Ship of Rome. John Stack

somewhere along the coastline, invisible behind the fog…’

      Gisco stared at the Roman trireme and double-checked his estimate of their course. It puzzled him. ‘That doesn’t make sense,’ he thought, ‘why not run parallel to the coast, why halve their lead on us?’

      Gisco clambered down the rigging to the deck twenty feet below. The instant his feet hit the deck he took stock of his surroundings. The crew were frantically clearing the deck for battle. They were good, he noticed, well drilled and efficient.

      He could see the captain on the foredeck, no doubt looking for him.

      ‘Captain!’ he shouted.

      The man turned and strode towards him. ‘Yes, Admiral?’

      ‘What do you make of her, Captain?’

      ‘Roman for sure, probably coastal patrol, maybe thirty crew and a reduced century of marines. She’s fast, doing battle speed now, and she cuts the water well. She’s lighter than one of our own, maybe a couple of knots faster at her top speed.’

      Gisco wondered if the captain had noticed their course. ‘Anything else?’ he asked.

      ‘Yes, she’s commanded by a fool. If he holds his current course he’s giving us an even chance of catching him.’

      Gisco turned away from the captain and spied the Roman galley again. She was ahead, about forty degrees off their starboard bow, but instead of running parallel to the Elissar’s course and maintaining her lead, she was running on a converging course that would take her across the bow of the Elissar at a distance of approximately three hundred yards.

      ‘Captain, alter your course, two points starboard.’

      The captain issued the order to a runner who set off at speed to the helmsman at the stern of the ship. The ship altered course slightly and Gisco nodded with satisfaction when he noted the other two triremes instantly responding to the new heading. He turned again to look ahead. The captain was right on one count – the Roman was a fool; but he was wrong on the other: their odds of catching them were a lot better than evens.

      ‘Shall I increase to attack speed, Admiral?’

      At first Gisco did not hear the question. All his senses focused on the Roman galley, now four hundred yards ahead on his right. ‘He must know he is eating up his advantage with every oar-stroke by now,’ he thought. ‘Where is he running to?’

      ‘Shall I increase speed?’ the captain asked again.

      ‘What?’ Gisco answered irritably, his mind replaying the captain’s words that he had heard but not listened to, allowing them to form in his mind.

      ‘No, maintain course and speed. If we increase, the Roman may alter course and run before us, matching us stroke for stroke. We’ll let him shorten his lead in his own good time. Then we’ll take him.’

      Septimus moved towards the foredeck. He had noticed the course correction when they emerged from the fog and had been instantly alarmed. What the hell was Atticus doing? He trusted the captain but their course seemed like madness. Atticus was joined on the foredeck by Lucius, and the two men were deep in conversation. The second-in-command was ten years older than Atticus. He was a small bull of a man, solid and unyielding. A sailor all his life, he too was a native of the Calabrian coast. He was known as a tough disciplinarian, but he was fair, and all the crew, especially Atticus, respected his judgement. As he spoke with the captain, he occasionally pointed ahead to the distant shoreline across the strait.

      ‘There,’ Septimus could hear him as he approached, ‘about two points off the starboard bow, you can see the breakers now.’

      ‘Yes, that’s where I thought. Lucius, take command on the steering deck. Have Gaius follow my signals once the Carthaginians fall in behind us. Make sure he doesn’t take his eyes off me. The course corrections need to be immediate.’

      ‘Yes, Captain,’ Lucius said, and hurried past the approaching centurion.

      ‘Your men in place, Septimus? Remember, once the Carthaginians get behind us you can expect some incoming fire from their archers. It’s imperative that my helmsman has all his attention on his job, I don’t need him worrying about taking an arrow between his shoulder-blades.’

      ‘Yes, they are. But why the course change, Atticus? We’re halving our lead.’

      Atticus did not immediately answer. He looked back at the approaching galleys, two points off his port stern, a little over three hundred yards behind. Within seconds they would be running dead astern.

      ‘Septimus, we can’t simply run, they’ll catch us before we breach the mouth of the strait. One ship can’t outrun three.’

      ‘Why the hell not? They’re all triremes, surely you could match them stroke for stroke. I’ve seen how you run your slave deck. Those men are all fit. With your reserve of forty rowers they could maintain battle speed for at least another hour. The Carthaginians would never have closed a gap of five hundred yards before we reached the mouth of the strait.’

      Atticus shook his head. ‘Think it through. If you were one of three men pursuing another and all were evenly matched in stamina, how would you run your prey down?’

      Septimus thought for a moment. He turned to face the three galleys astern. One was in the lead with the other two off its port and starboard stern quarters. They were matching the lead ship stroke for stroke, as if they moved as one. But they’re not one, Septimus thought. They’re three. The commander of the vanguard did not need to run his ships at the same pace. Even with two galleys they sufficiently outnumbered the Aquila to ensure victory. One ship could be sacrificed.

      ‘We can’t outrun them,’ Septimus said aloud. ‘They’ll sacrifice one ship to run us down.’

      Atticus nodded, his eyes never leaving the Carthaginian hunters. They were now dead astern. Three hundred yards.

      ‘Septimus, clear the fore. I need line of sight to the aft-deck.’

      Septimus hesitated, one question remaining. ‘So if we can’t outrun them, what’s our plan?’

      ‘We need to level the odds,’ Atticus replied as he turned his full attention to the course ahead, ‘so I’m steering the Aquila between Scylla and Charybdis, between the rock and the whirlpool.’

      ‘Match course and speed, Captain,’ Gisco ordered over his shoulder. He heard the captain repeat the order to a runner, and a moment later the Elissar heeled over slightly as she slotted into the wake of the Roman trireme. Gisco could not see the crew of his quarry. The Romans had erected a shield wall along the back of the aft-deck using their scuta, the four-foot-high shields of the legions, in a double-height formation, ostensibly to protect the sailors on the deck, Gisco surmised. ‘That won’t protect you for long,’ he thought. He turned to the captain, his face a mask of determination.

      ‘It’s time to hunt them down, Captain…Signal to the Sidon to come alongside.’

      Again a runner was dispatched to the aft-deck and the captain watched the Sidon break formation and increase speed, moving abreast of the Elissar.

      The captain turned to Gisco. ‘The Sidon is in position,’ he said, but the admiral was already brushing past him to the side rail.

      ‘Captain of the Sidon!’ he bellowed across the forty yards separating the two galleys as they sped along, their oars once again matching each other stroke for stroke.

      Karalis, the captain, identified himself on the foredeck.

      ‘Captain, increase to attack speed. Maintain for ten minutes and then increase to ramming speed,’ Gisco shouted with resolve. ‘Push the Romans hard, Captain, whip your own slaves until they drop from exhaustion, spare no man. I want the Roman galley slaves spent. When your rowers collapse we will overtake you and run them down.’

      ‘Yes, Admiral.’ Karalis