granting Hamilcar a perfect view across the half-mile distance, his professional eye immediately recognising the classic Tyrian design so loved by the Carthaginians in the new Roman quinqueremes. The reports from Brolium on the strength and size of the Roman fleet had been extensive and within seconds a malicious smile spread across Hamilcar’s face as he counted the larger hulls in the formation.
‘Two points starboard!’ Hamilcar ordered the helm and the Alissar turned quickly to her new course, the entire landward flank responding immediately, separating Hamilcar’s attack force from the galleys of the centre as they fled west away from the Romans. Hamilcar turned his gaze southwards once more, seeing through the single ranks of the Roman formation to the opposing flank of the Carthaginian line, watching as their aspect changed to mirror his own course. He looked ahead once more, finally focusing all his attention on the true target of his attack, the soft underbelly of the Roman fleet.
‘Aspect change on the flanks!’
Varro looked up to the masthead, turning away from the sight of the Roman pursuit for the first time, his mind quickly deciphering the call, his brow creased in confusion. The sight of the extended Carthaginian line had shaken him but he had quickly buried his apprehension, the resolute signals of attack from the Victoria giving him confidence once more and he had cheered with the rest of the crew as the enemy centre turned in retreat.
Suddenly he was unsure once more and he looked to the enemy galleys closest to the shore. They were advancing, flanking the Roman spearhead, the lead galleys already turned to a course directly aimed at the centre of the third squadron, the galleys behind the vanguard sweeping out to form a line of battle. Alarm instantly swept through Varro, his gaze locked to the galleys in the centre of the line, quinqueremes all, ships that outmatched every galley in the third except the Orcus. They could not stand. There was no hope. The first and second squadrons were sailing further away with every passing minute, isolating Varro, cutting him off, abandoning him to the Carthaginian jackals.
Varro looked to the shore less than a mile away, a series of inlets and jagged headlands. If the Orcus could reach it first there was a chance they could fend off any attack, the shoreline protecting his rear. He spun around, searching for the captain, seeing the line of triremes still tethered to the transport ships. He froze for a heartbeat. There was nothing he could do for them. The enemy galleys were too strong, too numerous. To stand and fight was to die and Varro was not willing to die for some forlorn cause. Fleeing was the only option for him; for everyone.
‘Captain!’ Varro shouted, finally seeing the man. ‘Attack speed. Make for the coastline!’
‘Yes, Tribune,’ the captain replied and quickly issued the orders. ‘What will I signal to the rest of the squadron?’ he asked as the Orcus broke formation.
Varro looked to the line once more, weighing his options. If they all cut loose and ran the confusion would better hide the Orcus from the enemy. He turned once more to the captain. ‘To Hades with them.’
Atticus watched the Carthaginian flanks complete their turn around the rear of the advancing Roman spearhead, Lucius continually shouting down aspect changes from the masthead, the second-in-command’s voice level and unhurried. Atticus glanced briefly to the ship tethered to the Aquila, calculating the maximum speed his galley could drag the dead weight against the distance and speed of the approaching Carthaginian line. They could not run, not without cutting loose and condemning the entire Ninth legion. The triremes of the third squadron would have to stand and fight.
‘The Orcus is breaking formation!’ Lucius shouted, tension in his voice for the first time.
Atticus ran to the side-rail and looked to the command ship, the quinquereme already accelerating to attack speed, her course cutting across the Roman line as she started to flee. A ferocious anger surged through him as he spotted Varro on the aft-deck, the tribune standing tall by the helm, his back turned to his own line as he stared at the approaching enemy attack.
‘Varro!’ he roared, but the tribune stood unmoved.
‘The Pomona!’ Lucius shouted and Atticus spun around to look at the trireme two ships further down the line. She had cut her tether and was falling into the wake of the Orcus, following the command ship in headlong flight. Within a minute a dozen more galleys had broke from the formation, the crack of axe blows resounding through the air as lines were cut and more transport ships were cut loose, panic quickly sweeping through the ranks, the sight of the command ship flight unleashing the survival instinct in every galley.
