The oars. Damn it, he blinked his eyes open – the beneficiarius was readying to make a call, probably for the shift changeover. It only felt like a moment since he was last blistering his hands on them below deck. ‘Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Why do we get the assignment from Hades when our friend Spurius and his monkey Festus get a plum role in the I Dacia? Comitatenses, my arse. I hear their legion is tasked with patrolling the Danubius – probably busy stopping in at every brothel and inn along the way.’ He sighed.
Sura chuckled wryly. ‘We’re jinxed, friend. And the best is yet to come!’ He swept a hand out towards the horizon.
Pavo groaned and closed his eyes, sighing. The broth had settled in his belly and he felt its warmth wrap around his body. Sleep began to curl through his mind and his head lolled to one side.
‘Form for roll call,’ the beneficiarius boomed. Pavo jolted upright, his precious instant of rest blown away and his head spinning. He stumbled to his feet with Sura and they joined the occupants of the Aquila shuffling to the centre of the deck. Then he noticed the dark look of Centurion Gallus up front. The crew looked far lighter than their full complement as they formed up. Even when everyone had gathered, heads still turned, expecting more, far more.
Tribunus Nerva hobbled over to stand next to Gallus. Captain Horsa flanked him on the other side, with Felix joining him. Quadratus, Zosimus, and Avitus stood on the front line. The officers had made it through okay, as had the veterans of the first century. But how many recruits had been washed away to an icy grave?
One by one, the beneficiarius read out each name on his roster, to which, the legionary in question would shout out in reply. Near the prow of the ship, a capsarius stood, holding bandages and salve, ready to reply for any of those too injured to form up. As the list went on, the first name went unanswered. Then another. Each one like a dagger in the guts. Too soon, Pavo lost count.
The crew of the Vesta had been fed almost enough to stop the men’s stomachs roaring, and were now busy erecting a temporary mast. The large timber splinters and split deck boards would at least allow the sail to catch some of the gentle breeze blowing above the languid waters. That their hull was intact was something to thank angry Poseidon for.
Centurion Renatus, chief centurion of the third cohort, smeared in sweat and grime, wiped his forehead and gasped for air as he stood up. Backbreaking work was the order until they made contact with the rest of the fleet. Grasping a length of rigging, he hoisted himself onto the rim of the ship to survey the goings-on amongst the men of the fourth century of his cohort who were crewing this vessel.
All armour and arms had been shed, bundled below deck so they could work lighter and faster, in the effort to make the ship mobile again. They were sitting targets out here anyway, he thought, and had to find the fleet at all costs. First, a fire signal, then a flag from the distant Aquila had set his men to work. Safety in numbers beckoned and it had buoyed his men into action.
‘Come on lads; let’s show those pussies in the first century a bit of true Roman efficiency!’ He roared. For the first time that morning, they roared back – the wind was in their sails once more, at least figuratively. Renatus mouthed a silent prayer of thanks as he leapt down onto the deck to aid the rigging work.
In lieu of a crow’s nest, Porcus the legionary stood atop a precariously balanced tower of barrels and crates, he turned round from Renatus’ rally, straining his neck and shielding his eyes from the glaring mid-morning sunshine. Still there was nothing on the horizon apart from the fleet’s flagship – where were the other thirty-eight vessels, he wondered? Gingerly rotating on the shoddy platform, he scanned the blurred line where the shimmering sea met the brilliantly blue sky. As he turned, a piercing alien shriek sounded from what seemed like inside his head. The unimpressed, pointed features of a large gull stared at him calmly on his shoulder. Flailing his arms to shoo the creature, he felt the inevitable crumbling of his ill-advised viewing platform. The winged menace took off in flight, just as the legionary’s legs whipped forwards and upwards. Instinctively, he made to let out a yell. But he caught the shout in his throat when he glimpsed the horizon on his way down.
