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 commission. Atticus could only marvel at how fast fortune had transformed the Roman navy. Less than six months ago it was a provincial force of a dozen galleys and the sailors and marines who served in her ranks were treated with contempt by the vaulted legions of the Republic. Now the Classis Romanus, the Roman Fleet, numbered over two hundred galleys, both Roman and captured Carthaginian and the command of her forces was sought after by the elite of Roman society. It was for this reason also, Atticus suspected, that Varro had chosen the Aquila as his flagship, no doubt hoping to emulate the success of Gaius Duilius, Consul of the Roman Senate, who had sailed on the Aquila at Mylae.
Atticus turned to Lucius and repeated the tribune’s order. Within a minute the lifting yard of the mainsail was lowered and the huge canvas was furled and made secure. The lifting yard was quickly re-raised to half mast and swung through ninety degrees to be fastened parallel to the mainmast. The galleys surrounding the Aquila noted the action, the signal of commitment to battle and they followed suit, the order rippling down along the line.
The fleet of thirty galleys tightened up as the harbour mouth approached, an unconscious movement that sharpened the thin edge of the arrow head formation, the manoeuvre bunching the ships together, coiling the energy of their advance, a deadly force that would be unleashed on the unprepared enemy at Thermae.
The rhythmic beat of ten thousand footfalls filled the valley floor, the sound overlain with sporadic clinks of metal on metal as equipment and kit swayed with the repetitive march of five thousand legionaries. Forty maniples of the Ninth Legion had been assigned the task of securing the town of Thermae. They were the ‘Wolves of Rome’, a legion of men who carried with them a near fanatical lust for revenge against the Carthaginian foe who had humiliated them at Makella only months before. The Punici had brought the Ninth to their knees under the double burden of starvation and pestilence, isolating them in hostile territory. The Carthaginian blockade of Sicily had cut the legions off from the supplies of Rome and it was only the naval victory at Mylae that released the stranglehold, and freed the soldiers.
With the threat of starvation lifted the Ninth had slowly regained its strength, the influx of men and equipment, of food and supplies, sweeping away the last vestiges of weakness and vulnerability. The legionaries had kept the wounds open however, constantly picking at the scab to reveal the raw flesh beneath, never allowing the pain to abate fully less they forget the measure of revenge owed to them. Their wound could only be cauterised in the heat of battle, sealed with the blood of their enemy.
Septimus Laetonius Capito, marine centurion of the Aquila, marched with the IV maniple. At six foot four inches and two-hundred and twenty pounds, he stood tall in the front rank but his stride was marked by a slight limp, an injury suffered at Mylae when his demi-maniple of sixty legionaries swept the main deck of the Carthaginian flagship in that bitter and hard-won fight. After the battle Septimus had been amongst the first relief column to reach Makella and rescue the Ninth, the fulfilment of an oath to the man now marching beside him, Marcus Fabius Buteo, centurion of the IV and Septimus’s old commander before he had transferred to the marines. Marcus had a dozen years and a hundred battles on Septimus but his stride matched the youngest men of the legion and his will and discipline outstripped them all.
‘Anything?’ Marcus asked, noticing Septimus’s gaze sweep the hills on either side of their approach, trusting the younger man’s eyesight over his own.
‘Nothing,’ Septimus replied, his voice betraying his unease. ‘No sign on either flank.’
‘Bloody cavalry!’ Marcus spat, he like Septimus keeping any comment of disquiet to himself, knowing his men behind him were in easy earshot.
‘There’s still time,’ Septimus remarked as if to himself.
Marcus grunted a reply in agreement, both men lapsing back into silence.
Septimus shifted his gaze to the head of the column and the mounted figure of Lucius Postumius Megellus, legate and commander of the Ninth and Second legions in Sicily. He rode with his back straight and his head upright, his gaze to a casual observer seemingly transfixed on the town of Thermae now less than a mile away. Septimus knew however he had to be searching surreptitiously for the outriders of the cavalry detachment that protected the flanks of the marching column. They had ridden in as each mile of the approach was covered, reporting each time that the flanks were clear for the next mile of advance. Now they were overdue.
Hamilcar Barca rode with his chest a mere inch from the withers, his body moulded to the shoulders of his mount as horse and rider moved as one. At full tilt the wind rushed in Hamilcar’s ears and the coarse hair of the mane whipped his cheek as his senses were filled with the warm smell of horse sweat and leather. He crooked his head and looked over his shoulder, blinking rapidly to clear the windswept tears from his eyes. Behind him rode five hundred of his men, Carthaginians all, riding with the same fury as their leader, but unable to match the pace of Hamilcar’s Arabian mare, a light horse bred in the desert for speed and stamina, an animal with a proud and fiery temperament that set her apart and above from the other races of horse.
Hamilcar returned his gaze to the ground ahead, judging the lie of the land with a skilled glance before shifting his weight slightly left, a signal to his mount to veer up the gentle slope that screened the Carthaginians from their enemy, the riders behind him matching their commander’s course. A sudden blaze of shame washed over Hamilcar as he rode but instead of suppressing it he nurtured the flame, holding it close to his core where his hatred for the enemy lay. Hamilcar had commanded the right flank at Mylae and had witnessed at first hand the staggering reversal of the once invincible Carthaginian fleet. It was he who issued the general order to retreat, a command both shameful and necessary that dishonoured him and his men. The anger he felt had been partly assuaged when he crucified Hannibal Gisco, the foolhardy and maniacal commander of the fleet, but now it returned anew at the thought of the Roman enemy just beyond his field of vision and he pushed his mount to increase her speed as she fought against the slope of the hill.
‘Captain, signal the fleet, full attack.’
‘Tribune?’ Atticus replied perplexed, spinning around to face the younger man.
‘Full attack, Captain!’ Varro repeated, his expression animated, his eyes restless as his gaze swept the inner harbour.
‘But Tribune,’ Atticus began cautiously, trying to read the young man’s intention. ‘The Carthaginians are heavily outnumbered. If we sent an envoy forward alone it is possible they will surrender without a fight.’
‘Surrender?’ Varro replied, his expression one of genuine shock. ‘Why would we wish for them to surrender? Where is the glory in that? We have come here for battle and by the gods we will have it. Order full attack.’
Atticus nodded but felt it necessary to point out one other important element, wondering if the tribune had considered it. ‘And a rear-guard, Tribune?’ he said, ‘I suggest five galleys from the third
