him, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his eyes focused two miles ahead on the enemy galleys, watching with the endless patience of a career soldier.
‘You’ll target Barca’s galley?’ Septimus asked, glancing at Atticus, whose gaze was locked on the two convergent fleets.
‘Don’t worry, Septimus,’ he replied, never taking his eyes off the waters ahead. ‘We’ll get him.’
The centurion nodded and looked to his men on the main deck. Once the battle was joined he would have no control over the course of the Orcus, depending entirely on Atticus to get him and his legionaries into the fight, the prefect deciding which galleys to target in the rush of battle. As a soldier, such reliance was second nature, but, as a commander in his own right, Septimus had developed a deep respect for Atticus’s ability. When the fleets engaged, the battle would swiftly descend into a mêlée, and a centurion leading his men over a boarding ramp on to an enemy ship needed to know his line of retreat was secure. Over the years he had fought alongside Atticus, Septimus had never once looked over his shoulder.
‘Barca is doing a bad job of trying to escape,’ he remarked, looking to the headland beyond the Carthaginian galleys.
‘I’m not convinced he is trying to escape,’ Atticus said, giving voice to the doubt that refused to subside.
‘The Carthaginians are no cowards,’ Septimus replied sceptically, ‘but they’re no fools either. The odds against them are too high.’
‘Then why haven’t they increased speed or taken advantage of this tailwind and raised sail?’ Atticus said. ‘Only ships going into battle would keep their mainsails furled.’
Septimus shook his head, unable to answer. ‘Either way,’ he said, putting his helmet on for the first time, ‘it looks like we’re in for a fight.’
Atticus nodded and slapped his friend on the shoulder, knowing the centurion was eager to confront the enemy. Septimus turned and left the aft-deck, taking up his position at the front of his men on the main deck. Drusus saluted smartly before falling into the ranks; the optio, like all of Septimus’s men, was ready for battle.
‘Nabeul,’ Hamilcar said to himself as the Alissar sped past the tiny fishing village, ‘over halfway there.’
He looked to the Roman fleet, now two miles off his starboard beam, their course still convergent with his own, both fleets aiming for the headland ahead. We’re moving too fast, Hamilcar thought, estimating that his own ships would reach the headland before the Romans and he immediately ordered the helmsman to drop to standard speed, the galleys behind the Alissar bunching up slightly as the pace dipped, before the crews brought their ships back into perfect formation.
Hamilcar relayed his orders to the squad commander at the rear of the fleet, keeping the command simple to avoid confusion or an error in signalling. The battle ahead was unavoidably going to be fought on two fronts, with the Carthaginians out numbered on both. Only a quick result would achieve victory, a prolonged fight could only end in defeat.
Hamilcar’s gaze fell across the deck of the Alissar, his men formed into loose ranks, many with their swords drawn as they prepared for battle. He spotted signs of nervousness amongst them – men moving restlessly; others with their gaze locked on the deck – and Hamilcar felt his anger rise anew. Before Ecnomus these same men would have stood resolute before battle, always with their eyes turned to the enemy, willing them on, eager for the fight. Now they were riddled with doubt and Hamilcar realized that his crews might easily panic should the tide of battle turn against them.
He looked to the sea ahead once more, the shoreline filling his vision on the left, the Roman fleet on the periphery on his right, and the headland dead ahead. For Hamilcar, his only hope was to get the larger Roman fleet to disengage and flee. He focused on the waters just beyond the headland, looking to the ally that could give him victory.
We have them, Paullus thought, slamming his fist on to the side rail in triumph. His galleys would reach the headland before the Carthaginians. He looked to the galleys flanking the Concordia, the earlier formation now ragged as ships competed to be first into battle, although none dared to overtake the flagship. The senior consul felt renewed pride in the overt display of confidence and aggression and he called for more speed, spurring his fleet to a greater pace, the thrill of battle surging through him.
The helmsman made minor adjustments to the Concordia’s course, steering the quinquereme to reach just beyond the headland to give the fleet room to turn into the fight and face the Carthaginians head on, allowing them to bring their deadly corvi to bear, the legionaries on every galley already moving forward to form up behind the boarding ramps, many of the soldiers whispering prayers to Mars, the god of war, to give them strength in the battle ahead. Paullus stood firm on the aft-deck, the junior consul beside him, a display of calm authority and steadfast courage in the face of battle. The headland was but a mile away and the enemy was now hopelessly trapped.
Something’s wrong, Atticus thought, his intuition sensing the change before he could confirm it, his eyes turning to the gap between the Orcus and the Carthaginian formation ahead.
‘Gaius,’ he called, turning to the helmsman.
‘I see it,’ he replied, his own gaze locked on the sea ahead. ‘We’re gaining on them.’
The Carthaginians are slowing down, Atticus thought, his instincts screaming alarm, his eyes darting everywhere as he tried to determine the cause. He moved to the tiller, his mind registering the steady drum beat from below decks, the steady pace of battle speed unchanged.
‘Baro, confirm our speed,’ Atticus ordered, and the second-in-command acknowledged the command, calling for a marker to be made ready on the foredeck. He ran to the aft and signalled for the marker to be dropped, counting the seconds until it passed his position. He paused for a moment as he calculated.
‘A shade over eight knots, Prefect,’ Baro said. Battle speed.
‘Something in the water ahead maybe, some hindrance?’ Gaius suggested.
Atticus shook his head. The water was calm, the only disturbance caused by the wakes of the Carthaginian galleys.
‘Barca wants our ships to reach the headland first,’ Atticus said, speaking aloud the only conclusion he could draw.
‘And our galleys will do exactly that,’ Gaius replied, feeling the same sense of alarm as his commander.
‘Baro,’ Atticus said. ‘We need to try and signal—’
‘Aspect change in the Carthaginian formation,’ Corin shouted from the masthead, and all eyes turned immediately to the fore. ‘The rear-guard is turning to engage.’
A squad of twenty-five galleys turned neatly from the rear of the enemy force and away from the coastline, moving swiftly into open water. They were increasing speed, coming about at a terrifying pace, the galleys transformed within seconds from escaping prey to ferocious attackers. Precious seconds passed as Atticus watched the enemy rear-guard deploy.
‘Your orders, Prefect,’ Baro said, an edge to his voice as he waited for the command to deploy the squadron into line of battle to counter the threat.
Atticus ignored the demand, but looked instead to the main Carthaginian formation, their course unchanged, the vanguard of the Roman fleet now obscured by the enemy ships as they swept in before the Carthaginians’ course.
‘Will I order the squadron to deploy, Prefect?’ Baro asked insistently, glancing briefly at Gaius, seeing the helmsman’s body braced for the command to come, his knuckles white on the tiller.
Atticus glanced at the enemy ships sweeping down at an oblique angle, poised to slice into his galleys, their foredecks crowded with Carthaginian warriors, their war cries growing louder with every passing second. His experience called him to order his squadron to turn into the fight, but the words would not come, a deeper instinct staying his command. He looked to the headland where the two main fleets would clash, the place where the battle would be won or lost,