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
