Legionary

Chapter 40

A rich orange dawn yawned over the still sea. Scattered across the placid surface, a shattered hulk of timber bobbed gently, punctuating the pepper of debris all around it. The Aquila bore at best a half of its original mast, and the hull bore small vertical fissures that drank in the seawater greedily regardless of their size. All across the deck, bodies lay sprawled, deep in an exhausted sleep or blue in the face, chattering and vomiting. A few bedraggled legionaries wandered around the deck waking their colleagues; dawn was upon them and sleep would have to wait.

Pavo rocked, holding his knees to his chest, shivering at the unshakeable cold that still dogged him. His frozen body had stopped him from falling asleep, and his brain raced over and over the chaotic events of the night before. They had fought like lions to pull down the sails and hold the rigging in place in order to ride out the worst of the storm, but the sheer muscle of the winds had broken the back of the fleet despite their efforts. On the horizon, Pavo made out the outline of one of the other ships. How much of the fleet had survived was unclear. Of the forty triremes that had been sailing in perfect formation the previous day, only that single one had been left in sight of the flagship by the end of the storm.

Gallus emerged from below deck, hauling a sack of wheat bread loaves with the help of the beneficiarius. The centurion’s arms were scrawled with fresh cuts and encrusted in dry blood, and his eyes rimmed with the kohl of exhaustion. Then an aroma of broth drifted over the deck — broad bean and nettle he reckoned — not exactly the cuisine of emperors, but damn, Pavo thought, it did smell like it.

‘Okay ladies, we’ve pulled together some eats. Line up, get your bread from me then back of the deck for some soup. We’ve got some serious repairs to do if we don’t want to end up in the drink, so you need all the energy you can get — no excuses!’ He directed his last statement to the group of vomiting legionaries.

Despite the centurion’s tone, the soldiers merely looked around, contemplating the order, eyes shot with utter exhaustion. Pavo, all too aware of the precarious angle of the waterline on the hull, leapt up, disguising his burning joints and the nausea in his gut. He grabbed a loaf, nodding firmly to Gallus, before trotting over to the soup cauldron. The legionary ‘manning’ the soup bore an exhausted stare into the horizon and barely blinked as Pavo grabbed the ladle from him and muscled into his position. Clanging the ladle against the rim, he shot a glance around the deck.

‘Soup’s up!’ he boomed. The metallic twang lifted the heads of the weary legionaries. As they began to converge on the welcome source of warm food, Pavo nodded sternly at Gallus. The centurion, emotionless as ever, gave him shrewd eyes and a faint nod in return.

Wiping his bread on the side of his iron food bowl, Pavo savoured the hot, peppery thickness as he dropped the last morsel into his mouth. He sighed, dropping his bowl and arms to his side to rest back against the side of the ship, then closed his eyes.

‘What a lucky draw this was, eh?’ Sura, murmured beside him. ‘Torn to pieces overnight, then double stints on the oars.’

The oars. Damn it, he blinked his eyes open — the beneficiarius was readying to make a call, probably for the shift changeover. It only felt like a moment since he was last blistering his hands on them below deck. ‘Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Why do we get the assignment from Hades when our friend Spurius and his monkey Festus get a plum role in the I Dacia? Comitatenses, my arse. I hear their legion is tasked with patrolling the Danubius — probably busy stopping in at every brothel and inn along the way.’ He sighed.

Sura chuckled wryly. ‘We’re jinxed, friend. And the best is yet to come!’ He swept a hand out towards the horizon.

Pavo groaned and closed his eyes, sighing. The broth had settled in his belly and he felt its warmth wrap around his body. Sleep began to curl through his mind and his head lolled to one side.

‘Form for roll call,’ the beneficiarius boomed. Pavo jolted upright, his precious instant of rest blown away and his head spinning. He stumbled to his feet with Sura and they joined the occupants of the Aquila shuffling to the centre of the deck. Then he noticed the dark look of Centurion Gallus up front. The crew looked far lighter than their full complement as they formed up. Even when everyone had gathered, heads still turned, expecting more, far more.

Tribunus Nerva hobbled over to stand next to Gallus. Captain Horsa flanked him on the other side, with Felix joining him. Quadratus, Zosimus, and Avitus stood on the front line. The officers had made it through okay, as had the veterans of the first century. But how many recruits had been washed away to an icy grave?

