, the fleet had been off the Carthaginian-held city of Selinus but, as the storm front developed, a general order had swept through the fleet to turn southeast and beat along the coast to Agrigentum, a forty-mile journey.

‘Too far,’ Atticus replied, and he looked once more to the southern horizon. ‘Do you see there, where the line of the horizon is obscured, where the sky and sea are the same colour?’

Septimus followed Atticus’s pointed finger and nodded. In places a curtain seemed to fall from the sky, a dark wall interspersed with shafts of sunlight from high overhead. It was moving across the horizon, the vertical lines expanding and receding, almost as if the storm were breathing.

‘That’s the squall line,’ Atticus said, ‘where the rain is falling in sheets. When that reaches us we’ll be in the grip of the storm.’

Even as Septimus watched, the storm seemed to advance, the squall line surging forward with every gust, the sheer size of the front making it difficult to judge its distance. He felt sick, his stomach swooping with every pitch of the deck; despite the cold sea spray on his face, he felt hot and nauseous. And something else, something Septimus had never felt away from the battlefield: fear.

He heard his name being called above the howl of the wind and turned. Atticus was looking at him and pointing to the main deck. ‘Septimus, I need your men to clear the deck. Get them below. We’re going to seal the hatches.’

Septimus nodded and moved purposefully to the main deck, glad to have something to do. He ordered his men below and set Drusus the task of dispersing the legionaries throughout the lower deck. A hammering sound caught his attention and he turned to watch three crewmen fixing a cover to the forward hatch of the main deck, the men moving off quickly as the last dowel was hammered home, heading towards Septimus. He looked down the open hatchway below him into the darkened lower deck, the thought of being imprisoned and powerless abhorrent to him; he turned his back and moved once more to the aft-deck, the crewman slamming the hatch cover into place behind him.

A sudden roll of the deck caused Atticus to stagger, and Gaius shot out his hand to hold him upright, the helmsman never taking his eyes from the bow of the Orcus.

‘The wind is shifting,’ he said, and Atticus looked to the mainsail. A ripple shot across the canvas, followed by another and another.

‘Can you hold it?’ Atticus asked, but before Gaius could answer, the deck pitched violently beneath them, the bow striking deeply into the crest of a wave, the water sweeping across the foredeck.

Gaius leaned on the tiller and the mainsail tightened up, but a sudden gust defied his efforts and the sail flapped once more.

‘We’re too close to the squall line,’ Gaius said in frustration. ‘The wind won’t hold steady.’

Atticus nodded but hesitated for a moment longer. If he dropped the sail the galley would have to rely solely on oar power, and the chances of reaching Agrigentum would fall away to none. He looked to the squall line again, estimating it to be less than three miles away. Even at that distance it was playing havoc with the mainsail, and Atticus knew if a sudden strong gust caught the Orcus broadside, the mainsail could have them over.

He sought out Baro on the main deck. ‘Secure the mainsail,’ Atticus shouted. Baro grabbed the sailors nearest to him and began barking orders, the crewmen responding as quickly as they could on the heaving deck.

Gaius dropped the bow off a point to take pressure off the mainsail, but the wind was becoming more unpredictable and the crew struggled to haul in the canvas sheet as the lifting yard was lowered. A sudden gust ripped the sail from their control and two men cried out as the running rigging slipped through their hands, the rough hemp rope ripping the flesh from their fingers. The men redoubled their efforts, but again they lost control and a rigging line parted, the lifting yard falling the remaining twenty feet to the deck, the men scattering beneath it, one man’s scream of panic cut short as the yard collapsed on top of him.

Baro roared curses and the men hurled themselves on the fallen yard and sail, smothering them as if they were felled quarry. The sail was quickly made secure, a new line of rigging attached, and the crew hauled the yard aloft once more to secure it to the mainmast. Baro ran to the fallen crewman, his screams of pain falling and rising with the surges of the wind.

