Master of Rome. John Stack

      Masters of the Sea

      Master of Rome

      John Stack

      Dedication

      For Adrienne

      Contents

       Cover

      Title Page

      Dedication

      Tunis, North Africa. 255 BC

      Chapter One

      The searing wind swept through the streets of Aspis and…

      Chapter Two

      Marcus Aemilius Paullus strode purposefully across the main deck of…

      Chapter Three

      Atticus sat in the stern of the skiff as it…

      Chapter Four

      Gaius Duilius sat motionless as the princeps senatus, the leader…

      Chapter Five

      Atticus stood on the foredeck of the Orcus as the…

      Chapter Six

      Lentulus, the master shipbuilder, stroked the threadlike grey hairs of…

      Chapter Seven

      Regulus walked slowly across the main deck of the Alissar,…

      Chapter Eight

      The quinquereme moved steadily through the crowded sea-lane, its course…

      Chapter Nine

      A single alarm bell was heard across the wide sweep…

      Chapter Ten

      Hamilcar watched impatiently as the small bird circled the tower,…

      Chapter Eleven

      Calix glanced at the wind-driven ripples across the surface of…

      Chapter Twelve

      The sentry pulled the rim of his helmet lower as…

      Chapter Thirteen

      Hamilcar looked out along the length of the city of…

      Chapter Fourteen

      The day dawned under a leaden sky, prolonging the long…

      Chapter Fifteen

      Baro looked anxiously beyond the wake of the Orcus as…

      Chapter Sixteen

      The crowd surged forward, straining against the line of legionaries…

      Chapter Seventeen

      The trading ship moved steadily over the dark sea, its…

      Chapter Eighteen

      Hamilcar looked up at the verdant slopes of the mountain…

      Epilogue

      The chariots moved slowly through the petal-filled air, the horses…

      Historical Note

      Acknowledgements

      About the Author

      Other Books by John Stack

      Credits

      Copyright

      About the Publisher

      TUNIS, NORTH AFRICA. 255 BC

      The colossal animal surged forward against the crack of the bullwhip, its momentum increasing into an unstoppable charge as it bellowed in anger and terror, the scent of men fuelling its rage. It lifted its head and gazed ahead through hooded yellow eyes. The scene before it was a blur of movement, a dark horde that threw up a terrifying wall of sound; the hammering of ten thousand shields, the war cries of a multitude. The elephant bellowed once more, sweeping its scimitar-shaped tusks high into the air as the whip cracked against its hide.

      The ground beneath the beast trembled and shook. Dust smothered its throat, the thirst maddening, while slowly the host before the creature drifted into focus, the mass into individual men. A sharp pain shot through the elephant’s flank and it immediately turned its head to the site of injury, the blood stark against the grey hide. Every instinct called for flight, but years of brutal training demanded obedience and the bullwhip drove the creature on.

      The elephant crashed headlong into a wall of shields and the war cries of men changed to screams of pain, the momentum of the creature’s charge driving it deep into the Roman maniples. The legionaries struck out with shield and sword while overhead volleys of spears rained down to strike deep into exposed flesh, the unceasing pain driving the elephant into frenzied terror. The creature swept its tusks before it, scything through the massed ranks, cutting through flesh and armour. It raised its trunk, a spray of pink blood gushing forth from the fluid filling its punctured lungs, while its feet crashed down on the fallen, crushing bone and cartilage as the death cries of man and beast filled the air.

      The Roman line buckled and caved before the momentum of the elephant charge was absorbed and then slowly repelled, the strength of twelve thousand legionaries pitted against the might of a hundred elephants. The front ranks shattered but fought on, the inescapable fight driving them to mindless courage, with men standing their ground against creatures that killed and maimed relentlessly until the burden of countless wounds drove them to their knees. Those who remained advanced against the Carthaginian phalanx that shadowed the elephant attack, but again the Romans were checked as cries of alarm swept across their lines.

      The Carthaginian horse, four thousand strong, raced across the open ground, the routed Roman cavalry in their wake, the light-horsemen loosing spears at full gallop into the exposed Roman right flank. The maniples turned to engage. The centre became a confusion of commands and alarm as the enemy cavalry swept around the rear of the Roman formation. The legions ceased to advance, the fight on all sides. The order to ‘steady the line’ was given, a desperate command to stand fast, to take strength and fight against all odds.

      The Carthaginians pressed inward, the cavalry driving their mounts ever on against upturned shields, the riders striking down with spear and sword. The maniples stepped back, the fallen trampled under hoof as legionaries struggled to wield their swords in the crush, the men to their rear unable to assist as the battle descended into butchery. In the centre, desperate commanders roared hopeless orders, the ever-tightening vice robbing them of the chance to break out while the battle line closed in from all sides, the Carthaginians advancing relentlessly, giving no quarter, their hatred for the Roman invader feeding their strength and determination as warriors pushed forward to fight in the front line, eager to bloody their swords, the pressure on the Roman lines never abating until the last man fell under Phoenician steel.

      CHAPTER ONE

      The searing wind swept through the streets of Aspis and beyond to the harbour, the parched air whipping the wave crests of the gentle swell into a fine spray, as if greedily clawing at the water after its five-hundred-mile trek across the arid Sahara. Atticus stepped out from the lee of a building into the flow of air and turned his face into the wind, breathing in deeply, sensing the enormity of the mysterious land in darkness before him, the hostile territory of the Carthaginians that pressed against the boundaries of the Roman-held port. He spotted the man he had searched for at the end of the street, and approached, the centurion turning to acknowledge him.

      ‘Cursed wind,’ he said.

      Atticus nodded. ‘The Sirocco,’ he replied, remembering his grandfather’s teaching, and how that same wind shrouded his home city of Locri on the south coast of Italy with oppressive humidity every spring. ‘Any sign?’ he asked.