Scrambling to his feet amidst tired laughter from his fellow legionaries, he scrambled back on top of the tallest freestanding crate, straining his eyes to the distance once more, his nails digging into the timber. His pupils narrowed, until they focused on two distinct dark shapes on the waves.
‘Ships to starboard!’ He roared in excitement. The legionaries dropped their tools and rushed to the edge of the ship, barging through each other to get a view of the mini fleet. A chorus of cheering rose from them, and Centurion Renatus laughed.
‘They’re coming straight for us - going to beat the Aquila to us by the looks of it,’ he joked, comparing the complete sails of the group of fast-approaching ships with the many rags that the crew of the Aquila had patched together.
‘Aye, we’re more important than the flagship,’ another legionary bellowed.
Renatus turned to his watchman to congratulate him, but stopped short when he saw the look of horror painted on the young man’s face.
‘Sir, they’re not Roman,’ he exclaimed, the colour draining from his face as his eyes grew like saucers. ‘They’re pirates.’
Renatus’ jaw dropped as he turned back to see the black flags billowing on the approaching warships. His throat instantly felt like parchment; Renatus turned to the scene of his men, still in oblivious celebration, and glanced to the carelessly discarded armour and weapons piled below and scattered across the deck, as well as the crippled broadside ballistae, and felt his stomach knot. Do something, his mind screamed. Finally, he lurched forward, grasped the nearest pair of swords, and brought them together above his head, blade crashing against blade.
‘Pirates! To arms!’ He roared. It took a few moments for his call to sink in. By the time they were scrambling to pick up bits and pieces that they could fight and defend themselves with, the huge pirate vessels had cut over to them and now loomed large above – a massive quinquereme leading the charge. Renatus blinked at the sight of the snarling, bearded, sun-blackened faces of the scimitar-bearing crew who heaved along the side of their vessel. The pirates of the Pontus Euxinus left no soul alive – their reputations depended on it.
The pirate flagship boarding gangs slammed down onto the starboard deck of the Vesta, like an eagle’s beak scything into its crippled prey. The legionaries backed into a huddle, loose armour clashing as they bunched up, losing formation. Renatus saw what was happening to his men and at once his iron will pushed ahead of the fear he felt.
‘Pull yourselves together, form a square, enough room between each man to swing a sword. Don’t make me come in there and sort you out!’ The men stumbled out of the huddle and lined up in a proper square. Renatus whispered a prayer to Mithras as he pushed back into the front line – just in time as the pirates washed across the deck, heckling war cries as they closed in on their prey. ‘Keep it steady, lads. Show them nothing but the boss of our shields and the tip of our swords.’
Then, like storm waves crashing onto a lone rock, the pirates rushed at and tumbled over the top of the Roman square, screaming. Their leader, standing at the edge of the main gangway roared them on. His long, knotted hair was dyed an unnaturally bright red and his teeth were filed down to fang points. The square now wobbled and swayed, and was hammered into a circle by the crush of the pirates.
‘Hold them to the side of the ship,’ Renatus cried hoarsely, gulping back a scream as the tip of a curved pirate blade sunk into his shoulder from above. Not too deep, but still enough that it would weaken him before long. He parried the strike then roared, butting the crazed pirate in the nose with his shield, and then pulling the shield to one side just long enough to gut the man. He ducked back and then out again to slash at one pirates exposed neck and then poke his sword neatly into the ribcage of another. Renatus felt the battle rage pump through him; all around the pirates tumbled to
the ground as his men fought for their lives. But so many Romans had fallen too – less than half were still standing after only moments of fighting. His vision swam as the blood pumped from his shoulder wound, but he blinked it back. It can be done, he growled to himself, glancing back to see how far the Aquila, their only hope of salvation, was. Instead, he saw only the second pirate vessel sidling up to the portside.
The gut-wrenching clattering of another series of gangways filled the air, and Renatus felt despair tearing at his heart. The men of the second pirate ship coursed forward onto the Vesta, directly at the rear of the Roman contingent. Renatus ducked a sword swing and slapped a hand on the legionary to his side.
