by John Stack
‘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 mainmast, 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.
The trumpet was loose in Atticus’s hand as he watched the surprise pirate attack slam into the exposed and unready Roman line. He had grabbed the trumpet at the first sign of the attack, instinctively realising the futility of his warning but desperate to alert Septimus, his towering frame easily recognisable in the Roman line. The centurion had reacted even as Atticus had sounded the warning but within seconds he, and the men around him, were engulfed in a wave of attackers.
‘Gaius!’ Atticus shouted running forward. ‘You have the helm. Lucius, follow me!’
Atticus drew his sword as he jumped onto the main deck, the sharp stab of pain in his chest ignored. ‘Men of the Aquila to me!’ he roared as he ran, surefooted on the wet timbers of the deck. Lucius echoed the call, drawing his own sword and shouting to individual crewmen as he ran after his captain. The twenty triarii of Septimus’s demi-maniple were in formation on the foredeck and Atticus shouted at them to advance, unsure of legionary orders but sure they would understand.
Atticus screamed a war-cry as he ran across the corvus, his shout taken up by Lucius and the rest of the crew, their anger easily flamed by prospect of taking the fight to the pirates. The triarii followed in loose formation, battle-hardened troops who were past their prime but still possessed the strength and will to engage any enemy. The men of the Aquila fanned out as they reached the main deck of the bireme, their cries finally heard by pirate and Roman alike in the maelstrom of battle around the mainmast. They came out of the rain like a horde from Hades, Atticus at their centre, the raw wound on his face giving him a demonic mask as generations of inbred hate against the pirate breed was given expression on his face.
They tore into the fight with a momentum that pushed Atticus into the centre of the swarm. A legionary fell at his feet and Atticus threw up his sword to attack the pirate who had made the fatal thrust. The strike was parried and Atticus swung his blade around to block the counter-thrust, twisting his torso violently to gain the angle. Pain flooded his consciousness as he parried the blow and a warm dark stain of blood streamed across his chest, the rain-soaked tunic beneath his breast-plate clinging to the reopened wound. Atticus grunted through the pain and stabbed his sword downward; running the edge of his blade against the pirate’s groin, opening a deep fatal wound that stained Atticus’s sword. The pirate screamed, his face a mask of terror as he dropped his sword and fell, his blood washed from the deck by the unceasing rain. Atticus fell to his knees, his hand reaching inside his armour to be drawn out again stained red.
Septimus hammered his shield against the Carthaginian’s chest twice in quick succession, roaring each time, his anger unbounded at the thought of his men falling around him. Belus answered in kind, his sword striking the boss of the Roman shield, his mind flooded with visions of Mylae and the desperate knowledge that he must prevail in order to deliver his message. Septimus registered the flood of men from the Aquila as they swept around him but his focus remained on the Carthaginian, the head of the serpent that had struck his line from behind, his initial incredulity at the sight of a Carthaginian officer leading the pirate charge forgotten as anger overcame reason.
Belus sidestepped to the right to gain space, his sword arm feigning a further advance before he centred his balance once more, his shield deflecting a vicious strike from the Roman. He too had seen the second wave of Romans join the fight and he knew the pirates were now hopelessly outnumbered. They had reacted so quickly, much faster than Belus had thought they would, believing that the surprise of his attack would stun the remaining crew of the Roman galley and keep them at bay until the legionaries were overwhelmed. But they had reacted instantly and attacked without hesitation, robbing Belus and his men of the precious minutes that would have led to success. He instinctively pushed forward again at the thought, a creeping recklessness beginning to control his actions as realisation swept over him. There would be no escape.
Septimus stepped back as the Carthaginian’s attack suddenly intensified, his sword a blur of iron and light, rain water streaming off the tip as the Carthaginian slashed his blade in low. Septimus narrowly deflected the strike and shifted his balance to swing his shield around, slamming the brass boss into the Carthaginian’s sword arm, breaking his attack and eliciting a furious cry of anger.
Belus attacked again, his skilful swordsmanship giving way to unfettered fury as he rained blow after blow on the Roman’s shield, the hated enemy that had caused him to fail in his duty. He roared out a cry to Anath, the war-goddess to put strength into his sword arm, his voice rising until it blocked out every other sound, his face twisting maliciously as he felt the Roman give way under his assault.
