"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 waiting 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. Arrunteius'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 Arrunteius 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 overhead. 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.
Mastanabal had seen these intricate formations practiced when the Roman soldiers first arrived at Carthage, but now he was seeing them under battle conditions. He saw the bright paint on the unscarred shields, the new armor worn by the men. "He's using his untried boys for a platform," he said. Now there were three layers to the platform. The shields were now at the base of the wooden palisade. Mastanabal's men threw down anything that might break the formation: first heavy spears, then stones, timbers, even wagon wheels. Nothing shook the overlapping shields.
"Bring oil and torches!" the general shouted. Then he saw the next line advancing: fierce-looking, sunburned men whose stride carried a chilling assurance. The veterans had arrived, men he had last seen half a world away, in Egypt. "Get the oil quick!" he screamed.