Jack Ludlow - The Gods of War

Marcellus spoke again, repeating the orders he had already given. ‘Once we’ve undertaken the original manoeuvre and inflicted some damage, back off. Keep moving, ram them if you have to, but just hard enough to make them sheer off. Don’t get stuck in their planking, and protect your oars. If they snap those, you’re dead. Use your charts. Let them chase us all round the bay if they wish, but survive to get to open water.’

The masters went back to their own ships, each deck emitting smoke from the cauldrons of charcoal, while leather buckets were over the side, ready to be used for fire fighting, for the Romans intended to shoot flaming arrows at their enemies and without doubt the Lusitani would do the same in reply. The quinqueremes got under way as soon as their opponents weighed, their oars striking the water in a steady tattoo. Marcellus knew the odds were against them in such confined waters, for the enemy would seek to pit several of their ships against each one of his.

They would make no attempt, initially, to board or ram, being too light, individually, in both construction and manpower, but if they could disable one of his quinqueremes enough so that several could attack at once, they would have a chance of taking a Roman ship and there was always the prospect of driving them aground on those warrior-filled sandbars. Their smaller galleys were just coming on, with no seeming plan, but everyone suspected that they had already decided on their targets, and once they were closer they would split into groups. They would expect the Roman ships to stick together, just as they were now, relying on mutual support to nullify their numerical advantage. Marcellus intended to surprise them.

The horn sounded and each ship adopted a different course. Some went left, others right. Some increased their rowing, the rest shipped their oars, then spun to head back the way they had come. Those who kept on fanned out towards the shore on either side, forcing the enemy to split up, creating the impression that if they had a plan, it was one they abandoned by going for the nearest ships. Once they were committed, Marcellus showed them why they had made a mistake, for the horns blew again and the ships that had been heading back for the ruined stockade spun in their own length, their oars biting into the water at an increasing rate, propelling them forward. The other quinqueremes did likewise, their pace taking them past the outside of the attackers. They now spun on the oars and the Lusitani ships, for all their numerical superiority, found themselves assailed on all sides.

‘It’s a matter of discipline,’ Marcellus had said to the masters, time and again. ‘We know we can evolve a plan and stick to it, and if our enemy can’t, then we will win our way out of this trap.’

Nothing should have been proved to be more correct. Once they had abandoned their original intention, the Lusitani lacked the kind of central direction or an overall tactic that would allow those manning the ships to combine. All were individuals and they reacted as such, and having selected their targets they went after them, but Marcellus had split his fleet so that the ships were in totally different positions, causing their opponents to ram each other and sheer friendly oars in an attempt to go after their personal quarry — all this while the enemy was bearing down on them in heavy quinqueremes that could smash through these lightly built vessels two at a time.

Panic added to the confusion as some of the Lusitani masters tried to get away, but the Roman attack was a bluff. They had no intention of becoming embroiled in a melee; Marcellus wanted sea room to fight and the furthest he was prepared to go was a swift descent, a quick hail of flaming shafts, then it was back to working the oars to get out of danger. The Romans fired their arrows together, sending hundreds of burning pinpoints into the Lusitani fleet to keep them busy, then they were round, heading away quickly so that their enemy could not return the compliment.

‘Now, Regimus, we’ll see how good your charts are,’ said Marcellus, turning to his ship’s master.

The arrow took him high on the right shoulder, the wad of flame extinguished with a horrible hiss as it entered the soft flesh. Regimus let go of the sweep and leapt forward as Marcellus fell and in one swift movement he hauled the arrow out of his commander’s back, ignoring the pain it must have caused. He called for a bucket of seawater and threw the entire contents over the legate’s back.

‘Get me up,’ said Marcellus struggling to his knees.

‘Lie still, Marcellus Falerius.’

‘Damn you man, help me! Do you want everyone to think I’m dead?’

Regimus obeyed as others came forward to help, only to be pushed away. Even Regimus, once he was on his feet, was told to desist. Their leader’s face was grey, but only those close to him could see that, just as only they could see the way he swayed back and forth, fighting to keep his balance on the swaying deck. Regimus stepped forward again, to ensure he did not fall.

‘Leave me be,’ hissed Marcellus, slightly hunched, his fists clenched in determination.

He pulled himself upright, the pain of that simple action searing across his face, then, slowly, with deliberate steps, he walked all the way to the mast, and leant on that to recover some strength before making his way to the bows. On every ship they had seen him fall, and most had shipped their oars. If their leader was dead, the heart would go out of them.

Marcellus had brought them here, when most would have said it was impossible, made a land base against all the odds and raided the interior with seeming impunity, and that was before he found the Lusitani temple and brought out enough booty to make them all comfortable for the rest of their lives. He would have been angry if he had known how much they admired him, would have coldly reminded them that he was but a servant of the Republic, and that anyone of his class, given loyal troops and hard-rowing sailors, could have achieved precisely the same.

They cheered, on his ship as well as all the others, as he staggered along the deck. The oars bit the water again as he raised his arm in a triumphal salute, marching back down the ship to take station by the sweep. Only those close to him saw the agony, because that raised arm was from the shoulder that had taken the arrow.

In the open sea they could have out-rowed and out-manoeuvred their enemy, but in these confined waters numbers told. Only one galley ran aground, a tribute to the charts that Regimus had made, yet he would have happily burned them all to avoid seeing the slaughter that followed. The land-based Lusitani waded out by the hundreds to surround the ship. No amount of heroism could save the crew, and any galley going to its rescue would only suffer the same fate. Two of Marcellus’s quinqueremes had rammed Lusitani ships, and become locked to them in an embrace that could only end in death, while others were alight from end to end, with men jumping into the water to avoid the flames. Another pair, in desperation, had rowed straight at the ships still guarding the entrance to the bay. They were now surrounded by smaller galleys, like wasps around an empty wine goblet, selling their lives for as high a price as they could extract, since to surrender meant a worse death than a spear or a sword in the guts.

Marcellus’s ship, with the six remaining members of his fleet, used every trick they knew to avoid close entanglements, managing to ground some of their enemies, who did not know this bay, though not for long, given the numbers available to re-float them. What fires were started aboard the remaining quinqueremes by flaming arrows they put out before they became serious, this while they rowed in circles so tight that their attackers collided, all the time fighting off boarding parties without once allowing an oar to be snapped. The tide steadily rose, opening up the bottleneck at the end of the bay, until the remaining Roman vessels could attack it as one.