Septimus shifted his gaze to the head of the column and the mounted figure of Lucius Postumius Megellus, legate and commander of the Ninth and Second legions in Sicily. He rode with his back straight and his head upright, his gaze to a casual observer seemingly transfixed on the town of Thermae now less than a mile away. Septimus knew however he had to be searching surreptitiously for the outriders of the cavalry detachment that protected the flanks of the marching column. They had ridden in as each mile of the approach was covered, reporting each time that the flanks were clear for the next mile of advance. Now they were overdue.
Hamilcar Barca rode with his chest a mere inch from the withers, his body moulded to the shoulders of his mount as horse and rider moved as one. At full tilt the wind rushed in Hamilcar’s ears and the coarse hair of the mane whipped his cheek as his senses were filled with the warm smell of horse sweat and leather. He crooked his head and looked over his shoulder, blinking rapidly to clear the windswept tears from his eyes. Behind him rode five hundred of his men, Carthaginians all, riding with the same fury as their leader, but unable to match the pace of Hamilcar’s Arabian mare, a light horse bred in the desert for speed and stamina, an animal with a proud and fiery temperament that set her apart and above from the other races of horse.
Hamilcar returned his gaze to the ground ahead, judging the lie of the land with a skilled glance before shifting his weight slightly left, a signal to his mount to veer up the gentle slope that screened the Carthaginians from their enemy, the riders behind him matching their commander’s course. A sudden blaze of shame washed over Hamilcar as he rode but instead of suppressing it he nurtured the flame, holding it close to his core where his hatred for the enemy lay. Hamilcar had commanded the right flank at Mylae and had witnessed at first hand the staggering reversal of the once invincible Carthaginian fleet. It was he who issued the general order to retreat, a command both shameful and necessary that dishonoured him and his men. The anger he felt had been partly assuaged when he crucified Hannibal Gisco, the foolhardy and maniacal commander of the fleet, but now it returned anew at the thought of the Roman enemy just beyond his field of vision and he pushed his mount to increase her speed as she fought against the slope of the hill.
‘Captain, signal the fleet, full attack.’
‘Tribune?’ Atticus replied perplexed, spinning around to face the younger man.
‘Full attack, Captain!’ Varro repeated, his expression animated, his eyes restless as his gaze swept the inner harbour.
‘But Tribune,’ Atticus began cautiously, trying to read the young man’s intention. ‘The Carthaginians are heavily outnumbered. If we sent an envoy forward alone it is possible they will surrender without a fight.’
‘Surrender?’ Varro replied, his expression one of genuine shock. ‘Why would we wish for them to surrender? Where is the glory in that? We have come here for battle and by the gods we will have it. Order full attack.’
Atticus nodded but felt it necessary to point out one other important element, wondering if the tribune had considered it. ‘And a rear-guard, Tribune?’ he said, ‘I suggest five galleys from the third squad.’
‘A rear-guard?’ Varro asked, his tone now laced with impatience. ‘The enemy are there, Captain,’ he said, pointing forward.
Atticus made to reply but Varro cut him off-‘Order full attack, Captain. Now!’ he snarled, his expression no longer friendly, his eyes cold.
Atticus hesitated, every instinct of his experience calling on him to counter the asinine command. He was stunned by the tribune’s words, until suddenly realisation swept over him. Varro was looking to make his name in battle and he was going to force an all out battle if necessary. Atticus weighed up his options for a heartbeat longer. He had none.
‘Lucius, signal the fleet!’ he ordered.
Varro smiled once more and returned to the group of senators, talking animatedly as he went, expounding the genius of his strategy.
‘This is madness,’ Lucius said quietly beside Atticus. ‘We could take Thermae without a fight and I don’t like entering a hostile port without someone watching our backs.’
