by Ian Ross
With half her starboard lower-tier oars broken or mangled, the Bellona was drifting with the tide, circling slowly in a wrack of shattered hulls and floating corpses.
‘New oars, boys!’ Senecio was shouting. ‘Get them up and shipped. Let’s get some way on her!’
Castus steadied himself against the mast, breathing heavily. His right arm was red to the shoulder, but he felt only bruises. There were injured men coming up from below deck, carried by their comrades, and their blood joined the streams of it flowing along the seams of the deck planking and pooling between the benches. Down in the hold, the crew had manhandled the spare oars from their stowage along the keel, swinging and wrestling them into the vacant spaces along the rowing banks.
From the bow, Castus gazed forward across the estuary. Over near the far shore, the Frankish boats had managed to turn and attack the Saxons. One of them – Gaiso’s boat – had forced her bows in over the beam of an enemy vessel. As Castus watched, the huge Frankish chief led his men storming forward, leaping over the prow and onto the Saxon deck, his axe slashing down. But some of the other Franks had fared worse: Castus could see two capsized hulls, another sinking wreck, and a lot of men still struggling in the water. His own vessels seemed all intact; only the Pinnata and the flagship had been attacked directly. In the centre of the estuary, four or five Saxon boats had fought their way clear. Oars beating, they were turning to flee.
‘Navarch,’ Castus called. ‘How soon can we get under way?’
‘Soon enough, dominus,’ Senecio yelled hoarsely from the open scuttle.
Castus thumped his fist against the deck rail, staring at the retreating enemy. He could see Lucusta and Satyra already moving after them; the Saxons would not get away so easily.
‘First time I’ve fought a ship on both sides!’ Senecio said, climbing up to join Castus at the bow.
‘It’s not over yet,’ Castus said, pointing. Away to the right, between the Bellona and the north shore of the estuary, the battered Pinnata had run aground on a sandbank. Two of the Saxon longboats were closing in on her, the rowers pulling hard with a hoarse, determined chant. The few able men left aboard the galley had no chance of fighting both of them off.
‘Gods below,’ Senecio said under his breath, then ran back down the gangway, yelling commands to the deck crew and oarsmen. Behind him, Castus could hear the men cranking back the arms of the heavy stone-throwing catapult at the bow. He remained where he was, watching the two black hulls closing on the stricken galley.
‘Oars out! Pull on the command!’
A volley of splashes as both banks of oars struck the water. The rowing master gave a shout, the first bang of the mallet came from below deck, and with a long creak and a heave the wallowing motion of the Bellona shifted into a smooth forward glide.
‘Shoot as soon as you get the range,’ Castus told the catapult crew. Felix had come forward and joined him at the bow, with half a dozen Nervian archers.
The rhythm of the mallet quickened, the oars crashing down into the water, pulling and then rising to swing in unison. Steadily the speed of the galley increased. Glancing down over the bow, Castus saw the placid water of the estuary already foaming around the keel spur.
A thwack from the catapult, then a distant thud as the stone struck the side of a longboat. The archers were craning forward now, aiming at the Saxons on the oar benches.
‘Target practice!’ said one of the Nervians, then loosed his arrow.
Still the galley gathered speed, the gap of water between her bow and the Saxon boats closing rapidly. The Saxons had begun to take evasive action, abandoning their prey and swinging around for the open estuary. Castus felt the motion of the oars change as the helmsman altered course; spray spattered up from the bow. One of the longboats was moving too slowly; the Bellona crossed her wake, then turned again to cut her off. The rhythm of the oars increased to ramming speed.
‘Brace yourselves,’ he said, then crouched low behind the deck rail. He could see the Saxons still pulling frantically at their oars, trying to turn again, some of them standing up to hurl javelins at the ship bearing down on them. Too late: two more driving sweeps of the oars and the Bellona rammed the side of the longboat. The spur lifted and broke the enemy keel, then the heavy bows smashed through the hull. Castus felt the shock through the deck timbers beneath him, but the galley barely slackened speed. Shattered wreckage grated along the hull to either side of him, and he heard men screaming in the water as the archers at the rail shot down at them. A moment later and they were swept beneath the threshing oars.
