Daughter of the Sea

by Mira Zamin

Demetrius saw the army first.

  “What’s that, you reckon?” he said, squinting against the dim glare of the sun.

  His fellow sentry, Iranaeus, looked up and sighted the lines of rapidly approaching armed horsemen. Thousands. “Shit,” he swore.

  Standing on the city walls, Demetrius felt a small flutter in the corner of his eye. “Ships!” he exclaimed, pointing towards the billowing striped sails advancing on the sea. Iranaeus looked over in time to see his friend collapse, an arrow sprouting from his chest. Falling to the ground beneath a hail of arrows, Iranaeus rolled down to the earth with a decidedly solid thump. Fighting his way through the milling streets, each instant like a lifetime, he reached a house tucked away from the overwhelming noise and terror.

  Chest heaving, he skidded across the marble expanse of the entryway of the general’s home. Urgently, he asked a nearby slave to take him to the general’s room.

  Iranaeus bowed as he entered. “Sir, we have just spotted an army rapidly advancing onto Portus Tarrus. Three thousand strong.”

  Startled, General Cornelius looked up from the papers he had been studying. “Are you sure, man?” he barked. He did not wait for Iranaeus to answer as he donned his armor with the help of a ready slave. “The army, however impossible that may seem, might not mean to attack us. They could simply be passing through and Lucretius forgot to pass the note along to us.” The general’s lips compressed with displeasure. “How far are they?”

  “If that army were friendly, I doubt they would proclaim their arrival by putting an arrow through the chest of a sentry,” Iranaeus said. If he had been a senior officer, he would have snorted. “They are less than a quarter of a mile away. What’s more, a force of three ships is arriving by sea and they are not peaceful.”

  “Who the hell are they?” Cornelius demanded almost to himself.

  Iranaeus could only shake his head in bewilderment.

  Cornelius strode out briskly. Iranaeus followed him. “We have no time then. Do the other lieutenants know?”

  “They’ve likely seen them or another sentry has warned them—I wouldn’t know; I came directly to you.”

  “Go warn the others!” he snapped.

  “Yessir,” Iranaeus saluted, clasping his hand to his chest. He marched out.

  General Cornelius groaned. Small but potent, the legion here could smoothly handle a Gaulish rebellion, but a trained, invading army with the element of surprise?

  That would be tricky.

  His short, distinctively crimson cloak blew in the wind, his belted white tunic bright against the sun. He had to meet with the rest of his lieutenants, to quickly plan their response. It will be a siege. We should be able to hold out…But they will have access to the ships...still… The calm cloudless sky was smoothing into darkness. Cornelius’ sandals left tracks in the sand as he ran to the soldiers’ barracks.

  Summoning the map of the area etched into his mind, he traced an imaginary finger along the edge of Gaul, near Hispania, then brought his finger to the smaller province of Terronensis and tinier still, the city of Portus Tarrus.

  A battle, thought Cornelius in shock, his stalking feet churning sand. Portus Tarrus had always been peaceful, except for the odd brawl—and that was for the town watch to handle not the legion. The Gauls had been subdued years ago and knew better than to try their luck against the Romans again.

  Terronensis was a Senatorial province, with its proconsuls elected among ex-consuls and ex-praetorians from the Senate. To reduce the chance of rebellion against the Emperor spearheaded by the Senate, Senatorial provinces had few if any legions.

  And now they were being confronted by several thousand men by land perhaps another thousand by ship. At the very least, they presented a force of four thousand men. He had four hundred. Half-heartedly, he considered negotiation but he knew that a force this strong did not come to talk. The only way for this situation to be resolved was by battle.

  Emperor Augustus’ fear and his desire to keep power will result in the deaths of thousands of men and women. It was not a mutinous or bitter thought. Just a sad one.

  As he entered the barracks, the men froze in astonishment; General Cornelius rarely surprised them with visits.

  Drawing a deep breath, he kept his words short and to the point. “Men, we are under attack. Cavalry and armed ships—some four thousand men. Get dressed, armed and report to the eastern walls in ten minutes. We will make Proconsul Lucretius proud!”

  The men wasted no time. For this self-same purpose they had extensively trained and any doubts were suppressed by overwhelming need: to defend their proconsul, his family, the city, their families. The initial bravado waned as the sheer number of their opponents seeped into the men. They murmured amongst themselves, quickly testing the edges of their gladii and pilliami.

  Aiding another soldier with his armor, Milus, a newer recruit, wondered aloud what many were thinking. “How are we going to fight them? All of them? General Cornelius makes it sound as if…”

  An older man hefted his shield. “Aye, well, we try our best and try not to die? And might as well hope that the city walls hold while we’re at it.”

  Milus looked thoroughly frightened and the older man patted him on the shoulder kindly. The human touch, even when protruding with iron and leather, was soothing.

  “This is your first battle?”

  Milus nodded nervously.

  “If you survive, it shall be a story for your grandchildren and if you don’t...Well, that’s a soldier’s lot, ain’t it?”

  Swallowing dryly, Milus followed the older man and shuffled out of the barracks. He drew small comfort from his proximity to the other man.

  The advancing army had spread beyond the city gates, whereas the ships had ducked from sight. That made Cornelius uneasy. The soldiers marched to the coliseum near the western walls, where a constant thudding resounded against the solid gates, amplified by the acoustics of the building. The words “battering ram” and “ballista” wove through the phalanx. Unease spread. Officers strode through the ranks, sharing instructions and positioning soldiers.

  The general walked to the front of the army. Flanked by three lieutenants, he stood on a stone bench. “Men!” Cornelius roared. “We each have our honor, our duty. I call on Mars to guide us through this battle.” Now is the time to fulfill your oaths—to the Emperor!” Cheers. “The Proconsul!” More cheers. “To Portus Tarrus!” The sound was deafening.

  One of the lieutenants removed his plumed helmet; it was not a lieutenant after all, but Proconsul Lucretius. “I will fight with you.”

  Cornelius groaned softly. Despite his attempts at persuading Lucretius otherwise, the man had been stubbornly insistent on fighting with—Cornelius’ thoughts were turned away by the sudden breach in the walls by the opposing army. How in the name of Minerva…?