Agrippa’s galley crashed back, raising a wave of spray that drenched half the men on the slippery deck.
‘Harpax crews!’ he shouted, already hoarse. ‘Fit more ropes and grapnels.’
They had a second set, but while they had been locked together, another galley had slid up to his side at full speed. Agrippa barely had time to order the port oars in once more before the ships grated together, a long, groaning sound. He showed his teeth as he saw the enemy corvus bridge lifted up by sweating soldiers.
‘Corvus teams! Up and over! Repel boarders!’
He would not leave his post at the prow, but he saw Maecenas draw a gladius and pick up a shield from where they were stowed in a wooden rack. With the first wave of soldiers, Maecenas raced to the spot where the enemy must come, while their own corvus bridges were thrown up. The enemy ship had come in at an angle, so that the one closest to the stern could not reach. It stuck out into the breeze like a wooden tongue, men standing uselessly behind it. The one closest to the prow slammed down into the enemy deck, the great iron spike at its head lodging immovably in the wood.
Agrippa’s soldiers poured over the narrow bridge, while still more of them defended those trying to gain their own deck. Agrippa could see a century of legion soldiers on the enemy galley, but his second advantage showed itself immediately. Each of his rowers had won his place in sword tourneys. They left their benches and raced up onto the deck, three times as many fighting men as the enemy legionaries and each one a veteran and a skilled swordsman. Maecenas went with them over the corvus bridge, battering men back with his shield as his group fought to make space for more to come over.
It was slaughter. For a brief moment, both sides fought their way onto the opposing ship, but the ones that reached Agrippa’s galley were cut down in moments, their bodies thrown over the side to sink. His own soldiers hacked and killed their way through the enemy crew and went down into the hold to threaten the rowers there.
A cheer went up as they dragged the captain to the deck, a man in a plumed helmet who had tried to hide himself below when he saw his ship was taken. Still alive, he was thrown overboard to drown in his armour – and Agrippa’s men had another ship. He was tempted to take it for his own, but the enemy fleet still swarmed all around.
‘Set fires and get back quickly,’ he ordered, watching the sea in all directions for a new threat until black smoke rose over the screaming of oarsmen. Agrippa closed his ears to the sound. There was no justice in such a battle. He knew they had not chosen to attack him, but there was no help for it and he could not show mercy. His soldiers came back on board and the corvus bridges were levered out of the decks with fallen swords.
The galleys eased apart and the pillar of smoke thickened quickly, roaring yellow in the hold. Agrippa shouted encouragement to his men as they took their positions once again at the oars, dropping red blades at their feet and placing their blistered hands on the wooden beams. All around him his small fleet was still fighting.
It was a strange lull. The battle had spread over a vast distance as the galleys ran each other down. The water was covered in a slick of oil and splinters and floating bodies, some of them still moving. Agrippa could see any number of upturned hulls and had no way of knowing if they were his own or those of the enemy. For those still fighting, he knew every ship he’d built, with just a glance. He was pleased at the numbers. He turned at the cracking thump of catapults and saw threads leap out again from one of his ships, dragging another of the enemy galleys close enough to kill. Whether by luck or because they had learned not to rush a single rail, it remained upright, and then his swordsmen came charging over two corvus bridges and that ship too was taken.
Maecenas returned to his side, panting from his exertions. He looked around him in wonder, having never seen a battle at sea before.
‘Are we winning?’ he said, resting his sword on the rail.
Agrippa shook his head. ‘Not yet. Half the ships you see are disabled. We could take those, but there’s no point.’
He signalled quarter-speed to the oar-master and the galley eased between burning vessels. They could all hear crying, screaming men in the infernos they passed and the black smoke choked them. The breeze had begun to freshen, driving the smoke away to the east. To Maecenas’ shock, the sun was still low in the morning sky, though he thought they had been fighting for many hours.