‘We can’t run!’ Septimus said as he ran onto the aft-deck, his eyes sweeping past Atticus to the galleys on all sides, confusion transforming to outright panic before his very eyes. ‘The Ninth!’
Atticus looked to the ships again, the sails of the released unfurling in a futile attempt to gain some headway in the tepid breeze, their hulls turning slowly, barely making steerage speed. A sudden crunch of timbers cracked through the air as two galleys collided, the total chaos turning Roman against Roman as they sought to escape.
‘By the gods, Atticus,’ Septimus said, grabbing his friend by the shoulder and spinning him around, his face a mask of terror for the lives of the Ninth. ‘We have to do something!’
Atticus stared at Septimus, his mind racing, a thread of panic reaching up and clawing at his spine. Lucius arrived on the aft-deck, his eyes dark with anger and frustration. Atticus looked to the Orcus, the command ship holding a direct line to the coast. Varro had destroyed the squadron, had broken its back as surely as the Punici would have done. Every galley was fleeing. It was every man for himself and no one man could stand alone, no one galley could stop the Carthaginians. Atticus looked down to the deck beneath his feet and then raised his head as he looked along the length of the Aquila. She was a fine ship.
He turned to Lucius, his eyes hard and cold.
‘Sever the line,’ Atticus said, his voice steady, a captain of the Classis Romanus. ‘Attack speed’.
Regulus watched the runner sprint onto the aft-deck of the Victoria, his head darting left and right, searching for his captain. He spotted him and ran to his side, speaking quickly, pointing over the aft-rail. Regulus saw the captain turn, his expression apprehensive.
‘What is it?’ Regulus asked, walking towards the captain, turning his head for a second to the enemy ships fleeing before his own.
‘The enemy flanks,’ the captain said, ‘the masthead lookout reports they did not turn.’
‘What’s their course?’ Regulus asked, suddenly uneasy.
‘They’ve turned into the third squadron, Consul,’ the captain replied, his own anxiety evident in every word.
‘The third squadron…’ Regulus whispered. The Ninth legion, ten thousand men. Only a single line of triremes stood between them and the enemy. He cursed loudly, striding past the captain toward the aft-rail. He had never thought to look beyond the enemy centre, too elated that they had turned so easily. He looked to the third squadron a mile and a half behind. Approaching fast to on its flanks was the Carthaginian attack, a now solid line of advance, at least a dozen quinqueremes in each line. It was impossible to make out any detail in the Roman formation but Regulus thought it was in disarray, as if Varro was redeploying his forces to make a stand against the enemy. It was a valiant attempt but Regulus knew any such stand was doomed without the assistance of some of his forces.
‘Captain!’ he shouted, glancing over his shoulder. He would cut his force in two, sending one half back to relieve Varro’s galleys. It would mean the escape of many of the Carthaginian centre but the transports had to be protected at all costs. The captain appeared beside him. Regulus turned.
‘Signal Consul Longus,’ Regulus began, ‘order him to take the second…’
‘The enemy are turning!’ a voice shouted out and Regulus looked to the waters ahead. The entire Carthaginian line was turning once more into the attack, every galley, a fluid coordinated manoeuvre as if some unseen hand had swept over their line.
‘Mars protect us…’ Regulus whispered as the full realisation of what he was witnessing overwhelmed him. There was never a retreat. It was a trap, and the Roman vanguard had taken the bait completely, leaving a vital part of the fleet vulnerable, risking a loss that would prevent the invasion of Carthage, the death of ten thousand legionaries.
Hamilcar glanced left and right as the last of his galleys slipped into formation, completing the battle line, creating a sweeping wave fifty ships wide bearing down on the Roman line at seven knots. The seaward flank was a mile to the south, its line equally formed on a convergent course with Hamilcar’s galleys and the Romans trapped between them.
‘Attack speed!’ Hamilcar ordered and the Alissar bucked beneath him, taking on the extra knots with a
