The marines, likewise, were mostly Italians, with a leavening of legionaries for stiffening: They had been drilled with great intensity in the arts of Roman close combat. Every man was armed with heavy and light javelins, a short, razor-edged gladius and a dagger. They wore iron helmets and shirts of Gallic mail. These last were shorter than the legionary type, extending only to the waist, and they lacked the distinctive shoulder doublings of legionary armor. Their shields, likewise, were somewhat smaller and far lighter than those used on land. These changes had been deemed expedient for warfare at sea. The shields were painted blue for sea service, and adorned with pictures of tritons, Nereids, hippokampi, the trident of Neptune and other nautical designs.
"Admiral!" called the sailing master, a Greek like most of them. "Around that point," he jabbed a finger at a cape of land that jutted into the sea to the southwest, "lies a cove near the mouth of the Iberis. If the Carthaginian army is anywhere nearby inland, it is a natural place for their fleet to put in."
"Then we will go around the cape in battle order. If there are no hostile forces in sight, resume cruising as usual." The requisite orders were passed by flag, and the fleet prepared for action, as it had numerous times before: Yards and sails were lowered and stored away, but the masts were left standing, for the corvi were slung from them. Arms were prepared; the sky was scanned for omens. The ships took up position abreast with the heavy triremes in the first line, the smaller, swifter biremes in the second and the smallest vessels and the transports well astern. In a slow and stately maneuver, like a legion changing front on the parade ground, the great line of ships swept around the cape. On the other side they found the Carthaginians.
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 transferred 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 efficiency 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 muchmaneuvering 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 maneuver 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 devised 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 realized 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.