The Aquila cast off from the dockside as the last of the transport barges weighed anchor and raised sail. The larger vessels moved slowly under sail and Gaius wove the Aquila nimbly through their ranks using the galley’s superior manoeuvrability under oars. Scipio stood alone on the aft-deck, watching the action of the crew around him intently, his journey on the Aquila marking his first time on a galley. The consul was travelling light in comparison to his arrival three days before on one of the transport barges. The confined and valuable space aboard a fighting vessel meant that his entourage consisted of merely his guard commander and four praetoriani with his Nubian slave, Khalil, in attendance. In any other place the reduced guard would be foolhardy, but in the isolation of a galley at sea it seemed almost excessive. The only enemies that threatened him were the Carthaginians and, if the Aquila was somehow attacked in strength, the fact that his guard was four instead of twenty-four would make little difference.
Atticus watched the consul surreptitiously as the Aquila gained the lead on the fleet of barges. Lucius ordered the sail raised, transferring the exertion of the rowers to the wind. The galley’s combination of oars and sail would maintain a slight gap on the barges, keeping her in the van of the flotilla. Septimus joined Atticus on the foredeck.
‘Rome!’ he smiled, and slapped Atticus’s shoulder.
Atticus couldn’t help but smile, his friend’s good mood at returning to his home city infectious.
As a younger man, with the wanderlust of youth powerful in his veins, Atticus had wanted to travel to Rome and all the great cities of the Republic, and from there beyond to the distant shores of the Mediterranean, the great sea that touched all the coastlines of the known world. That ambition had narrowed with age, tempered by realities and his duty to his ship and crew. But the desire to see Rome had always stayed with him, a desire to see the centre of the Republic, to grasp the atmosphere in the city that inspired men to conquer the world around them.
Captain Melus stared at the galley moving effortlessly through the water. The wind had picked up after leaving port and so now, two hours out from Brolium, the galley was still within a mile of the leading ships on the port side of the fleet. Melus had served twenty years on a trading galley, rising to the rank of boatswain. His share of the profit over those years had provided him with the opportunity to purchase a part share in the Onus which, thanks to the campaign on Sicily and the almost constant supply drops, was proving to be a profitable investment. That would all change with the commencement of a blockade and Melus cursed Fortuna for her fickle nature.
Suddenly, as Melus watched, the mainsail of the galley collapsed. Even over the distance of a mile, the captain could see the deck of the galley come alive. Something was wrong.
‘Ship ahead!’
Melus turned. The cry had come from the masthead. He looked up to see the lookout pointing directly ahead of their course. An acid feeling of dread filled his stomach as he rushed forward to the foredeck. Peering out over the rail, he waited to see the reported ship, his viewpoint twenty feet below the masthead making him wait before seeing what the lookout had seen.
‘There,’ his mind screamed, ‘dead ahead.’
He blinked his eyes rapidly to clear them and refocused on the unexpected and yet feared sight in front of him. He couldn’t make out any details beyond the fact that it was directly facing them, its bow pointing like an arrow at his own. It looked like … no, he was certain … it was a galley.
‘Two more ships ahead! A point off starboard and port!’ the lookout called again. Melus could hear fear in the man’s voice at the realization of what he was seeing. Within five seconds he could also see the two ships himself, flanking the first. It was an ambush. There was no doubt and there could be no doubt of who they were.
Melus was about to sound the alarm when he heard the resonating sound of a signalling trumpet from the fleet behind him. In foggy weather these trumpets were used to alert other ships to avoid collisions. In clear conditions their repeated blasts meant mortal danger.
‘Two more ships ahead!’ The lookout’s cries were now frantic. ‘Two points off starboard and port!’
The captain ignored the cries from above, his mind trying to comprehend the warning sounds he was hearing. They weren’t emanating from the ships around him, from those who could also see the ships ahead, but from the rear of the fleet. ‘They can’t have seen them yet,’ his mind was telling him, ‘unless …’ He felt a sharp pain in his lower intestines as terror overtook his emotions.
‘Sweet mercy …’ he whispered at the realization of what was happening. ‘They’re all around us … we’re trapped.’ ‘Prepare for action!’ Atticus roared, his orders overlain with the repeated blasts of warning trumpets from the transport fleet behind. Five galleys could be seen on the horizon, with the lookout reporting four more on the flanks. The Romans had sailed into a perfect trap.
‘Gaius! Two points to starboard. Prepare to sweep. Lucius, orders to below, attack speed!’
‘Hold!’
Atticus turned to see Scipio standing beside him, the consul’s face a mask of fury.
‘Explain yourself, Captain!’
‘I’m going to sweep the portside oars of the outermost galley. If we disable her we’ll open a gap in the line to allow some of the transports to escape,’ Atticus said quickly.
‘To Hades with the transports. Your orders are to escort me safely to Rome!’
‘With all due respect, Consul,’ Atticus growled, his expression hard, ‘we can’t abandon the transports to the Punici. Without our assistance they will be slaughtered to a man.’
‘I am in command of this galley, Captain, and my safety is paramount!’
Atticus stepped forward and leaned in slightly to respond, an instinctive movement to reinforce his argument.
Scipio’s guard commander spotted the move and instantly drew his sword, misreading Atticus’s stance as a prelude to attack. Within a heartbeat the four praetoriani followed suit. Gaius and Lucius drew their own daggers, their reactions instinctive.
Only Atticus and Scipio remained immobile, their faces inches apart, their expressions unwavering. Atticus could feel the blood thumping in his chest, the adrenaline coursing in his veins, his mind racing, his ears filled with the sound of two conflicting voices screaming within him. One called for caution, knowing that Scipio could kill any who disobeyed without remorse or recourse. The other demanded defiance, the fate of hundreds of men in the transport fleet in the balance. To his left and right Scipio’s praetorian guards stood with their swords drawn, outnumbering his crew on the aft-deck, their lives on the brink of forfeiture.
‘Gaius! Hard to port!’ Atticus shouted. His command was met with silence and he turned to the helmsman. Gaius was tensed, his body coiled to release at the first sign of an attack from the praetorian guard opposite him.
‘Now, Gaius!’ Atticus roared, breaking the taut spell that held each man ready on the aft-deck. The helmsman instantly obeyed, sheathing his dagger before leaning on the tiller, turning the bow away from the oncoming Carthaginian galley.
Scipio remained rigid, his eyes focused on Atticus before him, anger still threatening to overwhelm him. With immense will he suppressed the urge to order the captain killed, to expunge this questioning of his authority, this affront to his power. He reasserted his reason, knowing that, at least for now, the captain was invaluable.
‘Stand