a tricky manoeuvre, beginning an oar-stroke while the ship was moving. One oar out of sequence and a whole section could foul, knocking the galley off course, but it had to be done. The Aquila had to get up to speed under her own power.
Atticus swept men up as he ran towards the corvus, the crew instantly drawing their swords, ready to follow their captain into the maelstrom. He fanned them out across the base of the corvus, readying them to defend the Aquila should the Carthaginians counter-attack. They roared in answer to his command, but their shout was cut short as the deck once more shuddered beneath them and for the first time Atticus heard the scream of tortured wood. He looked to the mounting pole of the corvus, almost seeing the deflection of the six-inch diameter spar as the stress of maintaining the link between the two galleys took its toll. The Aquila bucked and shuddered again and a grappling rope snapped cleanly with a loud retort, the thick hemp rope whipping back, striking the hoplon shield of one of the crew, knocking him to the deck.
‘Sweet merciful…’ Atticus muttered and he felt the icy hand of panic slide up his spine as he looked across to the legionaries. The two galleys were going to break apart, the unequal stresses too great, the different oar stroke and sequence creating unequal acceleration even if the speeds were equal. The corvus was strong enough to carry men into battle, strong enough even to hold a trireme stationary in the water, but it was never designed to hold back a galley weighing over a hundred tons and travelling at twelve knots. With a realisation that struck Atticus to the core he saw that the ramp was going to fail and when it did, any Roman left on the Carthaginian galley would be slaughtered without mercy or remorse.
‘Steady the line!’ Septimus ordered and his men responded with a roar of affirmation, a war cry mixed with the firm resolution that not one step back would be taken. Septimus leaned into his shield once more, angling his body against the press of the enemy, his sword striking out through the gap to return with fresh blood, the deck beneath his sandaled feet already running red with only his hobnails giving him purchase. The noise around him was deafening, cries of pain and anger, of death and fury unleashed, of hatred driven to near frenzy as men hacked at each other with sword and shield. To his left he could hear Drusus ordering the line to hold firm and he nodded to himself, confident that his optio would not allow the line to fail.
The Carthaginian before his shield fell and Septimus was given a brief respite as he held ready for another assault. His mind triggered a forgotten thought, a minutes-old memory of the deck moving suddenly beneath him, a sensation he had felt but had ignored in the first desperate moments of the attack. Now he sensed that movement again, as if the quinquereme was moving through the water and not firmly impaled and held fast by the Aquila. He was tempted to look to his side, to confirm his suspicion, but he held fast, his warrior’s instinct warning him to stay focused and as if in confirmation an axe hammered against his shield, knocking it back against his shoulder. Septimus’s sword arm reacted before conscious thought, striking forward as he pushed back his shield, his blade striking iron as the Carthaginian parried the blow. He reversed the strike and thrust again, keeping his shield high and in formation, continuing his attack as the line remained steady.
‘Baro,’ Atticus shouted, drawing his own sword for the first time, ‘tell Lucius I want ramming speed now!’
Another grappling line shot apart as Baro ran off.
‘You and you,’ Atticus indicated. Two crewmen stepped forward. ‘Go aft and bring up more hooks and lines! The rest of you hold firm here.’
Atticus turned and ran up the corvus, his eyes searching the backs of the Roman legionaries, immediately spotting Septimus in the centre. The ramp suddenly bucked beneath him and he fell to his knees, instinctively stretching out his free hand to break his fall. He cursed loudly and put his weight on to his hand to push himself up but he recoiled instantly, the timber planking moving beneath his palm and for a second time he felt panic. The corvus was failing fast.
Atticus took off at a run again and gained the Carthaginian aft-deck within a second. He jumped off the corvus and immediately looked down at the head of the ramp. The iron spike was still embedded in the deck, however it was now preceded by a two foot long tear, the origin of the gash marking where the corvus had first struck. Atticus spun around, looking for Septimus again. The deck was strewn with the bodies of a dozen Carthaginian slain, their open wounds still spilling blood onto the deck, their lifeless features still screaming out the final defiance and rage that had marked the end of their existence. A half-dozen red-cloaked legionaries lay amongst them; at least two of them were still alive, but their wounds were grievous.
