savage intent that matched the will of its commander. Hamilcar moved once more to the side-rail to gain a better view of the Roman squadron a half mile away, his elation growing with every passing oar-stroke, the decreasing distance confirming the masthead’s earlier report that the enemy were retreating. The line was in complete chaos, with galleys fleeing north towards the coastline and east, away from the line of attack. Only the transports remained relatively unmoved, the fickle insipid wind making a mockery of their attempts to manoeuvre by sail. Hamilcar had been ready for a fight, had already accepted in his mind the loss of many of his galleys, even the quinqueremes that would be vulnerable to attack as they rammed the transport ships. Now that fight was dissipating before his eyes, the shield wall drawing back to lay bare the unprotected.
Hamilcar looked back over his shoulder to the rear of the Roman spearhead, the enemy galleys slowly fanning out to counter the re-turned Carthaginian line that threatened to envelope them. Hanno had timed his counter- stroke perfectly. He had executed the first part of the plan exactly as requested and so now, for the first time, Hamilcar felt confident that Hanno would follow the second part of his plan, the order that dictated how the councillor would engage the enemy vanguard.
His back protected, Hamilcar brought his full focus back to the transport fleet and its retreating escort. He felt his elation surge again and he closed his eyes, breathing in deeply, sifting the smells in his nostrils, the clean salt, the stale dry land and underneath, something else, a smell he could almost imagine, a smell of sweat and bile, the fear of the ten thousand men trapped in floating timber coffins.
‘Enemy galley on intercept course!’
Hamilcar snapped open his eyes and looked to the masthead, seeing the outstretched arm and following the indication to the sea ahead. A lone trireme was approaching, her bow reared up in attack speed, her foredeck drenched in spray from her cutwater as she sliced through the gentle swell. Hamilcar looked to her flanks, to her rear and beyond, searching for other galleys, for the attack she must be leading but there was none. The trireme was alone, a single galley against a line of fifty. Hamilcar’s mouth twisted into a snarl as he stared at the lone galley, admiring the bravery of the suicidal charge but dismissing it instantly.
‘Hold your course!’ he shouted to the helmsman.
Hamilcar had seen how the Romans attacked their prey many times, striking them head-on, holding them firm before releasing their cursed boarding ramp. But the approaching galley was a trireme, sailing into a pack of quinqueremes and Hamilcar knew the Alissar would brush her aside with barely a check. He smiled at the prospect, his hand gripping the side-rail in anticipation of the hammer blow to come.
‘Steady,’ Atticus said as he placed his hand on Gaius’s shoulder, the helmsman gripping the tiller with a force that turned his knuckles white.
The solid line of Carthaginian galleys seemed to stretch forever before the bow of the Aquila, the quinqueremes in the centre a terrifying combination of speed and brute strength, their hulls dwarfing the smaller galleys on the flanks and the single galley that sailed towards them.
Atticus looked to the main deck and the sight of Septimus forming his men into protective ranks. The men moved with grit determination, their faces grim under iron helmets and cheek-plates, every sword drawn for the fight to come. Atticus checked his own weapon by his side, drawing the blade an inch out of its scabbard, feeling the familiar weight before slamming it home, his attention returning once again to the enemy.
Atticus counted to the centre galley, the lead ship, its masthead banners unfurling languidly behind and in an instant he was transported back to Tyndaris weeks before, remembering those same banners on a fleeing quinquereme, Hamilcar Barca’s galley. Atticus ran to the side-rail, locking his gaze on the masthead of the enemy galley, confirming what he believed, realising that his target was ever more deadly because it carried the military commander of Carthage.
Atticus stood back from the rail and moved to the centre of the aft-deck, his eyes sweeping once more over the deck of his ship. Corin had descended from the masthead and he stood with the rest of the crew on main deck, the men in a tight knot as Lucius issued final orders to each man. The legionaries beyond were in their own ranks but Atticus noticed glances being exchanged between the two groups, expressions that marked their shared fate, Roman and provincial citizen alike.
Septimus stepped away from his men and strode to the aftdeck. ‘They’re ready,’ he said, his expression grim, unrelenting.
Atticus nodded, ‘Expect two attacks at least,’ he said, tension in his voice for the first time as the distance to the enemy fell below four hundred yards. ‘My crew will try and hold the aft, you hold the main.’
Septimus nodded, looking at Atticus closely, seeing the shadow of uncertainty in his friend’s face.
‘This is something,’ he said and Atticus gave him a quizzical look.
‘I said we needed to do something,’ Septimus explained, a slight smile reaching the corners of his mouth, ‘and this is it.’
‘We had to give the Ninth some chance…’ Atticus said, glad that Septimus understood his order to charge the Carthaginian line. He looked to the advancing enemy, the odds overwhelming and he turned to his friend.
‘About Hadria,’ Atticus began, unsure of what he was about to say.
Septimus looked at Atticus, holding his gaze. ‘She told me,’ he said, the shadow of an emotion sweeping across his face, ‘that she won’t give you up.’
‘And you can’t accept that?’ Atticus asked, silently willing Septimus to relent.
Septimus looked to the waters ahead, each drum beat and oar stroke taking the Aquila closer to certain defeat and the very fate he had wished to shield his sister from, the loss of another love in battle. He turned once more to Atticus.
‘Not today,’ he said and walked back towards his men, his hand reaching for his sword and drawing it with one sweep of his arm, the metal singing against the scabbard.
Atticus watched Septimus for a moment longer. Not today, he thought and he drew his sword, the grip of the hardwood hilt solid between his fingers. He caught Lucius’s eye, nodding to him in command, the older man nodding back imperceptibly before ordering the crew to make ready.
The Aquila sped on, her two hundred oars never faltering, the banner at her masthead whipping out to release the eagle in flight, the seventy-ton hull like an arrow set loose from the draw, skimming the wave tops, taking deadly aim. Atticus stepped back to the helm, seeing Gaius’s hard stare, his gaze never wavering and Atticus took strength from the helmsman. He looked to the enemy. Two hundred yards.
‘Ramming speed!’
One hundred yards, thirteen knots, the enemy surging forward, the edges of the line disappearing as all focus turned to the centre, the drum beat crashing out, the oars slicing through the air and surging through the water.
‘Steady Aquila,’ Atticus whispered, placing one hand on the tiller behind Gaius’s grip, his vision filled with the sight of the charging behemoth bearing down.
Fifty yards.
‘All hands, prepare to be boarded!’
Forty yards. Thirty.
‘Now, Gaius!’ Atticus roared and threw himself against the tiller, the helmsman surging with him, their every strength throwing the rudder hard left, the Aquila responding in opposition, her bow slicing right into the path of the flagship, her hull turning in seconds to create a solid wall of timber, iron and men across the enemy front.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Alissar struck the fore section of the Aquila with all the force of her one hundred ton hull, her eleven-knot momentum driving the ram cleanly into the Aquila, punching through the seasoned oak, the blunt-faced fist propelled deep into the slave deck of the trireme. Sixty yards along the hull, the second quinquereme struck, her ram taking the Aquila deep below the waterline, flooding the lower hold, the splintered timbers of the Aquila clawing at the lower cutwater of the quinquereme as if desperately trying to stay the blow.
Hamilcar regained his feet and charged to the front of the aft-deck, scarcely believing the sight before him. A huge crash and screech of timbers made him spin around in time to see two of his galleys collide, a quinquereme turning into the path of another as it swerved to avoid the aft-section of the Roman ship. He swore at the top of his
