Mars.
Scipio watched through the mists of his own anger as the last of the disillusioned crew went back to work. He strode to the side rail, past the cowering priest who was trying to avoid the consul’s wrath. The birds were lost from sight somewhere in the wake of the Poena and Scipio felt the cold hand of doubt close over him once more. He crushed it mercilessly, banishing the ill omen of the ceremony from his mind, dismissing it for what he had always believed it to be, a superstition from an ancient, unenlightened time. He redirected his anger, letting it fill the void caused by his lost confidence, using it to steel his will. Perennis had precipitated this weakness, the Greek whoreson whom Scipio now realized he should have disposed of months before, despite his usefulness.
He looked to the brightening horizon, and the long line of Roman galleys sailing northward towards the enemy at Drepana. The battle was at hand, the odds unchanged, and victory was within Scipio’s grasp. He would triumph this day and, after the last Roman blade had been drawn across Carthaginian flesh, Scipio vowed he would turn that steel against Perennis.
Drepana slumbered unawares, with much of the city still enveloped in the fading darkness of early dawn, the shadows giving way slowly under a dawn light struggling to overcome the heavy cloud cover. The city was built on a peninsula that stretched westward out to sea, and Atticus looked slowly along its entire length, his eyes moving upwards to the lines of trailing smoke that marked the first cooking fires of the day, and the dying torches on the battlements of the city walls. All was quiet and Atticus nodded grimly with satisfaction. The night approach had succeeded, no warning had been received in Drepana by land; but as Atticus turned to look behind him, he conceded that the price of that success had been significant.
The Roman fleet was strung out in a loose formation that reached to the southern horizon and, although the individual captains of Atticus’s squadron were already closing ranks, beyond this vanguard the fleet was in complete disorder. Drepana’s inner harbour was but three miles away; if the Carthaginians were to be blockaded in the narrow inlet at the base of the peninsula, the Romans would need to strike with the force of a clenched fist, not with an open-handed cuff. He looked to the four points of his galley. The choice was clear. Slow his advance to allow the fleet to coalesce and concentrate its strength and run the risk of the element of surprise being lost, or strike now with the vanguard alone, a force that might be inadequate to the task.
‘Enemy galleys off the port bow. Two miles.’
Atticus followed Corin’s call and immediately spotted the darkened hulls of the two patrol galleys. They were sailing in the lee of the two elongated islands beyond the tip of the peninsula. As Atticus watched, they turned their bows eastwards in the direction of the inner harbour, the galleys becoming almost invisible as they sailed under the shadows of the city walls.
Atticus cursed. Fortuna had usurped his choice and forced his hand. ‘Battle speed,’ he shouted.
The crew rushed to secure the mainsail for battle. Drusus ordered the legionaries to form ranks. The restlessness of a night’s sailing was thrown off. The squadron was signalled and, before a mile was covered, the Orcus was sailing at the tip of a slowly forming spearhead.
Atticus stepped to the side rail and leaned out over the water. The wind had fallen away but the speed of the galley swept the cold morning air over his face. He looked down the length of the hull to the bronze ram slicing through the lead-coloured waves and studied the swell, judging the strength of the tide. It was on the turn, offering no advantage to either side. He looked beyond. The patrol galleys were entering the inner harbour at what was at least attack speed, a perilous pace given the narrow approach.
Atticus realized that everything now depended on the calibre of the Carthaginian commander. If he was competent, the enemy fleet would stand ready to slip their anchors at a moment’s notice; if not, then Atticus had a reasonable chance of ending the battle before it could begin. He glanced over his shoulder. The vanguard was still not fully formed, the fleet beyond too far out of position to assist. His squadron would meet the enemy alone. He smiled grimly as he turned to the helm. He had known worse odds.
‘Patrol ships returning at attack speed,’ the lookout called, and Hamilcar ran the length of the Alissar to the foredeck, leaning out over the rail to look to the entrance of the inner harbour.
‘All commands, battle stations,’ he shouted without hesitation, his gaze locked on the approaching galleys, their reckless pace alerting him to the unseen danger.
The Carthaginian crews reacted quickly, the general order sweeping down the length of the anchored fleet. The Alissar slipped its stern line and shoved off, her oars finding firm purchase in the deep-water inlet. Her bow swung out of the anchored formation, the patrol ships adjusting their course as they saw the flagship emerge from the ranks.
