Atticus now knew where the heart of the enemy lay. ‘Helmsman, forget the ramming run. Prepare to sweep the starboard oars,’ he shouted, and the order was carried forward to the rowing deck as the gap fell to twenty yards. The Orcus had gained the angle to ram but Atticus was sacrificing it to avoid the entanglement, needing to get beyond the battle line so he could seek out Barca’s galley. Catulus looked on without a word, not understanding the sudden change, putting his trust in the Greek commander.
‘Centurion Capito to the aft-deck,’ Atticus called, and he saw Septimus respond immediately.
Ten yards.
‘Withdraw!’ Atticus roared, and the helmsman leaned into the tiller, decreasing the angle of attack to stop the ram from penetrating.
The Orcus struck the bow quarter of the enemy galley as Septimus reached the aft-deck, the shuddering blow knocking him off balance, and Atticus shot out his arm to grab him. The ram glanced cleanly off the strake timbers, swinging the stern of the Orcus around. The momentum of her charge carried her down the length of the Carthaginian galley, her cutwater snapping off its starboard oars, the unexpected change of attack throwing the enemy crew into confusion.
‘All oars, re-engage,’ Atticus shouted as the stern emerged into open water and the Orcus continued on, the sea clear all the way to the fringes of the western horizon.
Catulus looked over his shoulder to the crippled Carthaginian galley, its crew shouting challenges to return, their individual voices lost amidst the deafening noise of battle — the sound of galleys striking deadly blows against each other, the crack of timbers and the screams of men. He spun around to Atticus, baffled by the decision to alter their attack at the last moment.
‘Why did we not ram?’ he asked. ‘The marines were ready to board. Now that ship will escape under canvas.’
‘Let them,’ Atticus replied. ‘They are minnows, and I have seen the heart of the enemy.’
He turned to Septimus
‘Barca’s galley is there,’ he said in explanation, pointing to a nearby melee of ships. ‘And we’re going to take her.’
Septimus nodded, agreeing without question, though he knew the flagship would be the most heavily manned galley, remembering the enemy command ship at Mylae.
Atticus ordered the helmsman to bring the ship around and the Orcus turned broadside to the swell before neatly coming about, giving Atticus an uninterrupted view of the battle. It was chaotic, as he knew it would be, but for an instant he thought the Roman fleet looked to have the upper hand, a judgement he knew was fraught with hope. He focused on the confusion of galleys off the port bow quarter, searching for his prey. He thought again of Corin, whose sharp eyes would have seen Barca’s galley by now, and Gaius, whose deft touch on the tiller would have sent the Orcus, like the arrow that slew him, into the heart of the enemy.
Within seconds he saw it again, Barca’s ship, withdrawing its ram from a stricken Roman galley. He shouted the course change to the helmsman, calling once more for ramming speed. The Orcus bore down into the attack, its ram smashing through each rushing wave.
‘You have the aft-deck,’ Atticus said to the helmsman, and he brought his hand to the hilt of his sword as he strode to the main deck, gathering up a hoplon shield as he came up to stand by Septimus’s side. The centurion glanced at his friend and nodded, understanding Atticus’s need to see this fight through to the end.
Septimus looked to the waters ahead and Barca’s galley, the enemy as yet unaware of the Orcus, since its attack run was coming from the reverse side of the battle line. He drew his sword, an action followed by Drusus, his prompt order bringing the legionaries to the cusp of battle, their swords singing out as they swept the blades from their scabbards.
Septimus turned to his men, holding his sword aloft. ‘For Rome!’ he shouted, and the men cheered as one, hammering the back of their shields with their swords, the noise coming to a deafening roar that put steel in each man’s heart for the brutal fight ahead.
‘And for her fallen,’ Atticus said to himself as he drew his own sword amidst the cheering of the legionaries.