One of the Saxons had managed to leap up and cling to the galley’s anchor davit; Felix raised his javelin, leaned across the rail, and stabbed the man through his neck.
The other Saxon boat was too far away to catch, the crew labouring hard at their oars as they made for the open estuary. Castus straightened from his crouch and gazed back along the blood-slicked deck. All across the reach of the estuary there were boats capsized or burning, and the Bellona’s long curving wake was foaming with broken wreckage and bodies. Smoke drifted across the calm grey surface of the water.
*
‘Report,’ Castus said.
‘Thirty-six dead, excellency,’ Vetranio told him, ‘nearly half of them aboard the Pinnata. Forty-two injured, twelve critically. The Franks lost about the same; one of their boats was destroyed and two capsized, but they reckon they can repair the damage. All of our ships are safe, except Pinnata lost half her oars. Enemy casualties... impossible to say, dominus.’
Castus nodded. He was sitting on a stool behind the helmsman, watching the crew dragging up buckets of water to wash and scrub down the deck. The twelve dead aboard the Bellona had already been sewn up in their blankets and dropped over the side: an ignominious end for a soldier, but there was no dry land for a burial or wood for a pyre. One of the dead had been the frog-faced interpreter, Bappo; he had been struck by an axe and bled to death in the scuppers. Castus had never liked the man, but his loss was bitter. Now the Romans would have to rely on Bonitus to negotiate between them and their Frankish allies.
A glance up at the sky: solid cloud covered the sun. The air had a damp sticky feel, with an odd tugging breeze. Still early morning, only a couple of hours since the battle. Senecio was muttering about thunder.
‘Satyra’s coming in, dominus!’ the sentry cried. Castus stood up at once and strode to the rail. Two of his galleys and some of the Frankish boats had gone in pursuit of the retreating Saxons; with any luck, they had tracked the enemy to their hiding place.
The oars slid inboard as the smaller galley came alongside, the optio of the Twenty-Second who commanded her hopping nimbly across to the flagship and climbing in over the rail. He approached Castus and made his salute.
‘Ten miles down the estuary, excellency,’ the optio said, flinging his arm out to the westwards. ‘There’s a narrow channel opening between a small island and the larger one over there. Must be another channel at the far end – two of the Frankish boats went to look. I sent one of my boys up the mast and he says he saw longboats pulled up on the shore of the bigger island, some kind of stockade in the scrub above too. But they’ve staked the channel – the Saxons were pretty careful going in. Lucusta’s still up there keeping watch.’
‘Good man,’ Castus said, clapping the optio on the shoulder. He clenched his back teeth in a satisfied snarl. Now at least he had the enemy’s location, and if they moved quickly enough there would be no chance of the Saxons slipping away. The position sounded strong, and a frontal assault could be costly. There was always the possibility that the pirates would start slaughtering their prisoners if they were attacked. He needed to see the place for himself before he could make any plans.
‘Navarch,’ he called. ‘Signal all ships: up anchor and form around the flagship. Satyra can lead the way.’
Standing before the helm, he watched with gathering anticipation as the oarsmen ran to their benches. Cries echoed across the anchorag
e from the other ships of the flotilla. He knew the men were weary, many of the younger and less experienced of them still shocked after the sudden combat at dawn. Soon they would be tested hard once more, but at least now none could be in any doubt about what they were facing.