Securing the mainsail had taken mere minutes, but in that time the squall line had advanced two miles, the wind that was driving the storm front increasing to twenty knots. Atticus looked to the shoreline two miles off the port stern quarter. Its features were almost obscured by the sea spray that filled the air, but Atticus could discern a solid white line that marked the breakers as they struck the rocky crags defining the shoreline in both directions. He scanned the galleys surrounding the Orcus, recognizing many of the nearest ones as ships of his own squadron.

He turned to face Septimus and Gaius. ‘Options,’ he said.

‘Three,’ Gaius replied. ‘We run before the wind and try to make landfall immediately, or we reverse course and sail parallel to the shoreline, or we turn into the wind and try to ride it out.’

Septimus remained silent, knowing there was nothing he could add, his opinion counting for naught. He had caught most of Gaius’s words, the wind taking the rest, and he looked from the helmsman to Atticus.

Atticus nodded, having reached the same conclusions as Gaius. He immediately discounted the first, running before the wind. The shoreline was treacherous. There would be no refuge there. The second option was fraught with risk. The galley would be sailing broad reach, the wind coming from behind at an angle. When the squall line overtook them, the wind speed would increase and the gusts would become more unpredictable. One mistake and the galley would be turned into running before the wind, sending the Orcus directly towards the jaws of the shoreline. Atticus realized that – of the three options – there was but one choice.

‘Ready the helm. We’re turning into the wind,’ he said, and Gaius nodded. Atticus called for a runner. He sent him forward to bring Baro to the aft-deck so he could inform the second-in-command to ready the deck crew. He looked once more to the galleys immediately surrounding the Orcus. Each one was now locked in its own battle with the weather, their courses for the moment parallel with the Orcus, but soon each captain would make his own play to save his ship.

Atticus watched as one galley began to turn into the wind. He recognized the galley as the Strenua, one of his own, and he smiled as he thought of her captain, the man who had reached the same conclusion as Atticus, only faster. The Strenua turned slowly, the wind-driven waves slamming into her bow quarter, fighting the pressure of the rudder and the strength of two hundred and seventy men, but inexorably the galley made headway until her ram was pointing directly into the waves and the wind, the ship holding steady under oars.

Without warning, the pitch of the Strenua increased, and Atticus watched in horror as the swell overwhelmed the bow, sea water crashing over the foredeck as each wave tried to swallow the galley whole. She foundered with incredible speed, the waves consuming the bow of the ship, a deadly embrace that doomed all on board.

Atticus was stunned by the speed of the Strenua’s demise; as he turned to Gaius, he saw the helmsman’s gaze already locked on the ship.

‘The corvus,’ he said. Atticus did not hear the words but read the helmsman’s lips; both men instinctively turned to the boarding ramp on the foredeck of the Orcus.

‘What is it?’ Septimus shouted, the fear he saw in each man’s face shocking him.

‘The corvus,’ Atticus replied. ‘We’re bow-heavy.’

Before Septimus could respond a wave of darkness fell over them, followed a heartbeat later by torrential rain that lashed against the timbers of the deck. The wind whipped past thirty knots and changed to a terrifying howl, the battle cry of Pluto who had come to claim his measure. The squall line was upon them.

The Orcus rolled sickeningly and every man was thrown to the deck, Gaius alone standing firm, never relinquishing his grip on the tiller. Sea water crashed over the starboard side, sweeping across the decks, taking two of the crew, and for a second the Orcus was poised to capsize before its buoyancy righted the hull. Atticus clambered to his feet, the deck giving little purchase, and spat at the storm, shouting a string of curses to Poseidon.

‘We have to turn,’ Gaius shouted, his face twisted in effort, the tiller trembling in his hands. ‘The waves are pushing us broadside.’

‘We turn into the wind now and we’re dead men,’ Atticus shouted back. ‘Hold this position. I’m going to rid us of that cursed ramp.’

Atticus turned and grabbed Septimus by the forearm. ‘Come with me,’ he shouted, and they fought their way across the heaving deck, their heads down into the rain-laden wind. Atticus called to Baro and the second-in-command ran to get axes, gathering crewmen as he went; they made their way to the foredeck.