The Alissar re-engaged her oars at attack speed, the helmsman swinging the bow away from the flagship’s first blood and Hamilcar cheered in triumph with his crew, memories of Drepana flooding his mind, and the incredible prize that was once more there for the taking, an entire Roman fleet ripe for capture. He looked to the battle beyond the Alissar, already forming in his mind the signal he would send to his ships to ensure that most of the Roman galleys be spared from sinking; but, as he looked out over the portside rail, the smile died on his face.
Not thirty yards away, one of his ships was being overwhelmed by a Roman boarding party, the attack being repeated on a dozen other galleys within his range of view, while others had fallen victim to Roman ramming runs. His own galleys had scored only a handful of hits. Even where they had boarded, the Roman legionaries were pushing back the assault and reversing the attack.
Hamilcar put his hands on the rail for support, a terrible dread overwhelming him. He had believed his understrength crews would still outmatch the hapless Romans, his faith based on his crushing victory at Drepana, but the enemy had come out fighting, somehow overcoming their previous inadequacies in seamanship and naval combat. The doubts that had consumed him after Ecnomus flooded back, deriding him for his blind faith in Carthage’s naval superiority. He felt helpless. How could he defeat such a foe? He had crushed their army at Tunis and their fleet at Drepana. The gods had commanded a tempest to shatter their galleys, and yet each time the Romans had returned, each time eager to fight on, rebuffing any talk of peace, their navy ever renewed, ever undaunted, relentlessly sailing out against every fleet Hamilcar could muster, their strength of will an unconquerable force that knew no bounds.
In the past the Romans had succeeded using their cursed boarding ramps, or at Hermaeum using sheer weight of numbers, but at Drepana Carthage had finally been able to use the one advantage they had always possessed, seamanship, and the result was complete victory. Now it seemed that their one advantage had been surpassed. How had the Romans channelled their resources and strength of will to create a fleet that could outmatch one from the home waters of Carthage, and who amongst them could command such a force?
‘Galley on a ramming course off the starboard beam,’ the lookout called frantically and Hamilcar spun around.
A lone galley sailed stark against the empty seascape, approaching on an unanticipated angle of attack that only the vigilant lookout had spotted, the entire crew sharing their commander’s interest in events on the port side. Hamilcar was stunned and he lost vital seconds as the Roman galley came to within a hundred yards of the Alissar.
‘Hard to starboard, turn into her,’ Hamilcar roared, his wits returning, and he ran to the tiller, putting his weight behind the helmsman’s turn. ‘Ramming speed!’
The Alissar came about swiftly, the sweep of the battle line passing before her bow. Hamilcar kept his eyes on the ram of the lone galley, watching it as it turned inside the Alissar ’s turn, its course ever locked amidships of his galley. His gaze swept up and suddenly his hand fell from the tiller, the sight of the masthead banners triggering an automatic grab for the hilt of his sword.
The Greek’s ship. Perennis.
He was alive, and in an instant Hamilcar’s questions were answered, his doubts falling away to be replaced by cold determination. Here was the enemy: not the forces of Rome, but the demon who had honed their strength.
The gap fell to fifty yards and Hamilcar ran to the main deck, his sword clearing his scabbard as he ran.
‘All hands, brace for impact,’ he shouted. ‘Prepare to repel boarders.’
He moved to the starboard rail, his men bunching behind him, ready for the assault. The oncoming galley filled his field of vision and he threw up his shield as a black rain of spears erupted from the bow of the Greek’s ship, falling heavily on his crew, the barbs finding prey in the massed ranks. His crew yelled in pain and anger, defiance steeling their nerves, and they called on the inexorable fight, eager to repay every injury, every drop of blood.
Hamilcar let them roar, his own mouth clamped shut in a thin line of hatred. The fate of his fleet might be beyond his control. The Alissar was moments from damnation and he could not save her. But Hamilcar vowed that if on this day he should pass under the hand of Mot, the god of death, he would not go alone. The Greek would go before him.
