Captain of Rome mots-2

by John Stack

  ‘Yes, Captain,’ the lookout said, trying to sound confident but his voice was laced with panic and Belus could smell the stench of fear from him.

  Narmer stepped forward. ‘You were asleep,’ he accused.

  ‘No, Captain,’ the man stammered, what little confidence he had tried to muster now gone. ‘I just didn’t see her because of the rain.’

  ‘Do you see her now!’ Narmer shouted as he grabbed the lookout by the arm and pushed him towards the aft-rail.

  The man stumbled but maintained his balance and he grabbed the aft-rail for support, looking out over the water to the galley bearing down on them.

  ‘I didn’t…’ he began, his attention captivated by the sight before him. ‘She came from nowhere…’

  He turned around to plead again and found that Narmer now stood directly before him, the captain’s expression more terrifying than before, Narmer’s gaze so hypnotic that the lookout only saw the blade a heartbeat before it struck. He backed off slightly, his mind suddenly screaming in panic as awareness flooded his senses and his hands shot up to his neck, the blood drenching his fingers. He tried to scream but the sound died in his severed throat and the lookout fell backwards over the aft-rail, striking the rudder as he fell before being swallowed by the wake of the bireme.

  Narmer stepped forward and spat over the rail into the water as the lookout’s body resurfaced, the water around him stained red. He turned to face Belus, the bloodied knife still in his hand, a silent challenge passing between them. The captain would accept no more criticism from the Carthaginian.

  Belus turned away and moved to the aft-rail, watching the lookout’s body until it was run over by the Roman galley advancing at seven knots. He couldn’t believe that Narmer had been so inept as to be caught so easily, especially since the captain had shown incredible skill over the previous weeks in avoiding the Roman galleys that patrolled the area. Belus knew he was partly to blame. He had noticed the change in the crew the day before when the bireme had finally turned its bow towards Tyndaris. They had become complacent, the end in sight, and Belus realised he should have confronted Narmer on the issue. Now, so close to success, Belus was faced with utter failure. He cared little for his own life, it belonged to Carthage, but the information he carried was invaluable.

  Belus turned once more and looked out over the crew of the pirate galley. They were good swordsmen but they fought as individuals, relying on speed and savagery to carry a fight. Against the marines of Rome those tactics would be useless and Belus remembered his own desperate fight at Mylae. To defeat the Romans he would have to change their normal plan of attack and Belus turned to Narmer as an idea resurfaced in his mind, an idea he had formulated after witnessing the enemy attacks at Mylae. The Romans might find some way to board but for the first time Belus felt a creeping confidence that maybe the vaulted marines of Rome could be beaten.

  ‘Attack speed!’

  The gap between the galleys was now down to a mile and as the Aquila accelerated to eleven knots Atticus waited for the first turn. Gaius stood firmly to his right, his feet slightly apart to brace himself, ready to throw his weight against the arm of the tiller. Lucius was stationed below deck on the shoulder of the drum master, watching the rowers intently as they pulled through the sequence of moves that defined their existence. The slaves had been forewarned of the order to come, an order no different from the many times they had practiced the manoeuvre, although this time a chain ran through the eye of the manacle on their ankles. Failure in practice had meant a lash of the whip. In the face of the enemy, shackled to the seventy-ton galley, the stakes were immeasurably higher.

  The first turn came without warning, the pirate galley swinging hard to starboard. Gaius reacted without command and the Aquila tilted heavily underneath Atticus’s feet, the captain standing with his legs shoulder-length apart for balance. He noticed Gaius did not match the turn exactly but kept the Aquila on a convergent course, narrowing the gap between the galleys with every oar stroke. Atticus kept his own gaze locked on the aft-deck of the pirate ship, trying to anticipate their next move. He recalled with dread fascination the scene he had witnessed minutes before when one of the pirate crew had been thrown off the stern of the bireme, his body crushed beneath the ram of the Aquila as she followed the wake of the bireme relentlessly. It was a sight that would have frightened lesser crews but for the men of the Aquila, it merely reminded them of the ferocity of the prey they were about to hunt down, a prey far more dangerous than the Carthaginians in close quarter fighting.

