their base at Agrigentum a close enough jumping-off point to Carthage as Tyndaris had been to Rome. It was a conceit that drove Hamilcar to a near frenzy of anger, a blatant arrogance that typified the Roman foe, the self- assurance that made them believe that the order of superiority could be so easily reversed. Carthage was not Rome. She was not the sleeping prey the Roman city had been, she was a leopard lying in wait, everfierce, ever- prepared to defend her progeny against any who would dare to attack.
The Alissar began to forge ahead at Hamilcar’s command to advance the flank, an invisible tether drawing out the galleys behind her, the manoeuvre mirrored on the seaward flank until the Carthaginian formation resembled a crescent moon. The lines were re-dressed quickly, deft touches that marked the fine seamanship inherent on every galley of the fleet. Hamilcar looked back along the formation, his gaze picking up the flagship Baal Hammon in the centre of the line. She was sailing slightly ahead, no doubt by order of her commander Hanno, the councillor’s arrogance demanding the prominent position in recognition of his titular command of the fleet. Hamilcar’s strategy to defeat the Roman fleet had begrudgingly been accepted by Hanno before the fleet sailed, the councillor recognising the formidable logic of the plan. The agreement had created an uneasy truce between the men; their mutual animosity set aside, neither man willing to risk the fate of Carthage and, as Hamilcar stared across at the Baal Hammon, he felt his confidence rise, knowing the might of Carthage was for now united under one banner, one cause. Death to the Romans.
Regulus felt the deck rise and plunge beneath his feet and he gripped the side-rail on the aft-deck for balance as he stared ahead at the oncoming Carthaginian line. The false wind created by the galley’s speed blew fresh onto his face and he breathed deeply, drawing in the salt-laden air, tasting it as if for the first time. A lifetime ago he had commanded a legion in the field, had tasted battle, both bitter defeat and sweet victory. It was a time he had long forgotten, the memory fouled by the listless air of the Curia and the leaden air of the bathhouse. Now a new memory was being forged, a latent vigour re-discovered and Regulus looked to the forces that were his to command.
The main deck of the Victoria was crammed with troops, a full maniple, the I of the Fifth, in addition to a further sixty legionaries of the praetoriani, each man a veteran, every soldier on board the flagship battle-hardened and ready, their swords drawn in anticipation. Regulus looked once more to the Carthaginian fleet, wondering anew what skill the enemy possessed that allowed them to anticipate the approach of the Classis Romanus and assemble such a host against it. They had appeared as if from nowhere, their battle-line fully deployed and prepared and Regulus had realised that near disaster had only been averted by the fact that his fleet was already deployed in an aggressive posture. It was a formation Regulus had insisted upon only days before for the protection of the helpless transports and he looked skyward; a whispered prayer on his lips to Mars, the god of war who he believed must have had a covert hand in his decision, his guiding hand granting Regulus the opportunity to take the fight to the enemy.
‘Captain,’ Regulus commanded to the man at his side. ‘Order attack speed and signal the third squadron to stand fast.’
‘Yes, Consul,’ the captain saluted and issued the orders over his shoulder, turning once more to stand tall beside his commander, the flagship accelerating to twelve knots, her clean lines and unblemished hull causing her to skim over the gentle swell, steadying her deck. Regulus left go of the rail and moved to the helm, his eyes darting to the lead ship of the second squadron, picking up the figure of Longus standing apart on the aft-deck. He looked over suddenly at Regulus, as if he knew he was under scrutiny, and he nodded to the consul, a brief but confident gesture that Regulus returned.
The spearhead created by the convergent lines of the first and second squadrons flew onwards, the helmsmen of the lead ships keeping the formation in perfect balance, their thrust directly towards the centre of the Carthaginian line. Regulus watched the I of the Fifth walk forward to take position behind the corvus, his gaze tracking up the height of the raised boarding ramp. It was a fearsome weapon, poised to strike and Regulus felt the anticipation of battle unfurl itself within his heart as the men of the Fifth roared a war cry in answer to the call of their centurion.
