Uncertain Honor Read online

On the lower deck, three sections of oarsmen drowned. Sailors and riggers chopped the boarding ramp free, but it was too late for the fifteen rowers. Before the five-banker could get underway, an Empire ship-of-war gutted the sideboards. The remaining four hundred and four members of the Claw clung to the sinking vessel. Most of them died.

  ***

  Marcus Regulus watched as his heavy five-bankers rowed from a line facing north to one set in a westerly direction. It took long moments before his center solidified and the ships with the Corvus ramps created a blockade. But once they finished the maneuver, it broke the charge of the Empire fleet.

  The ships-of-war that got through the ramps or disentangled from the grappling hook lines found waiting five-bankers unencumbered by extra weight. Their bronze rams struck, killed, and moved on to the next target.

  Consul Regulus counted ships-of-war. As best as he could tell, Qart Hadasht started the attack with twenty-five more ships. And although the advantage was shrinking fast, his center suffered too much damage. Pacing the deck as the flagship circled, he tried to visualize a solution that would afford him a win.

  “Consul Regulus. We have a fast-attack coming from the south,” the ship’s Centurion warned. “He looks to have been in action.”

  Marcus watched as the trireme drew closer. The top fins of its bronze ram showed damage. The metal was curled back from hard impacts and a few pieces of lumber were stick between the fins as if pieces of meat lodged between a wolf’s teeth. Beyond the battle damage, he understood the three-banker wasn’t carrying a standard message. Under sail and oars, the Image of Philyra came fast, the oarsmen rowing at an unsustainable rate.

  “The transports are under attack,” Centurion Galo shouted as his three-banker pulled alongside. “We can’t hold.”

  “How far back?” Marcus questioned.

  In his mind, the merchant vessels and troop carriers were just over the horizon.

  “Four miles, as near as my navigator can figure,” the ship’s Centurion replied. “And Sir, it’s bad.”

  The wind had pushed the merchant vessels back, causing extra separation between elements of the fleet.

  Marcus Regulus ran a hand over his face in frustration. Gnawing at his gut were two courses of action. Stay and finish the Empire Fleet here with his full complement of warships. Or, abandon the heavies and take the unencumbered quinqueremes south. For all he knew, the transports were already at the bottom of the ocean.

  “How do we fair?” Regulus asked.

  “We lost Tribune Seichus and the Arms of Salus,” Galo told him. “Senior Tribune Sisera has assumed command from the deck of the Psyche of Bellona.”

  “That did not answer my question,” the Consul thundered. “Are there any transports still afloat?”

  “Most have survived, sir. The Marines are defending them,” Centurion Galo reported. “But Sisera said he doesn’t know for how long.”

  “Signalmen, on me,” Regulus commanded, “we are splitting the center fleet.”

  Act 6

  Chapter 16 – Commotion and Control

  In midsummer, the God of the North Wind didn’t have the chilling bite he would deliver later in the year. That’s not to say Aquilo’s interference didn’t have an effect when he blew strong and steady.

  The rear segment of the Roman fleet slanted westward to avoid sailing directly into the headwind. While the five-bankers and three-bankers rowed easily, the deep bellied grain hailers, wide hulled supply vessels, and the boats transporting troops and livestock struggled to maintain speed. Out of necessity, the warships slowed to stay with their charges. Their new heading took the rear of the Roman fleet further out to sea as they struggled to evade running aground in the wind.

  Along the coast, Hasdrubal Gisco’s detachment of ships-of-war sailed rapidly southward. Figuring the Roman transports would not stray far from land, the Empire General planned on locating them by sight. He maintained a course southward with all his lookouts scanning seaward.

  Thanks to the God Aquilo granting a favor to the Goddess Victoria, the Qart Hadasht watch officers would not find the transports on their first pass.

  ***

  “Tribune Seichus is directing us to take the lead, again, sir,” the signalman on the Psyche of Bellona informed Centurion Kimo.

  “First Principale, increase our pace, and navigate us around the flock,” the warship’s commander instructed. He added in a clipped manner. “Thus, is the burden of a flagship.”