Septimus bent his knees and prepared to strike as the Carthaginian’s attack reached its crescendo, drawing his shield in close as he coiled his body behind it, drawing the Carthaginian in ever closer. Suddenly, with a strength forged in the legions, Septimus propelled himself forward, his shield crashing into the Carthaginian, knocking him back. Septimus continued his lunge, pushing his foe across the deck, waiting for the moment to strike. The Carthaginian threw his sword arm up, fighting for balance and
Septimus plunged his short sword into the Carthaginian’s exposed flank, striking him below his armour, a killing stroke that Septimus compounded as he twisted the blade, a rush of blood and viscera covering his hand as the Carthaginian screamed in pain.
Belus fell to the deck, his sword and shield falling from near-lifeless fingers, his hands reaching for the wound in his side as his blood stained the deck he had defended with his life. He looked up at the Roman standing over him, a younger man, the intensity of his gaze matching the ferocity of his attack, the rain streaming off his helmet and armour, his sword in his hand drenched with Belus’s own blood. The Roman held his gaze for an instant longer and was gone, leaving Belus staring at the grey sky, the terrible knowledge that he had failed Carthage haunting him as his life slipped away.
Narmer roared at the men around him, driving them forward, stirring their blood and savagery into a frenzy. The pirates responded with ever-increasing cries of defiance and challenge, giving the Romans no quarter in a fight that was becoming ever more desperate for the outnumbered defenders. Moments before, Narmer had seen Belus fall, struck down by the Roman centurion who was now rallying his men for a final push that Narmer knew would overwhelm his crew. He backed away from the line of battle, the final surge of his crew affording him the opportunity to make his escape below decks and he turned and ran to the hatchway at the aft-end of the main deck.
Narmer charged his sword as he landed on the walkway in the middle of the slave deck. The rowers beside him began to clutch at his legs in panic, begging him to release them. He struck out with his sword, fearful of being overwhelmed by clawing hands and a rower cried out in pain as the blade sliced through his wrist. The others backed off and Narmer rushed to the gangway leading to the main cabin, closing and baring the door behind him as he entered.
The sounds of battle continued on the main deck above. Narmer slowly paced the room, his sword hanging loose by his side, panic rising within him as his mind sought a way out. His flight below deck would buy him another few minutes, perhaps longer, but Narmer knew there was no escape. A sudden anger welled up within him and he slammed his sword onto the table in the centre of the cabin, cursing the day he had placed himself in the midst of the conflict between Rome and Carthage. Belus had robbed him of his galley, Narmer realised that now, robbed him of his command and sailed him into waters infested with Roman galleys. Now the Romans were poised to rob him in turn, to plunder what was his and deprive him of the galley he had won through ingenuity and blood.
As Roman victory cries sounded from above, Narmer picked up his sword once more, a vow passing his lips as he examined the blade before sheathing the weapon. He had no need for it, for another blade would not stop the Romans from taking his ship. For that, Narmer would need another weapon, one more ancient and deadly, and he repeated his vow as he prepared, an oath to deprive his enemies of the galley they had dared to take from him.
‘Hold!’ Septimus roared, as his men began to chase after the half-dozen pirates fleeing below decks and the legionaries halted at the whip-crack of the centurion’s voice, ingrained discipline overcoming their blood-lust. They stood in silent sobriety for a moment, breathing heavily, their swords slowly falling as they realised the deck was theirs and a single shout of victory quickly became many.
Septimus let them roar, the ship was theirs but to finish the task they would have to clear the remnants of the pirate crew from below decks.
‘Drusus,’ he called to his optio. ‘Take ten men and secure the fore main deck hatch. I’ll take the aft.’
Drusus saluted and gathered the men closest to him, leading them at a run in loose formation towards the hatch. Septimus did the same, his eyes ignoring the dead and dying, ally and foe alike, as he ordered his remaining men to stand fast on the main deck.
Septimus paused at the hatchway for a moment before clambering down, his eyes adjusting quickly to the half light of the rowing deck. Stepping back, he allowed his men to follow and they formed a defensive ring around the ladder, their shields charged outwards. A walkway ran the entire length of the slave deck, with chained rowers on either side, their pitiful cries for release deafening in the confined space. Septimus ignored them, his gaze reaching forward seventy feet along the walkway to the fore hatchway and the sight of Drusus’s squad moving towards the forward cabins.
Septimus formed his men behind him and stepped towards the gangway that led to the main cabin at the rear of the galley. Its door was flanked by two others, smaller cabins to port and starboard. Septimus readied his shield and pushed the portside door open with the tip of his sword. It was a tiny cabin; no more than six foot across and it was empty. He spun around and pushed the door opposite, expecting the same but inside a man lay supine upon a low cot, his face horribly disfigured, his tunic bloodstained and torn. Septimus nodded for one of his men to step into the cabin to examine the apparently unconscious figure while he led the others to the final door, the main cabin.