The consul looked beyond the corvus to the enemy line less than four hundred yards ahead. The breath in his throat stilled for a heartbeat, his eyes darting left and right and he ran once more to the side-rail to gain a better line of sight. Now he was certain and Regulus felt his heart rate rise as elation surged through him. The Carthaginian formation was as yet unbroken but it had become concave, as if the centre was recoiling before the Roman thrust, an instinctive reaction to an aggression they had not expected of the Romans, the Carthaginians obviously believing that they would catch the Classis Romanus unawares.
Regulus locked his gaze on the centre of the Carthaginian line as the gap decreased, anticipating what he was about to witness, praying that he was right, knowing that victory would be assured. He raised his hand up and clenched his fist, holding it still above his head, the muscles in his forearm trembling with the force of his grip, his entire being focused on one galley, a flagship, sailing slightly advanced of the line. Regulus waited, the seconds passing as the oars fell and rose in unison.
The change happened suddenly and Regulus roared in triumph, his fist slamming down on the side-rail, a death knell for the Punici. The Carthaginian flagship was turning, her deck keeling over violently as the galleys around her reacted in kind, the Carthaginian line disintegrating into confusion and fear within seconds, the roars of defiance and aggression on board the Roman galleys turning to baying cries of triumph and mercilessness.
‘Maintain attack speed!’ Regulus shouted, striding to the helm. ‘Hunt them down! Prepare to release the corvus!’
The command was quickly passed along the deck and outward to the other galleys of the spearhead, the legionaries hammering their shields in affirmation of the order. Regulus drank in the sound, feeling his Roman heart match the beat of ten thousand blades raised at his command.
The enemy centre was now fully turned, fleeing before the Roman spear, the gap of three hundred yards a pitiful defence against the unleashed Roman advance. Regulus was staring once more at the Carthaginian flagship, his gaze now sweeping her aft-deck, trying to single out the cowardly enemy commander who believed he could run from his fate, the consul’s fixation blinding him to the enemy galleys beyond the centre of the Carthaginian line.
‘They’re turning!’ Corin shouted from the masthead, the excitement in his voice impossible to contain. ‘The enemy are in retreat!’
Atticus ran to the foredeck to gain a better view, passing quickly through the serried ranks of legionaries on the main. He skirted around the newly replaced corvus, his shoulder brushing against the cumbersome ramp as he did and he mumbled an incoherent curse, his eyes never leaving the sea ahead until his legs struck the forerail. He glanced down, the surging water breaking over the ram echoing a rhythmic splash and he placed his palms on the rail, leaning his upper body forward as he stared once more ahead. The lead squadrons were over a mile away and beyond them was the enemy line, its aspect in complete disarray as the galleys turned away from the fight.
‘Something’s wrong,’ a voice said beside Atticus and he nodded to his second-in-command.
‘No collisions,’ Atticus remarked.
‘And I’ve never known the Carthaginians to run before,’ Lucius replied. ‘Not before the battle’s even started.’
‘Lucius,’ Atticus began. ‘Get aloft. Do a full sweep.’
Lucius nodded and turned, sidestepping past Septimus as he went.
‘They’re in retreat?’ Septimus asked, removing his helmet and rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand.
‘I’m not so sure,’ Atticus replied and Septimus looked to him.
‘It’s not like the Carthaginians to break so easily,’ Atticus continued.
‘But they are turning from the fight,’ Septimus insisted.
‘Without panicking,’ Atticus said, his gaze now sweeping across the entire seascape ahead. He turned to Septimus.
‘Have you ever known an enemy to retreat suddenly in complete order?’ he asked.
Septimus was silent for a moment, his head turning to the Roman attack. He shook his head. Something was wrong.
Hamilcar slammed his fist onto the side-rail as he watched the centre of his line turn in full retreat, the two hundred galleys of the Roman spearhead never pausing as their headlong attack transformed into a full pursuit. The lead galleys of the Roman formation were quickly in line with the Alissar’s advanced position on the landward flank,
