Free Masters of the Sea - Master of Rome by John Stack Page B

solely on overcoming the massive naval force of the Romans. But now he realized that the political threat to his flank, which he had believed neutralized, was re-emerging. He looked to his father, regretting his earlier criticism. He knew Hasdrubal’s political instincts were far superior to his own.
    Hasdrubal saw the uncertainty in his son’s expression and he reached out, placing his hand on his shoulder. ‘Look to Sicily, Hamilcar,’ he said. ‘Your enemy is there. Hanno is my responsibility.’
    ‘But what of my men? I will need land forces if I am to defeat the Romans.’
    ‘I will petition the Council to make mercenaries available when you need them. Until Hanno becomes suffet, I can garner enough support for such expenditure.’
    Hamilcar nodded, his renewed trust in his father allowing him to focus his mind once more. Whatever the internal conflicts with the Council, Rome was the true enemy and Sicily the battleground. The northwest of the island was still firmly in Carthaginian hands, but it was only a matter of time before the Romans launched an attack.
    Hamilcar clasped his father’s hand in farewell and left the antechamber, passing quickly out on to the busy streets. He paused and looked briefly up at the Byrsa citadel, the sight steeling his determination as he set off towards the harbour below.
    The cutwater of the Orcus sliced cleanly through the crest of the wave, the galley sailing close-hauled, with the wind sweeping in over the starboard forequarter, catching the spray and whipping it away towards the Sicilian shoreline two miles away. The mainmast creaked against the press of the main-sail, the canvas whacking like a clap of thunder; Baro’s shouted commands sent the crew racing to tighten the running rigging as Gaius dropped the galley off a touch.
    Atticus stood at the tiller with the helmsman, his eyes on the southern horizon, the wind striking him directly in the face, pushing tears back from the corners of his eyes, his skin covered in a fine sheen of sea spray. He was silent, as was Gaius and many of the crew, their unease creating a tension that stifled every word. The sea around the Orcus was crammed with the galleys of the Classis Romanus , their formation loose and pliable, with each individual ship guarding its own sea room as the crews struggled against the adverse wind using a subtle mix of oar and sail power.
    Septimus came up from below decks and made his way towards the aft-deck, shifting his balance with every step like a drunken man on solid ground, the centurion cursing softly with every pitch of the deck. He nodded to Gaius but the helmsman seemed not to see him. Septimus moved around to stand before Atticus, his friend’s intense stare causing him to look over his shoulder.
    The sky to the south was shrouded in iron-grey clouds, reaching from the distinct line of the horizon into the towering heavens, the anvil-head formations clawing ever upward, while beneath the cloudscape the sea was streaked with dark bruises as enormous shadows moved across the troubled surface. Septimus was mesmerized by the sight, his gaze locked on a cloud as it seemed to consume the remnants of the blue sky above it, unable to believe that when he had gone below deck an hour before the southern horizon had been all but clear. He turned to Atticus.
    ‘This is the weather you warned Paullus about, isn’t it?’
    Atticus nodded, taking no pleasure in seeing his prediction fulfilled. Septimus turned back to the storm front, the wind flattening his tunic against his chest, the sea spray holding it there. ‘Have you sailed through weather like this before?’ he asked.
    ‘Not with that thing on board,’ Gaius answered, indicating the corvus with a scowl.
    Atticus ignored the helmsman’s reply, concentrating instead on the seascape. ‘I sailed the Aquila through twenty-five-knot winds once,’ Atticus said, ‘but I had a lot of sea room. If that storm advances, we’ll have the shoreline on our