Two hours later, and ten miles to the west, Castus clung precariously to the masthead of the Bellona, one foot in a loop of rope, trying not to glance down at the narrow strip of the galley’s deck thirty feet below him. He had never liked heights and this height seemed particularly exposed, with the vast sweep of flat land and water all around him and the huge sky above. With one arm hugging the mast tightly he peered across the low reed-grown island to the strip of water beyond, and the larger island on the far side. There was dark dense foliage beyond the belt of mudflats and marsh. Then, as he squinted into the metallic light, he picked out the black shapes of the Saxon boats pulled up on the muddy beach above the channel between the islands, the strip of cleared shore beyond them and then the ragged line of a fortification meshed so cleverly into the surrounding scrub it was almost invisible. Turning his head, he saw watchers at the mastheads of the other Roman ships. With great care he raised his arm, gesturing to the men on deck to lower him down. The loop of rope juddered, then began to drop.
Back on deck after his awkward descent of the mast, Castus ordered the signal hoisted to call all the commanders to the flagship. The men were still at their benches, rowing slow and steady to keep the ship motionless against the ebbing tide. Senecio was relieving them by shifts to eat their midday meal; Castus glanced up, and saw that the boats were already approaching.
‘You all know of the enemy position,’ he said, once the commanders, both Roman and Frankish, were assembled on the deck before him. ‘There are two entrances to the channel – the one further west’s wider, but shallower. Both are staked, so we’ll need to go slow and probe ahead. Beyond that there’s a space of open water in front of the enemy encampment. We need to act fast, before we lose the tide; I want Bonitus and Gaiso with their boats, and Pinnata in support, to move west and enter the far entrance to the channel.’
The two Frankish chiefs nodded; Gaiso in particular appeared satisfied that he would not be under direct Roman command.
‘The main assault will go up the channel nearest to us here,’ Castus went on. ‘Lucusta and Murena will take the lead, with Flaochadus’s two boats. They’ll sound the passage, and clear any obstructions they can. Bellona will be following close behind, and we’ll ram through anything left. Behind us will be two of the troopships, under the command of Centurion Modestus. As soon as we’re in the open water, the galleys will support the troopships with their artillery while we get the men ashore as fast as we can.’
He paused, glancing between the faces. All looked grimly resolute. Vetranio alone had a questioning look.
‘At the same time,’ Castus said, ‘I want the third force, under Vetranio’s command, with two troopships and Satyra in support, to land on the large island a mile to the east and march inland to attack the enemy position from the rear.’
Vetranio stiffened, nodding briefly.
‘It won’t be easy. The ground’s marshy, and there could be thick scrub and flooded ditches blocking your route. When you’re in position, signal with a fire arrow. We’ll do the same: that’s the signal for the general attack. Questions?’
There were none, but Castus could read the uneasiness in the men’s eyes. He knew that dividing his force like this would be a risk; if any group was delayed, the Saxons could defeat the others one by one.
‘Then let the gods be with us,’ he said. ‘We move at once.’
As the commanders returned to their ships he sat alone on the stern deck, trying not to think of the possibilities. He had laid his scheme, and now he must stick to it. A headache throbbed on and off, and the pressure of the air seemed to have increased. Sipping water, he stared across at the nearest troopship, watching Modestus preparing his men for the assault. The rasping sound of whetstones on blades sounded clearly in the thick damp air.
‘Excellency, you should eat,’ Eumolpius said, appearing at his elbow with a wooden platter of bread and cheese and a flask of vinegar wine. Castus was not at all hungry, but he took the food and forced himself to eat. Chewing methodically, he felt the sweat trickling down his back and gathering around his waistband. He was still wearing his padded linen vest, stained with blood from the morning’s fighting.
Time slowed; the small flotilla of vessels unmoving on the slowly ebbing tide. A dull roll of thunder came from the south. Castus wondered whether a storm would give added heart to the Saxons, or frighten them with the wrath of their gods. He cast a quick glance towards the sun, hoping for a gleam of light that he could use to offer a prayer to Sol Invictus, but the sky was still closed above him.
‘The signal!’ the man at the masthead cried, pointing away to the south.
‘That’s Vetranio,’ Senecio said. ‘Nothing yet from the Franks. We wait, I suppose?’
‘We wait.’
