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
