Masters of the SeaCaptain of Rome
John Stack
To my children, Zoe, Andrew and Amy, with affection and gratitude. I love you.
Table of Contents
‘Battle speed!’
The Aquila sprung to life at Atticus’s shouted command, the ram-tipped bow of the Roman trireme slicing cleanly through the wave tops as the galley accelerated to seven knots, the drum master’s beat commanding the actions of two hundred chained slaves, a multitude working as one. The order was repeated on the aft-decks of the galleys surrounding the Aquila and the captain noted with satisfaction that the once inexperienced crews of the ships flanking his own now moved with alacrity and purpose. There were thirty galleys in total, each one based on the new cataphract design, although the Aquila bore subtle differences that set her apart and spoke of her experience; healed scars from forgotten skirmishes, timbers weathered by a hundred storms.
‘Two points to starboard!’ Atticus commanded.
Gaius, the helmsman, adjusted the Aquila’s trim, lining her up with the centre of the harbour mouth.
The Carthaginian-held port town of Thermae was nestled neatly beyond the enfolding headlands that protected the inner waters, her docks home to a fleet of enemy galleys and transport ships, their number beyond counting. Atticus moved to the side rail of the aft-deck, leaning out to look beyond the corvus boarding ramp that now dominated the foredeck of the Aquila. He instinctively cursed the unsightly device, its bulk out of place on the otherwise unobstructed foredeck, the arrow-like lines of the galley distorted by the new addition.
‘Masthead…report!’ Atticus shouted, his green eyes drawn upwards to the lookout and the figure of Corin standing precariously over the lifting yard fifty feet above. The youngest member of the crew was a fellow Greek from the city of Locri. His eyesight was akin to an eagle and he paused before replying to confirm his estimate.
‘No more than ten galleys! One quinquereme! Roughly twenty transport ships!’
Atticus nodded and turned to search for Lucius, his second-in-command. The familiar figure was striding across the aft-deck, his restless eyes continually ranging over the deck of the Aquila, noting every action of the crew, his forty-five years resting easily on his solid frame.
‘You there, Baro?’ he roared as he went, ‘One cubit on the starboard aft running line.’ The crewman reacted instantly, two additional men rushing to his aid as the sail was given an extra degree of tautness.
Atticus nodded to Lucius who immediately came to his captain’s side.
‘What’s your assessment Lucius?’ he asked, drawing on the older man’s experience; a knowledge that seemed to encompass many lifetimes.
‘It’s exactly as reported. One squad. Minimal activity.’ Lucius replied with a scowl, his expression troubled.
‘And…’ Atticus prompted, sensing the unease.
‘When have you ever known a report to be so exact, Captain?’
Atticus nodded, considering Lucius’s unspoken opinion. Since the Roman victory at Mylae three months before, all enemy activity on the northern coast of Sicily had dissipated, both on land and sea, and the Roman transports plying weekly from Brolium to Rome sailed unhindered through empty sea lanes.
Atticus looked to port and the rapidly rising sun an hour above the eastern horizon. It shone white behind a veil of light cloud and the surface of the sea split the morning light into a million shards, glare upon glare until Atticus was forced to look away, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. He looked starboard to an equally empty western horizon, the shoreline bleeding away until it was lost behind the curve of a distant headland. It was as if the Carthaginians had all but abandoned northern Sicily to the Romans.
‘Well, Captain?’ Atticus heard, turning to see Titus Aurelius Varro, the tribune and commander of the attack fleet of thirty galleys, crossing the aft-deck towards him, leaving a huddled group of four senators in his wake.
‘Enemy numbers as reported, Tribune.’ Atticus replied, the tone of his words voicing his underlying uncertainty.
‘Excellent!’ Varro replied, slapping his hands together, not understanding the sub-text. ‘Well then, ready the ship for battle.’
‘Yes, Tribune.’ Atticus saluted, his face betraying none of his inner thoughts.
Titus Aurelius Varro was a young man, not yet twenty, but his father was a senior senator and magistrate and it was rumoured amongst the fleet commanders that he had paid a king’s ransom for his son’s