LITMIR.BIZ

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Scipio said, his voice low and menacing. He drew Atticus over to the side rail.

      ‘This ship belongs to Rome, Captain, and on this ship I am Rome. This crew may look to you for command. But make no mistake, Perennis, I command here. Do not hesitate to follow my orders again.’

      ‘Yes, Consul,’ Atticus replied, suppressing the last of his defiance, allowing the consul to bend him to his superior will.

      ‘Attack speed!’ Gisco ordered with relish. ‘Steer an intercept course for the lead barge.’

      The Melqart came alive under his feet, its two hundred and seventy rowers on four levels bending their backs to the task of bringing the quinquereme up to attack speed. ‘Like sheep to the slaughter,’ Gisco thought, with a smile as the rising rhythm of the oar-strokes matched the rising tempo of the blood pumping in his veins. There was no escape for the Romans. By now the other quinqueremes would be closing the trap behind the transport fleet, cutting off their escape back to Brolium. Against unarmed barges the fight would be no more than practice for the helmsman of each galley, a chance to exercise their skill at ramming and withdrawing from enemy ships. Gisco estimated the fleet at well over two dozen barges. Far off to his right a lone galley was preceding the transport fleet, her course set to collide with the far right flank of the Carthaginian attack. Gisco regretted that the Roman galley was not within easy range for his ship but then dismissed the thought. There would be plenty of Roman blood spilled on the waters this day.

      ‘Maintain course!’ Melus roared to the aft-deck.

      The gap between his barge and the Carthaginian ships ahead was closing rapidly as the Onus set her bow against the centre galley. The sound of breaking timbers caused him to tear his eyes from the approaching galleys to the fleet behind him. Two transport barges had collided, their frantic efforts to escape causing them to accidentally turn into each other. They’re dead men, Melus thought with finality, knowing that the crew of the Onus would surely follow them to Elysium if he could not find a way out of the trap.

      Melus’s twenty years’ experience on trading galleys flashed through his mind. There was only one chance. The galleys were better armed but the transport barges were bigger, almost twice the size of a quinquereme. Against ships that size, Melus knew the galleys could not ram them head on. They could only attack, and ram, on the flanks. His only chance was to run directly at the ship approaching him and hope that the Carthaginian would turn.

      Strange, Gisco thought, noticing the barge his galley was targeting had not turned. She was coming directly for the Melqart, the gap down to two hundred yards and closing rapidly. Gisco instinctively braced as he contemplated a head-on collision with the larger ship. The adrenaline in his blood coursed through him, picturing the Melqart striking the barge through the bow at ramming speed. The collision would be terrifying, the combined speed of both vessels nearly twenty knots. The Melqart would survive, of that Gisco had no doubt, but the damage would be catastrophic and casualties high. But what of the story? he thought. What of the story sweeping through the fleet of how Gisco had faced a ship twice the size of his own and rammed her through the bow? No one would ever doubt the courage of Hannibal Gisco.

      ‘Ramming speed!’ Gisco bellowed. ‘Prepare for impact!

      ‘Cronus!’ Gisco’s commander of his personal guard was instantly at his side.

      ‘Commander, station two of your men on the aft-deck. If the helmsman alters course against my orders, run him through!’

      ‘Yes, Admiral,’ Cronus replied and was gone.

      Gisco’s will hardened as the Melqart came to her top speed.

      The Aquila swept across the bow of the Carthaginian galley at a distance of two hundred yards. Atticus waited for the enemy ship to alter her course to intercept, willing the Carthaginian to turn, to force the engagement, thereby allowing Atticus to circumvent the consul’s orders. The Carthaginian vessel stayed unerringly on course, the prospect of so many more vulnerable targets too great a temptation for the Carthaginian commander. Atticus cursed at the clear waters ahead of his galley. Over his shoulder the transport fleet was now in utter chaos, with every barge seeking to escape the Carthaginians’ trap. Lacking the speed and manoeuvrability of the enemy galleys, their attempts to flee were hopeless.

      The Carthaginian galley was not turning. She was not altering her course. Melus replayed his plan in his mind and could find no flaw in his thinking. The Carthaginian should turn. A head-on collision would cause tremendous damage to the galley, damage that could easily be avoided if they turned and pursued.

      ‘She is commanded by a madman,’ Melus thought, his shaking hand holding the tiller, doubt and fear assailing him. He measured the distance between the converging ships. The enemy galley was one hundred yards ahead, her bow arrow-like on its determined course.

      Eighty yards.

      Melus could clearly hear the unchecked drum beat of ramming speed, the sound unnerving, shattering the confidence of his earlier conviction.

      Sixty yards.

      A sudden urge to turn and run tore through Melus and he closed his eyes to suppress it, clinging to the belief that there was still a chance the Carthaginian would flinch.

      Forty yards.

      Melus opened his eyes. The prow of the Carthaginian galley filled his vision, its insistent course unerring. His breath froze in his throat as his nerve collapsed, his wits fleeing before the sight in his mind of the destruction of the Onus and her crew, a fate that could not be endured, a fate that could yet be avoided if he turned …

      Melus threw his whole weight behind the tiller, heeling the Onus hard over to port. With the wind dead astern, the barge reacted instantly, her bow swinging quickly across the course of the approaching galley. The captain braced himself against the tiller, willing his ship to respond faster. His eyes remained locked on the Carthaginian galley, on the six-foot bronze ram screaming towards them at wave height, praying she would remain on her original course, the sight of so many other targets too great a temptation.

      The voice in his head roared in rage and fear, ‘Take them, not me. Kill them but spare me—’

      His silent cries were cut short by the sight of the ram swinging around to centre itself on the exposed hull of the Onus.

      Gisco cursed as the Roman barge broke off her line to a head-on collision. He was standing firm on the aft-deck of the Melqart, his whole body tensed in anticipation, his mind locked on the thought of the bronze ram sinking deep into the bow of the transport barge, a near-suicidal blow that would rock both ships to their cores. He took precious seconds to react to the unexpected reprieve before his mind roared at him to take action.

      ‘Hard to starboard! Ram amidships!’

      The Melqart swung immediately onto its final course, the oncoming wind-driven waves breaking over the ram.

      The quinquereme struck the transport barge at a speed of thirteen knots, the six-inch squared blunt nose of the bronze ram splintering the oaken hull of the barge, the momentum of the ninety-ton galley driving the point deeply into the bowels of the larger ship. The force of the impact was absorbed by the keel of the galley, but the sudden loss of speed caused the rowers to lose all coordination and the Melqart came to a complete stop.

      ‘Archers!’ Gisco roared, and immediately ignited, resin-soaked arrows flew from the main deck of the galley to target the enormous mainsail of the stricken barge. For a second nothing happened, the arrows seemingly ineffective, then small flames appeared as if from nowhere on the huge canvas of sail. The flames held and then exploded as they began to consume the sail.

      ‘Withdraw!’

      The orders to the slave deck were concise and well practised and the Melqart slowly reversed, her ram withdrawing from the mortally wounded ship, the water rushing past it into the gaping hole below the waterline.

      ‘Cut her down! … For the love of Fortuna cut her down before it spreads!’

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