Atticus punched hard with his hoplon shield, the copper boss slamming into the Carthaginian’s chest, driving him back, robbing him of his balance and Atticus lunged forward, striking low, his blade tearing through the enemy’s groin, the Carthaginian falling even as Atticus withdrew his sword. Lucius stood to his side, the seasoned veteran drawing on the strength of a thousand fights, his sword arm never tiring, his thoughts still firmly locked on sweeping the Carthaginians from his ship and somehow saving her from the sea’s grasp.
Atticus felt the side-rail slam into his lower back as he backstepped away from a furious assault, the Carthaginian soldier’s blade a blur of iron in a deadly sequence of sword-strokes, Atticus’s arm going numb under the shield that bore the brunt. He stabbed out with his sword, a desperate jab to force his enemy to relent and through sweat-stained eyes he saw the Carthaginian block left with his shield, giving Atticus the opening he needed. He pushed forward from the rail, his sword instinctively following a series of strikes, the years of single combat commanding his every action, every move and the Carthaginian gave ground slowly until he backed into another fight, forcing him to stand firm. The Carthaginian responded with a frenzied counter-attack and Atticus turned his shield once more in defence, his eyes locked on the Carthaginian’s, seeing the fury there, the eyes anticipating the sword. Atticus shortened his defence, closing the distance to beneath a swordlength, breaking the Carthaginian’s assault and Atticus pushed forward until the two were chest to chest, the stink of sweat and aggression filling his senses. Atticus ignored the continued blows on his shield, the close quarters negating their strength and he swung his sword out low and wide, bringing the blade in behind the Carthaginian, sweeping it back until it sliced into the enemy’s hamstring, the Carthaginian screaming out in pain as his tendon split, his leg buckling under his own weight and he fell to the deck, dropping his sword to reach for his wound, his face a mask of agony.
Atticus jumped back, bringing his sword up quickly, the fight pressing in on all sides as two Carthaginians quickly stepped over the man he had downed, their swords charged against Atticus, their expressions malevolent, taunting, their quarry singled out before them. Atticus brought his shield up to his shoulder, his sword dropping low for the first attack, his eyes darting from the first man to the second, crouching slightly to coil the energy of his legs, ready for the lunge. The two Carthaginians moved in, one of them smiling viciously and Atticus smiled back, his eyes ever cold. He paused as the moment to attack neared and he tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. He was about to charge but he checked himself, realising a sudden unease on the faces of his attackers, their eyes no longer on Atticus but to a point behind him and they began to back off.
Atticus glanced over his shoulder, the breath that he had held releasing as the sight before him overwhelmed his mind. The Orcus was less than fifty yards away, her corvus already partially lowered, the serried ranks of a full maniple drawn up behind, a solid wall of shields above which iron helmets and cheek-plates framed hostile and determined faces. The Orcus closed the gap in seconds, her oars dipped and held to slow the galley and the bow of the quinquereme struck the stern of the Aquila lightly, the corvus falling firmly onto the aft-deck, the spikes hammering into the timbers.
The legionaries flooded across, forming a line, the strident commands of a centurion marching them forward. The Carthaginians faltered then quickly turned into the new threat, a ragged few joined by scores in a matter of seconds, the Punici slamming into the shield wall, hammering with all the frenzy of hate against leather and brass.
Atticus called the remaining crew of the Aquila to the rails to continue their fight on the flanks, wary that in the confusion of battle the armourless crew might be mistaken for Carthaginians by the legionaries. He looked to the main deck and the embattled men of Septimus’s command, his attention drawn away from the Orcus, never seeing Vitulus run across the corvus, his own gaze looking beyond the front line of the legionaries, searching for his prey.
‘Hard to starboard! Withdraw oars!’ the captain of the Baal Hammon roared and Hanno leaned into the turn as the quinquereme swung to avoid the fall of a corvus, the Roman quinquereme sweeping past the bow, the cutwater of the Baal Hammon slamming into the extended oars of the Roman galley, snapping the fifteen foot spars like twigs underfoot, until the counter turn of the Roman ship dragged the remaining oars out of reach.
‘Attack speed!’ the captain called again, his eyes searching for open water, the second narrow escape from boarding tearing at his nerves. Hanno felt a contagious panic spread over his galley, seeping into his own mind, the complete dominance of the Roman quinqueremes over the equally sized galleys of his own fleet a terrible realisation that had suddenly thrust the Baal Hammon into the fight of her life.