‘Fight bravely, Minucius,’ he barked. Then, he withdrew back through the square, ignoring the mush of blood and innards coating the deck as he moved, stooping to prise another sword from the clenched hand of a dead legionary. He burst out of the back of the square, threw his shield to the ground and glared at the new wave of pirates. With a snarl, he hurled himself into their midst in a hacking frenzy.
Renatus felt the many slashes of the scimitar only numbly, little realising the dull thuds he heard were the sound of his own limbs being sliced off and slapping onto the deck. His vision grew dark. But as he felt his life leave his torn body, he saw a blurry outline of figures pour onto the prow of the ship - Romans. ‘They’ve made it,’ he hissed.
Too late for him, but not for his men. The Aquila had arrived at last!
Pavo bit his lower lip, craning his neck and on his toes to see over the shoulder of Zosimus; the Vesta shuddered like a dying gazelle, devoured by the lion-like hulks of the pirate ships. The deck foamed with a froth of blood and metal and the screaming sent a chill across the waves and over the deck of the Aquila as its prow clunked into contact with the Vesta. He glanced at Sura, by his side.
‘I’ve got your flank,’ he spoke firmly.
Sura nodded, his teeth biting into his lower lip as he jostled on one foot and then another.
‘Soldier’s curse?’ Pavo asked nervously. The full bladder and parched mouth had struck him as well.
Sura nodded vigorously through an anxious grin.
Gallus, perched on the beak of the vessel, bellowed for the advance and the ninety assembled legionaries let rip in kind.
‘Let’s show these squid-shaggers!’ Sura yelled over the battle cry and at once, the group rushed forward, roaring, their intercisa crests rippling forward like a school of shark fins.
Pavo poured onto the deck of the Vesta with them as they hammered into the pirate sprawl. Having lost all shape in pursuit of victory, the pirates scrambled in confusion back to the starboard side. The pitiful, blood spattered remnant of the fourth century gasped in disbelief.
‘Get into line!’ Gallus barked at them.
Pavo almost retched at the reek of guts coming from the recruit of the fourth century who sidled up next to him. The boy was far younger than he was, probably only fifteen, and his head was gone; shaking, chattering, barely able to hold his sword. But they were still outnumbered and had to fight on.
The fang-toothed, fiery-haired pirate leader roared encouragement to his men, prompting an ever louder cry from Gallus; ‘Take that bugger down!’ he screamed, thrusting a plumbata at the fiery-locked figure. The dart skimmed the pirate leader’s neck as he ducked to one side, not even drawing blood, and he emitted a howl of derision.
Pavo saw the centurion disappear into the pirate swarm at the head of the Roman wedge, his plume whipping around as he tirelessly felled the stunned pirates. The back half of the first century lagged, hesitant for the briefest of moments.
‘You heard the centurion,’ Felix snarled, waving them forward, ‘Let’s finish this!’
Pavo’s heart thundered as the legionaries gave a rallying cry and followed the little Greek forward.
The remaining Roman number thumped into the compacting pirate crowd. Gallus’ contingent had punched a hole through to the body of Centurion Renatus, and Pavo glanced down to his left to see the bloodied torso of the officer being passed back under the legs of the first century.
‘Protect the bodies of our brothers,’ Zosimus cried over his shoulder, ‘or these pirate scum will scavenge every scrap from them.’
Pavo shuffled the body backwards, his shins sinking into the still warm stumps of limbs.
‘Eyes forward, Pavo!’ Avitus barked, shoving him around to face front.
A pair of pirates advanced on him, armed with spike shields and awful, ripping scimitars, already spattered in skin, hair and blood. He glanced to Sura and felt himself take a step backwards as the pirates stalked towards him, when Zosimus snarled in his ear.
‘Lock shields. Barge them onto the floor, and then gut the beggars!’ He growled.