One by one, the beneficiarius read out each name on his roster, to which, the legionary in question would shout out in reply. Near the prow of the ship, a capsarius stood, holding bandages and salve, ready to reply for any of those too injured to form up. As the list went on, the first name went unanswered. Then another. Each one like a dagger in the guts. Too soon, Pavo lost count.

The crew of the Vesta had been fed almost enough to stop the men’s stomachs roaring, and were now busy erecting a temporary mast. The large timber splinters and split deck boards would at least allow the sail to catch some of the gentle breeze blowing above the languid waters. That their hull was intact was something to thank angry Poseidon for.

Centurion Renatus, chief centurion of the third cohort, smeared in sweat and grime, wiped his forehead and gasped for air as he stood up. Backbreaking work was the order until they made contact with the rest of the fleet. Grasping a length of rigging, he hoisted himself onto the rim of the ship to survey the goings-on amongst the men of the fourth century of his cohort who were crewing this vessel.

All armour and arms had been shed, bundled below deck so they could work lighter and faster, in the effort to make the ship mobile again. They were sitting targets out here anyway, he thought, and had to find the fleet at all costs. First, a fire signal, then a flag from the distant Aquila had set his men to work. Safety in numbers beckoned and it had buoyed his men into action.

‘Come on lads; let’s show those pussies in the first centurya bit of true Roman efficiency!’ He roared. For the first time that morning, they roared back — the wind was in their sails once more, at least figuratively. Renatus mouthed a silent prayer of thanks as he leapt down onto the deck to aid the rigging work.

In lieu of a crow’s nest, Porcus the legionary stood atop a precariously balanced tower of barrels and crates, he turned round from Renatus’ rally, straining his neck and shielding his eyes from the glaring mid-morning sunshine. Still there was nothing on the horizon apart from the fleet’s flagship — where were the other thirty-eight vessels, he wondered? Gingerly rotating on the shoddy platform, he scanned the blurred line where the shimmering sea met the brilliantly blue sky. As he turned, a piercing alien shriek sounded from what seemed like inside his head. The unimpressed, pointed features of a large gull stared at him calmly on his shoulder. Flailing his arms to shoo the creature, he felt the inevitable crumbling of his ill-advised viewing platform. The winged menace took off in flight, just as the legionary’s legs whipped forwards and upwards. Instinctively, he made to let out a yell. But he caught the shout in his throat when he glimpsed the horizon on his way down.

Scrambling to his feet amidst tired laughter from his fellow legionaries, he scrambled back on top of the tallest freestanding crate, straining his eyes to the distance once more, his nails digging into the timber. His pupils narrowed, until they focused on two distinct dark shapes on the waves.

‘Ships to starboard!’ He roared in excitement. The legionaries dropped their tools and rushed to the edge of the ship, barging through each other to get a view of the mini fleet. A chorus of cheering rose from them, and Centurion Renatus laughed.

‘They’re coming straight for us — going to beat the Aquila to us by the looks of it,’ he joked, comparing the complete sails of the group of fast-approaching ships with the many rags that the crew of the Aquila had patched together.

‘Aye, we’re more important than the flagship,’ another legionary bellowed.

Renatus turned to his watchman to congratulate him, but stopped short when he saw the look of horror painted on the young man’s face.

‘Sir, they’re not Roman,’ he exclaimed, the colour draining from his face as his eyes grew like saucers. ‘They’re pirates.’

Renatus’ jaw dropped as he turned back to see the black flags billowing on the approaching warships. His throat instantly felt like parchment; Renatus turned to the scene of his men, still in oblivious celebration, and glanced to the carelessly discarded armour and weapons piled below and scattered across the deck, as well as the crippled broadside ballistae, and felt his stomach knot. Do something, his mind screamed. Finally, he lurched forward, grasped the nearest pair of swords, and brought them together above his head, blade crashing against blade.

‘Pirates! To arms!’ He roared. It took a few moments for his call to sink in. By the time they were scrambling to pick up bits and pieces that they could fight and defend themselves with, the huge pirate vessels had cut over to them and now loomed large above — a massive quinquereme leading the charge. Renatus blinked at the sight of the snarling, bearded, sun-blackened faces of the scimitar-bearing crew who heaved along the side of their vessel. The pirates of the Pontus Euxinus left no soul alive — their reputations depended on it.

The pirate flagship boarding gangs slammed down onto the starboard deck of the Vesta, like an eagle’s beak scything into its crippled prey. The legionaries backed into a huddle, loose armour clashing as they bunched up, losing formation. Renatus saw what was happening to his men and at once his iron will pushed ahead of the fear he felt.

