‘Brace for impact!’ The captain of the liburna bellowed at them from the stern, and the oarsmen gave a last mighty effort. Fabius drew his sword and squatted down as he had been shown to do, moving back from the railing so he would not be thrown into it. A second later there was a splintering crash as the ram sliced into the thin planks of the other galley’s hull, cutting it nearly in half and driving the broken keel down as the liburna settled over it. He felt the galley heave forward in the swell, caught in the wreckage, and watched the expert axemen leap over the side and hack away at the keel to release it. Meanwhile, the marines had thrown out grapples and a corvus ladder on each side and were already among the lembos oarsmen, thrusting and hacking mercilessly. Fabius had spotted Porcus and jumped into the water over the wreckage, now red with blood, and sloshed his way towards a man standing alone in the stern, staring with disbelief as he recognized the one who was approaching him. The naval centurion saw Fabius’ intent and ordered his men to hold back and finish off any others still alive in the wreckage. Fabius came within a few paces of the man, the water now up to his knees, and stood before him, staring with contempt. ‘Porcus Entestius Supinus, by order of the consul Lucius Scipio Aemilianus Africanus, you are condemned to death as a traitor.’
‘Africanus.’ The other man smirked, waving his sword. ‘Who is this man? The only Africanus I know of died a miserable pauper thirty-five years ago in Liternum, unable to hold his head high in Rome for shame at having failed to take Carthage. Like grandfather, like grandson, only worse. How can Scipio Aemilianus hope to succeed when he is but a pale shadow of a man who himself had failed? You serve the wrong general, Fabius.’
‘You can die with dignity, so that I can tell your family that you behaved as a Roman at the end, or you can die a traitor, servant to a man who is no longer a Roman.’
‘Metellus is three times the general that Scipio is. Days from now he will stand in Acrocorinth, and Greece will be his for the taking. Once he knows that Carthage has surrendered to him, he will have eclipsed Scipio and be master of the world. A new empire will arise, and a new Rome.’
‘You forget that your message from Hasdrubal will never reach him.’
‘You forget that there are other ways. Runners were dispatched in the night to make their way through the Numidian lines and reach the port of Kerouane, where another lembos awaits to take the message to Metellus. You see, you have failed.’
‘It is irrelevant,’ Fabius said dismissively. ‘Even before your runners reach the coast, the assault on Carthage will have begun. Once Hasdrubal is destroyed, Scipio will stand atop Carthage. Metellus can receive offers of surrender from whoever he likes, if he wishes to be the laughing stock of Rome.’
Porcus faltered, and then sneered at him. ‘You always did choose the wrong gang, Fabius, don’t you remember? You were always getting beaten up, and then you met Scipio and he protected you. Before we knew it, you were licking his boots. At least we didn’t have to hear more stories about your miserable father’s military glory. The only heroic exploit I ever saw him undertake was when he managed to stay upright long enough to get into the tavern, day in and day out. We gave him a few knocks about the head when he was lying in the gutter, I can tell you, to help him along to his miserable little corner of Hades.’
Fabius lunged forward, flicking Porcus’ sword away into the sea, and then came within inches of his face, snarling at him. ‘You never were much of a swordsman, were you, Porcus? You should have fought at Pydna and in Spain and in Africa, instead of toadying up to Metellus. And you won’t see my father when you reach Hades, because he is in Elysium with his comrades.’ He thrust his sword deep into Porcus’ abdomen, twisted it and withdrew it, and then slashed it across his throat, standing back while Porcus staggered forward with his mouth and eyes wide open, his hands pressing against the blood that pulsed from his neck, and then toppled face-first into the sea. Fabius lifted one foot and pushed the body away, watching it slowly sink, and then picked up the dispatch tube that Porcus had been carrying and pulled out the scroll inside, tearing it up and throwing the shreds after the body.
He turned and looked at the liburna, which had broken free of the wreckage and was now hove-to alongside, a rope net hanging over the side to allow the last of the marines to climb back on board. The lembos was a mass of wreckage and bodies, with none of the crew left alive. The naval centurion was standing a few paces away from Fabius, up to his waist in the water, gesturing for him to come. ‘The job is finished, primipilus. The captain wants to return before the wind picks up. And I don’t know about you, but none of my boys wants to miss the assault.’
22
Two hours later, Fabius was back on the wharfside with Scipio and Polybius. He felt drained, but exhilarated. Had Porcus reached Corinth and the message fire been lit on Bou Kornine, it would have been Metellus on Acrocorinth and not Scipio who would have been celebrating the defeat of Carthage. Fabius had focused solely on the task in hand and was barely conscious of his own role, but he knew that by pursuing and destroying the lembos, he had changed history. At the moment all that was important was the added urgency it put on the countdown to the assault; he could see Scipio beginning to look impatient as he watched the preparations at sea. The catapult ships had assembled in a line off the sea wall, with the transport barges containing the legionaries finding their places behind in preparation for heaving forward and landing the first wave of shock troops with grapnels and ladders on the quay, ready to scale the walls. The gamble was that the defenders would be caught off-guard, not expecting a breach of the harbour defences as well as an assault on the sea walls, and that, with Carthaginian attention turned to an attack from the sea, the legionaries assembled at the harbour would be able to pour in to the breach and advance fast towards the upper city and the secondary line of defence around the Byrsa hill to the west.
A young tribune appeared on the platform, took off his helmet and stood to attention. He had startlingly blue eyes, fair hair and angular features — a face that seemed quintessentially Roman, destined to become craggy and hard and one day take its place in the lararium of some patrician house alongside the images of his ancestors. Scipio looked up and nodded at the tribune, who saluted. ‘I bring word from Gulussa, Scipio Aemilianus. The assault force outside the land walls is now ready. The catapults are all aimed at the same length of wall, already weakened by bombardment over the last weeks, and Gulussa thinks a breach will be made immediately. As soon as you give the word, they will let fly.’
Scipio squinted at the line of catapult ships being drawn up close to the sea wall. ‘Then tell him to make it so. By the time you return to him, Ennius will be ready in the ships. The assault will begin in an hour, when you hear my signallers blast the horns.’
‘I will lead the first cohort myself.’
Scipio looked him up and down, and then stared into his eyes, his gaze lingering as if he saw something in the boy. ‘Do you have a good centurion?’
‘The best. Abius Quintus Aberis, primipilus of the first legion. He fought at Pydna, and in Spain.’
‘Good. The centurions are the backbone of the army. Respect them, and they will respect you. But they will expect you to lead from the front. Have you seen action before?’