‘I agree,’ Atticus remarked, his own gaze shifting to the Carthaginian galleys. For fifteen generations the Punic navy had been masters of the Mediterranean, their seamanship and naval tactics second to none. The corvus had surprised them at Mylae but it was the only tactic the Romans could deploy. As Varro was going to force a fight, the Roman legionaries would have to board in strength, they would have to carry the fight to the enemy. It was going to be a hard fight, but more than that, Atticus knew it was going to be a waste of men’s lives, a pointless attack where none was required. He moved aside from the tiller and walked forward to look over the assembled legionaries of the Aquila on the main deck. On this day, their blood would be on Roman hands.
‘Form lines! Deploy the skirmishers!’
Marcus automatically began to relay the order from the front of the column to his maniple, an innate reaction borne from over fifteen years in command. The men moved with disciplined intent as they manoeuvred into the triplex acies formation, the three line deployment with the light hastati troops in the front line, the more seasoned and heavily armoured principes in the second and the older veteran triarii in the third. The lightly armoured and more independent velites broke off as skirmishers, their javelins light in their hands as they ranged over the ground immediately in front of the deploying legionaries.
Septimus moved without hesitation into the second line although he was no longer one of the principes of the IV maniple of the Ninth as he had been at the Battle of Agrigentum. As he did so he examined the sudden command of the legate to deploy into battle formation. Thermae was less than two hundred yards away and seemed completely devoid of activity. This in itself was not surprising given that the advancing Roman legion would have been seen from over a mile away and would have prompted every civilian to flee into the interior of the town. What was unusual however was that the outriders of the Roman cavalry had not reappeared, and since the legion was in enemy territory, albeit to subdue a town that was reported to be sparsely defended, it seemed prudent to deploy for battle rather than advance without proper reconnaissance. Legate Megellus was a cautious man, Septimus thought.
Within five minutes the forty maniples of the Ninth had deployed into battle formation and the air grew quiet again as they waited patiently for the order to advance. Septimus blinked a bead of sweat from his eye, overcoming the urge to lift his hand and wipe his face, the ingrained discipline of the legions still strong in his blood. His gaze shifted left to right at the skirmishers who were now reaching the outskirts of the town, the closed shutters of the low whitewashed buildings revealing nothing to the advancing soldiers. He watched as one of the velites negotiated his way around a tethered dog, the sharp bark of the mongrel breaking the silence before a yelp of pain cut the sound short. In the centre of his vision, the approach road to the town was crowded by a detachment of the velites, their commander signalling orders as they prepared to advance into the town proper.
Septimus dropped his gaze, ignoring the unspoken order of eyes front as he sensed a tiny vibration beneath his feet. His mind registered and processed the sensation within a heartbeat, triggering a memory and a corresponding sense of alarm. As if to confirm his dread a sound began to fill the air around him, a sound like distant thunder to the uninitiated, but unmistakable to a veteran. His mouth began to form the warning but a dozen other men in the rear ranks beat him to it, their uncoordinated voices overlapping into a jumble of sound, but their warning nonetheless distinctive.
‘Enemy cavalry to the rear!’
The low sun blazed into Hamilcar’s eyes as he crested the hill and he blinked away the momentary blindness, his eyes taking in the entire vista before him in an instant. To his left, a mile away and less than two hundred yards from the town, the Roman legions seemed to be in disarray but Hamilcar’s military eye could see they were deploying into a battle formation, their cohesion evident even at this range. His gaze did not linger long on the enemy however, but shifted to a point directly across from his own on the other hill flanking the valley approach to Thermae. He was half way down the slope, his men following en masse behind, before he spotted the second attack force breach the top of the hill, the second unit of five hundred cavalry that would link with his own on the valley floor.
Hamilcar wheeled his horse into the centre of the valley and his men formed a line of battle on his flanks as they continued at the gallop. He straightened up in the saddle, shifting his weight and locking his legs against the barrel of his mount. His horse, a veteran herself of many battles, sensed the shift and, raising her head slightly, allowed Hamilcar to guide her with his legs, thereby freeing his hands from the reins. He reached behind and drew his sword from the scabbard strapped to his back, drawing the blade in a high arc, a fluid motion that signalled to his men the commitment to battle.
Hamilcar set his gaze firmly on the Roman formation a thousand yards in front of him. He had prepared for