The Orcus rolled violently and again they were thrown off their feet, the deck tilting beneath them. They slid to the portside rail, Atticus slamming into the barrier; the air was blown from his lungs as sea water washed over him. He struggled to breathe. A hand clawed at him and instinctively he reached out to grab it, but it slipped away and a cry of terror was lost in the deafening noise of the storm. He struggled to his feet and looked back to the aft-deck, signalling to Gaius to turn the bow a point further into the wind in a bid to find a balance between the threat of capsizing or foundering.

Atticus made the foredeck with Septimus, Baro and three other crewmen, and immediately they attacked the mounting pole of the corvus with their axes. Their blows were erratic, the pitch and roll of the deck robbing each man of the chance to find a rhythm, their feet slipping on the timbers. They fell in turn, coming to their feet each time with a string of curses.

With every passing second, the wind seemed to increase in intensity and the pitch of the Orcus deepened, her bow slamming into each roller. A wave of sea water erupted over the bow rail to sweep the foredeck, taking one of the crewmen, the sailor screaming as he fell into the water, his arms flailing, reaching out for the galley as he was carried further from the Orcus. Atticus stared at the crewman as he came back to his feet, feeling the weight of the axe in his hand, the haft wet with water, and he tightened his grip until his knuckles ached. He turned to the corvus and roared in anger, striking downwards, a splinter of oak spinning away as four other blades fell in succession.

Another wave crashed over the bow, carrying with it the body of a dead sailor. The corpse slid across the deck until it struck the side rail, but the next wave washed it overboard, the possessive sea claiming the sailor once more. A crack ripped across the base of the mounting pole and the men redoubled their efforts, striking at the point of weakness, the weight of the corvus now working to their advantage as the pole gave way under the strain. It separated without warning and the boarding ramp fell to the deck, the galley heeling over violently under the shift in weight.

‘The guy ropes,’ Atticus shouted, his words unheard in the noise, but every man understood the order and they rushed to sever the lines attached to the mounting pole, each one cut with a single axe blow, the lines whipping away. Baro yelled in pain as a rope struck him on the face, knocking him to the deck, a crewman grabbing hold of him as sea water threatened to wash him over the side.

For a heartbeat the corvus remained defiantly on board but, as the galley rolled, it swept towards the port side and smashed through the side rail before crashing into the sea. The bow of the Orcus soared out of the water, suddenly free of the dead weight, and Atticus yelled at the men around him to hold on as Gaius completed the turn into the wind, bringing the bow around to slice cleanly into the oncoming waves, the cutwater separating each wave from trough to crest.

Atticus led Septimus and Baro back to the aft-deck, the second-in-command covering the side of his face with his opened hand, rain-streaked blood running down his arm. The wind pushed into their backs as they fought the pitch of the deck, their pace changing as the deck fell away or reared up before them.

As they reached the aft-deck, Gaius called Atticus to his side. ‘We can’t make headway,’ he shouted, his voice laced with anger and frustration, and Atticus looked to the four points of his ship, trying to gauge the galley’s progress.

The Orcus was pointed directly into the wind and the waves; the combined forces were driving the galley back towards the shoreline behind. Atticus ran to the side rail to see the oars, watching them intently as the Orcus broke over the crest of a wave. For several seconds the blades of the forward oars were free of the water and the rowers pulled their oars through air, the sudden release of pressure fouling their rhythm, until the galley fell over the crest and accelerated into the trough. The bow crashed below the surface, submerging the lower oar-holes and, as the bow resurfaced, Atticus saw sea water pour from them, knowing it was but a fraction of what the galley had consumed. He ran back to the tiller.

‘Baro,’ he shouted, leaning in, wiping the rain from his face. He outlined his plan, and the second-in-command stumbled away to the aft-rail. Atticus looked to the helm. ‘Gaius, find a reference point on shore. We need to stand fast and ride out the storm in this position.’