Pavo nodded, his chest shuddering. He tensed his arms, and growled back at the two pirates. With a clank, Sura’s shield was joined to his, then another shield joined, then another. The Roman wedge moved forward as one with Zosimus at its head, pummelling into the pirate line, their scimitar strikes useless against coordinated defence. The first line of pirates crumbled under the advance and fell to be skewered underfoot. Pavo felt the red rage of battle as he butted at his aggressors, hopping up to sink his sword tip into the throat of the spike shield bearing warrior, then another butt, then a slash at the gut of the scimitar man. His throat heaved as the man’s last meal spilled onto the deck as the body collapsed. Within an instant, he was just another bundle of bones being crunched over by the advancing century.
On and on they pushed. Surely, the pirate number was thinning to the point of breaking, Pavo hoped, gasping as he stabbed through another open flank. Then, he felt a dull blow to his face and a flash of white light in his eyes. His helmet had been knocked off. No time to think about it, he grimaced. Then he caught sight of a crimson flash of iron hammering towards his face. A pirate, leaping from the boatside, careered through the air over the shield wall and towards him, scimitar not even an arm’s length from his face. His arms pinned below shield level, Pavo waited for the shattering impact into his skull.
He grimaced at the popping and grinding of tearing flesh and shattering bone. But no pain. Just the flat edge of a scimitar, skimming harmlessly across the side of his face. He blinked to see the twisted face of his foe staggering backwards into his number, clutching the ragged stump that remained of his pruned arm. Blood washed from the wound and the man’s face drained to white as he collapsed.
‘There’s another one you owe me, eh?’ Sura growled, his eyes glimmering with a maniacal bloodlust.
‘Duck!’ Pavo yelled, swiping at the axe-bearing pirate who rushed at his friend. The spatha sliced through the man’s jaw, which clattered to the deck before he did. ‘Consider us even,’ he grinned, wiping the hot gore from his eyes and feeling his chest burst with the rush of battle.
On the boatside of the Vesta, the pirate captain surveyed the scene, cursing. What had seemed like easy pickings had turned out to be a very costly affair, and they would probably lose twice in manpower what they would gain from looting. He turned to the crew on his other vessel, and gave a signal by drawing a line across his throat, and then he scampered around the side of the battle, heading for the gangplank back onto the quinquereme.
On board the Aquila, Captain Horsa stood, his leg shaking with an intolerable desire to fight. Gallus had been adamant – this was legionary work, the five surviving foederati on the Aquila were to remain on the Roman trireme. He gripped the ship’s edge to view the battle, cursing every pirate, and striking every killer blow for himself. He spotted the pirate captain hauling himself back onto the retracting pirate flagship. Then he noticed its prow, and that of the second pirate vessel; it was moving, withdrawing. ‘Is this victory?’ he began to grin, the beginnings of a roar of joy swirled in his lungs. Then his blood froze as he saw the second pirate vessel lower its ramming spike.
‘They’re going to scuttle it!’ He roared at the swell of legionaries on the deck of the V
esta again and again, but the shouts fell on battle-deafened ears. Seething with impotence, he then barked an order in Gothic to his five fellow foederati. As one they thundered to the hold of the Aquila.
Pavo now felt a sapping numbness pull his limbs groundwards, trying to prise his sword from his grip. The efficient, steady butchering that was played out along the Roman line now took on a rhythmic quality, entrancing the soldiers as they stepped over their dead enemies and fallen brothers, bodies churned into a bloody pulp, speckled with the sparkle of white bone. Then he heard the murmur and then the rabble of panic from the pirates. ‘They’re going to surrender,’ he yelled.
‘No they’re not,’ Sura gasped, staggering backwards, pointing to the fast approaching pirate vessel, growing like a Kraken rising from the waves, its sails dominating the sky above.
The ramming spike churned in the water as the second pirate vessel kicked back towards the Vesta. If the pirates sank the galley of the fourth and all the Roman troops on it, the barely-manned Aquila would be a sitting target, and the rest of the fleet were ready prey. Pavo leapt back from the front line, over to Gallus.
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