Chapter 17

Coast of Sardinia, The Mediterranean

Valdar stood at the bow of the BNS Bellona, the wind whipping through his hair as his ship cut its way across the water. Ahead of them, still a speck in the distance, was the island of Sardinia, their current target. After months of clearing out the western end of the Middle Sea and laying waste to every Carthaginian port on that side of North Africa, he was finally comfortable moving his fleet further east, working to clear out the seas of southern Italia before the Consul’s legions could reach it.

His preference would have been to just push hard all the way across the sea and then swing back to pick up any stragglers they might have missed on the way. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t get his preference this time. Soon, hopefully, the Consul would be ready to cross to Africa, which meant a large number of supply ships would take the place of the overland logistics he was using now.

While Valdar’s caravels might be a plague on Carthaginian ships, Britannian and allied shipping was much slower, and their current supply situation was such that they couldn’t afford to absorb the losses of being less than thorough.

“Here they come,” his first mate said from his position next to him, staring at the small island in the distance through a spyglass.

“You have to hand it to them; they certainly are brave,” Valdar said, squinting as he tried to make out the distant shapes. “It’s nice of them to bring their ships to us to be destroyed instead of making us chase them.”

“They could still turn and make a run to the east. It looks like they’re all using our copied sail plan.”

“Won’t matter. It’s better than oars, but their ships are not built from the ground up for it like ours. It might take us a little longer, but we’ll catch them. How many?”

“Twenty, I think. It’s hard to tell. They’re sailing in a very tight formation, bunched up.”

Valdar frowned. That was not typical of how the Carthaginians sailed. They fought with their fleets like they did their armies, trying to spread out and outflank the other side and surround them, so they could get as many of the soldiers waiting on deck onto the opposing ships as fast as possible.

“Can you see any of the ships in the middle or back?”

“No, Admiral, I ... wait, they hit a swell and had to separate a bit. I think they might have catapults on some of those ships,” his first mate said.

“Signal to the fleet, prepare to head on a westerly course, holding a formation four abreast. Lower to half-mast but prepare to return to full sail as the enemy closes. Bellona will take the rear.”

Instead of relaying the order, the sailor looked at him, his head tilted in confusion. “Admiral?”

“Those catapults are for throwing the gunpowder they’ve started using, and if you haven’t noticed, our ships are made out of wood. They’ve got the wind, and I want our ships held at long range from them. Since they’re able to come straight in and fire, once they’re close enough, we’ll start to tack for broadsides and pick up ground to restore distance. It’ll make this slower, but I’m not ready to surrender any of our ships to those thugs.”

The man looked back out at the enemy ships for just a moment, working through the implications of what Valdar had said before turning and rushing off to the signalman.

“Not today, you sneaky bastards,” Valdar muttered to himself, watching the Carthaginians close the distance between them.

The signal flags began flying with agonizing slowness as his fleet and the Carthaginian fleet continued to edge closer and closer together. While the flag system the Consul had instructed them to use allowed a level of coordination unimaginable before, which was needed when fighting as floating cannon platforms, that level of complications meant everything took so much longer.

Finally, his ships began their slow arc, turning away from the oncoming Carthaginians. They had been sailing in line, with his ship at the front, which meant, for the time being, only his ship would have a clear field of fire at the Carthaginians as they turned.

“Prepare broadside. Fire as she bears!” Valdar bellowed to his gun captains, forcing his voice above the sound of the waves and wind.

As his ship became parallel with the enemy fleet, his starboard cannons fired, long tongues of flame reaching out toward the Carthaginians. Through the billowing smoke, he saw several hits across the front of the Carthaginian line, with the lead ship looking to have taken several as it began to drift south uncontrollably, its fellows were forced to adjust suddenly to avoid it.

“Nicely done,” he said to his first mate, who’d returned.

“Order the fleet to tack on my command once we’ve created enough separation. Keep it tight, I don’t want them to gain any more than necessary,” Valdar said.

Looking through his spyglass, he saw the Carthaginians did them a favor, slowing as ships moved in to replace the damaged ships. As they did, the Bellona finished its turn and began to sail steadily westward, putting distance between the fleets.

It took almost twenty crushingly slow minutes to open up enough range for his ships to maneuver, even with the Carthaginian fleet slowing briefly to reshuffle their line.

“That should about do it,” Valdar said. “Order the back line to tack south and fire as they bear, then return to the westerly course.”

“Yes, Admiral,” the man said, shouting instructions to the signalmen and ship’s helmsmen.

Valdar watched as his four rear ships, which included the Bellona, began turning south. They had been sailing abreast, meaning each ship had a clean line of fire, although his ship furthest south had to turn almost southeast before he could get his guns on target.

Each belched fire as their ship got on target, their months of practice over the winter and the core of trained and blooded sailors paying off as the majority of the fire hit their targets. Unlike his first salvo, his men had known it was coming enough ahead of time for his gun captains to get their guns fully on target, concentrating all of the fire on the first three ships in line. Cannonballs ripped through the galleys, tearing away masts and punching holes through the decks, sending the ocean rushing in.