A sudden eruption of shouts from the front of the galley caused Septimus to look over his shoulder as the clash of iron signalled Drusus’s discovery of more of the crew. Septimus looked to one of his men at the rear. ‘Report to the optio,’ he ordered, ‘find out if he needs help.’
The soldier nodded and ran back along the walkway, his footfalls heavy on the timber deck. Septimus turned his attention to the main cabin once more and as before pushed against the door with the tip of his sword. It did not open and he half turned to press his shield against the timbers, putting his weight behind it.
‘Barred,’ Septimus said to himself before turning to the two men behind him.
‘Break it down!’ he ordered and the legionaries stepped forward, reversing their swords and hammering on the door with the pommels, the hardwood spheres cracking and splintering the weathered door.
‘Ready, lads!’ Septimus said, preparing himself to surge forward. The door could only last for seconds more. He breathed deeply, tensing his muscles for the lunge forward, expecting to find the majority of the remaining crew behind the door. His intake of breath triggered an alarm in Septimus’s mind as he sensed the underlying dreaded smell that overwhelmed the stench of blood from his sword and the reek of filth from the deck beneath his feet. It was a smell that triggered the fear that dwelt in every man who lived on the timber ships of the age, a smell that foretold of an enemy that could not be contained, one that would consume the galley and all on board.
‘Stop!’ Septimus shouted and he crouched down in the silence that followed. He smelled the air again. There could be no doubt. Whoever was behind the door had fired the cabin. Septimus stood up instantly.
‘Back on deck. Now!’ he roared, his men responding, not yet sensing what Septimus had perceived but following his order without hesitation.
‘Centurion!’ Septimus turned to the soldier who emerged from the side-cabin.
‘This man is Roman,’ he said, indicating over his shoulder. Septimus looked beyond him to the man on the cot. ‘He’s says he’s the captain of a trader taken by these pirates,’ the soldier continued in explanation. Septimus grabbed one of the fleeing legionaries by the shoulder.
‘You,’ he said, ‘help him get this man up top.’
The soldier obeyed and between them the two legionaries carried the Roman captain up the gangway. Septimus followed them, continually glancing over his shoulder at the main cabin door, seeing the first wisps of smoke appear even as he began his climb to the main deck. The sight caused him to quicken his step and he immediately ordered men forward to command Drusus to disengage the enemy. He spotted Atticus and made his way towards him, issuing orders for his men to form up as he did.
The captain was sitting amidst the Roman wounded, his face deathly pale against his blood-stained tunic, Lucius kneeling beside him.
‘The ship is ours?’ Atticus asked, his voice weak but the triumph of victory strong in his gaze.
‘No,’ Septimus spat in anger. ‘This ship is in the hands of Vulcan.’
>
‘By the Gods…’ Atticus whispered. ‘Fire?’ As Septimus nodded the first cries of panic rose up from the slave deck below, the terrifying sound ripping along the entire length of the galley in the time it took the unaware amongst the Romans to understand what was happening. Soldiers who had charged fearlessly into battle turned to flee, their eyes looking around in trepidation, searching for evidence of the fire that terrified them all. Shouts of alarm rang across the main deck as smoke suddenly billowed from the aft hatchway.
‘Everyone back across the corvus!’ Septimus shouted and he helped Atticus to stand, bearing his weight as he continued to issue orders to his men, ensuring that the wounded were all accounted for.
‘Wait!’ a junior hastati shouted from the head of the forward hatchway, listening to the cries for mercy of the slaves. ‘I can hear Roman voices!’
‘Hold!’ Atticus roared, realising the danger but his order was lost amidst the cacophony of panic and desperation from the slave deck and he watched helplessly as the junior soldier disappeared down the hatchway to be immediately followed by two others. Atticus ran forward, the pain of his wound forgotten as saw that other legionaries were preparing to follow the first three below.
‘You men stand fast!’ Atticus shouted and the soldiers hesitated, looking beyond the Greek captain to their centurion, the pull of the Roman voices desperately calling for help causing them to inch forward once more. Septimus couldn’t understand Atticus’s command but he repeated it without hesitation, ordering his men to get back aboard the Aquila. Only when he reached the hatchway did he question Atticus; the endless voices of terror from below drowning out his words to all others except Atticus.
‘Damn it, Atticus,’ he hissed, angry that he hadn’t considered the fact that there might be Romans amongst the rowers sooner. ‘Why did you stop more of my men from going below? We need to be sure we rescue any Romans amongst the slaves.’