The Baal Hammon had rammed and sank two Roman triremes, charging them down and striking them deep with a strength they could not defy and Hanno had praised his decision to fully engage the enemy, sensing victory with every Roman who fell under the ram of his quinquereme. But beyond his own galley, Hanno had suddenly witnessed the real truth of the battle, the Romans triremes like jackals hunting down prey, attacking creatures their own size with a savage sabretoothed weapon that conquered relentlessly. And amongst them the larger quinqueremes, attacking the command galleys, the Carthaginian crews overwhelmed and slaughtered.
The Baal Hammon found clear sea and the captain brought the galley around once more, the tangle of butchery that was the battle-line spread out before the bow once more, the helmsman holding his course, waiting for the command to re-engage. The captain looked to Hanno, his expression questioning, his eyes devoid of the confidence that befitted the captain of a flagship. Hanno looked beyond him, immediately seeing a number of Roman triremes holding fast to Carthaginian galleys, stationary in the water, perfect targets for the Baal Hammon. Hanno hesitated however, knowing that to ram the triremes was to expose his own ship to the threat of being boarded by another, a fight he knew could not be won and for the first time the unthinkable crept into his thoughts, the unendurable truth he had realised earlier but had buried beneath his honour.
The Roman line swept ever forward, the Carthaginians falling before the onslaught, the rear ranks stepping forward as the front stepped back, creating a solid press of men before the legionaries, the Roman blades wreaking a terrible carnage. Atticus stood at the starboard rail, many of his crew at his side, turning the outer flank of the Carthaginian host, giving them no pause, the press of men increasing in the centre until the Roman line concaved, the sides of the line moving forward even as the centre came to a halt.
Vitulus stood behind the starboard flank of the line, stepping forward slowly as the line advanced, his eyes never leaving the sight of the Greek captain standing only yards away, the gap closing with every Carthaginian slain. He readied his sword and moved to the rail, pushing forward until he reached the front line of the attack, slotting his shield to the end of the line, striking his blade forward with intuition; the instinct learnt during the years spent in the legions never leaving him. The Greek was but feet away, oblivious to the advancing wall, his eyes locked on the combat before him, his sword striking the shield of a Carthaginian warrior. Vitulus recognised the sailor to the captain’s left, the older man standing closer to the Roman wall, an obstacle Vitulus would avoid. He pushed forward, breaking out of the line, using his shield to push the Carthaginian before him away from the rail and into the maelstrom of the centre. Vitulus readied his sword, drawing the weapon back, his shoulder tensing as it reached the height of its arc, the blade pointing almost directly down, poised to stab forward, waiting for a path to open, for a moment when the captain would be exposed. He saw one and lunged without conscious thought.
Lucius saw the blade from the corner of his eye, his weapon whipping instinctively away from the Carthaginian to his front to block the sword swiping behind him, the clash of iron jolting his forearm, the strength and direction of the sudden attack shocking him, knowing how close his captain had come to death. He turned in an instant, his sword already recovered, his mind screaming restraint as he suddenly spotted the red cloak of a legionary.
‘We’re Roman!’ Lucius shouted, the attacker’s face inches from his own, the expression of rage twisting the features of the legionary. The soldier spat back in fury, striking again with his sword, Lucius parrying the blow but staying his counter-strike, bringing his shield up in defence but keeping his sword at bay. He broke off and made to roar again, to breach the obvious trance that consumed the Roman soldier but the words died on his lips as he recognised the legionary for who he was. Vitulus noticed the change in Lucius’s expression and attacked without hesitation, driving his sword through, bringing his shield to the fore. Lucius tried to react, his sword sweeping back up into the fray, his soul consumed with hatred for the assassin but Vitulus’s strike was too quick and the hammer blow of the sword drove the air from Lucius, the blade slicing unchecked into his stomach until the pommel punched against his skin, knocking Lucius back. Vitulus stared into Lucius’s face, hold his gaze, seeing the hatred there, the emotion overwhelming the agony of the strike. The legionary held the gaze for a heartbeat and then twisted the blade, Lucius’s expression collapsing into a mask of pure pain as Vitulus withdrew the blade, the sailor falling to the deck, a scream dying in his throat.
Atticus felt a weight fall against his legs and he glanced down, a cry of anguish escaping his lips as he saw