‘Pull yourselves together, form a square, enough room between each man to swing a sword. Don’t make me come in there and sort you out!’ The men stumbled out of the huddle and lined up in a proper square. Renatus whispered a prayer to Mithras as he pushed back into the front line — just in time as the pirates washed across the deck, heckling war cries as they closed in on their prey. ‘Keep it steady, lads. Show them nothing but the boss of our shields and the tip of our swords.’

Then, like storm waves crashing onto a lone rock, the pirates rushed at and tumbled over the top of the Roman square, screaming. Their leader, standing at the edge of the main gangway roared them on. His long, knotted hair was dyed an unnaturally bright red and his teeth were filed down to fang points. The square now wobbled and swayed, and was hammered into a circle by the crush of the pirates.

‘Hold them to the side of the ship,’ Renatus cried hoarsely, gulping back a scream as the tip of a curved pirate blade sunk into his shoulder from above. Not too deep, but still enough that it would weaken him before long. He parried the strike then roared, butting the crazed pirate in the nose with his shield, and then pulling the shield to one side just long enough to gut the man. He ducked back and then out again to slash at one pirates exposed neck and then poke his sword neatly into the ribcage of another. Renatus felt the battle rage pump through him; all around the pirates tumbled to the ground as his men fought for their lives. But so many Romans had fallen too — less than half were still standing after only moments of fighting. His vision swam as the blood pumped from his shoulder wound, but he blinked it back. It can be done, he growled to himself, glancing back to see how far the Aquila, their only hope of salvation, was. Instead, he saw only the second pirate vessel sidling up to the portside.

The gut-wrenching clattering of another series of gangways filled the air, and Renatus felt despair tearing at his heart. The men of the second pirate ship coursed forward onto the Vesta, directly at the rear of the Roman contingent. Renatus ducked a sword swing and slapped a hand on the legionary to his side.

‘Fight bravely, Minucius,’ he barked. Then, he withdrew back through the square, ignoring the mush of blood and innards coating the deck as he moved, stooping to prise another sword from the clenched hand of a dead legionary. He burst out of the back of the square, threw his shield to the ground and glared at the new wave of pirates. With a snarl, he hurled himself into their midst in a hacking frenzy.

Renatus felt the many slashes of the scimitar only numbly, little realising the dull thuds he heard were the sound of his own limbs being sliced off and slapping onto the deck. His vision grew dark. But as he felt his life leave his torn body, he saw a blurry outline of figures pour onto the prow of the ship — Romans. ‘They’ve made it,’ he hissed.

Too late for him, but not for his men. The Aquila had arrived at last!

Pavo bit his lower lip, craning his neck and on his toes to see over the shoulder of Zosimus; the Vesta shuddered like a dying gazelle, devoured by the lion-like hulks of the pirate ships. The deck foamed with a froth of blood and metal and the screaming sent a chill across the waves and over the deck of the Aquila as its prow clunked into contact with the Vesta. He glanced at Sura, by his side.

‘I’ve got your flank,’ he spoke firmly.

Sura nodded, his teeth biting into his lower lip as he jostled on one foot and then another.

‘Soldier’s curse?’ Pavo asked nervously. The full bladder and parched mouth had struck him as well.

Sura nodded vigorously through an anxious grin.

Gallus, perched on the beak of the vessel, bellowed for the advance and the ninety assembled legionaries let rip in kind.

‘Let’s show these squid-shaggers!’ Sura yelled over the battle cry and at once, the group rushed forward, roaring, their intercisa crests rippling forward like a school of shark fins.

Pavo poured onto the deck of the Vesta with them as they hammered into the pirate sprawl. Having lost all shape in pursuit of victory, the pirates scrambled in confusion back to the starboard side. The pitiful, blood spattered remnant of the fourth century gasped in disbelief.

‘Get into line!’ Gallus barked at them.

Pavo almost retched at the reek of guts coming from the recruit of the fourth century who sidled up next to him. The boy was far younger than he was, probably only fifteen, and his head was gone; shaking, chattering, barely able to hold his sword. But they were still outnumbered and had to fight on.

The fang-toothed, fiery-haired pirate leader roared encouragement to his men, prompting an ever louder cry from Gallus; ‘Take that bugger down!’ he screamed, thrusting a plumbata at the fiery-locked figure. The dart skimmed the pirate leader’s neck as he ducked to one side, not even drawing blood, and he emitted a howl of derision.