  “But Centurion, we aren’t the flagship,” the ship’s first officer pointed out.

  “Not yet,” Kimo acknowledged. “And if the Gods are with us, we never will be. No offence intended, Senior Tribune.”

  As they had done since launch, Navy Tribune Seichus kept either Alerio’s or his quinquereme in front of the transports and the other at the rear. Inspection of the transports and the preservation of a senior staff officer in case of an attack drove the logic. But the extra rowing irritated the crews.

  While the other sixty-two warships sailed in an easy manner, the two five-bankers with senior officers rowed around opposite ends of the merchant vessels while switching places.

  “No offense taken, Centurion,” Alerio noted to Kimo. “However, there is one benefit to the rotation.”

  “I can’t wait to hear this, Senior Tribune,” the ship’s officer commented.

  “Unlike the other warships in our squadrons, we get a change of scenery,” Alerio proposed. “From staring at the butt ends of two hundred and sixty commercial vessels, we have a view of a pristine horizon and a beautiful empty sky.”

  “Spoken like a true land officer. You think the lack of hills and trees gives you an advantage,” the ship’s Centurion remarked. “To our front should be the Consul’s ship and the tips of the Corvus ramps on our heavies. We’ve fallen so far behind that the rest of the fleet has lost sight of us. And us of them.”

  “From your anxiety, I take it you’re worried about losing the protection of the center,” Alerio questioned. “But isn’t north the direction we expect the attack to come from?”

  “It is sir. But sailors know threats come in many forms and from all directions while at sea,” Kimo explained. “A rogue wave from seaward, a monster from the depths, a gust blowing us onto rocks, a sudden headwind like we experienced earlier are all unexpected problems. Not to mention lightning or rain from above, and enemy ships-of-war.”

  “You think the Empire fleet will drop down on us from the sky?” Alerio teased.

  They laughed at the preposterous notion. Moments later, the announcement of a threat interrupted them.

  “Ships-of-war,” the first officer shouted.

  Both Alerio and Kimo glanced up and searched the sky. Embarrassed by the motion, they quickly looked to where the First Principale indicated. Far to the south, lines of Qart Hadasht ships filled the horizon.

  “Tribune Seichus is taking five triremes and two squadrons of five-bankers to delay them,” the signalman reported. “He instructs you, sir, to lead the merchant vessels away from the fighting.”

  “Orders, Centurion?” the first officer asked.

  Kimo continued to stare in silence at the approaching ships.

  “What are you thinking?” Alerio inquired.

  As the combatants clashed, two ships-of-war bracketed the Arms of Salus. They passed down her keel leaving terminal gashes in the warship’s sides. Navy Tribune Seichus’ flagship didn’t list. With the last of her momentum, the Arms vanished below the surface.

  “I’m thinking our transports can’t out row ships-of-war,” Kimo answered. “But what I think doesn’t matter, Senior Tribune. You’re now the fleet commander. What do you think?”

  Alerio scanned the slow merchant vessels, the five-bankers around the transports, and the losing fight along the approaching battle line. Although certified as a combat rower, he didn’t have experience directing ships during a naval engagement or even during training maneuvers.

  Senior Tribune Sisera knew infan
try tactics. And he felt the responsibility of protecting the Marines and the light infantrymen traveling in the troop transports.

  “Recall our warships and have our five-bankers form a line to help them disengage,” Alerio instructed the duty signalman. When the Bellona became the flagship, the first officer added a sailor trained in signals to the steering platform. He was assigned a different task. “Order the civilian boats to raft up. Troop transports in the center, then the livestock ships, and finally the grain haulers. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m on it,” the sailor assured him.

  While the signalmen snapped flags and directed the fleet, Alerio turned to Kimo.

  “You’re right, we can’t outpace the Empire fleet,” he agreed. “If this were a land battle, I would defend my supply wagons by consolidating them. That would free up my infantry and cavalry to fight. I’m doing the same here. Did I miss anything?”

  “One thing, sir,” the ship’s Centurion told him. “Supply wagons don’t have thirty-two hundred light infantrymen and four hundred Marines in their cargo beds. Now if you’ll excuse me, we need to get into this fight.”

