Douglas Jackson - Avenger of Rome

‘Why would you be ruining a perfectly good pair of marching boots?’

So Valerius told him.

‘I need five of your strongest and steadiest men. Have them issued with axes and tell them to report to me for their instructions. You know what to do when they reach us?’

Aurelius nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak. His eyes never left the pirate galley three hundred paces away, powering its way towards them through rising, white-capped waves whipped up by a wind that strengthened with every passing minute. The two larger pirates, hampered by their low freeboard in the heavy seas, had fallen back, but were still less than a mile away. Valerius studied their motion and reckoned that he had five minutes at most to do what he needed to do.

He replayed the plan in his mind and thought about the decision he’d taken. Was there any other way? The answer, as it had been every time he’d considered it, was no. But it didn’t make him feel any better. It was murder, pure and simple. Not war. Not self-defence. Murder.

Tiberius waited by the side with his cavalrymen. They had expected nothing more than an uneventful cruise nursemaiding the general’s daughter and it showed on the drawn, tense faces. Would they follow him? Only the gods knew, and Valerius had never placed much faith in the gods. He gripped his sword tight and it seemed to shrink in his hand as he lived the next few minutes in his mind. It was a sword that had been forged in the fires of victory. A sword of honour. The gold crown Nero had placed upon his brow might have given him fame, but the sword Suetonius Paulinus had placed in his hand had given him freedom. Freedom from the guilt of survival. Freedom to live again. Was he about to sully it?

He looked round and found Serpentius’s shrewd eyes on him. The Spaniard knew. Without a word he took the blade and returned a few minutes later with another from the Cygnet ’s armoury. Valerius nodded his thanks, but Serpentius had already turned away to focus his attention on the pirate, judging the effect of every wave and every stroke of the oar with the fierce intensity of a man who knew his life depended on it. The sword he held was a long cavalry spatha, a double-edged bludgeon of a weapon that only someone exceptionally strong could wield with any finesse. Serpentius could use it, though. Valerius had exercised with him most mornings since they had met and outmatched him only once, and that by trickery. The Spaniard could weave mesmerizing patterns with the heavy sword that left a man dazzled by a whirlwind of bright iron. Old Marcus had boasted affectionately that he could remove your liver and serve you it for dinner before you even realized it had gone, and he had only been exaggerating a little. Each of them had a dangerous job this day, but Serpentius had the most dangerous one of all.

When he heard that the Spaniard was to lead the attack, Tiberius had argued against it until Valerius explained why he had made the choice. Serpentius, the gladiator, had faced five and even six fighters in the arena and lived to tell the tale. He knew how to kill and he knew how to survive and the second of those skills was as important as the first if the men Valerius led were to get back to the ship alive.

Fight the enemy on his own ground, the naval prefect had said. Well, that was what he planned to do, but first he had to get there and then he had to stay long enough to make it count.

A cough from behind made him tear his eyes from the galley and he turned to find the sailors Aurelius had promised in a small jostling group behind him. A couple wore nervous grins, most were grave-faced, but one or two were clearly terrified. The five burliest men held axes, although only two were of the brutally effective long-handled type Valerius had hoped for. Tiberius took them aside and explained what was expected of them, and Valerius was pleased to see that none flinched when they heard their orders. He told the rest to be ready to resist any boarders from the galley and lined them up behind the buckets full of olive oil.

Four ship-lengths. He looked back to the stern where Aurelius stood by the steering platform talking urgently to the broad-shouldered steersmen — four now, for the manoeuvre he planned would place a huge strain on the big steering oars. Beside the mast waited the big Nubian sailmaster, Susco, his face tense and his eyes on the men who stood by the lines that secured the sail. It was up to them now. Aurelius assured him it could be done. If he was wrong they were as good as dead.

The outcome depended on how well the Cygnet ’s captain could judge the speed of his ship, and the speed of the galley. How well he knew the capabilities of them both. The timing had to be perfect.

The sea and the wind were rising all the time. Salt spray whipped across the deck and every few seconds the ship would lurch as another wave pounded the sternpost. Was he imagining it or had the course changed fractionally to the west? Would the captain of the galley notice?

Three ship-lengths. He could see the pirate crew as an amorphous mass with the occasional movement as they hurriedly switched places when a rower slumped forward exhausted from the mighty effort of powering the galley forward minute after muscle-tearing minute. He thought he heard a scream as another scarecrow figure went over the side, but he couldn’t be sure.

Fight them on their own ground.

It had sounded so simple when the naval officer had said it, but now, looking at the galley, so slim and so deadly as it slipped through the waves, he felt his mouth go dry. Somehow he kept his face impassive. The others deserved that much. Inside, his guts were churning and something liquid had formed at the base of his stomach. He was Gaius Valerius Verrens, Hero of Rome. He had been through the fire and the iron of the Temple of Claudius and he had lived. He had faced Boudicca’s horde on the field before Colonia and he had never taken a step back. But he had never fought on a ship. Fear was a warrior’s enemy and he had never felt a fear like this. He looked at the churning waters between the galley and the Golden Cygnet and he imagined what it had been like for old Capito. What had he felt as he plunged into the depths still clutching the amphora he had chosen as his doom? Valerius adjusted his iron helmet with the reinforced crown and heavy cheekpieces, and checked the straps of his lorica segmentata, the jointed plate armour that covered his shoulders, chest and back which he had chosen rather than the pretty, but less protective, leather breastplate. The armour would be his doom if he made a single slip in the next few moments. Tiberius had set aside a shield for him. The grip had been subtly altered so that he could release it with a twist of his wrist. It was potentially dangerous, because it was less secure, but he might have to move fast and the ability to jettison it could be the difference between life and death. He slipped the walnut fist into place and took up his position at the ship’s rail a pace from Serpentius. ‘Ready?’

A dismissive snort was the only reply. Behind him, where Tiberius and his cavalrymen stood, he heard someone mutter a prayer.

Two ship-lengths. The pirates were visible as individuals now, no jeers or threats, just fierce bearded faces waiting implacably for the moment of contact.

‘Now!’ The roar came from Aurelius at the stern.

In a single smooth movement the spar holding the huge mainsail dropped towards the deck, instantly slowing the ship’s forward momentum. At the same time, the four steersmen leaned on the steering oars and the big merchantman leapt like a bucking horse, straining against the enormous pressure as the sea forced itself against the broad wooden paddles. The ship seemed to stop and turn simultaneously, its remaining impetus taking it across the path of the galley. Valerius clutched the side to steady himself. He heard a roar of surprise which immediately turned to triumph as the Cilicians concluded, as Aurelius had planned, that the Cygnet had lost a spar and was now disabled. The manoeuvre had been timed so that even the pirate’s master, a man who had spent a lifetime at sea, would have no chance to alter course. The galley would meet the bigger ship bow first, amidships, exactly as Valerius had hoped.