on the head, cracking open his skull before driving through into the man behind, shattering his pelvis; his screams echoed in Septimus’s ears as he relentlessly pushed forward.
The gap between the siege tower and the wall fell to five yards. Almost without command the men of the Ninth dropped the heavy poles and began to retreat out of arrow range.
That same instant the drawbridge was released and the legionaries of the Second swept across in a savage wave of steel and flesh. The Carthaginians held firm on the narrow battlements, and men fell to their deaths as the struggle descended into a chaotic brawl, the enemies fighting chest to chest, their faces twisted in aggression and rage.
The legionaries streamed up the ladder of the siege tower, creating a crushing momentum that forced the front ranks deeper into the enemy’s midst, pushing out the flanks along the battlements, the narrow walkway creating individual battles where strength and will held sway. The Carthaginians fought with demonic resistance, the defenceless inhabitants of Panormus to their backs; within minutes the balance shifted as the Carthaginians first checked, then reversed the tide of battle, pushing the legionaries back towards the towers, striking down any Roman who stood his ground against the maniacal fury of the counter-attack.
Septimus watched the fight from two hundred yards away, his chest heaving from the exertion of the advance and the battle lust flowing in his veins. He had never turned away from the moment of attack before and he cursed the subservient role the Ninth had been given in the assault, the bloody casualties it had endured that would go unreciprocated.
Suddenly he noticed the momentum of the battle turn against the men of the Second on the battlements. The legionaries were no longer ascending the ladder and the platform to the drawbridge was overcrowded as the assault stalled under the weight of the Carthaginian counter-attack. He looked to the other siege towers, trying to judge their situation, but smoke and distance frustrated his attempt.
Septimus looked forward again and, almost intuitively, he decided. ‘Men of the IV, to arms,’ he shouted.
His maniple reacted instantly, responding to his command without question. They rose up and formed behind their centurion, drawing their swords as one. He signalled the advance and they fell into the wake of the siege tower, their pace increasing as they covered the same ground a second time, this time with the tools of war in their hands.
The sudden headlong rush of the IV maniple caught others in the Ninth by surprise, but they quickly responded. By the time Septimus reached the base of the siege tower, he stood at the head of an unstoppable charge. They pushed past the legionaries of the Second, and like a seventh wave overcoming its lesser predecessors, the IV maniple went on up the slope of the ladder. Septimus pushed through the throng on the upper platform, his head down through the black smoke that was engulfing the space, as Carthaginian fire, loosed from close range, caught hold of the wooden structure.
Through hooded eyes he saw the enemy before him and he bunched his weight behind his shield, his feet instinctively finding purchase on the narrow, blood-soaked drawbridge, the memory of a dozen assaults across a corvus guiding his actions. He roared in defiance, his call taken up by a hundred men, and they tore into the Carthaginian front line, shattering it instantly as men were flung backwards from the battlements. He spun on his heel, turning the momentum of the charge along the narrow walkway, and once again the battle was transformed into two narrow fronts as the legionaries tried to sweep the Carthaginians from the walls.
Septimus tasted blood: the remnants of the legionary who had fallen beside him, his own from a shallow sword wound under his helmet, and also the blood of his enemy, a fine spray that covered his face as he twisted and withdrew the blade of his sword from the clinging flesh. The close-quarter combat reached a bloody peak as each side neared the limit of its strength and desperate commands were shouted in disparate languages, driving the men through barriers of pain and exhaustion.
Septimus stabbed his sword forward, his shield arm numb to the shoulder from countless blows but, as he stared into the eyes of his enemy, he began to see seeds of doubt there. Suddenly the tempo of the defence changed from tenacious to desperate. The number of legionaries on the battlements had reached a critical level and an instinctive recognition swept through the Carthaginian line.
The pressure against Septimus’s shield fell away and, over the shoulders of the enemy front line, he saw men retreating, fleeing down the steps that led to the street below. The warrior facing him sensed the vacuum to his rear and he stepped back in panic. Septimus stabbed through the Carthaginian’s open guard, slicing cleanly into his groin, and he pushed him from the battlements as he led his men onwards, the Carthaginian’s dying screams lost amidst the cheers of the Ninth.
They swept down off the battlements and along the narrow street that led to the eastern gate, clearing all before them, dealing quickly with any individual Carthaginian who stood his ground, running at full tilt as blood lust and victory combined to chase all restraint from their minds.
Septimus had led a hundred men from the battlements, but as he neared the eastern gate that number fell to a dozen, the others disappearing into the warren of streets, knowing they were the first, eager to ravage the virginal town before the horde descended. Four Carthaginians stood guard at the eastern gate, the brave remnants of a detachment that had already fled, and they threw themselves against Septimus’s men, screaming battle cries of hatred. They were quickly killed, and the legionaries sheathed their swords as they lifted the locking bar clear.
A wave of legionaries swept through the entrance, their cheers laced with a savagery born of a bloody fight. The assaults of the other siege towers had failed and the men of the Second had been badly mauled, a blood-letting that fed their desire for brutal revenge. Like feral animals they threw off all restraint, racing into the deserted streets, their swords drawn against a defenceless foe.
Septimus stood back from the tide, his mind still conditioned to the demands of his command, giving himself pause to still the blood lust in his veins as he took stock. The legionaries were beyond control and, although many of the enemy would stand, individually or in small groups, they were hopelessly outnumbered and the end was inevitable.
Panormus had fallen, and Septimus could hear the screams of terror from the populace, the cries of women and children, of men desperately trying to mount a defence against hardened soldiers who would kill any who stood in their path. Panormus had stood defiant, and for that the inhabitants had sacrificed all claims to mercy. The victors would take their measure of retribution. As the last cries of battle faded, a new, more terrifying sound resonated around the walls: the desperate pleas of a population given over to a cursed fate of rape and death.
‘Aspect change on the Carthaginian galleys!’
‘Report, Corin,’ Atticus shouted, running to the side rail of the aft-deck.
There was a moment’s pause as the lookout watched the enemy formation take shape.
‘Eleven galleys, looks as though they’re making battle speed, heading… west, towards the right flank.’
‘Baro,’ Atticus shouted, ‘make ready for battle. Drusus, assemble your men.’
The Orcus sprang into action, every man following the dictates of training or experience, the endless hours of drill transforming the galley from an inert state to battle-poised in minutes.
‘Signal from shore, the legionaries have breached the walls!’
Atticus looked to Panormus. The siege towers were hard up against the eastern wall, like barbs stuck fast on the hide of an enormous beast, their size dwarfed by the featureless curtain walls and battlements. At least two of them were on fire and, although Atticus had watched their approach to the wall, he was suddenly in awe of the men who had scaled such crude devices to throw themselves against the waiting defenders. He looked to the inner harbour and the tight formation of Carthaginian galleys approaching his command. The town had fallen and soon every ship in Panormus would attempt to break out, many of them in the wake of the galleys, hoping for a breach. Atticus made his decision even as he spoke the command.
‘Signal to the left flank: full attack! Tell them to take the inner harbour. We’ll take the galleys.’
Gaius immediately called for battle speed and the Orcus shot forward from the static formation of the blockade, the galleys on its flank reacting quickly as the signal swept across their decks to be passed down the line.
‘Gaius, target the centre of their formation,’ Atticus commanded, and the helmsman swung the bow through two points. Their best chance was to overwhelm the Carthaginian galleys quickly and decisively, ending all hope of escape amongst the trading ships. Atticus moved to stand beside the tiller, bracing his feet against the pitch of the deck; he felt the crushing monotony of the past three weeks fall away as a spearhead of galleys formed behind the Orcus.