  “Carry on, Centurion,” Alerio directed while he watched the approaching ships-of-war and wondered if he hadn’t just killed thousands of men.

  ***

  Seawater sprayed from under the length of the Psyche of Bellona creating a rolling wave. After the shallow bottom slammed down, Kimo called for a hard Port turn. Sinking their oars deep, the rowers grunted and blew hard as they worked.

  “We’ll have him when he turns again,” Kimo shouted.

  The raised voice easily reached Alerio, but it also traveled below deck to the Stroke section of oarsmen. This deep into the chase, the ship’s Centurion needed his best rowers to be motivated.

  “Come in on the right of his keel,” Alerio directed.

  “But when he turns away from us, he’ll go in beside the grain haulers,” Kimo complained.

  “Just do it, Centurion,” Alerio barked.

  Kimo bristled at the command to force a ship-of-war to attack a grain hauler. After the hard rowing and sleepless nights his crew endured to secure a lot of the wheat and barley, he felt protective of the food. But the Senior Tribune had issued a lot of odd commands and, so far, they had worked out.

  “Navigation. Bring us in on his Starboard side,” Kimo ordered. “Make it a sweeping approach so he can react.”

  “Give him time to react, sir?” one of the pilots asked in confusion.

  “I will throw you both overboard,” the ship’s Centurion threatened.

  “A sweeping turn, yes, sir,” the men agreed.

  As Kimo predicted, when the ship-of-war began a turn, his quinquereme almost cut the corner and delivered her bronze. But the wide angle gave the Empire ship warning and he jerked to the left.

  If he weren’t being chased by a wolf inspired by Hawot, the God of the Dead, the Empire Captain would have gutted the merchant ship. As it stood, he was simply relieved the Republic commander had made a mistake by swinging wide. His attitude changed when grappling hooks shot into the sky, arched over the water, and landed. Ten sets of iron barbs dug into his deck. The ship-of-war stopped and began to slip sideways across the water.

  On the deck of the grain vessels, Centurion Palle bellowed a war cry and around him, pulling on ropes and drawing the Empire ship closer, were his Ardent Rabbits. The Marines not hauling lines, tightened the straps on their shields, drew their gladii, and prepared to leap onto the enemy ship.

  The Psyche of Bellona angled away and Alerio saluted the Marines.

  “Let’s go get another one,” Kimo roared. “The Bellona has drawn blood and we are ready for more.”

  His enthusiasm infected the steering platform crew, the deck sailors, and the rowers below the platform. For those who didn’t hear the boast, the words of the ship’s Centurion were passed along to the bow of the warship.

  “Not yet, Centurion,” Alerio corrected. “First, find me a messenger trireme. We can’t hold out much longer.”

  ***

  Almost the entire perimeter of the rafted together transports and supply vehicles consisted of captured Qart Hadasht ships-of-war. A few were sinking but not from acts by the Marines or light infantrymen. Rather the destruction came from other ships-of-war intentionally ramming their own to prevent the Republic from taking the ships as prizes.

  “We never covered anything like this in naval classes,” Kimo admitted.

  “I don’t think this is anybody’s idea of a proper Navy confrontation,” Alerio added. “It can’t go on much longer. The ships-of-war are faster and overtaking us one by one.”

  In a swirl of confusion, the warships chased the ships-of-war, and the ships-of-war chased the warships. They circled the island of transports, rarely able to get an angle on a foe. The Republic vessels rowed closer in while the Empire’s ships stayed outward and away from the grappling hooks of the infantrymen and the Marines. The longer track by the Qart Hadasht ships benefited the heavier and slower Legion warships.

  “We’ve survived and saved most of the transports under your guidance,” Kimo complimented the Senior Tribune. “I pray to the God Dolos that you have more ideas.”

  Alerio contemplated the God of Cunning and Deception. Nothing came to him until he remembered the story of the Spartans on the front line at Thermopylae. Periodically, one of them would step back from the fighting. Persian warriors were drawn in before the Spartan turned and butchered the brave ones who ventured forward. He didn’t have any warships with Spartan like fighting skills. But he did have 9 fast-attack triremes still afloat.

