Atticus focused his attention on the oncoming fleet, seeing and identifying for the first time the Roman banners that Corin had spotted moments before. The lead galley was particularly bedecked, with a large standard trailing from the head of the mainmast.
‘It’s the consul,’ Septimus said in amazement, pointing to the galley that Atticus had been studying. ‘That’s his standard.’
Atticus looked at it again, and as he watched the fleet changed course to run parallel to the shoreline. He had never seen ten quinqueremes in formation before and the sight amazed him. He smiled to himself. Fat sows, Lucius had called them and he looked over his shoulder to try and catch the older man’s eyes. The quinqueremes were anything but sows and Atticus knew he was seeing the future of the Classis Romanus sail before him, a triumphant march before a fleet of on-looking triremes.
‘Signal from the rear galley,’ Corin shouted. ‘It’s the Tigris.’
‘The Tigris,’ Atticus remarked, ‘in formation with the consul’s flagship? Varro must have sailed to Brolium with Albinus’s report.’
‘Which means…’ Septimus said, waiting for Corin to report the rest of the signal, knowing what was to follow.
‘The squad is to fall in behind and assume battle formation!’ Corin shouted, ‘We sail to Tyndaris!’
Atticus nodded and walked past Lucius as the second-in-command shouted out the necessary orders to the crew of the Aquila, his shouts repeated on the other galleys of the squad, the ships getting underway in the time it took for the last of the quinqueremes to sail past.
Atticus looked to the main deck and the sight of a fourth corpse lying silently beside the three others. With the Aquila sailing to battle, the chance to bury these men on land was now lost and although for the legionaries, casting two of their own over the side would be near sacrilege, Atticus knew that his crewman and Albinus would find peace beneath the waves.
Atticus looked once more to the fleet of quinqueremes, their aspect changing with every oar-stroke as the Aquila moved into position. By dawn the fleet would be off Tyndaris and only then would they know for sure if the information Albinus had provided them was accurate. Looking once more at the shroud-covered body of the Roman captain, Atticus could only hope that Albinus had been right and that the terrible ordeal he had suffered was not in vain. His body, like the others, would be cast over the side but the dark stain of their blood would remain on the deck, a stain that would put fire in the heart of the Atticus’s crew. If the Carthaginians did indeed hold Tyndaris, then the men of the Aquila would allow none to escape their wrath.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Even from his vantage point on the aft-deck of the Alissar, Hamilcar could see that something was wrong. The patrol galley was returning early, an hour after dawn instead of noon, and she was making at least seven knots, battle speed.
‘All hands, prepare to get underway!’ Hamilcar shouted, his order repeated to the galleys surrounding the Alissar in the middle harbour of Tyndaris. The drum beat of standard speed shattered the early morning calm, its repetition across the fleet creating a staccato beat that blended to somehow signify the urgency created by Hamilcar’s unexpected command.
Hamilcar steered the Alissar to intercept the incoming galley, his heart racing as his mind flashed to the possible explanations for the patrol’s early arrival. Belus was now two days overdue, a thought that was never far from Hamilcar’s mind. A storm had rolled over Tyndaris two days before, bringing heavy rain and a strong on-shore wind. In the confines of the harbour the wind had merely unfurled the banners and set them racing. Out at sea that same wind could have caused Belus to sail close to shore, lengthening his journey considerably although Hamilcar was forced to admit that even so, his old friend should have returned some twenty-four hours before.
The patrol galley slowed to steerage speed as she came upon the Alissar, the quinquereme mirroring her speed to allow the two galleys to pass alongside each other. Hamilcar moved to the side-rail, his eyes ranging over the approaching deck, searching for the captain. He spotted him instantly on the aft-deck, the captain’s agitation palpable even at a distance of fifty yards. The final gap was closed within a minute and Hamilcar watched with dread creeping through his stomach as the captain finally caught sight of his commander and ran the length of his galley to stand opposite Hamilcar across a distance of ten yards.
‘Enemy ships approaching!’ the captain shouted, pointing over his shoulder to the open sea beyond the mouth of the harbour and a sudden anger rose in Hamilcar as he sensed the captain’s naked fear.
‘How many?’ Hamilcar roared, his anger now mixed with a deeper fury that his plan, so close to fruition was in danger of exposure.
‘Near twenty!’ the captain shouted. ‘At least half of them quinqueremes.’
‘By Anath…’ Hamilcar whispered. He glanced at the galleys flanking his own, thirteen of them in total and all of them triremes except his own. They were completely outmatched.
‘Battle speed!’ Hamilcar suddenly roared, his crew, shocked by the news that all had heard, taking valuable seconds to respond.
Hamilcar drew his sword, the distinctive sound shattering the trance that seized the men around him and they ran to their stations, the order repeated to the slave deck, the Alissar again coming to life but this time with a fierceness in her pace that drove her ram deep under the swell with every oar-stroke. The Romans were not yet within sight but Hamilcar could see them in his mind’s eye, could see their approaching hulls, their decks crowded with armoured marines. It was a sight that struck determination into this heart, a sight that tensed his sword arm in anticipation of the fight to come.
‘Battle formation!’ he roared and this time his order was repeated without hesitation, the spirit of their commander infusing every man on board the Alissar with a battle hunger that could only be sated with Roman blood.
‘Enemy galleys ahead!’
Varro looked along the length of the Victoria and beyond to the mouth of Tyndaris where a Carthaginian fleet was emerging at battle speed. He tempered his elation at the confirmation of Albinus’s report, keeping his expression hard and neutral.
‘It seems your Roman Captain was right, Varro,’ Regulus remarked beside him and Varro turned and nodded a simple affirmation, remaining silent, savouring the unspoken approbation.
‘Order the Captain to increase to battle speed,’ Regulus commanded and Varro nodded again, this time walking away from the consul to the captain stationed at the tiller.
‘Thirteen galleys!’ the masthead lookout shouted. ‘A quinquereme in the van, the rest look to be triremes.’
Varro took in this information as he passed the consul’s order to the captain. If this was the sum total of the Carthaginian defence then the Roman fleet had a considerable advantage. He walked back to where Regulus was standing and stood once more at his shoulder, a privileged position that had been afforded to Varro ahead of the tribunes of Regulus’s staff. With this confirmation that the enemy did indeed control Tyndaris, it was a position Varro was determined would remain his.
He felt his confidence rise with a sense that victory was there for the taking and he smiled at how inexperienced he had once been, how the Carthaginians and the men who were supposed to be under his command had tricked him at Thermae. In the battle ahead Varro would ensure that Carthaginian slur was reversed. His courage was bolstered by the formation spread out behind the Victoria. The Roman ships were larger. They outnumbered the enemy nearly two to one. There was no trap this time, no hidden forces to overwhelm the Roman fleet and in leading the consul to Tyndaris, Varro had ensured his name would be associated with the victory.
The Aquila was positioned on the starboard flank, her speed a shade over her normal battle speed in an effort to keep pace with the larger quinqueremes in the centre of the Roman line of attack. Atticus kept his gaze locked on the approaching enemy, now less than a mile away, a lone quinquereme holding the centre line with six triremes flanking her on each side, a desperate sight given the superiority of the Roman forces. Atticus sensed the deck shift slightly beneath him but he kept his eyes on the enemy, trusting any changes Gaius might make to the Aquila’s course to keep her in formation.