As they moved through the devastation of the battle, Agrippa sighted the first ship they had struck. The captain’s crew had worked hard to transfer oars to the broken side and restore some movement to his battered ship. Agrippa saw new signals fluttering on its mast and he watched to see how many ships could still respond. It seemed to take an age for them to answer, but he saw flags go up on galleys in the distance as they began to come back.
He sent up his own signal to regroup on his flag and then there was nothing to do but wait.
‘Now we will see,’ he said grimly. He sought out the closest galley that looked undamaged but carried the colours of the Roman fleet on its mast. Agrippa raised his voice to carry to his crew. ‘That one. There’s no point waiting for them to come to us.’
His men were exhausted after rowing all night and then fighting after that, but Maecenas could see the savage delight in the harpax crews as they coiled ropes and wound back the catapults. They were in no mood to lose after coming so far.
Vedius felt a dim red fury as he watched the enemy flagship run up new signals. They made no sense, even to the ex-perienced legion signallers he commanded. Whoever the man was, he was a cunning bastard, Vedius thought to himself. Those flying grapnels had devastated his galleys. He’d seen three of them turned over before his very eyes while he struggled to restore something like order to the oar crew below his feet.
He shuddered briefly as pictures flashed in his mind. There had been a time when Vedius had believed nothing could ever turn his stomach. He’d witnessed murder and rape with utter calm. Yet on the deck below, bodies and limbs were jammed obscenely together, crushed by the oars and the impact with the other ship. He did not want to go back down there, to the stench of open bowels and more blood than he could believe, so that it pooled and gathered with the roll of the ship. More than sixty men had died as their own oars cut them to pieces. He had been helpless then, waiting for the impact of a ram to send the rest to the bottom. Yet he had not panicked and his legion crew had gone to work with hard faces and Roman discipline, clearing the slippery corpses and moving oars over at good speed. One or two had lost the contents of their stomachs as they worked, but they’d just wiped their mouths and moved on. Menas had been one of those and Vedius had formed something like respect for the Roman officer. Menas had not shirked the labour, pitching in with the others and coming away so covered in blood he might have been working in a slaughterhouse.
For a time, all Vedius could do was watch and give signals to keep his fleet together as the enemy cut through them. Every last one of the bastards had been armed with those appalling grapnels and when the ships came together, they went through good legion soldiers like a scythe through wheat. He had seen four of the enemy ships rammed and sunk, and his men cheered each one, but Vedius knew he had lost many more. Even now, with some way on his galley once more, he could see a great part of his fleet listing or burning, or simply drifting helplessly, with oars sheared away and dead men lying still on the deck.
With narrowed eyes, he saw the enemy commander’s galley come easing back, its prow pushing splinters and bodies aside as it came. As he stared, it accelerated in a new direction, like a wasp attacking one of the ships he had called back to him. Vedius swore impotently. With half his oarsmen dead, he could not keep up with them, never mind stage a ramming action that would do serious damage. For the first time he considered saving as many ships as he could and simply getting away. Sextus would want to hear about these new weapons and tactics.
He held back from giving the order, wanting to see first how many of his ships survived. For all he
knew, he still outnumbered the enemy and could yet turn disaster into a victory, no matter what it cost.
From all sides, ships rowed back to him as soon as they saw the flags. With each one returning, Vedius’ heart sank further. They were battered and broken, their sides running with blood or gashed open so that he could see through to rowers sitting just feet above the waves. Many would be lucky to make it back to shore. He could see only three that had come through unscathed, their crews staring out at the rest in shock as they took in the scale of destruction. Vedius shook his head. He knew they were not used to losing, but that did not change the reality of it. That small fleet of forty or fifty ships had torn them apart.
Twenty-nine galleys came limping back to his position and by then the enemy commander was engaged in a corvus battle with one of them. Vedius watched with hope until he saw smoke billow out from the oar-benches and the enemy move on, seeking out fresh targets. It too had sent up a new signal, though he could not read it. Vedius saw other ships come rowing in, forming up on their command galley in good order. Staring into the sun, Vedius did his best to count the enemy ships and did not enjoy the result.