The helmsman nodded. Atticus turned to Septimus and signalled to him to follow. They went to the main deck and Atticus ordered two crewmen to remove the aft hatch cover. He jumped down on to the steps the second the cover was away and clambered down, pausing at the bottom. The storm had transformed the rowing deck into a hellish place, the half-light filled with the sounds of wailing and the stench of sea sickness, while the waves hammered against the hull, the timbers groaning with each blow, the deck swooping beneath them with every pitch, the drum beat resounding in the enclosed space.

Drusus had the legionaries arranged along the central walkway that ran the length of the galley, the men crouched against the pitch of the deck, many of them stained with vomit, their faces drained of colour. Atticus ran to the centre of the galley, the sound of muffled screams guiding his feet, and he hauled up the trap door that led to the relief rowers in the lower hold. He looked down and dread struck him like a blow to his stomach. The men there were up to their chests in water, their faces upturned in abject terror; they fought each other to clamber up the ladder on to the walkway.

Septimus had followed Atticus and he called to the legionaries closest to him, the men drawing their swords to control the flood of relief rowers, stemming the threat of panic. Atticus quickly ordered the oars on the lowest level to be shipped and withdrawn, along with all the oars in the fore-section, and he rearranged the men and the relief rowers until there were two on each remaining oar, giving each oar extra strength and control.

Atticus moved to the top of the steps of the open hatchway and signalled Baro to make ready. He took a minute to judge the pace of the oncoming wave before ordering the drum master to make standard speed. The Orcus surged forward with renewed strength and quickly began to make headway, the galley climbing up the slope of the wave. As the Orcus neared the crest, Atticus signalled to Baro to release a drogue, an open water barrel that was lashed to the stern.

The Orcus crested the wave and Atticus called for all stop, the rowers holding their stroke. The drogue slowed the galley’s descent down the reverse slope, her bow biting into the trough but not as deeply as before, and Atticus immediately called for the oars to restart at battle speed, the rowers now fighting both the slope of the next wave and the drogue.

Atticus repeated the pattern a dozen times before he turned to Gaius. The helmsman was looking to a point off the starboard rail but, as he turned and caught Atticus’s eye, he nodded. The Orcus was holding steady, neither advancing nor retreating.

Atticus put his hand up to shield his eyes against the driving wind and rain as he looked to the fore once more. He shouted his next command to the drum master without thinking, the routine already established, and he suddenly became aware of the numbness of his limbs, the bitter cold that had seeped into him as he sat motionless in the open hatchway. He closed his mind to the pain, knowing the storm could last for hours yet, and between commands he looked to the sea around the Orcus.

Atticus could see no more than two miles in any direction, the rain-laden air obscuring all else, but even in that narrow field the scenes of carnage were terrifying to behold. The shoreline had already claimed dozens of ships, the waves breaking over their shattered hulls, relentlessly pounding the galleys against the rocks in unceasing fury while other ships were drawn inexorably closer to their doom, the crews fighting hopelessly against the power of Poseidon, a desperate fight between mortal men and the son of titans.

In the open sea around the Orcus only a handful of galleys were still afloat, all of them sailing into the wind, but as Atticus watched, two more foundered, the corvi on their foredecks dragging their bows beneath the surface, the boarding ramp that had once saved the fleet of Rome now a terrible curse, while all around the sinking galleys the water was strewn with dead and dying men, the wind mercifully hiding their screams from the living.

Atticus looked to the fore once more and the solid wall of blackness that was the heart of the storm. Its strength was unbound, its oblivious butchery far from over, and the numbness Atticus felt in his limbs slowly crept into his heart, shielding him from the agony that was the loss of the Classis Romanus.

CHAPTER FOUR

Gaius Duilius sat motionless as the princeps senatus, the leader of the house, read the prepared statement, the senior senator’s voice faltering with age and the gravity of the words he spoke. The three hundred-strong assembly of senators listened in near silence, with only sporadic exclamations of shock stirring the still air of the Curia Hostilia, the Senate house of Rome.