Hamilcar watched the fleet come alive with a critical eye, looking to each galley in turn. The Gadir fleet had been poised to sail for the past two days, awaiting only a favourable wind to carry them to the Aegates Islands, where they would make their final preparations before sailing to Lilybaeum, there to be unleashed upon the unsuspecting Roman blockade. The men were prepared for a battle in a distant port, not in the narrows of Drepana, but they were responding to the unexpected order without panic, their urgency tightly controlled as each galley became a drawn bow, ready to be loosed upon the enemy.
The Alissar sailed down the length of the fleet, many of the men cheering as the flagship swept past their bow, but Hamilcar ignored their calls, his eyes locked on the approaching patrol ships. He moved to the foredeck as the order for ‘all stop’ was given on all three converging ships, and he listened intently to the captains’ reports, making his decisions even as they finished, ignoring the inner voice in his mind that cursed the vicissitude of Tanit, the fickle goddess of fate who had somehow reversed his plans to surprise attack the Romans.
He looked to the entrance of the inlet. Escape was the first priority and he ordered the Alissar to restart at battle speed, the order flashing down the length of the fleet, the report of enemy sighted and the flagship’s lead pressing the men to greater speed.
The Alissar neared the entrance and Hamilcar anxiously counted the yards left to cover, glancing over his shoulder at the fleet rapidly forming in the wake of the flagship. The inlet was no more than two hundred yards across at its widest point, a safe anchorage in foul weather but a deathtrap in battle, and he whispered a silent prayer to Anath to grant him the time he needed to extract his fleet from the jaws of captivity.
Hamilcar ran to the portside rail as the Alissar breached the mouth of the inlet, his gaze taking in the entire vista of the southern approaches to Drepana before he could draw a single breath. A spearhead of Roman galleys was but half a mile away, approaching at attack speed, the galleys rigged for battle, and Hamilcar cursed the sight, slamming his hand on the side rail. The fleet would escape the inlet but the initiative was lost, and with its loss, the fate of Drepana hung in the balance. He searched his mind for a strategy to reverse the Romans’ ascendancy, but the sight of the Roman fleet behind the spearhead stopped him short, the advance of the Alissar affording him a better view with each passing oar stroke.
The enemy ships were scattered across the southern approaches, an inexplicable arrangement that for many seconds eluded Hamilcar’s comprehension, until he realized that it was accidental, caused by the Romans’ inability to maintain shape during their night approach. He smiled savagely and looked back to the tight formation of the Gadir fleet, the galleys sailing with only yards between them, even though they were advancing at attack speed, the incredible skill of each helmsman matched by those fore and aft of his position.
He turned to the Roman spearhead, now less than a hundred yards from the entrance of the inner harbour. No more than forty ships, too few to stop the escape of the Gadir fleet, and Hamilcar repentantly withdrew his censure of Tanit, knowing that had the entire Roman fleet kept pace with the vanguard, his ships would have been annihilated in the bottleneck of the inlet. He glanced once more at the spearhead, ready to dismiss it, when he suddenly recognized the lead ship, his immediate fury sending his hand instinctively to the hilt of his sword. It was Perennis’s ship. The cursed Greek was leading the vanguard, and Hamilcar spun around to face the helmsman, tempted to turn the Alissar into the path of the spearhead.
He cursed loudly and turned to stare at the enemy once more. To attack the Roman vanguard would be to abandon the chance granted to him by the chaos of the enemy fleet. Its destruction was his priority, and for that he needed to extract his entire fleet from the inner harbour. The battle would be joined, the Gadir fleet unleashed, but Hamilcar now had a further objective. As the Alissar continued west under the shadow of Drepana, his eyes remained locked on his sworn enemy.
Atticus strode across the deck to the helm as the Orcus reached the southern edge of the inner harbour, his hand kneading the handle of his sword, his frustration of only minutes before — at seeing the leading galleys of the Carthaginian fleet emerge from the inlet — being slowly replaced with a sense of relief. The enemy seemed intent on escaping, sailing in a line astern formation a mere two hundred yards away at the other side of the inlet. Already