But for how long? Castus got up and began to pace. He could not leave Vetranio and his men unsupported; if Bonitus and Gaiso had not reached the far channel entrance yet, there was little more time for them to do so.
‘Signal the scout galleys to move forward,’ he said, after waiting as long as he could bear. ‘We’ll get under way as soon as they reach the channel mouth.’
Senecio gave the order, and moments later the two eighteen-oared galleys began to cut across the estuary, their oars bursting spray from the water. Castus watched them as they headed in towards the channel, with Flaochadus and his two boats trailing behind them. Then the navarch nodded to the rowing master, the mallet began to beat and the double-banked oars of the flagship began to rise and fall. Castus eased out a breath, and felt the energy of the coming battle rising through him, eclipsing all dread.
CHAPTER XXI
For the first few hundred paces, perhaps the first half-mile, the channel appeared no different to the maze of estuary waterways the flotilla had navigated for the past two days. Mudflats edged the shore, with tall stands of head-high reed beyond. Still the same eerie quiet, only the creak of oars and the grunt of the men on the rowing benches breaking the stillness. Castus stood at the bow and watched the vessels ahead: the two Roman scout galleys and the Frankish boats, moving steadily up the channel with the wash of their oars stirring the dull grey waters. All the Roman ships had unstepped their mast; they were in fighting trim now, the ballista crews alert and scanning the banks for movement.
A cry came from the left-hand Frankish boat, the hull yawing and the oars thrashing in disarray; they had struck one of the submerged stakes that lined the channel. Castus watched them back oars and reverse their course, angling to the right. The boat did not appear damaged, but now all of them were moving much more slowly, probing ahead for further traps. He felt the tension in his body, the muscles of his shoulders and neck taut. Everything in him wanted to give the order to power ahead at full speed.
Now one of the scout galleys had come to a stop, oars barely moving in the water. A man signalled from the stern: more stakes, or some sort of barrage blocking the channel. There must be a way through it, an open passage, but it could take time to locate.
‘Dominus,’ Senecio said, and pointed towards the inland horizon. Castus looked up and saw dirty grey smoke trails rising above the shaggy scrub. He stood up in the bows, head raised, but there was no sound of fighting. Too far away. But the detachment he sent inland had surely been discovered; unless he could bring up his main force in support they would be annihilated.
‘Force the passage,’ he told Senecio. ‘Signal the other ships to follow right behind us.’
‘You’re sure?’ the old navarch asked, frowning. ‘The bow timbers are already weak. If we run hard against those stakes...’
‘Fuck the stakes!’ Castus snarled. ‘Don’t question my orders!’ He felt a fury coming over him, a savage desire to drive this struggle to its crisi
s. Behind him he heard Senecio calling out the orders, but his gaze was locked on the distant smoke trails, the vessels halted in the channel ahead. Shouts from the rowing master, and a moment later he felt the lurch as the Bellona began to gather speed in the water.
Flinging a glance back, Castus saw the two heavy troop barges following in the flagship’s wake, their long sweeps working hard to keep pace. Forward again, he saw the scout galley Lucusta still shoving against the submerged obstructions, the oarsmen heaving as they tried to break through. Marsh birds burst from cover on the southern shore, and when Castus glanced that way he saw movement among the reeds, half-naked men scrambling down to the water and wading out into the shallows to fling spears at the vessels caught among the stakes.
Three more powerful strokes sent the Bellona bursting forward along the channel. Castus felt the shock as the hull scraped against a submerged stake, the yells of the men on the benches as their oars clipped more of them. Then came the order: Lift oars! Brace yourselves! Castus grabbed the rail as the prow of the galley crashed against a mass of timber lashed together into a barrage. The impact made the whole ship shudder, and his feet went from under him. For a moment the galley seemed to hang motionless, as if caught in some vast clinging web. Castus scrambled to his feet as the surface of the channel exploded into foam, the lashed stakes ripping free from the muddy bed of the channel. Another powerful heave of the oars, and the bows of the galley broke through the barrier.