Voratrix said nothing, nor did he kneel. None of his men did.
The Bellovaci had ravaged Voratrix and his clan all throughout their journey, withering them down with every ambush and raid. Thinking he had worn them to the point of submission, Rianorix – clearly believing he had the obvious upper hand, had invited Voratrix and his clan to his mountain home to surrender.
A lesser man might have knelt and submitted to this king and maybe even escaped the feast with his life, but Voratrix had no intention to do so. He never had. These savages were responsible for the deaths of hundreds of his clansmen, how could he come now and entreat such an enemy? Instead Voratrix planned to teach this king a simple truth by which the Evastii had always lived – no power in life is given, it is taken. Like sons killing their fathers to inherit their names, kings too must earn their place in the world – by blood, not words of fealty.
And so, Voratrix turned to the thrall behind him who had the honour of being his sword-bearer. In one confident motion, Voratrix drew its mighty blade.
The Evastii had long been renowned across Tumultus for their metalworking skill, and the polished steel of his greatsword was proof of that. Forged by the same expert craftsman who had made Ariogaisus’ gold and silver armour, Voratrix’s sword was a weapon of unmatched intricacy. Engraved with the runes of his name, the blade was as long as Voratrix was tall yet light enough to hold in one hand, such was the mastery of its design.
For all their boastful displays of food and numbers, the mere sight of such a beautifully crafted sword instantly shattered any notion of Bellovaci superiority.
In that moment, Voratrix held more power in his hand than the king and all his surrounding tribesmen, who now tightly clutched their dull, bronze weapons.
Then, pointing his blade at the seated king, warlord Voratrix said but a single word, loud enough to echo throughout the hall for all to hear.
‘Challenge.’
***
Deep in the dungeons of the stolen Arcemite galley, Sejanus Hathor marched the narrow plank walkway between the rowers, sweating over their oars as they powered the ship through the treacherous waves. The slave deck was a grim place, he thought, cramped and full of misery. Its timber walls echoed with the pounding rhythm of the drum and the air inside carried a foul stench from the rowers who ate, slept and died chained to their stations. It was however, the warmest place aboard and offered the best sanctuary from the bitter cold of the Ominor Sea outside. For that reason alone, Sejanus was able to tolerate its quarters.
The wind howled as another wave crashed violently against the side of the hull, spraying those inside through the small portholes for the oars. The ship lurched wildly on its side at the force and the deck tilted, throwing Sejanus’ head roughly against a heavy timber beam.
He cursed and grabbed at a nearby post to steady himself. One would think after almost a week at sea he would have found his sea legs, but the perilous waters only seemed to grow more turbulent throughout their voyage. The fact the galley had been built with the short Arcemite stature in mind did not help either.
On the deck above there was a sudden burst of shouting following the wave and for a moment, Sejanus wondered if they had taken damage against the storm. He knew all it would take would be one bad leak in the hull planking and they were doomed to be smashed open and devoured by the Ominor Sea. It had already happened to a few of the fleet’s triremes during their journey. Sejanus saw the wreckage himself and heard the anguish in the calls of his brothers as they were pulled to their deaths beneath the dark sea. It was a chilling thought. He looked down. Water pooled around his feet, but no more than usual. Perhaps it was the mast that had taken damage, he thought.
Shrugging off his nausea, Sejanus slowly made his way down the walkway to investigate the source of the commotion. As he moved towards the ladder another figure came down in a rush.
First Centurion Hector Valko landed with a splash on the lower deck of the galley. ‘Your presence is demanded topside at once,’ he said, failing to hide the unease in his voice.
The man’s clothes were drenched and Sejanus could see the fear in his eyes. ‘What is happening, are we damaged?’ he asked, feeling his pulse quicken. ‘What of the prince? Is Hannibal alright?’
‘The prince is safe with the rest of your Royal Guards at his side,’ said Valko wiping the water from his brow. ‘He has called everyone on deck and I suggest you have a sword ready in hand.’
‘Why? What has happened?’ asked Sejanus.
Valko sighed. ‘You had best come and see for yourself. The crew have finally sighted land in the distance,’ he said, turning to climb back up the ladder.