  “Signal three five-bankers to follow us,” Alerio instructed one of the signalmen. To the other, he detailed. “Call a three-banker in so I can talk to the Centurion.”

  Halfway around the transports, a trireme glided up beside the flagship.

  “Do you know what a feigned retreat is?” Alerio shouted down to the Centurion on the trireme.

  “No sir,” the ship’s Centurion admitted.

  “Then listen and I’ll tell you,” Alerio coached.

  ***

  The most difficult strategy to decipher and defeat consisted of multiple coordinated maneuvers. Especially when they came from different locations and seemed to be random movements.

  On Centurion Kimo’s order, the Psyche of Bellona and three other quinqueremes broke from the circuit. As if attempting to escape, they rowed hard leaving the rest of the Roman warships in the circular fight. Ten Empire ships-of-war noticed the flagship attempting to escape and gave chase.

  At another location, seven triremes responded to Alerio’s signal and angled out of the fight. As the smallest vessels in the fleet, no one thought it surprising that they should run. General Hasdrubal only allowed three ships-of-war to follow. Still trying to fulfill his orders to sink the transports, he kept the remaining ships-of-war close to the island of lashed together boats.

  ***

  “How far, sir?” Kimo asked.

  “We need to isolate the ten following us,” Alerio replied. “It wouldn’t do any good if ships from their main fleet can row out and help them.”

  Stroke, glide, stroke, glide, the steady splash of the oars marked the distance from the combatants. When the battle began to blend into the horizon, Alerio pointed at his signalmen. In a heartbeat, flags cut the air, and the Senior Tribune waited. Both flagmen finished and stared for long moments before spinning and saluting.

  “Messages sent and messages acknowledged, sir,” the sailors reported.

  Alerio squinted at the empty horizon ahead, the open sea to either side, and he prayed.

  “Goddess Nenia, we have a long history,” he stated. The platform crew cast suspicious glances at the Senior Tribune for mentioning the Goddess of Death. Unaware of the looks or unconcerned with them, Alerio continued. “If given a choice between you and the embrace of Neptune, I prefer you. As I said, we have a long history together.”

  A warm pressu
re against his right shoulder blade and a tingling sensation running down his right arm let Alerio know his personal Goddess had heard his prayer. On its own accord, his right hand gripped his gladius and he snapped it from the sheath. Holding the blade out, he pointed at the Empire ships-of-war.

  “Centurion Kimo, commander of the Psyche of Bellona. The ancient Goddess of War calls to us. Turnabout,” he instructed. “It’s time to re-engage.”

  “Navigators, turn us and find me an angle of attack,” Kimo directed. To his first officer, he ordered. “First Principale set a rapid pace. We have Vulcan’s own gift. Let’s present it with authority.”

  At the mention of the God of Metalworking, the crew on the steering platform nodded in agreement. As the flagship, their bronze ram remained unblemished. It was not a distinction they wanted.

  ***

  When the four retreating Republic warships etched U-turns in the water, the Qart Hadasht commander ordered an attack formation. His and another vessel closed in side by side, and the other eight ships-of-war dropped back forming a wedge. The four Republic warships couldn’t evade the wide formation. The ‘V’ rowed forward intending to sweep the sea clear of the flagship and its three escorts.

  The imbalance was obvious to everyone. Four against ten was practically a predetermined outcome. Yet, as Centurion Kimo had pointed out, the nature of the sea delivers surprises.

  Even if they failed to recognize the term ‘motivated perception’, the Qart Hadasht Captains and their ship’s officers unwittingly practiced it. They commanded five-bankers and mostly fought five-bankers. Thus, their lookouts had become accustomed to seeing quinqueremes towering twelve feet above the waves. Adding to the sight, they were on the lookout for decks crowded with infantrymen, artillery, or Corvus boarding ramps. Four feet in height shouldn’t have made a difference.

  ***

  At Alerio’s signal, the seven fast-attack triremes swept off their route of escape. Making a hard turn to Starboard, they set an intercept course towards the Psyche of Bellona. Also, their insane stroke rate left the three pursuing ships-of-war behind.