The galley dispatched by Paullus from Agrigentum over a week ago had arrived in Ostia twelve hours before, bearing the report that the vast majority of senators in the Curia were now only hearing for the first time; a report that outlined the destruction of the expeditionary army in a battle outside Tunis, and Paullus’s resultant decision to sail to Africa. Duilius paid only scant attention to the leader’s words, his attention instead focused on the reactions of others in the chamber. He had been aware of the full contents of the report within two hours of the galley’s arrival, his network of spies and informants as always keeping him fully informed, and so now he was free to scan the faces of his fellow senators, specifically those amongst the ranks of his opponents

Duilius’s task was made easier by the invisible yet explicit divide that existed in the Senate. On his side of the chamber, he was surrounded by men who daily challenged the established order of Rome, progressive senators, many of whom were novi homines, new men, the first of their family to be elected to the Senate. The other side of the chamber was dominated by members of the senior patrician families of the city, descendants of the men who had founded the Republic and whose strength depended on the status quo being maintained.

Duilius studied the expression of each man surreptitiously, discounting many out of hand, knowing them to be insignificant pawns or sycophants. Equally he disregarded those he knew for certain were within the inner coterie of the opposition, senior senators who were no doubt cognisant of the full details of the report but had the presence of mind to look surprised and alarmed. Instead Duilius focused on the remainder, searching for telltale signs of awareness, subtle indications of composure that would reveal their foreknowledge of the report and therefore their inclusion in the inner circle. He knew from experience that often the newest members of any coterie, many of them young senators, lacked the political sense to bury their awareness behind impassive expressions, and so this was a rare opportunity to advance his knowledge of the opposition’s ranks.

Despite recognizing the brevity of his opportunity, Duilius froze as his gaze settled on one of the senators, Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio. He was an austere-looking man and his head was bowed slightly, as if to partially hide his expression, although Duilius knew that posture was unnecessary. Scipio was a skilled pretender and his self-discipline was matched only by his ruthlessness. He was the leader of the opposition, although few knew him as such, including those who were his closest allies, as Scipio’s greatest talent lay in his ability to manipulate events sub rosa. For that reason alone, Duilius knew him to be his worthiest and most dangerous adversary.

Duilius had learned a great deal from Scipio over the years since they had shared the consulship. That tenure had ended in ignominy for Scipio, his defeat and capture at Lipara earning him the cognomen Asina: ‘donkey’. Yet he had survived politically, wielding his power behind the scenes, and already his machinations had led to the election of two senior consuls, Regulus and, in turn, Paullus. Duilius had fully adopted Scipio’s approach, disguising the significant power he held during his tenure as censor to influence voting in the Senate, and the hatred and rivalry between the two men had deepened with every confrontation.

As if realizing he was being studied, Scipio glanced in Duilius’s direction and their eyes met. He smiled coldly, a gesture that Duilius returned. Regulus’s defeat in Africa would have repercussions, the balance of power in the Senate would be affected and careers could be advanced or impeded depending on how the aftermath was controlled. Neither Duilius nor Scipio were openly recognized as the leaders of the two factions fighting for supremacy in the Roman Senate, but with that one brief exchange across the crowded chamber, the two men had signalled the escalation of hostilities.

Hamilcar hesitated in the quiet of the entrance to the temple, the complete silence and his apparent solitude unsettling him. The afternoon sun was warm upon his back, raising drops of sweat at the base of his neck that ran down inside his tunic. The light framed his shadow as it reached into the interior of the vaulted inner chamber. He took a step forward and stopped again, hindered by a growing sense of unworthiness, a feeling that his gratitude would somehow sully the incredible feat accomplished by the deity that dwelt within the hallowed space before him.

The first rumours had arrived in Carthage the day before, the news sweeping the streets like a wildfire borne on the mighty ghibli. Hamilcar had immediately rushed to the port, anxious for more news from arriving ships, for confirmation that such a miracle had indeed occurred; but for the following twenty-four hours he was frustrated with further unsubstantiated rumours. Only that morning had a military galley arrived from Selinus and its captain had confirmed the report, prompting Hamilcar’s flight to the temple of Yam.

