Jack Ludlow - The Gods of War

Those still in the line who had stuck to their orders and not engaged were too few and the quinqueremes sliced through them like a house slave cutting cheese with a wire. Marcellus, standing with his eyes tight shut, lashed by a rope to the side of the ship to keep him upright, felt the bows of his quinquereme lift and drop as they reached deep blue water and he managed a smile before he passed out. Regimus cut him down and had him carried below, then, turning his bow to the south, he gave the signal for what was left of the fleet to make all speed for home.

The wound, once the surgeon had said it was on the mend, ceased to exist as far as the legate was concerned. No amount of pleading would persuade Marcellus that anyone else could carry the message to Titus; it was his responsibility alone. At least he travelled by sea to New Carthage, in good weather, which was a lot less tiring than a land journey, and that in itself went some way to restoring his health. He suffered a slight relapse once he transferred to a chariot, and had to endure the indignity of making a large part of his journey by litter, but Marcellus had made sure he had a horse along, determined he was not going to arrive in Titus’s encampment, before Numantia, like an invalid.

He made his report to his mentor alone, crisply and comprehensively, detailing his losses in men and ships, ending, his face sad, with an apology for having failed.

‘But you have not failed, Marcellus,’ said Titus.

‘If the Lusitani come…’

His general interrupted him. ‘They will be too late. We have so weakened the defence of Numantia that we can easily put an army in the field against them.’

Titus looked at his young protege, the lines of exhaustion clearly visible in his face. He needed rest, but he was young and would recover. ‘Despite what you say, Marcellus, you have succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. The truly wonderful thing is that you will be here to see Numantia fall.’

Aquila had left Titus with Marcellus Falerius, having listened as a far happier man had reprised his report for the assembled officers and, though he was reluctant to admit it, what he had heard of the legate’s exploits had impressed him — and not just because the idea of fighting on a ship was anathema to someone who loathed the motions of the sea. He smiled, suddenly conscious of the fact that he was guarding a fast-flowing river, standing in the pitch dark, listening to the sound of the water as it hurried by.

There was no moon and heavy cloud cover, so if any of the besieged tribesmen in Numantia were going to get away, then these were perfect conditions. If they had not seen his boats, they were in for a horrible surprise; if they had, they would decline to come, so nothing would be lost. He knew they were starving in the hill fort, since no food had got through to them for almost a year, so most of the populace would be too weak to move. Only the best, the warriors, would have the stamina to try and escape, perhaps leaving the rest to surrender.

The boats had been built upriver, out of sight; flat-bottomed and broad, they were of little use on fast water, but lashed together they formed a proper bridge. Planks had been laid from one boat to the next, and stationed on this platform a line of soldiers stood, weapons in hand, ready to spear the tribesmen like fish. Torches were at hand, ready to be lit, so that the soldiers could see the victims of this proposed execution, while behind them was a boom of thick logs chained together, acting as a second line of defence.

The clouds broke suddenly, turning the Stygian blackness pale blue and the river, picking up the light, became a silver ribbon. The huge log, sharpened at the end, dark and menacing, was going very fast, propelled by the boats lashed to either side. It hit Aquila’s bridge with an almighty crunch and the sound of smashing wood filled the air, topped with the cries of men as they toppled into the river. The log sliced through his line of boats, which were then flung to the riverbanks by the force of the current, before nearly coming to a halt in the middle of the stream, with half the oarsmen on the boats at its side trying to get it going again, while the rest jabbed ferociously at Aquila’s men, struggling in the water.

His voice rose above the screams and cries of battle, and he plunged into the river without waiting to find out if his men would obey. The spear he had been holding was abandoned as he waded out into the middle of the stream, grappling to remove his armour, for this was no place for a heavily laden man to fight; it needed a sharp sword, a knife and the freedom to swim.

Aquila struck out for one of the boats, swimming awkwardly to keep his sword above water. The spearman saw him coming and he jabbed with as much force as he could muster. No need to kill; one decent wound would be enough and, after that, the river would do the rest. Aquila took a great gulp of air as he went under, trying to go deep enough to avoid the tips of the spears. His hand touched the keel of the boat and he used that to drag himself beneath it until his fingers felt the bottom of the rough log.

In the pitch darkness it was all touch. His lungs were bursting and he moved hand over hand, trying to find the end. It was luck and the stump of a sawn-off branch that made him grab it as it went slowly by. He hung on, dragging himself up, and the buoyancy of the water helped him lift his body as he heaved, landing belly down on the top of the log. The men in the boats were too intent on their other tasks, rowing or killing Romans, to notice him behind them.

Aquila lifted his sword in the air, but not to strike at the boatmen, for there was no need. The blade swept down in a flashing arc, slicing through the ropes that held the boats to the log, and, as soon as it was free, it spun, throwing him back into the river. Under the water again, swimming downstream, his fingers reached out once more, to feel for one of the boats. What he felt was a leg, which kicked furiously as he used it to claw his way to the surface, where he found himself staring into a pair of wild and frightened eyes. The fellow seem to be tied to some kind of float, which hampered his movement as he swung a weapon at him, more to fend his attacker off than to wound. The blow that Aquila tried to strike at his chest, in reply, was feeble, hampered by being underwater, but it hit something and his adversary seemed to ignore him in his panic, his arms and legs flailing wildly as he slowly sank beneath the surface.

Others surrounded Aquila, bobbing along with their arms grasping the sheep’s-belly floats in front of them. His sword jabbed remorselessly and he heard the cries of the men in the boats as they were capsized, easy now that they were free of their lashing. The water around him was full of guttural Celtic cries, not of men fighting, but of men dying by drowning. It was only when he got back on shore, soaked to the skin and freezing, that he heard another party of Celts had assaulted the perimeter wall, got over in numbers, stolen Roman horses, and made their getaway. The news, after what he and his men had suffered in the water, sent him into a towering rage.

Marcellus awoke refreshed, unaware that he had slept through the alarms and incursions of the night before. His dread of the day, of the accusation of failure, evaporated as he remembered Titus’s warm words. The Calvinus twins were early visitors, as was Gaius Trebonius, but nothing reassured him more than the visit from Titus Cornelius himself. The general’s solicitations, his reiteration of his satisfaction, warmed Marcellus in a way he scarcely thought possible. That was, of course, before he heard of Aquila Terentius’s rank.

‘Quaestor!’ he shouted.

‘Calm yourself, Marcellus,’ said Gnaeus. ‘The appointment has been a great success.’