Pavo saw the centurion disappear into the pirate swarm at the head of the Roman wedge, his plume whipping around as he tirelessly felled the stunned pirates. The back half of the first century lagged, hesitant for the briefest of moments.

‘You heard the centurion,’ Felix snarled, waving them forward, ‘Let’s finish this!’

Pavo’s heart thundered as the legionaries gave a rallying cry and followed the little Greek forward.

The remaining Roman number thumped into the compacting pirate crowd. Gallus’ contingent had punched a hole through to the body of Centurion Renatus, and Pavo glanced down to his left to see the bloodied torso of the officer being passed back under the legs of the first century.

‘Protect the bodies of our brothers,’ Zosimus cried over his shoulder, ‘or these pirate scum will scavenge every scrap from them.’

Pavo shuffled the body backwards, his shins sinking into the still warm stumps of limbs.

‘Eyes forward, Pavo!’ Avitus barked, shoving him around to face front.

A pair of pirates advanced on him, armed with spike shields and awful, ripping scimitars, already spattered in skin, hair and blood. He glanced to Sura and felt himself take a step backwards as the pirates stalked towards him, when Zosimus snarled in his ear.

‘Lock shields. Barge them onto the floor, and then gut the beggars!’ He growled.

Pavo nodded, his chest shuddering. He tensed his arms, and growled back at the two pirates. With a clank, Sura’s shield was joined to his, then another shield joined, then another. The Roman wedge moved forward as one with Zosimus at its head, pummelling into the pirate line, their scimitar strikes useless against coordinated defence. The first line of pirates crumbled under the advance and fell to be skewered underfoot. Pavo felt the red rage of battle as he butted at his aggressors, hopping up to sink his sword tip into the throat of the spike shield bearing warrior, then another butt, then a slash at the gut of the scimitar man. His throat heaved as the man’s last meal spilled onto the deck as the body collapsed. Within an instant, he was just another bundle of bones being crunched over by the advancing century.

On and on they pushed. Surely, the pirate number was thinning to the point of breaking, Pavo hoped, gasping as he stabbed through another open flank. Then, he felt a dull blow to his face and a flash of white light in his eyes. His helmet had been knocked off. No time to think about it, he grimaced. Then he caught sight of a crimson flash of iron hammering towards his face. A pirate, leaping from the boatside, careered through the air over the shield wall and towards him, scimitar not even an arm’s length from his face. His arms pinned below shield level, Pavo waited for the shattering impact into his skull.

He grimaced at the popping and grinding of tearing flesh and shattering bone. But no pain. Just the flat edge of a scimitar, skimming harmlessly across the side of his face. He blinked to see the twisted face of his foe staggering backwards into his number, clutching the ragged stump that remained of his pruned arm. Blood washed from the wound and the man’s face drained to white as he collapsed.

‘There’s another one you owe me, eh?’ Sura growled, his eyes glimmering with a maniacal bloodlust.

‘Duck!’ Pavo yelled, swiping at the axe-bearing pirate who rushed at his friend. The spatha sliced through the man’s jaw, which clattered to the deck before he did. ‘Consider us even,’ he grinned, wiping the hot gore from his eyes and feeling his chest burst with the rush of battle.

On the boatside of the Vesta, the pirate captain surveyed the scene, cursing. What had seemed like easy pickings had turned out to be a very costly affair, and they would probably lose twice in manpower what they would gain from looting. He turned to the crew on his other vessel, and gave a signal by drawing a line across his throat, and then he scampered around the side of the battle, heading for the gangplank back onto the quinquereme.

On board the Aquila, Captain Horsa stood, his leg shaking with an intolerable desire to fight. Gallus had been adamant — this was legionary work, the five surviving foederati on the Aquila were to remain on the Roman trireme. He gripped the ship’s edge to view the battle, cursing every pirate, and striking every killer blow for himself. He spotted the pirate captain hauling himself back onto the retracting pirate flagship. Then he noticed its prow, and that of the second pirate vessel; it was moving, withdrawing. ‘Is this victory?’ he began to grin, the beginnings of a roar of joy swirled in his lungs. Then his blood froze as he saw the second pirate vessel lower its ramming spike.

‘They’re going to scuttle it!’ He roared at the swell of legionaries on the deck of the Vesta again and again, but the shouts fell on battle-deafened ears. Seething with impotence, he then barked an order in Gothic to his five fellow foederati. As one they thundered to the hold of the Aquila.