  The pirate galley turned again, this time to port and again Gaius matched her course. The two galleys were now less than four-hundred yards apart, the Aquila’s line two points inside the bireme’s to further close the gap. The rain continued to fall, peppering the surface of the sea and striking the deck of the Aquila with a staccato beat, the sound filling Atticus’s ears as he tried to single out the pirate captain on the galley ahead, the distance and the water-drenched sea air thwarting his efforts.

  ‘Make ready!’ Atticus shouted to Gaius over the sound of the rain, knowing instinctively the pirate galley was about to commit, the distance and angles near perfect.

  ‘She’s turning!’ Gaius shouted, his hand steady on the tiller, his muscles tensed in anticipation. ‘She’s coming about!’

  The bireme turned violently to port, coming about at an incredible speed, her agility a sight to behold as she turned her bow into the path of the Aquila.

  ‘Centre the helm!’ Atticus ordered and Gaius lined the Aquila’s ram up with the oncoming bireme. The two galleys were now on a collision course, ram to ram, the larger trireme tearing down the line of attack.

  Atticus focused his entire attention on the oncoming galley, trying to estimate the distance between the two ships, their combined speeds devouring the gap between them. The bireme had turned with an extraordinary display of manoeuvrability and Atticus was left with a lingering doubt as to the ability of his own galley. He brushed it aside, angry at his own mistrust of the Aquila. She had never let him down before. He looked over his shoulder to Gaius; the helmsman braced as before, holding the tiller on a centre line but ever-ready to react. The pirate’s course was suicidal and both men knew it was only a feint.

  With the gap down to two hundred yards the pirate galley turned three points to port, breaking the headlong attack, a classic manoeuvre for a more agile galley that readied her for a turn into the broadside of the Aquila. Gaius reacted instinctively, also turning the Aquila three points to port, putting the galleys on parallel course to pass each other going in opposite directions at a distance of one hundred yards, the only obvious defence for a trireme of the Aquila’s size.

  ‘Runner!’ Atticus shouted and a crewman was instantly at his side, ‘Orders to below, prepare for a turn to starboard!’ The crewman acknowledged the order and ran from the aftdeck, disappearing down the hatch that led to the rowing deck.

  Atticus focused his attention on the pirate ship once more. She was now on the Aquila’s starboard fore quarter, less than one hundred and fifty yards away and she now held the advantage.

  If the Aquila tried to force a fight and turn into the bireme’s course to strike her amidships the pirate galley’s agility would allow her to cut inside the turn and sweep past the Aquila before the trireme could bring her ram or corvus to bear, perhaps even striking the Aquila’s exposed oars as the two galleys swept past each other. On the other hand if the Aquila played it safe and stayed on course, she would run past the bireme and then need to turn to pursue her once more, allowing for the pirate galley to replay the entire sequence of turns once more, never allowing the Aquila the opportunity to engage, trumping her speed and power with agility.

  The Aquila sped on, Gaius holding her course, while the pirate bireme did likewise, content to pass the Roman galley with one hundred yards separating their oars. Atticus stood on the aft-deck, his eyes locked on the ram of the bireme, the rain dripping from his matted hair and soaking his
tunic beneath his armour. The pirate galley seemed to slow, as if the intensity of Atticus’s gaze was somehow a barrier to her advance and Atticus’s eyes flashed to the bow of his own galley, judging the angles, his innate skill deciding in a heartbeat.

  ‘Now, Gaius!’ Atticus shouted without conscious thought. ‘Hard to starboard!’

  The helmsman threw his weight onto the rudder, swinging it fully through the half circle that would put the galley hard over. Atticus watched the pirate galley intensely as a second passed, then another, waiting for the bireme to react, to commit to the counterturn. Again time seemed to slow and Atticus was running even as he registered the turn of the pirate galley. She was turning into the Aquila’s line, the speed of her course change faster than the trireme’s, a speed that would allow her to cut inside and negate the Aquila’s attack.

  Atticus reached the hatchway in the time it took the pirate galley to commit fully to the turn. He roared down to the slave deck, the terrible gamble he was taking putting an edge of alarm to his voice, knowing a second’s delay would cost him the Aquila.

