LITMIR.BIZ

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corner of the great sail. Within seconds it began to engulf the entire canvas, the flames licking and then igniting the running rigging and mainmast. The crew of the Onus had been drilled many times in the training that now controlled their actions, their fear of fire fuelling their haste, their bare feet running along the timber deck that the fire above them so desperately craved.

      The fire continued to consume the sail, its appetite fed by the trailing wind and, even as Melus watched, the first fiery sections began to fall to the deck. The men attacked the fallen canvas with fanatic hostility, beating the flames with water-soaked cloths. One man screamed as a burning section of canvas fell on him, igniting his hair and clothes, and he ran aimlessly across the deck before falling over the side rail.

      The deck heeled violently as the Carthaginian galley withdrew her ram and many men fell on the inclined main deck. The entire sail was now aflame and the falling burning pieces overwhelmed the futile efforts of the crew. Melus looked past the burning main deck to the Carthaginian galley. She was resuming her course to the remaining transport barges behind the Onus, her crew cheering at the sight of the sinking Roman ship.

      Melus held on to the tiller tightly as the deck continued to heel over under his feet, the Onus sinking rapidly by the bow. Bitter tears ran freely down his face as shame consumed him, shame for his cowardice, of calling down damnation on his fellow sailors in a bid to save his own life. A rage of frustration and regret overwhelmed him, for he knew he should have stayed on his collision course. The result would have been the complete destruction of the Onus, but Melus now realized their fate had been sealed the moment they sailed from Brolium only hours before. By turning his ship he had lost his only chance to exact some revenge from the Carthaginians for the destruction of his ship and crew, his only chance to send some of the enemy ahead of him to Hades.

      The Melqart increased to attack speed as the helmsman sought out another target. Gisco looked around him at the carnage wrought by his fleet of twenty galleys. Some of his galleys were chasing barges as they attempted to break from the pack and escape, while others had sailed directly into the centre of the transport fleet, causing panic and collisions as they snapped at the heels of the larger vessels.

      Gisco saw a knot of men in the sea ahead: Romans who had jumped from a burning vessel. They were keeping together, helping each other as their ship slipped beneath the waves not twenty feet away.

      ‘Helm, one point to starboard!’ Gisco ordered, the helmsman immediately seeing the intended target. He lined up the Melqart perfectly.

      The ninety-ton galley bore down on the knot of men, one of their number suddenly seeing the approaching galley, his cries alerting the others. Hamilcar watched the enfolding scene without comment, despising the brutality of targeting helpless men in the water. Like all on board he had cheered as the Melqart had made her first kill, revelling in the destruction of the enemy fleet, praising Tanit, the Phoenician goddess of fortune, for the incredible stroke of fate that had delivered the Roman fleet into their hands.

      The frantic pleas of the Romans were cut off as the Melqart struck, many of the archers on the aft-deck running to the stern rail, hoping for survivors. There were none. Hamilcar found himself watching Gisco as the admiral stared at the broken bodies of the Romans in the wake of his ship. He marvelled at the duality of the commander. He was an incredible seaman, the perfection of his trap and his ability to understand and outwit the Roman enemy testament to his skill. But he was also capable of incredible brutality, a burning, insatiable blood lust that demanded a heavy price from the enemy.

      Hamilcar recalled the brief of his appointment, a shadow to extend the reach of the Council of Carthage to ensure there was no repeat of Gisco’s ignominious defeat at Agrigentum. It was a course that Hamilcar had often secretly questioned, wondering why Gisco had been allowed to retain his command. Only now, in the heat of battle, did he fully understand the Council’s logic. If Rome was to be defeated in Sicily, men with Gisco’s ruthlessness would be needed in every battle. In all its five-hundred-year history, Carthage had never relinquished a dominion to any enemy. Sicily could not become an exception.

      Gisco turned as the Roman sailors slipped beneath the waves, immediately noticing Hamilcar’s gaze. The younger man continued to stare, a new commitment to forge a unified command welling up within him. Gisco noted the expression and mistook it for a shared satisfaction over the death of the helpless Roman sailors.

      ‘This will send a message to Rome and her legions,’ Gisco said, the fire of victory in his words. ‘From this moment, from this day, the seas belong to Carthage.’

      Hamilcar nodded, bridging the gulf of honour between them with the common belief in their cause.

      ‘We have become messengers of Mot, the god of death. His message is: Death to the Romans.’

      Hamilcar’s expression remained hard as he absorbed the words, the finality and the determination of the battle-hardened man before him. Gisco fought out of hatred for the enemy, Hamilcar because of his belief in Carthage. In the end their objective was the same, a connection forged as Hamilcar repeated Gisco’s vow.

      ‘Death to the Romans!’

      The Aquila swept northwards through empty seas, her sail raised at the end of a long day, the slaves below deck resting at their posts, their bodies draped over the oars that defined their existence. Atticus stood on the aft-deck, staring out at the rapidly descending sun in the western sky. He was joined there by Septimus, the two men talking silently, their thoughts with the transport fleet lost over the horizon.

      The sky was burnt red by the fading sun’s light, the sight a fitting backdrop to the day’s slaughter, as if the gods were accepting the souls of the dead, their passage to Elysium marked by the bloodstained sky. Atticus had watched the earlier battle for as long as possible, the details rapidly blurring as the Aquila escaped unopposed, until all that remained in view was a huge pall of black smoke. It was a sight that shamed him and the centurion who had stood beside him in silence.

      The breeze was light in Atticus’s face as he turned away from the sunset to look out over the quiet deck of his ship. He had been on the aft-deck all day, over fourteen hours in total. Throughout the day his stamina had been fuelled by anger, by bitter frustration at his inability to wield the fearsome weapon under his feet in defence of his countrymen who were dying in their droves just beyond his reach. That stamina was now waning, the battle already becoming a single entity in his mind rather than a series of individual horrors.

      Scipio had gone below as soon as the Aquila had secured her escape, Atticus noticing that the senior consul had never once looked back at the condemned fleet. He replayed in his mind his earlier confrontation with the consul and, although he realized his challenge to Scipio’s authority had been foolhardy, Atticus was also convinced his argument had been just and honourable. The thought of Scipio’s cold detachment from the fate of the transport fleet reignited Atticus’s latent anger and he cast aside his unease at the repercussions of challenging the consul’s order.

      Atticus’s thoughts turned to the Punici. Their blockade had not been expected to materialize for weeks, but somehow they had located the Romans’ supply hub and had caught the Romans unawares, driving a wedge between Sicily and the mainland, a separation which spelled death for forty thousand Roman legionaries.

      Atticus re-examined their trap, the sky darkening around him. It had been perfect, a true mark of their incredible seamanship. Coupled with this deadly skill, the Carthaginians, having built their empire on the back of their fleet, had scores of galleys in addition to the fifty Atticus had seen. Now, all that naval power was weighted against the dozen triremes of the Roman Republic; lighter smaller galleys designed for coastal patrol and skirmishing. The odds were insurmountable.

      As the Aquila fled north, the first stars began to appear in the evening sky. Their arrival gave Gaius his first opportunity to accurately set the Aquila’s heading, and Atticus felt the deck heel slightly under his feet as the adjustment was made. Their course was now firmly fixed for Rome.

       CHAPTER

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