Pavo now felt a sapping numbness pull his limbs groundwards, trying to prise his sword from his grip. The efficient, steady butchering that was played out along the Roman line now took on a rhythmic quality, entrancing the soldiers as they stepped over their dead enemies and fallen brothers, bodies churned into a bloody pulp, speckled with the sparkle of white bone. Then he heard the murmur and then the rabble of panic from the pirates. ‘They’re going to surrender,’ he yelled.

‘No they’re not,’ Sura gasped, staggering backwards, pointing to the fast approaching pirate vessel, growing like a Kraken rising from the waves, its sails dominating the sky above.

The ramming spike churned in the water as the second pirate vessel kicked back towards the Vesta. If the pirates sank the galley of the fourth and all the Roman troops on it, the barely-manned Aquila would be a sitting target, and the rest of the fleet were ready prey. Pavo leapt back from the front line, over to Gallus.

‘Sir!’ he yelled, spotting Gallus in the fray at the side. His voice drowned in the smash of weapons. ‘Sir,’ he roared again, managing to reach out and slap a hand on the centurion’s shoulder. Gallus glanced back briefly, his features stony and dripping with blood.

‘No time, Pavo!’ He cried, turning back to skewer a pirate giant.

‘We’re going down, sir — they’re going to scuttle us!’

Gallus shot a stare back this time, simultaneously hammering his shield boss into the face of a tenacious pirate midget who harried at him. Then he fell back from the line.

The centurion’s gaze shot back and forth between the incoming ramming vessel and the pirate flagship, its gangplank now halfway raised from the deck of the Vesta. ‘Pavo, drop your shield,’ he spoke softly at first, then his eyes widened and he bellowed, pointing at the pirate flagship, ‘and let’s get onto that ship.’ Gallus threw his helmet and shield down and lurched forward the gangplank; only paces away, but now surely too high to reach. He leapt and his fingers clawed at the edge before collapsing back onto the deck of the Vesta. ‘Bugger! Pavo, you try, quickly!’ With that, Gallus kneeled and cupped his hands as a foot lift. Pavo pushed the fear of what he was about to do aside, judged his stride and speed carefully, landing his stronger right foot in the centurion’s hands to spring up. Now his fingertips grasped firmly on the frayed edge of the rising gangplank, and he scrabbled desperately to find the purchase to haul himself — still in full armour — over the edge and onto the pirate vessel.

‘That’s it, Pavo — get the plank back down!’ Gallus cried from below. ‘They won’t scuttle us until their flagship’s free — get it down!’

‘How?’ Pavo panicked, swinging from the almost vertical plank, the murky sea rippling below him. Then he felt hands push up against his soles — Zosimus and Quadratus, bless them! The giant legionaries pushed him up and over with a grunt and finally he was tumbling head over heels onto the pirate flagship. He stumbled forward, his hands slapping him to a halt on the deck where his eyes set upon a pair of salt-encrusted hide boots. He looked up — the gnarled pirate captain glowered back at him, a loaded bow on his wrist, pointed straight into Pavo’s face.

‘I could put you out of your misery with an arrow through your eye, Roman…’

Pavo winced, weaponless and pinned under a sharpened arrowhead.

‘…but I would draw greater pleasure from watching you drown slowly with your kind.’ Pavo gasped as the pirate captain sunk a boot into his chest. ‘Over the side, boy!’ he rasped. Pavo buckled over the timber lip of the vessel, flailing to catch hold of something, anything. A rope whipped at his palm and he grasped at it, falling until his weight swung him round to jolt his shoulder as he smashed his forehead into the outside of the hull. Dangling above the waves, he looked down on the deck of the Vesta; his ears rang as Gallus, Zosimus, Quadratus and Felix yelled at him silently, below.

‘What?’ he roared, as they grew redder in the face. Then he saw Zosimus draw a line across his throat, mouthing the words cut it. ‘Cut it? Of course!’ he looked up at the length of rope — taut, it was all that held the gangplank up. He grappled for the dagger in his belt. Wait a minute, he reasoned, glancing at the murky wash and smashing jaws of the two vessels waiting to swallow him below, then at the desperate looks on the faces of his fellow legionaries. Oh bugger. Should’ve learned to swim, I suppose. Then he swiped at the rope with the dagger.