The Roman line was ten feet beyond the head of the boarding ramp, its furthest advance after no more than four minutes of vicious fighting. The line was fifteen men across, two deep in places and Atticus saw that they could advance no further; the Carthaginians were too numerous, too tightly packed to give way under such a thin Roman line. Atticus ran to Septimus, standing at his left shoulder, clear of his sword arm that flashed back and forward at an implausible speed. Atticus waited a precious few seconds for the moment when the centurion would not be directly engaged.
‘Septimus!’ he shouted above the roar of war cries. Septimus glanced over his shoulder, his mask of determination showing a flash of surprise and then another emotion, anger, as if Atticus’s presence had defied him somehow.
‘The Carthaginian galley is breaking free! The corvus is going to fail.’ Atticus shouted and watched as his friend’s expression changed again, this time to one of dread. Septimus looked beyond Atticus to the ramp, his eyes rooted to its head, as if he expected to see it disappear at any moment. His hesitation lasted only a second longer.
‘Make ready!’ Septimus bellowed and again his men shouted in affirmation, confirming that they were awaiting his next command.
‘Fighting retreat…!’
Septimus held them steady for a heartbeat longer, vying for the perfect moment to begin the retreat, knowing that the Punici would surge forward at the first sign of weakness.
‘March!’ he shouted and the line stepped back as one, each man careful not to stumble over the men who lay dead and dying behind them.
The Carthaginians roared in attack as their enemy gave way, reclaiming their deck step by step.
Atticus ran back behind the line, stopping once more at the head of the corvus. The tear along the deck was now three feet long with only a final foot of planking remaining before the aft-rail. Two more grappling ropes had given way in the thirty seconds Atticus had been on the Carthaginian galley, but as he watched four new lines were thrown and he quickly secured each one before signalling his men to pull them tight. He looked down the length of the ramp, whispering to his Gods as he saw the corvus buckle once more under the strain and the outer planking on one side suddenly gave way, splintering violently with a tormented crack.
Septimus kept the pressure on his shield and stabbed wildly through the gap as he stepped back, shouting constantly to his men to remain steady and slow, needing to contain any semblance of panic that might cause one of the men to flee. A hand suddenly grabbed his leg and he looked down to the agonised face of one of his hastati. His other hand was clutching his groin, blood surging between his fingers with every beat of his heart. Septimus watched him mouth his name, a plea lost in the clamour of battle. There was nothing Septimus could do, no second line of legionaries who could gather the wounded in retreat, no way he could help the younger man without breaking ranks and threatening the cohesion of the line. Septimus marched on, dragging his gaze from the fallen legionary as he did, torment filling his soul as he heard the soldier’s scream for mercy. The Carthaginian front line stepped over him, swallowing him whole, his cries lost amidst the enemy horde.
A legionary fell, then another, the Carthaginians pressing home their advantage with terrifying ferocity, making the Romans pay for every inch of timber. The line contracted to form a defensive ring around the corvus, Septimus front and centre, Drusus by his side. The line was now two deep, some eighteen men strong, a bristling semi-circle of defiant steel and shield, the Carthaginians pressing in on three sides. Atticus chose two legionaries as the line compressed further, ordering them back across the corvus. They hesitated to run, to leave their comrades but Atticus shoved them on, needing to stave off a fatal bottleneck. They stepped onto the corvus and turned to descend, walking resolutely across the precarious ramp. Atticus watched them go but as he turned to select two more, the men suddenly fell from the ramp, each man struck by arrows shot from Carthaginian archers who had gained the aft-rail on the flanks. Atticus watched in horror as they fell, both soldiers striking the bow of the Aquila, one of the men screaming in agony, before they fell into the sea to be swept under the hull of the trireme.
‘Archers!’ Atticus roared across at his own crew, his fury knowing no bounds. The sailors responded instantly, letting loose on the enemy archers, drawing their fire away from the corvus.