One might end up salvageable, falling away as his predecessors had done, no longer seaworthy, but the other two were completely lost, already starting their journey to the bottom, listing to the side.

“We may have only three ships for the next volley,” Valdar said. “The Alfhildr made too wide of a swing and is lagging too far behind.”

As if to make his point, an object came arching out of the center of the Carthaginian fleet toward the Alfhildr, which was still turning to get back to the rest of the fleet, forced to give up speed in exchange. The projectile still fell well short of the ship, but the explosion no doubt worried everyone aboard when the jar burst into a flaming ball a few handspans from the ocean surface.

“It’s alright, they’re slowing again,” his first mate said.

Valdar lifted his spyglass. Sure enough, the Carthaginian fleet slowed again, shuffling their ships forward to replace those sunk or damaged in the last pass. The longer he watched the ships repositioning themselves, the less pleased he was with the Carthaginians slowing.

“Damnit!” he finally said.

“Sir?”

“They’re using those ships as shields. That’s why they slow down every time we sink some, to keep us from hitting their catapult ships. I’m sure of it.”

It made sense, especially with the way Carthaginians liked to fight. They preferred to power their way through every challenge, sacrificing things they saw as ‘expendable materials,’ such as their own people, to gain position and victory. And because his ships had to do a series of maneuvers after each volley, while they could just sail straight in, it meant that they just needed the Britannians to slip up, or the winds to drop enough where their oars could counter the better Roman sail plans, to get within range.

Worse, it just might work.

His first mate must have seen this playing across Valdar’s face because he said, “Perhaps we should disengage.”

“No. For one, it’s not like that will make this problem go away. They’ll still be here, waiting for us. For the other, I told the Consul I’d have the waters around Italia cleared by the time he reached the land’s end, and I mean to. If conditions shift, we can re-evaluate, but right now, we have the wind on them. As long as we don’t get sloppy, we should stay ahead of them. And they don’t have an unlimited supply of ships to lose. Eventually, they will expose their catapult ships, and then we can end this.”

Unfortunately, eventually turned out to be a very long time. For the next two hours, Valdar’s fleet swung back and forth, slowly whittling the enemy down, sinking a handful of ships with each pass.

Valdar never left the deck, straining through his spyglass at the Carthaginian fleet. In spite of what he said, he knew there were bound to be mistakes, no matter how good his captains were. This kind of fight of attrition was bound to wear down any crew, no matter how well trained. Although he kept the Bellona on the rear firing line, he cycled his other ships out to give their crews a rest between each volley.

Even with all of that, there were mistakes. Nearly very costly mistakes.

On the forty-third pass, the wind suddenly dropped, not completely, but enough. Most of his captains saw what was happening right away, unfurling their top sails and bracing the yards as best they could to pick up enough extra wind to keep their lead. All except the Kvasir, which delayed several long minutes before it joined them.

Horlf was a good man and an experienced seafarer, but he hadn’t noticed the wind change fast enough. The Carthaginians, whose orders allowed them to continue pushing forward as his lagged, didn’t have nearly the same disadvantage, surging forward in the calm conditions.

Valdar watched, a pit in his stomach as first one, then a second, and then a third container was launched from the Carthaginian fleet, which was closing the gap between them rapidly.

Two landed well short, harmless as they had been the few other times they’d fired their weapons. The third was much closer. Had the Carthaginians’ aim been better, they would have had the Kvasir. As it was, the container exploded perilously close to the ship. No fires were started, but there must have been some kind of shrapnel, either in the container or from pieces of the container, because Valdar could see injured men on the deck and rips appeared in the canvas sails.

“Prepare to come about! Signal the fleet to come about and engage. The Alfhildr will pull aside and render aid to the Kvasir!”

It would make all their patience for naught, turning this into a slugfest Valdar was sure to win, but not without damage or casualties. He wasn’t prepared to give up one of his ships, though. If his men were quick, they could punch through the shielding boats and sink the catapult galleys before any of his own ships were hulled. He hoped.

Thankfully, it didn’t come to that as the gods looked down on their fool of a servant, blessing him. Before the signalman could send the message, the wind picked up once more. Valdar could feel the Bellona surge forward beneath his feet. More importantly, the injured Kvasir also picked up speed; the next Carthaginian volley landed close, but behind the ship, which meant they were widening the distance between them.

“Belay that order,” Valdar shouted to the signalman, thankful he didn’t have to commit his fleet to such folly.

They returned to their pattern, the Carthaginians now barely even waiting to change out shielding ships as they pushed forward, apparently buoyed by their near success. Part of Valdar wanted to disengage and try again when his men were fresh but he knew that wasn’t really an option. All he could do was worry, and pester his men to stay alert, working his signalman’s limbs to the bone with the constant signal traffic.