  ‘Now, Lucius!’

  For a heartbeat Atticus thought the command had gone unheard but then suddenly the galley, already turning slowly to port in response to the rudder, keeled over violently as the ship accelerated through the turn.

  Below him on the slave deck Lucius had signalled the manoeuvre which the rowers and drum master had been drilled in so many times before in training. At the command the starboard-side rowers had thrown themselves forward, immediately raising their oars clean out of the water within one stroke. The port-side slaves continued to row, the drum master calling for ramming speed, their top stroke. With the rudder hard over and the starboard-side rowers offering no resistance, the galley turned within a half ship length, the deck listing twenty degrees from the uneven force of propulsion.

  Atticus leaned into the turn, balancing easily as the deck tilted beneath him. Within six seconds the Aquila had made the turn, a turn that under rudder power alone would have taken twenty.

  ‘Re-engage!’ Atticus roared to Lucius and the Aquila’s deck righted as the starboard-side oars bit into the water once more. The pirate galley was only twenty yards off the bow on a converging course, the opportunity to cut inside lost, the ships now too close for a counter manoeuvre.

  ‘Centre the helm!’ Atticus shouted as he turned to Gaius. ‘Hit them full-on!’

  ‘Ready the corvus!’ Septimus roared as the bow of the pirate galley filled his vision. He had been on the main deck when the Aquila had made her turn and although he had been prepared for the violent and sudden course change he had nearly lost his balance with only his fighter’s natural instincts saving him from a fall. Some of the younger hastati had not been so lucky but they had picked themselves up without hesitation, reforming ranks before Drusus had an opportunity to berate them.

  Septimus led his hastati and principes to the foredeck at a run, the hob-nailed soles of his sandals giving him purchase on the rain-soaked deck. He drew his sword as he stood behind the raised corvus, his ears ringing with the sound of forty other blades clearing their scabbards in unison.

  ‘Steady, boys!’ Septimus growled and although there was a gap between him and his men Septimus could almost feel them pushing against him, a pent up charge ready to be released against the enemy. Septimus braced himself for impact and a second later the ram of the Aquila struck the bow of the pirate ship, a solid blow that did not penetrate but drove the momentum out of each galley.

  ‘Grappling hooks!’ Septimus roared. ‘Release the corvus!’

  The ramp before Septimus fell in the time it took the centurion to start his charge; his feet already on the ramp as it struck the deck of the bireme, the three foot long spikes on the underside penetrating and splintering the foredeck of the pirate ship, holding her fast in a mortal embrace. Septimus ran without issuing a command, his men following without hesitation, their guttural war-cries splitting the air, their shoulders bunched behind four-foot high scutum shields, an unstoppable charge that had them on the empty foredeck of the pirate ship within seconds.

  Narmer was thrown off balance as the Roman galley struck the bow of his bireme a hammer blow, violently tilting the deck beneath him and bringing the galley to a full stop. He cursed savagely as he regained his feet, instinctively drawing his sword in anticipation of the attack to come. Only minutes before Narmer had believed the first round of battle had been his, the sharp series of the bireme’s turns making a mockery of the Roman galley’s attempts to gain an advantageous line of attack. He had even laughed out loud when the Romans had begun their final turn, a forlorn hope to cut across the gap separating the two ships. Narmer had immediately turned hard over, his galley responding nimbly, ready to cut inside and sweep the enemy’s oars. But that laughter had died on his lips as the Roman galley completed its turn with incredible speed, matching the bireme’s agility and cutting off her line of flight.

  The air around Narmer was spilt by the sound of his crew roaring in defiance as the Romans’ boarding ramp crashed down on to the foredeck. The sight was terrifying, even though Belus had warned him of the new tactic and for a full second Narmer was transfixed by the unholy scene. The foredeck was empty, a ploy advocated by Belus, and the Romans quickly formed a solid shield wall across the breadth of the galley. The sight enraged Narmer, the invasion of his ship, of his domain and his fury reached a fever pitch, his mind casting aside the prearranged plan as he yelled a demonic war-cry, rushing forward, his crew following with the same savage haste, each man knowing that no quarter would be granted by their attackers.