With a twang, the rope above him sprung skywards, and the gangplank plummeted onto the deck with a crack as Pavo fell like a stone toward the water. Just then, the whinnying of horses signalled a charge of Horsa’s foederati five, across the deck of the Vesta to leap onto the pirate flagship.

Pavo braced for the icy embrace of the waves, when his torso jolted violently in his mail vest. Croaking, he looked up to see the tree trunk fist of Zosimus holding his belt loop.

‘No ducking out of battle that way, lad,’ he grinned and then hoisted Pavo onto the deck of the Vesta with a grunt.

Gallus headed up the line of legionaries advancing carefully onto the deck of the pirate flagship. Horsa and his mounted men circled the pirate captain who stood alone but defiant.

‘I thought I had given you orders, Captain?’ Gallus spoke suspiciously.

‘I thought you were done for — and us with you — if we didn’t intervene, sir. Seems like young Pavo saved the day though,’ he nodded to Pavo, who shrank at the praise.

‘We’ll discuss this later, Captain,’ Gallus replied after a few moments of uncertain silence. ‘Get our men on board here and get that gangplank up!’

Just then, all four vessels — the two pirate ships, the Vesta and the Aquila shuddered as a roar of metal crunching through timber filled the air. The pirate captain dropped his head in despair. Gallus spun round to see the second pirate vessel churning through the deck of the Vesta.

‘In the name of Mithras,’ he cried, ‘we could have spared you, chained you and your men to the oars of our galleys,’ he spat at the pirate captain, ‘but it looks like we’ll be a little short of deck space now. You didn’t realise you were taking on the empire, did you. You didn’t reckon on the resilience of the XI Claudia? Anything you’d like to say before I send you and your men on that ship for a bath?’ He growled, jabbing a thumb over to the disintegrating deck of the Vesta, where the pirate warriors were now weaponless and restrained behind Roman sword point.

The pirate captain looked up, his dejection washed away by a sudden spark of realisation. Then, a terrible grin wrinkled across his face, his lips curling up to expose the sharpened yellow fangs. ‘The legion? You truly are the legion they are waiting for?’ Then he threw his head back and let out a demonic cackle.

The balance of power swung palpably as Gallus’ brow furrowed, the centurion taken aback. Gallus then whipped his spatha from his scabbard and poked the point into the pirate captain’s throat. ‘No games, you dog. Talk or I’ll drag you behind our ship alive for the sharks to tear at your flesh.’

The pirate captain almost foamed in fury as Zosimus and Quadratus wrenched his arms behind his back. ‘We trade in these waters,’ he snarled. ‘This is our sea. We know what goes on in the lands you have long forgotten.’

‘What did I say? No history lesson, no riddles,’ Gallus barked, jabbing the point of his sword in to draw a droplet of blood. ‘Talk!’

‘You will not live to see the autumn, Roman dog. They will be waiting for you. Your cries for mercy will go unheard!’ The pirate captain roared and took on the strength of a bull as he barged Zosimus and Quadratus from his sides. He lurched forward at Gallus, his hand whipping out a dagger concealed in his belt. As the blade jabbed out and towards the staggering centurion, Felix leapt out to hurl his spatha through the air, the blade punching into the pirate’s chest, throwing him back to the deck. With a violent spasm, he let out a rattling cry and was dead.

Gallus gasped, righting himself, straightening his helmet.

‘Good throw! I had it covered, though,’ Zosimus growled, shoving at the corpse with his boot, his skin red with humiliation.

Gallus firmed his jaw and spun to see the Vesta disappearing under the waves, the pirates thrashing their last or scrambling for the sides of the ramming vessel as it struggled to pull its spike free of the sinking trireme. The centurion strode to the lip of the vessel and crashed his fist on the lip of the galley.

‘Sir?’ Felix offered.

‘The old Kingdom of Bosporus must surely only be a day’s rowing away. Scuttle the Aquila once we’ve got her supplies on board, and put a bloody big hole in the side of that boat,’ he swept a hand derisively at the second pirate vessel, ‘then pull the fleet together as a matter of urgency. Get Nerva and the centurions together. We’ve got to get on top of this mission before it overruns us.’

Gallus turned to look out from the prow over the serene blue infinity of sky and sea. He heard the shouts and scuffles of his men crewing the quinquereme, but his eyes lingered on the northern horizon. Empty, yet riddled with mystery. The pirate captain’s words rang in his head.

They will be waiting for you. Your cries for mercy will go unheard…