Hamilcar stepped forward once more, moving through the unadorned porch and into the inner room, his gaze slowly sweeping over the engravings on the granite walls representing the untamed sea, the depictions sending a shiver of unearthly fear through his stomach. The statue of Yam was at the far end of the chamber. The shadows played across its form and Hamilcar held his breath as he looked upon it. In the war against the Romans, he had often called on the support of many of the gods, calling down their favour or the power of their wrath, but never before had he prayed to this minor deity, the overlord of violent tempests and the raging sea.

Hamilcar fell forward as if struck from behind, and the temple echoed with the crashing sound of his body hitting the floor. He spread out his arms and prostrated himself, pressing his forehead on to the marble slab as he began to whisper his thanks. The prayers came slowly at first, his humility robbing him of the words, but soon the strength of his gratitude overwhelmed him and he spoke without pausing for breath, humbling himself unashamedly in the quiet of the inner temple.

After a time, Hamilcar became silent. He raised himself up and looked to the statue once more, wanting to remember every detail. Nodding, he turned to leave; as he left the inner chamber he saw a number of other people approaching, many of them carrying garlands and amphorae of wine, offerings for the previously ignored god. In time, as the news of the destruction of the Roman fleet spread, the temple would become inundated with grateful worshippers. Hamilcar was glad he had been given this time alone to express his gratitude.

He quickened his step as he made his way through the oncoming crowd, eager to return to the city and continue the development of his plan, born of the idea that had formed in his mind when he heard the first rumours of the storm. Soon he would sail for Sicily, but first he needed to plant the seed of his plan to take maximum advantage of the Roman fleet’s destruction. The last of Hamilcar’s doubts fell away as he walked towards the city. It was time to go on the attack, and with the gods on the side of Carthage, there was none who could stand against him.

Atticus stood with his face up to the sun, his eyes closed against the glare as he felt the heat infuse his body. The overlapping sounds of carpenters’ tools filled the air, and Atticus’s memory was stirred by the noise, his mind drifting back to that day in Aspis before the fleet sailed to Sicily, and the awe he had felt as he gazed at the assembled fleet. The thought made him open his eyes and he looked out over the eighty galleys anchored in the harbour of Agrigentum.

Many of the ships were listing badly, their hulls still partially flooded. Atticus noticed that some of the crews were using the new screw pump to drain the bilges, a curious-looking device recently invented by a young Syracusan. Of the remaining galleys, every one of them showed signs of storm damage, from splintered oars to severed mainmasts, and Atticus counted a half-dozen ships in the waters immediately surrounding the Orcus that would never be seaworthy again.

He moved to the side of the deck and rubbed his hand across the rail, his fingers finding and tracing the outline of a crack in the weathered pine. Eighty galleys saved. Over three hundred lost, amongst them the Concordia. Atticus scowled darkly as he observed that the majority of the surviving ships were Carthaginian galleys captured at Cape Hermaeum, the absence of a corvus giving them a vital advantage during those first chaotic minutes when the squall line overtook the fleet.

The storm had lasted for four long hours and, by the time it had finally ended, the sea had claimed close to a hundred thousand men. It was a staggering figure, and Atticus could not grasp the amount, a figure twenty times the population of his home city of Locri.

‘We’re ready to sail, Prefect,’ Baro said, and Atticus turned and nodded his assent, his eye drawn to the open welt on Baro’s face. As the second-in-command turned away, Atticus unconsciously fingered the scar on his jaw line, tracing the old wound as he had the crack on the side rail of the Orcus. His hand fell away as he saw Septimus approach.

‘We’re ready to go,’ Atticus said.

The centurion nodded. ‘Homeward bound,’ he said, savouring the words, although there was little joy in his voice. ‘How long will it take?’

‘We have to take the long way around, past Syracuse,’ Atticus said. ‘A little over a week if the weather holds.’

‘If the weather holds?’ Septimus said icily. ‘Surely the cursed gods have already taken enough?’

Atticus nodded, sharing his friend’s anger at Poseidon’s feckless slaughter, although his anger also ran deeply for another reason.

