The Depths of Neptune - Chapter 17

Insula Manavia

Velius wiped the ocean spray off his face and looked at Bomilcar, who stood slightly ahead of him, staring off the front of the galley, resisting the urge to frown. They’d gone back and forth for weeks, but in the end, Velius had to give in. Every trial run they did showed the same thing. They needed to be in the first wave. There were just too many variables and during the first few waves, their position was going to be precarious. He’d tried to convince Bomilcar to stay back with the later waves, but the general had insisted that he needed to be there too.

Velius had to give in to that too. Bomilcar had shown that he just thought differently than the rest of the Britannians, which meant the people defending the island would, too. It also meant Bomilcar was the most likely one to recognize their tactics as soon as they happened, which meant with him the Britannians would be able to react almost as soon as the Carthaginians made a move, instead of having to wait to see how things played out.

Velius knew his annoyance was childish and beneath him, but he couldn’t help it. Thankfully, he was about to have a good distraction from his internal battle.

The beach was coming up in a rush, although he felt it was slower now than it had been in training. The galleys were much slower than Valdar’s new ships, which he’d had a chance to ride on after the fleet picked up the legions and sailed back north for the attack. Velius was no sailor and weeks ago he hadn’t even considered there would be faster ships than the large galleys the Romans and Carthaginians used. After experiencing the new ships, however, it felt like they were crawling.

“Prepare to disembark,” Velius yelled back at the men, his command echoed by tribunes and optios.

A signalman put up flags that rose high up the mast, passing the word to the other galleys in the first wave. He didn’t really need to shout the orders. They’d gone over this again and again. Everyone knew their jobs and where they needed to be. He just felt, as the man nominally in charge of this landing, that he should do something.

He braced, holding onto the railing, knowing what was coming next as the bottom of the boat slammed into the wet sand of the beach, slowing the ship until they were just a few paces from dry sand.

“Over,” Velius yelled, vaulting over the side, the sound of dozens and then hundreds of feet slamming into the water resulting in the sand reverberating up and down the small section of beach.

He ran forward, grunting with the effort of moving his legs and armor through the water as the sand sucked at his boots. They were almost on dry sand, and Velius couldn’t see anything in the tree line in front of him.

The Consul, however, must have seen something, because the noise of men grunting and equipment clanking was suddenly dwarfed by a steady series of booms coming from behind him. Velius wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to that sound. It was like thunder, but coming from the ground instead of the sky. It was unnatural and chilling.

What followed next was even more fantastical. Clumps of sand and dirt sprayed high into the air as the cannon balls began to land, the dirt showering back almost as far as the boats. If that wasn’t astonishing enough, a few of the shells exploded in midair, the metal balls turning into balls of fire, just as they passed the tops of the trees.

Velius had yet to see those in action, but the Consul had warned him about them, and he’d in turn passed that warning down to his officers and men, once they were underway. Normally, that kind of information wasn’t something you’d pass to the average legionnaire, but this was so far outside of their experience he didn’t want any of them panicking.

Velius still looked left and right at the men around him, checking for signs that the sudden display might disrupt the men forming up in the assembly area. Several men slowed to gawk open-mouthed and one or two even stopped, at least until an officer prodded them forward with an open hand or the bottom of a boot.

“Move into line. Get your asses moving,” Velius yelled at the men closest to him, pushing and shoving them to get them moving again.

Looking back, he could see their training had paid off as the last stragglers were making it out of the water and onto the sand. They had bested the Consul’s original timetable for the boats to unload by a solid two minutes. That included men freezing when the cannon fire started. Unfortunately, that was the one part they couldn’t simulate. Short of burning through their limited supplies of gunpowder, there was no way to simulate the visage of the underworld that the men behind those trees must be experiencing at this moment.

“Signal the boats to pull out and the next wave to start their approach,” he said to the signalman who finally caught up to him.

He could see the oars from the galleys already pushing against the water, pushing against the tide, propelling the boats ever so slowly back toward the sea. The captains knew their business and probably would have done their job without his prodding, but a good commander didn’t assume anything.

“This is going too smoothly,” Velius said to Bomilcar, who finally joined him with the rest of the command team behind the thin line of legionnaires holding in front of them.

The general had stopped close to the shore, staring at the tree line through one of the improved field glasses they’d been issued only a few days ago. They were impressive, better than even the original ones the Consul had given him, that he’d found almost magical at the time, but Velius wasn’t sure what the general was looking at. Fire had broken out among the trees and the entire edge of the beach was covered in flames and smoke. It was impossible to see what the enemy was up to.