‘Menas! Count them again! The sun is throwing shadows on my eyes.’
His second in command muttered numbers aloud, though the ships shifted position all the time as they gathered.
‘Twenty-three … twenty-five … twenty … eight. I think that’s it. Shall I order an attack, sir?’
Vedius closed his eyes for a moment, rubbing weariness out of them with his thumbs. He could not say it had been a good life, not really. He’d had some good days, that was all.
‘Stop thinking like a legionary, Menas. It’s time to run for the coves we know.’
Menas nodded. ‘Very well, sir,’ he said.
He gave the orders and the battered galleys began to row south towards Sicily.
Maecenas was staring into the distance as the two fleets formed up. Agrippa knew by then that they’d lost only twenty galleys, though it still weighed on him like a failure. His harpax weapons had proved both deadly and effective in the battle and the double corvus bridges and expert sword crews had done the rest.
‘They are retreating … that way,’ Maecenas said.
Agrippa came to stand by his shoulder.
‘South, it’s south,’ he said. His voice was drained of any pride by then, almost too weary to speak at all.
‘Will you follow?’ Maecenas asked.
‘I have to. They are heading the way I want to go. I don’t mind losing another day to chase them down and burn the rest of them. They can’t outrun us now.’
‘You think we can do it again, against Sextus Pompey?’ Maecenas asked.
Agrippa looked around him. A dozen ships nearby were burning, avoided by his galleys as they feared burning sparks and ashes setting their own craft on fire. Others had turned over and could not be salvaged, but there were many more waiting to be taken, their crews slaughtered.
‘Given a month to make repairs and to gather new crews for the ships we haven’t burned, yes, Maecenas, I think we can do it again. We have to.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Brutus smiled. It was one of the many benefits of a young wife, he’d found. Not only did he feel a greater urge to keep lean and fit rather than surrender to age, but Portia lacked the cynicism that had been battered into him over the years of his life. She laughed more easily than he did and, in doing so, infected him with it, so that when he thought of her, his dark moods eased.
‘You are mocking me,’ Portia said. She pouted at him, knowing he loved the expression. In the nights together, he would sometimes bite gently at her lower lip, delighting in its fullness.
‘I would not dare,’ he replied. ‘I salute your Roman spirit in wanting to care for your husband on campaign. I only say that I have tasted your cooking before and this is one chore best left to the servants.’
She gasped in mock outrage, gesturing with the kettle she held as if she might throw it at him. She had dressed herself in the manner of the rustic Greeks, with a simple white tunic tied with a wide sash belt and a dark red cloak over all. As she spoke, she wound her hands through the rich cloth so that it seemed almost alive and part of her, always in movement. Brutus looked on his wife fondly, standing before him in jewelled sandals that cost more than the peasant houses they passed each day. Her feet were small and she wriggled the toes as she stood there. Her dark hair was bound in silver threads and already the fashion she had begun was being copied by Roman women in the camp, affecting simpler make-up and cloth, as if they too could look as beautiful as she did.
‘I will tend to my husband!’ she said.
He stepped close to her and his arm slid around her waist.
‘You know I would like nothing more, but perhaps your husband’s blood has enough charcoal for the moment.’
Portia gasped and pushed him away.
‘You have never tasted my herb chicken, husband. If you had, you would not mock me so.’
‘I believe you,’ he said dubiously. ‘If you want to, I will not complain. Each mouthful will be nectar to me and I will smile as I chew each leathery piece.’
‘Oh! You will see! You will be sorry you said that when you sleep alone tonight!’
