Despite himself, Arrunteius gaped at the sight, his hands gripping the rail of the castle's waist-high bulwark. Drill and training was one thing. This was the first time
Romans had beheld an enemy fleet since before the days of
their grandfathers. "How many?" he demanded of the sailing master.
"Forty triremes at least. Not the main fleet by at least a hundred warships."
Arrunteius felt the sweat of relief spring from beneath
his helmet. His greatest fear had been that his untested fleet would be thrown against the far larger combined battle fleet
of Carthage. He needed a smaller fight to get his men blooded first, and it looked like that fight would be big enough. He had thirty-four triremes in his command, and twenty of the smaller biremes. He was outnumbered and
the enemy was more experienced at this sort of fighting, but
his ships were already arrayed for battle and had caught the other fleet by surprise. That advantage, plus the heaviness and power of his capital ships, should be enough.
"Advance and take them all," he called. "I want none to escape." His signals officer barked orders and the flagmen trans
ferred the admiral's commands. The triremes swept forward
in a broad crescent, pivoting on the right, landward ship,
swinging around like a huge door to close off the little harbor.
A large detachment of the biremes broke away from the main formation and rowed southwestward along the coast. They would take up a position in line abreast to trap any vessel that tried to escape and carry warning to Hamilcar's fleet.
All this was one of several prearranged battle plans. The
Romans, consulting with their Greek sailing masters, had
concocted a number of these, each with its own signals, each
precise but allowing for flexibility for individual initiative and contingencies. History had taught them the folly of rigid adherence to a battle plan.
Inshore, the enemy was wasting no time. From the moment the Roman fleet heaved in sight, battle preparations commenced. Even with the before-action tension twisting his stomach, Arrunteius found himself admiring the effi
ciency with which his opposite number was coping with the
unexpected danger. Ships in the water were prepared for battle with amazing speed. Masts were lowered, sails and
yards stowed away or merely pitched overboard to clear the
decks. All inessential gear was disposed of in this manner. Even slaves working on the ships were thrown into the water to swim or drown.
Ships that had been drawn up on shore were dragged into
the water, their crews scrambling aboard, running out oars
before the hulls were fully afloat. Transports and cargo vessels were pulled close inshore, leaving the war fleet as much
maneuvering room as possible. All, clearly, was according to
a long-established naval practice.
In an amazingly short time the Carthaginian fleet was in the water, in battle order and heading for the Roman line, before the Romans had even completed their encircling sweep to shut off the harbor. The first elements were heading straight for the Roman center. Straight for
Avenging Mars.
The first Carthaginian trireme seemed on top of him more quickly than Arrunteius could have imagined. He felt cooler now, because his task as admiral was substantially done. Now the battle devolved upon the individual ships' captains and their crews. The ship bearing down upon him was like something out of Hades: a lean, low dragon shape
from which trails of smoke arched toward him—fire arrows,
he realized. Above the ship's fanged ram squatted the hideous little god Patechus, the Punic terror demon. The
archers around Arrunteius on the castle began to send shafts
toward the enemy, and from the deck below him came the thudding of the ballistae as they fired their heavy iron javelins.
The enemy ship swerved to one side, an old naval maneu
ver intended to send the galley plowing through the oars on
one side of Arrunteius's ship, their flailing handles reducing
the rowers inside to dog meat, crippling his ship so that the Carthaginian could ram at leisure. But his sailing master turned into the other's bow, an unexpected maneuver de
vised to take advantage of the Roman galley's greater mass.
Going ram-to-ram was the one thing the Carthaginians
were not prepared for. The bronze-sheathed ram of
Avenging
Mars
struck just below and to one side of the crouching god, crunching through the wood with the awful momentum of both ships. Seconds before the impact, the Roman rowers drew in their oars. Arrunteius grabbed the railing
before him as his ship lurched, then rose. Amazed, he real
ized that his own vessel was riding up over the keel of the lighter craft, splitting its deck like a huge saw splitting a
plank. Boards and timbers flew; splinters showered the men on the tower as the heavy Roman galley plowed through the Carthaginian. Below, men screamed, flailed, dived into the
water or were pulped.
Arrunteius saw one side of the enemy ship open up and the oar benches, along with the rowers, topple into the sea. Armored men waved their weapons in perfect futility as their ship broke up beneath them. A man he took to be the captain stood for a moment beside the steering oar, his face a mask of incomprehension. Then the stern was swamped and the whole ship, now in many pieces, settled into the water.
Arrunteius stood, astounded. In moments, a magnificent
ship was reduced to bits of floating debris. And
he
had done
it! He, Decimus Arrunteius, in his invincible ship! He waved his fists aloft. "Mars is victorious!" he shouted. All over the ship, men regained use of their tongues and took
up the cry. "Mars is victorious! Mars is victorious!"
Now he remembered that he was an admiral and there was still a battle to win. He looked around him and saw a
score of ship fights in progress. Some ships were locked together by the
corvi,
soldiers swarming across to fight hand-
to-hand. Others lay grappled, and men scrambled over the rails. He could see the results of other rammings, some of them with the same devastating result his own had accomplished. Here and there, Carthaginians had managed to ram Roman vessels, and some of these were sinking, though the heavier timbers of the Roman ships usually gave their men time to board the enemy. Roman boarding inevitably led to the Carthaginians' capture, for the mercenaries manning their decks were no match for Roman swordsmen, even those who had been mere Italian villagers or bandits the
year before. Their
gladii
quickly turned the enemy deck to a
bloody shambles.
"How are our oarsmen?" Arrunteius demanded. "Can we
maneuver?"