Gaius called for steerage speed and the Orcus got under way, her bow turning slowly in the inner harbour. Atticus glanced over the aft-rail to the temples overlooking the city. They were magnificent to behold, built when the city was under Greek control nearly two hundred years before, and he looked to each in turn, the temples of Zeus and Hercules, the ruins of the temple of Juno, burned by the Carthaginians when they sacked the city, and finally the temple of Concordia, the goddess of harmony.

Atticus stared at the last temple for a moment and then looked away in contempt. The storm had wiped out the Classis Romanus, but Atticus knew their fate had been sealed days before when Paullus had arrogantly dismissed his warnings. The Romans were a proud people. In some that pride had developed into a deep sense of honour – Atticus instinctively glanced at Septimus – but in others it had festered to become a deep-rooted conceit that fed their arrogance. It was this trait that Atticus had come to loathe, one he had encountered too many times in the men who commanded him.

The shout went up for standard speed as the Orcus cleared the lines of anchored ships and the galley sped towards the mouth of the harbour, the swell increasing as the protective headlands gave way to the open sea. Atticus looked to the four points of his ship, the sky clear on all horizons, and he ordered the course change, committing Orcus to the journey.

Ahead to the southeast lay the coast of Syracuse, and beyond, to the north, the Straits of Messina. Once clear of the channel they would sail with Italy on their flank and their destination dead ahead, a city built on the pride that defined its people and ruled by men who had chosen one or other of the roads from led from that virtue. Given the grave news that the Orcus was carrying, of the destruction of the fleet, Atticus knew, as the senior surviving officer, he would have to stand before the leaders of the Republic. With Regulus in Carthaginian hands and Paullus in Pluto’s, he could not know who awaited him in Rome.

Scipio remained seated as the debate ended, and for a moment his view was obscured by the senators around him as they stood up and moved to the floor. They began to congregate in small groups, the junior members gravitating around the senior, nodding sagaciously as their mentors made obvious points regarding the loss of the army in Africa. Scipio leaned forward and watched Duilius leave the chamber alone, noting his rival’s purposeful stride, the inherent determination and independence that set him apart from the verbose, inconsequential men of the Senate.

Scipio respected that characteristic in his opponent, for it was one he believed was central to his own survival and success; looking out over the floor of the Senate, he silently mocked the lesser men in the chamber, men who grouped together for mutual sponsorship and confidence. Scipio had long ago realized that the Roman Senate was essentially an assembly of individuals. There were no permanent party lines, and even the current factions would be transitory at best, alliances of convenience forged by members of the Senate to serve their own needs.

Scipio had no allies, only confederates, temporary accomplices he used to achieve his own personal agenda – and therein lay the true test of his ability to deceive. These men were never his equal, but if handled incorrectly former accomplices could become enemies, their hostility unleashed at the discovery that they had been used as the means for another’s end. Regulus was one such man, a senator Scipio had raised from obscurity to senior consul, but in a moment of unguarded fury he had revealed his motives and Regulus had defied him.

On the day Scipio vowed to avenge Regulus’s betrayal, he also swore to learn from his mistake, and his subsequent control of Paullus’s nomination and election had been meticulous, the senior consul never realizing the true identity of his patron. Scipio’s plan had been simple: to topple Regulus, remove him from command of the expeditionary army and replaced him with Paullus, but the proconsul enjoyed significant support in the Senate, his victory at Ecnomus trumpeted at every opportunity by his former junior consul, Longus, a pawn of Duilius. So Scipio’s efforts in Rome had been thwarted.

He had thereafter engineered the vote to send Paullus to Sicily, hoping the new senior consul, free from the immediate restraints of the Senate, would forcefully wrestle the initiative from Regulus; but again he had been frustrated as Paullus continued to timidly defer to the Senate’s will.

Now, however, Fortuna’s wheel had turned. Scipio’s impassive expression hid an inward smile as he observed the worried faces of his fellow senators, their anxiety creating a palpable tension in the Senate chamber that fed Scipio’s satisfaction. They bemoaned the defeat of Regulus, but Scipio saw it only as a victory: Paullus had finally been granted the opportunity to intervene directly in Africa, to stamp his authority on the campaign. The senior consul had grabbed it with both hands in a belated display of courage and conviction.