She stalked away, brandishing her kettle and calling for servants. Brutus looked affectionately after her, his gaze taking in the vast camp all around him. He saw some of the legionaries smile as they caught sight of her, staring wistfully at the young wife of their commander. Brutus watched them carefully for a moment, his expression darkening. That was the disadvantage, of course. He could never be certain some young buck wasn’t risking his neck to court her, affected by lust or romance until his common sense was drowned like a puppy in wine.
Brutus took a deep breath, letting the warm air fill his lungs and hiss out through his nose. He loved Greece. As a young soldier, he had travelled through the very land where his legions now gathered. His companion had been a grizzled old soldier named Renius, a bad-tempered and ruthless son of Rome who was many years in the grave. For a moment, Brutus could picture the two of them making their way to his first legion appointment. He found himself shaking his head in happy memory. He had been so young then. All those he loved had still been alive and he and Julius had been friends, determined to make their mark on the world.
Brutus looked back through the years, hardly able to recognise the young man he had been when he first crossed Greece. Julius had been rising in Rome, but he had needed military power. Brutus had been determined then to be his general, his greatest support. He could not have imagined there would ever be a day when he struck to kill his friend.
With the sun hot overhead, he sat down on a fallen tree that made the boundary of a farmhouse garden he had taken for the night. He could see all his youth and he was lost in it. He recalled Tubruk, the manager of Julius’ estate outside Rome. Brutus would not want to see the disappointment in that man’s eyes if he still lived. Tubruk would never understand how they had been driven apart. For some, it was better they were dead, so they could not have their hearts broken by everything that came after.
His mother Servilia was still alive, an old woman with white hair now, who yet maintained a stiff back and upright carriage that belied her years. Julius had loved her, Brutus had to admit, though it had eaten at him for years to see his own mother fawn on his friend. In the end, Julius had thrown her aside for his Egyptian queen, the one woman able to bear him a son.
Brutus sighed to himself. He had seen his mother age almost overnight as she abandoned the last pretences of youth. He had thought she might even pine away and die, but there had never been weakness in Servilia. The years only hardened her, like teak or leather. He vowed to visit her when he returned to Rome, perhaps with his young wife on his arm, though he knew they would squabble like cats.
‘What are you thinking?’ Portia said suddenly from behind him.
He had not heard her come back and he started, irrit
ated that anyone could get so close without him knowing it. Age stole away all that made him who he was, he thought. Even so, he smiled at her.
‘Nothing. Nothing important.’
Portia frowned prettily. ‘Shall I show you my scar? My proof that I can be trusted?’
Before he could reply, she flicked back her cloak to reveal a long, sun-browned thigh. With one hand, she lifted the hem of the Greek tunic, showing him a deep pink ridge almost as long as his hand. Brutus looked around him, but there was no one watching. He leaned forward and kissed the mark, making her sigh and run her hands through his hair.
‘You should not have done that to yourself,’ he said, his voice slightly hoarse. ‘I have seen men die from fever after wounds less serious.’
‘It showed you I was not some empty-headed courtesan to be ignored. I am a Roman lady, husband, with Roman fortitude – and a marvellous cook. So I can be trusted with your thoughts, with all things. You were very far away just now.’
‘I was thinking of Julius,’ he admitted.
She nodded, taking a seat on the log next to him.
‘I thought you were. You always have that look on your face when you do. Sadness mostly.’
‘Well, I have seen sad things,’ he said. ‘And I have given too much of my life to seeking out the right path to follow.’ He gestured to the legions encamped all around them, spreading over miles in formal array. ‘I only hope I have found it now. I would like to return to Rome, Portia. Though I love this land, it is not my home. I want to walk through the forum again, perhaps to serve as a consul for a time.’
‘I would like that – for you, but not for me, husband, do you understand? I am happy wherever you are. You have wealth enough for comfort and you are respected and loved.’ She hesitated, unsure how far she should go with an argument they had been through before, many times. ‘I do not want to lose you. You know I would die on the same day.’
The Emperor Series: Books 1-5 Page 205