“It’s about to get a lot less smooth,” the general said, collapsing the spyglass and putting it in the protective pouch at his waist.

“Why?” Velius asked, looking back at the exploding tree line.

“They’re going to hit us from the left. Probably before the next boats make landfall. We’ve only got a few minutes before they break the tree line.”

Velius looked where Bomilcar was pointing, and frowned. He didn’t see anything that would indicate an imminent attack.

“I don’t see anything.”

“Look at the animals running out onto the sand and then down the tree line at the birds flying west, away from us. Something is moving through the trees away from the area under shelling and a little further back, but I think they’re just circling around to keep from being caught in the line of fire. Otherwise, they’d already be on us.”

“The animals are running from the shelling,” Velius said.

“They’re running from the shelling and something else. The animals on the right flank are running in all directions, except they aren’t coming onto the beach. They can see our people and hear the commotion we’re making, even with the shelling. Animals don’t generally run toward more predators. Something is moving in that direction, disturbing the wildlife, and it’s already started them turning toward us. We don’t have time to argue this. You can either believe me or not, but if you’re going to do something, it has to be done now.”

Velius stared at him hard for several seconds, the sounds of crashing cannonballs and the occasional explosion drowning it out as he focused on the Carthaginian. He was right. He could either ignore his warning or trust that the Consul was right and the man really was trying to help them.

“Velius,” Bomilcar said, prodding him.

“Damn it,” he cursed and then turned to one of the signalmen next to him. “Signal all cohorts except the Eighth. Stand to the left! Eight cohorts will hold forward, remaining will angle off to the left towards the surf. Prepare for imminent contact.”

Velius paused a moment, considering, before adding, “All additional landed units are to reinforce the eighth cohort under the direct command of Bomilcar.”

Turning to the general, Velius said. “Just in case this is a feint, you’ll get all the reinforcements. If you see us wavering and think there isn’t a second attack coming from the right or straight ahead, reinforce us using the men that land with the second wave as you see fit. Do not abandon the forward line.”

Bomilcar made hard eye contact and gave a slight nod, “I’ll take care of it. Once they’re on the beach, it’s unlikely they’ll try and flank us further. They’ll want to keep the phalanx compact.”

“I hope so,” Velius said and ran to join the men flowing out of line and to the left of eight cohorts, which was thinning and expanding to try and cover all of the empty space created by their companion's departure.

“Runners,” Velius yelled, looking around for someone to help him pass orders.

Because of the lack of signalmen who’d landed and the need to continue communicating with the boats waiting for their turn to land, he’d had to leave the one he had with Bomilcar, who’d have to deal with getting all of the men ashore on his own.

“Who’s the highest officer on shore and not in the Eighth?” Velius asked the messenger who ran up.

“Sagarius.” “Tell Sagarius to stretch the line. Pull it to three deep and go out as far as he can until he runs out of beach or men. Have the command staff from the other cohorts spread evenly down the line. Don’t worry about unit makeup at the moment. Just get the line solid and then hold. He also needs to pull at least fifty men and send them back to me as a reserve.”

The messenger nodded and ran off to find the prefect, one of the few high-ranking officers who’d been in the first wave. Velius followed behind him, occasionally yelling a command here or there to the men forming up, although it was more to feel like he was doing something and so the men knew he was with them. They did themselves proud, every man moving with purpose, quickly getting into the extremely thin ranks.

It was a good thing too, because the line was still adjusting when the Carthaginians burst from the tree line well down to the left of their original position, exactly where Bomilcar said they would. It was a smart maneuver, trying to flank him, but they’d gone too far. Now that his line extended into the surf, they weren’t getting around him. They’d given themselves more sand to trudge through than they really needed to, although perhaps they just wanted to get further away from the explosions.

Velius was pretty sure the cannon fire was affecting them, as their formation was shaky and still came in far down his left. In a position like his, where his line cut sharply in one direction to avoid being flanked, the weakest point was the corner created where they connected with the line still facing forward. A smart commander would hit there, since the men right at the corner lost the benefit of the shield wall, and would be able to be attacked on multiple sides. Attacking halfway down the line extending back and to the left didn’t gain them anything, other than distance from the explosions.

Of course, they outnumbered his men and were compacted, where his line was only three men deep. It wouldn’t take much for them to create a hole and roll up his whole force.