  Narmer’s gaze was locked on the centre of the shield wall as he rushed forward, his sword held high, his rounded Greek hoplon shield strapped to his forearm, the rain lashing against his face. The wall advanced to the main deck in the time it took Narmer to cover the distance and he bunched his shoulder behind his shield as he struck the Romans at full tilt. The force of the blow numbed his arm but the sensation was barely registered as his mind lost all focus except for an overriding urge to drive the blade of his sword into enemy flesh, to stain the deck of his galley with Roman blood.

  Narmer slashed down with his sword, parrying a strike from between the shields before him and he stepped backed instinctively, the Roman wall pushing forward. His mind cleared for a heartbeat, the backward step triggering his reaction and he stepped back once more, this time unbidden by his attackers, remembering the plan Belus had outlined. The Romans came on and Narmer continued to give ground slowly, his men backing off at the same pace, their defence unceasing but uncommitted. Narmer saw one of his men fall, then another but he smiled viciously nonetheless as his back struck the mainmast. The Romans were fully committed, their shield wall still strong, their forward advance unrelenting. It was just as Belus had foretold.

  ‘Advance!’ Septimus ordered, his voice carrying clearly to his men over the sound of the pirates’ war-cries and the rain pounding in their ears.

  The line advanced as one, reaching the main deck before the pirate charge struck home, the shield wall buckling and then forming strong again as the momentum of the charge was absorbed and repelled. Septimus’s face remained grim as he stood behind the front line, his eyes ranging over the attack before him. His men were well drilled, efficient and deadly, and the enemy gave ground almost immediately.

  ‘Hold the line!’ Septimus shouted, forestalling any rush forward by his men. He waited a heartbeat, ‘Forward!’

  The shield wall advanced again as one, its strength grounded in unity and Septimus felt his confidence rise. The pirates were savage fighters, but they were undisciplined and uncoordinated. They had foolishly missed the chance to repel the legionaries as they made their way over the corvus, squandering their only opportunity to engage the legionaries at their weakest moment, before they had time to deploy into line. But the foredeck had been abandoned and the legionaries had formed unmolested, creating the solid unbreakable line that was now reaching the ma
inmast, half the galley in their wake.

  A trumpet blast filled the air and Septimus instinctively shot around to its source on the Aquila, the warning sound cutting through the din of battle. His gaze never left the pirate ship however, as the reason for the warning was instantly apparent, his vision filled with the oncoming attack from the previously closed hatchway at the fore end of the main deck, the charge led by an inconceivable sight, a Carthaginian officer.

  ‘Orbis!’ Septimus shouted for a circular defence, overcoming his surprise without conscious thought. ‘Enemy to the rear!’

  The legionaries acted without hesitation, the second line behind the wall turning on their heels to face the new threat with their centurion but they were a fraction too late, the men to the left and right of Septimus betrayed by the swiftness of the pirates’ surprise attack and the enemy crashed into the unprepared line with a ferocity that immediately buckled and then shattered the Roman formation.

  Septimus fought like a man possessed, his attack instantly changing from the strict discipline of the legions to the fluid movements of one-to-one combat. The men around him fought with equal desperation, but many had never been trained to fight as individuals and within thirty seconds a half-dozen legionaries were down, the cries of the wounded lost in the roar of attack.

  Septimus rammed his blade home with all the strength of his frustration and anger, twisting the blade savagely before withdrawing it, the pirate falling forward as he did, his face a mask of pain and defiance. Septimus shoved him away with the boss of his shield, the pirate slumping to the rain-soaked deck and Septimus was given a heartbeat’s respite. The legionaries were in the fight of their lives, the original formation now scattered across the deck. Drusus stood by the mainmast, giving ground to no man, marking the furthest advance of the line. Septimus swept the deck with a murderous gaze, searching for the Carthaginian officer who had led the surprise attack. He spotted him almost immediately, his Punic armour standing out amidst the pirate crew. Septimus raised his sword once more, the hilt slippery with blood and rain and he tightened his grip, putting his weight behind his shield as he pressed forward, roaring a challenge as he went, a challenge that the Carthaginian answered with a savage war-cry of his own.