"Haven't lost many," the sailing master answered. "They shipped oars in time."
"Then find us another to ram!" He looked around, and
saw a Carthaginian galley backing away from the hole it had
punched in the side of a Roman vessel. Arrunteius pointed toward it. "That one!"
With the sailing master shouting down to the oar master
and that officer barking the orders to his charges,
Avenging
Mars
turned on its axis until its ram was pointed at the Carthaginian; then it surged forward, picking up speed as the
hortator
increased the tempo of his drumbeats. Arrunteius saw faces along the enemy rail turn, go pale. He saw
fingers pointing and mouths forming shouts as they saw the
doom bearing down upon them, but it was far too late.
The ram of
Avenging Mars
caught the Carthaginian galley
amidships, where the timbers were thinnest and most stressed. This time the castle barely vibrated beneath Arrunteius's feet as the enemy ship broke in two, filled and
sank so swiftly that it was like some sort of conjurer's trick.
Again he raised the shout, "Mars is victorious!" The men aboard the rammed Roman ship cheered as loudly to see
their vessel so quickly avenged, cheering as they scrambled
to jam canvas and wood and dead bodies into the gaping hole in her side.
"Find me another!" Arrunteius cried, exulting. He knew now that his ship was invincible. Rome was invincible.
Within an hour, the battle was effectively over. The wait
ing biremes pounced on the few warships that managed to get through the Roman battle line, two or three biremes attacking each larger Carthaginian craft, ramming and then
sending boarders across to butcher the defenders. Desperate
crews beached their ships, threw away their arms and took to their heels, running for the interior. They would be desperate, hunted men, for if the Romans caught them they
faced slavery, while Carthage would crucify them.
Avenging Mars
rowed through the wreckage toward a wharf, and Arrunteius surveyed the scene with the greatest satisfaction. Here and there, hulks lay low in the water, smoke drifting from their timbers. Some ships were still sinking; others wallowed, abandoned, their crews all dead.
The water was thick with blood, and sharks converged from, all quarters, tearing excitedly at this abundance of flesh. Ar
runteius's officers were taking inventory of the captured supply ships and transports and were questioning surviving officers with great rigor.
The entire Carthaginian fleet was destroyed or captured.
Arrunteius had lost seven triremes and a handful of biremes, but the crews, rowers and marines of these ships had mostly
been saved. A few days of hard work would put his fleet back in order. He knew that the main Carthaginian fleet would be far larger and it would be a harder fight, but now his men had confidence in their admiral, in their ships and in themselves.
With his ship made fast to the wharf, Arrunteius went ashore and erected an altar, demolishing a Carthaginian altar to Baal-Hammon for the purpose. He sacrificed to Jupiter, to Mars and to Neptune in gratitude for his victory. He poured oil and wine over the altar, then the blood of the
sacrificial animals; then he kindled a fire and burned the sacrifices, chanting the ancient prayers until all was thoroughly
consumed. When the ritual obligations had been observed, he assembled his officers.
"I want the rams from all those Carthaginian ships," he ordered. "Send salvage divers down if you have to, but I must have every one of them. They will adorn the monument I will erect in the Forum when we return to Rome. I can't petition the Senate for a triumph—it's not allowed for a mere naval battle, especially since it hasn't concluded a successful war—but I will see to it that Rome never forgets what we did here this day. Our generals are taking back our empire from Carthage. But we are taking back our sea!"
His officers cheered lustily, and his marines and sailors
took up the shout. He felt all his ancestors looking down upon him with approval. He had made the name of Arrun
teius shine with glory. He. was the first
duumvir
of Rome's
resurgence.
Mastanabal watched the approaching roman
lines with wonder. What could they possibly intend? With no ladders and no towers or other machines, how did they
expect to take his wall? And they were not concentrating on
a single point, but advancing on a front as wide as the wall
itself. Arrows began arching out from his fort, but at such range the Romans had plenty of time to see them coming and raise their shields. When the Romans were a hundred paces away, they stopped, the entire front freezing on the
same step, as if the army were a single creature. The silence
continued.
"Ah!" Mastanabal said. "They have made their show; now they will send out envoys to negotiate." But the Romans surprised him again.
Abruptly, all the trumpets blared, using a technique he had never heard before—a great, feral snarl that sent a bolt of cold fear up the spine. Then, in unison, the soldiers beat the inner sides of their shields with their spear butts, chanting something incomprehensible. At last, they raised spears and shields, shaking them and roaring as if to draw the attention of the infernal gods.
Mastanabal saw that his men were already confused and
terrified, and they had not yet experienced the first arrow, spear or sling-stone of battle. "It's just noise!" he shouted. "Don't let a little noise scare you!" But even his Spartans looked uneasy. He felt shaken himself. That war cry made the Greek paean sound like a whimper of surrender.
"Tanit!" someone breathed behind him. "What now?"
For the Romans were advancing again, and not at their
previous, stately pace. This time they were
running.
Carthaginian arrows began to fall among them, then sling-bullets, then javelins, but the Romans kept their shields high and took few casualties from the missiles. When they were close, closer than Mastanabal would have deemed possible, the front-line shields dropped, arms rocked back, and the men hurled their javelins. First the light javelins sailed over the wall and its defenders to land among the reinforcements behind. Then the heavy, murderous pila smashed into men and shields, sowing havoc.
Their javelins gone, the front-line men knelt at the base of the earthwork, their shields overlapped and raised over
head. The second line hurled their javelins and knelt behind
the first, then the third line did the same. Another line charged in. These men jumped onto the roof of shields, threw their pila, then formed a second story to the human platform.