For the first time in months, Scipio was confident that his underlying plan was moving forward once more. If Paullus could conclude his tenure with a victory over the Carthaginians, then the faction that bred him would be strengthened, and consequently Scipio would be a step closer to his ultimate goal. He had chosen Paullus carefully, selecting a man with the right balance of ambition, arrogance and nescience and, although for a time Paullus’s timidity had disappointed Scipio, it now seemed the senior consul was rising to his expectations.

CHAPTER FIVE

Atticus stood on the foredeck of the Orcus as the galley cut a path through the teeming waters of Ostia, his gaze ranging over the entire harbour. The sight never failed to overawe him, the multitude of ships competing for space, the sprawling docks consuming the cargo of each vessel as fast as it could be unloaded, the traders frantically trying to feed the insatiable appetite of the city twelve miles away.

The trading ships came from all corners of the Mediterranean, the origin of many of them easily distinguishable by the type of craft or the men who sailed them, while others were more anonymous, bireme galleys and sailing barges that were common to every port. Despite the war, the traders recognized few boundaries, and some of the ships that were docking in Ostia had sailed from ports in the Carthaginian Empire only days before, bringing untraceable cargoes that were swiftly exchanged for the faithless denarius. The Roman authorities had tried to stem this flow, banning vessels from the closest Carthaginian dominions of Sardinia, Malta and the Baliares, but the lure of profit had impelled the traders to disguise their activities, and the Roman merchants in Ostia were only too ready to aid the clandestine trade, their first loyalty given solely to the market.

The oar-powered vessels in the path of the Orcus gave way to the larger quinquereme, while Gaius manoeuvred neatly around the more unwieldy sailing barges until the Orcus reached the northern end of the port and the military barracks that was the home of the Classis Romanus. As always there were a number of galleys tethered to the docks, but most of them were triremes, smaller ships that were no longer considered worthy of the battle line and were used primarily for coastal patrol in the sea-lanes around Ostia.

Atticus studied the nearest trireme in detail. It was nearly identical to the Aquila, his first command, as were all the triremes in the Roman fleet, mass-produced copies of an original design that had served the coastal fleet for a generation. Atticus saw past the minor differences and smiled as he pictured his old ship, slower and less powerful than the Orcus, but nimbler and quicker to accelerate, an Arabian stallion to the quinquereme warhorse. The Roman fleet’s switch to quinqueremes was unalterable, the changing face of warfare dictating the use of larger galleys, but Atticus still believed that the triremes had strengths disproportionate to their size.

Gaius called for steerage speed and then for the oars to be withdrawn as he steered the Orcus to a free berth. Atticus turned to leave the foredeck but he stopped as he saw a number of men running towards his galley. A mixture of sailors and legionaries, they were clearly agitated. Atticus spotted an officer at the head of the group, his head turning quickly as he swept the Orcus with his gaze.

‘What ship?’ the officer shouted as he neared the dockside.

‘The Orcus,’ Atticus called back.

The officer followed the voice and looked directly at Atticus. ‘What fleet?’ he called frantically.

‘The consul’s fleet, from Africa.’

For a second the officer seemed lost for words, as if Atticus’s identification had somehow confirmed a terrible truth. ‘Is it true?’ he asked.

Atticus looked perplexed.

‘The storm, the fleet,’ the officer continued, his voice rising. ‘Is it true? Has the fleet been destroyed?’

Atticus was stunned by the questions and he moved quickly to the main deck as mooring ropes were thrown and made secure. The officer mirrored his progress on the dock, his impatience increasing, and as the gangway crashed down he was standing directly before Atticus.

‘Answer my questions, Captain,’ he said angrily.

‘Prefect,’ Atticus corrected him as he disembarked. He noticed the officer wore the uniform of a tribune, and so their ranks were in effect the same, although Atticus doubted that the Roman would recognize the equality.

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