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 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.