Gordon Doherty - Land of the Sacred Fire

‘No! Pirates?’ Felix said, sidling up next to him.

‘Aye, Cretans, I’d wager. And that,’ he stabbed a finger at the crippled hull of a Roman bireme dashed against the rocks near the edge of the cove, pirates scurrying across its remains to salvage its cargo, ‘was the escort vessel we were supposed to meet in Rhodos.’ He nodded to the man in chains at the stern of the liburnian. ‘And that poor bastard,’ Gallus continued as the crew kicked the shackled man from the ship and into the sea, ‘is the last of her crew.’ Blood spray and tortured screaming followed, and both men looked away, sickened.

‘Look, there’s another liburnian,’ Zosimus added, stabbing a finger between Gallus and Felix, pointing to the cove. Sure enough, hidden by a protective arm of rock, another of the nimble pirate warships rested, its bow anchored on a stretch of white sand.

Gallus’ skin prickled. Centurion Quadratus’ trireme was far behind — barely a dot in the western horizon, and they could not risk facing these two light and lithe pirate liburnians alone. He sucked in a breath to give the order to turn round, but another cry cut him off.

‘Mithras, they’ve seen us!’ Noster shrieked.

A lone figure high up on the seaborne liburnian’s mast was waving and crying out, one hand pointing right at the Roman trireme. The men on deck instantly leapt into action, rushing to man the oars and adjust the rigging. Likewise, the train of men on the shore of the cove dropped their cargo and rushed to the beached liburnian, readying to launch it.

Gallus’ eyes narrowed on the liburnian as it tacked round under oar until the wind filled its sails. At once, the oars were withdrawn and the nimble vessel cut through the waves, headed straight for the lone Roman trireme. He glanced to the gradually growing form of Quadratus’ ship — still too far away to aid them, then swept his gaze across his men, meeting the eyes of every one of them.

‘We’re on our own. To arms!’

Pavo buckled his sword belt on over his mail shirt, fumbled with the straps of his helmet, hefted his shield and spear, then took his place just in front of the legionary line. They stood facing the prow, watching as the liburnian sliced ever closer. His heart thundered in his chest and he welcomed wryly the now familiar pre-battle symptoms of a parched mouth and full-to-bursting bladder.

‘Get your armour on! Shields up, spears held high, take the strain!’ Centurion Zosimus cried, striding across the legionary front as the pirate liburnian sliced ever closer.

Pavo saw Habitus and Sextus jostling to swap places in the line. He barked at them; ‘You heard the centurion — get in line, ready to face your enemy!’

‘Noster, Rufus — will you lift your bloody shields,’ Sura added from his position on the right of the front rank. ‘The centurion and optio will shout at you and tell you they’re going to kick your arses, but I will actually kick your arses!’

Meanwhile, Gallus was perched at the front of the vessel with the beneficiarius, one foot on the prow, one hand grasping the rigging for balance, the other raised, directly overhead. They had to destroy or engage the seaborne liburnian before it could garner support from the other one, almost fully launched now. In a good wind like this, the two liburnians would dance around the sturdy but cumbersome Roman trireme.

‘Come on,’ Gallus growled through gritted teeth, one fist clenched, as if willing the Roman trireme and the onrushing liburnian to collide. Pavo saw there were more than one hundred crewmen onboard. A motley bunch, scarred, sun-burnished, some lining the prow, others clinging to the mast and the rigging. They clutched blades, spears, shields and bows and were clad in leather and scale vests. Some wore felt caps, others old Roman helmets and some eastern style conical helms with leather aventails. At the last, the pirate vessel banked to one side. Gallus’ hand fell to the right. ‘They’re cutting past!’

‘To the right, ready plumbatae!’ Zosimus cried. Each in the legionary line unclipped one of the lead-weighted darts from the rear of their shield. With a thunder of boots and rustling of armour, they rushed to the right lip of the trireme.

Pavo hoisted his plumbata as the trireme tilted, revealing the deck of the liburnian — a good seven feet lower than the trireme’s. The pirate crew had bunched together mid-deck and every one of them held a sling overhead, already blurred in motion and ready to loose.

‘Shields!’ Gallus cried as they cast their sling-arms forward and loosed.

Pavo dropped his dart and pulled up his shield with a heartbeat to spare, a piece of shot crunching through it and hissing past his temple. The legionary nearest him was punched back, too slow to raise his shield, the shot taking him in the cheek. Three others fell back likewise, the rest of the hail flying overhead, or battering down on shields and deck.

The liburnian peeled away, seemingly ready to circle around and come headlong for the trireme once more. The pirate leader looked back at them, perched on the stern. He was a swarthy man with dark, curly hair and glinting gold hoops in each ear. He wore hide boots, a fine white tunic, an embroidered green cape and a curved falcata in his sword belt. His face split in a broad grin as he took to calmly carving slices from an apple with his dagger and crunching upon them. ‘Be sure not to bleed upon your cargo — keep it good for me!’ he called out, then threw his head back in laughter.

Zosimus roared at this, thumping a fist down upon the vessel’s edge. ‘Draw your bows! This time, be ready!’

Pavo glanced over his shoulder to see Quadratus’ trireme closer but still too far away to help. Then he glanced to the cove, the second liburnian was now free of the sand and the crew were climbing aboard. ‘They’ll tear us apart like those sharks,’ he hissed to Sura, by his side.

‘They’re coming again!’ Gallus cried out from the prow, his eyes trained along his nose like a hawk watching its prey.

‘Nock your bows, be ready to loose!’ Pavo cried as he nocked an arrow to his own bowstring then drew it back until his arm tensed and his forefinger touched his cheek, his gaze trained on the spot where the liburnian would pass in moments. But something didn’t feel right. His bow seemed to lack tension. As before, the liburnian cut across the right of the Roman trireme. Zosimus raised his arm and chopped it down like an axe. ‘Loo. . ’ his words trailed off.

The deck was empty. . no, the crew were crouched behind the lip of the vessel, shielded from Roman sights. The legionary bows slackened in confusion. Suddenly a whirring filled the air, from the liburnian’s sail.

Pavo looked up just in time to see the shark-like grins of the clutch of slingers clinging to the mast, and perched along the timbers behind the sail. ‘Loose!’ Zosimus cried. The Roman bows loosed, but with a flurry of dull and weak twangs, arrows flew wildly off course, some dropping meekly into the waves, others sailing high up, almost vertically, before toppling back onto the Roman deck. Not one troubled the pirate crew. Pavo glared at his bow — the sinew and horn had split and the bowstring was sodden. The damp! he cursed, then braced as he heard the pirate slings spitting forth. ‘Down!’

A punch of ripping flesh and crunching bone rang out. The salt spray was tinged red. One young legionary staggered back, dropping his shield and clutching at the dark-red hole that a piece of slingshot had punched in his forehead. Confusion washed over his features as blood pumped from the hole, then his eyes rolled and he crumpled to the deck. Seven more fell. The undamaged liburnian once again peeled clear of the Roman vessel. The pirate leader threw his apple core into the waves then cupped his hands around his mouth;