As Sejanus followed the Arcemite onto the upper deck, he ascended into chaos. Sailors were running everywhere in a blur of activity, shouting orders and replies between each other in words Sejanus had not the naval understanding to comprehend. Waves crashed against the sides, flooding the deck with water and sweeping many from their feet. Sejanus wiped the spray from his eyes and followed the First Centurion along the planking towards the bow of the ship, steadying himself against the side rails as he went.
Lightning split the gloomy sky and in the fleeting moment of illumination he saw the jagged cliffs of a shoreline appear before them. Even in his limited knowledge, Sejanus realised the ship was doomed. They were being blown towards the island by the storm and would surely be smashed upon the serrated rocks that lined its coast. Sejanus felt his heart beat wildly in his chest and his eyes widened with fear.
Beside him, a dozen of the ship’s crew struggled to guide it away from the danger. Hauling on thick ropes about the mast, Sejanus saw their muscles bulge and tremble as they tried to pull against the raw power of Tumultus.
The timbers of the ship groaned beneath the fury of the tempest and the weather-beaten fabric of its sails snapped violently in the wind. All the while, the broken coastline drew nearer.
‘Reverse oars!’ a firm voice yelled over the chaos. Sejanus looked up as he recognised its regal accent. Standing at the ship’s bow, Hannibal stared ahead into the gloom. With hands braced against the sides, the prince was a towering figure of order amid the panic.
Sejanus staggered to his master’s side as the deck pitched sharply beneath his feet. Over the side, the ship’s oars had come up and begun rowing in the opposite direction in a final attempt to slow it from its collision course.
As if sensing his champion’s arrival, Hannibal turned and nodded to Sejanus as he joined the other guards. The prince’s face was utterly composed despite the scene before him and Sejanus felt his fears ease beneath his master’s gaze. ‘Triple pace!’ Hannibal called out.
The drums of the slave deck below quickened their tempo as the rowers were pushed to their limits at a speed reserved only for ramming. The ship shuddered, torn between the two opposing forces of man and nature.
Another flash of lightning lit up the darkness, revealing the jagged maw of the island before them. There was no escape. Despite the crew’s efforts, there was no denying it. They were going to run aground on the stony coast.
‘Up there, on the cliff!’ shouted one of the prince’s Royal Guards, pointing.
Sejanus followed the man’s gaze, squinting against the stinging rain that blew against his face. At first he did not see anything, nothing but rocks and shadows. Then Sejanus saw him.
Atop the cliff face, a lone figure stood in the darkness. Sejanus had initially thought the man to be another jagged rock formation – that was until it moved. With unhurried care, the figure reached up and pulled back the hood from his face. A bald, sickly pale face stared down at the fleet with silent interest. Though the wind and rain battered down on his skin, the man seemed completely unperturbed by the fierce weather. Even as a bolt of lightning shattered against the cliff face not far from where he stood, the man remained still.
‘My prince, there’s someone up there!’ cried one of the guards.
As Hannibal looked up at the figure on the cli
ff, the man slowly raised his hand as if to wave towards the fleet. Sejanus could not tell if the gesture was in greeting or farewell.
Hannibal turned towards those around him. ‘Brace yourselves my sons,’ he said grimly, ‘this is going to be rough.’
Then with bone-jarring force, the ship crashed ashore.
Sejanus found himself tumbling in the violent roll of the waves as they broke against the shore. Thrashing him like a ragdoll, he had no sense of orientation. His head was above the surface one moment, only to be smashed against the seafloor in a swirl of bubbles the next. Sejanus tried to steady himself, but his arms flailed uselessly against the ocean as it dumped him on the stony shore. He landed hard.
Only when the world finally stopped spinning and the ground was flat beneath him did Sejanus open his eyes. The last thing he could remember was flying overboard when the ship had run aground. Now he was lying face down in the gritty sand of the beach, the tide splashing against his legs. His entire body ached. He could feel the side of his face was grazed from the tumble, for it burned in the salty water. He lay there for a while, gathering the strength to stand. His ears were full of water and his hearing was muffled, but in the distance, Sejanus could faintly perceive someone shouting.