“Fire,” Velius yelled, the command rippling down in both directions as it was relayed by the officers.

The men in the second and third rows had already pulled up their arcuballistas when they saw the approaching Carthaginians and, as a group, released a volley that cut hard into their formation, causing it to break slightly as it marched forward, another sign they were shaken. It gave Velius a thought.

“Second rank, shields up. Third rank, reload,” Velius yelled. “Hold fire.”

As close as they were and as thin as Velius’s line was, the smart thing to do would have been to have all of the men sling their arcuballista and get ready for contact, since where the wall was hit would feel the pressure of that initial contact, and they’d need the third rank to push back and replace men from the first and second rows as they fell. With how thin his line was, he couldn’t go with the smart thing.

Velius watched as the Carthaginians continued to close the distance. It was a startling sight. He hadn’t been this close to the front rank since his early days as a legionary. He didn’t have entire cohorts between himself and the enemy now, and it was terrifying, seeing the rows of spears that could almost reach him once the lines clashed.

“Fire,” Velius yelled as the Carthaginians passed an imaginary line he’d put down, just a dozen steps or so from their front line.

Arrows rippled out from the third line past the shoulders of their comrades, tearing into the Carthaginians. At this distance, the arcuballista still had almost all of their punch and the arrows tore through shields and men. Their line didn’t break, but it was uneven from all of the gaps created by the fallen men, and those that were left were shaken from the sudden punch of the arrows.

They didn’t stop, however. The phalanxes had momentum, the rear rows pushing forward, forcing the men in front of them to keep moving no matter the carnage they were receiving at the front. It was one of the things that gave the formation its power and allowed them to overpower their enemies. It was also the thing that made them so inflexible, and had allowed the Romans to beat them many times, since their men were able to adjust more quickly or even stop as the situation called for it.

The Carthaginians slammed into his men, who held fast, their shields up, gladius already punching forward, trying to catch a spearman. Men fell here and there, but not as many as the enemy needed to be able to punch through the line. Between the large Roman shields and the uneven contact from the disturbed Carthaginian line, the attack was too light and didn’t have the power to push through the thinner Britannian line.

Velius looked past the Carthaginians to the empty beach behind them. There were no other units coming out of the trees. He guessed that the Carthaginians had put all of their men together for a solid blow into the Britannians, as opposed to staggering smaller groups, to give them options once they made contact. He didn’t know that for a fact, of course, but Velius was pretty sure that was right. The cannons were still firing and he was confident the Consul wouldn’t continue burning through gunpowder if it wasn’t necessary, which meant there were still men opposite the Britannian’s front line.

“Order to Sagarius,” Velius called over the sounds of shouts, pain, and clashing weapons. “Swing the left end of the line up, pivoting against the point of contact. Wrap our line around the Carthaginian formation.”

He didn’t know Sagarius well, but the reports he’d gotten on the man were good, and he trusted him to pull off the maneuver without breaking their own line. It was a gamble. If Velius was wrong, a second Carthaginian force could now easily loop around his men and scrape off the thin Britannian line, like so much butter.

At first, it looked like they would hold, but the thin line was straining as men started to fall. Velius began plugging weakening spots with the small reserve he’d pulled aside, but those men began to dwindle fast. Sagarius was moving his men, but it was slow, since they had to keep solid contact as the line swung around. If they moved too fast, gaps would start to form at the points where the men were in contact with the Carthaginians, which would be as good as if they hadn’t extended their line at all, since the phalanxes could push the exposed flanks caused by the gaps, wiping out his line.

Worse, the Carthaginians knew they couldn’t just run away. The Britannians had done a good job of sinking any boat that might be used to get them off the island to escape, they could see more Britannian ships landing, and they’d experienced the damage Britannian shelling could do. They were fighting as hard as any Carthaginian phalanx he’d seen. In the end, they’d still lose. At this point, it was a certainty. All that was left to decide was how many men Velius would lose in the process. Something he could ill afford.

Unfortunately, the more Velius watched the more apparent it became that he would run out of his reserves before Sagarius finished his partial encirclement of the Carthaginians. As he sent in the last of his reserves, another weak point opened up right at the edge of the line, just where he’d feared the line would break. Two, then three, then a fourth man fell. The men in the second and third lines began filling in the gaps, but they were soon down to a single line, which wouldn’t hold.

“Follow me,” Velius yelled at the few messengers, the single signalman, and an aide that had made it to shore and stood with him behind the lines.