The cries of his brothers brought new strength to battered muscles and Sejanus raised himself to his knees. The sea churned around him and through clouded vision, he noticed for the first time the water’s blood-red colour. Sejanus turned around and right before him was the broken body of a fellow legionary from the prince’s Royal Guard. The man’s armour was skewered on one of the shore’s jagged rocks and his arms hung limply in the water. Sejanus recognised the guard; he had been standing beside the man before the impact. Had it not been for a sliver of fortune, Sejanus knew that it could well have been him impaled on the rock. He spared a moment to quickly mutter a prayer before turning his attention to the great shipwreck that loomed behind.
The galley lay broken against the rocks. The bow where they had stood only moments ago was dashed to splinters, while the rest of the hull lay half-submerged in the shallow waters. Sejanus noted the waterline and knew that almost every slave on the rowing deck would have drowned, shackled to their posts.
All around, the bodies of legionaries and the crew floated among the wreckage, bobbing up and down amid the waves that continued to smash against the beached ship.
Steadying himself on one of the rocks, Sejanus tested his legs to stand. Wincing at the movement, he managed to stumble a few paces forward up the beach. Around him, other survivors were doing the same. Squinting against the rain, he could see barely a few dozen left alive, but Sejanus felt his heart leap to find his master among them.
Sejanus fell to his knees. ‘Praise the gods, you are spared my prince.’
Drenched like the rest of them, Hannibal’s long braids clung wetly to his face, over eyes that looked down at his champion with untold despair. When he spoke, the prince’s voice was but a whisper. ‘Sejanus, I-’
Sejanus would never have dared to interrupt his master before finishing a sentence, but in the corner of his eye Sejanus saw him again. ‘Behind you my lord!’ he shouted, causing weary heads to turn in alarm.
He emerged from the darkness. Walking down the stony beach, the man from the clifftop strode right towards them. His pace was well measured and seemed completely untroubled in approaching the Syphaxan guards who formed defensively around their master.
Sejanus rose to his feet and reached for his gladius, only to find it was no longer by his waist, but lost – most likely sometime during his fall. Without weapons, hands became fists and the champion still took his place beside his prince. Sejanus followed every movement of the approaching figure.
The man’s cloak fluttered behind him in the wind and it was clear enough to see that he was unarmed. But this was the north and everything was to be distrusted.
The man had the strong build of a warrior and was far too confident in his stride as he neared the blades of the Syphaxans. Sejanus cast his gaze around the shore, trying to find an explanation. The gloom held no further secrets; no signs of an ambush or any other tribesmen. The man came alone.
The warrior halted a few paces from the Syphaxan guards, who looked on nervously, their hands tense around the grips of their swords. No one spoke for a moment, with no sound but the howling of the storm and rain battering down upon their faces.
Up close, Sejanus got his first proper look at the tribesman. Still without his hood, he saw the man’s weathered features and strong jaw. The entire left half of his pale face was tattooed with dark lines of his heathen language; its runes barbaric, jagged like the rocks of the shoreline. The man’s lips curled back into a cruel smile and fierce greyish-blue eyes stared back at Sejanus, instantly bringing to mind images of the treacherous sea.
Then, taking them all by surprise, the man slowly lowered his head in fealty and bowed. But what shocked them down to their bones was when the tribesman stood back up and spoke in perfect Syphaxan.
‘Greetings Prince Hannibal of Syphax, my name is Segovax. On behalf of the lord and master of the north, Archon Cruor – may Khronus praise his soul – I bid you welcome to the Baltus Islands. We have long been expecting your arrival.’
About the Author:
Nathan R. Mancini is an Australian author, avid reader of military history and amateur fencing sabreur. When he is not crunching data in spreadsheets for his day job, you will find him busily writing or hiking mountains. Tumultus: The Ultimate Spoils is his debut novel, more than ten years in the making and the first instalment of the series.
For commentaries and updates in the Tumultus series visit his website:
NathanRMancini.com
The Ultimate Spoils (Tumultus Chronicles Book 1) Page 29