Velius grabbed a dropped shield as he ran and pulled his sword. He could see the men following him realizing what he was about to do, take their weapons in hand, fear in their eyes. Velius didn’t pity them. He’d always made it clear that his men were soldiers first, from the highest commander to the lowest cook. If they were in his legion, they were expected to train, know how to fight, and be capable of going into battle as the situation needed.

The sand churned under his boots as he charged in, leaning slightly forward, fighting against the difficult ground. He was glad he didn’t hesitate, as two men at the exact corner of the line fell under a barrage of stabs from swords and spears. Without a line behind them, it opened up the exact point he’d been worried about. He and the few men with him slammed into the Carthaginians just as they tried to exploit the opening. They’d been so focused on killing the men in front of them and then getting their comrades rallied for the breakthrough that they hadn’t seen Velius coming, or expected the sudden attack.

Velius slapped a spear out of the way and slammed the shield into the shorter Carthaginian leading the breakthrough, sending the man sailing back into the soldiers behind him, causing several to fall in the confusion. His legionary days came back to him in a rush as his sword flashed out, catching a man in the side, his blood spilling out on the sand as Velius pulled his weapon back, ready to strike again.

The sand was hard to get a good foothold on. It wasn’t even particularly sand anymore. It was now a reddish, muddy mixture of sand, blood, and bile, slippery and squelching against his boots. The aide pushed in next to him, just in time for a Carthaginian spear to slash in, catching him just below the jaw. The man dropped, but Velius knew he couldn’t worry about the man, now. If he was destined to live, then he would. If not, he’d die. Velius had to focus on the men trying to kill him.

He pushed his shield up, ducking his head slightly, forcing the spear tip meant for him to bounce off the metal edging of the borrowed shield. His arm flashed out again and he felt the familiar feeling of flesh trying, and failing, to resist a stabbing weapon. He didn’t know if it was the man who tried to kill him, but someone fell. One of his messengers slotted in next to him, his expression terrified, but pressing hard against the shield.

Battles against phalanxes were as much massive shoving matches as actual combat with swords. You had to lean into the shield, trying to push them back as they did the same to you. While it was a contest of strength and skill, the biggest deciding factor for either force was endurance, if matched one on one.

His gladius stabbed out again and again, sometimes killing the enemy and sometimes sliding off shields or armor, and then the messenger fell. The other men he’d brought were on his left, which meant that was the last man he’d brought with him. He tried to edge to the right, hoping he could hold the spot, but there wasn’t much hope. He looked over and made eye contact with the Carthaginian in front of that hole, and knew the man recognized the opportunity. He pulled back, trying to get his spear angled to catch Velius, when suddenly a shield came in, out of nowhere.

The Carthaginian had been as focused on him as Velius had been on the Carthaginian, and neither had seen it coming. The Carthaginian who’d just seen his chance to kill a Roman and break through the line fell, the gladius being pulled out of his chest coated in red.

Hands pulled at Velius from behind. He recognized the signal, men trying to switch out with him, and resisted at first, until more hands joined in and a man pushed in next to him, adding his weight to Velius’s shield, his hands trying for the straps so they could switch out. Velius gave it to him and backed up, which is when he realized there were more men running at them. Several dozen, including Gordianus, his second in command, were moving up from the boats that looked to have just landed.

Velius backed up further, as reinforcements poured in. Stepping back, he could see the battlefield again. Sagarius had pressed in and already the Carthaginian phalanx was crumbling. The danger had passed.

“You have no idea how good your timing is,” Velius said to Gordianus, slapping the man on the shoulder.

“Thank you, General, but it’s not all my doing. The men had already started for their assigned positions. I just gave them a small push.”

“I see,” Velius said, looking back to the shoreline, where he thought he could make out the Carthaginian stalking back up from the boats to the line Velius had left him in charge of.

Velius also noticed the cannon fire had slackened off, which hopefully meant the Carthaginian force had run or been destroyed, and not that Valdar was running out of gunpowder.

“Sagarius has them half encircled. Finish it and either kill them or take them prisoner. I’m going back to the main line and see where we’re at. I think we might have pushed them back.”

“Don’t curse us, Legate,” Gordianus said with a smile.

Velius shook his head, slapped the man on the back, and went to see where they stood. He knew the actual end result was never in doubt, but it looked like they were going to do it without losing too many men, which was always the real goal.

They might have just pulled this off after all.