(Quintilis: In the bay below Darioritum, on the Armorican coast)
Brutus glanced across at the trierarch of the Aurora.
“Think we can contain them all?”
The captain clearly registered the doubt in his voice and equally clearly shared it.
“Most of them, sir. All the ships near the port are still slow and wallowing. They’ve not got their sails full yet and we can run circles round them so long as we can keep them from getting round us. There have got to be fifty or so ships out here already under full sail, though. Look: they’re already pulling out to our left to pass us.”
Brutus nodded thoughtfully. He hadn’t come all this way in good weather at last just to be bypassed again. The Veneti already under sail had the edge at the moment and would be round behind the Romans in minutes.
“Then we’ll have to split the fleet. Send out the signals. Have the first six squadrons surround the fleet at the port. They should be able to do that easily enough.”
The trierarch looked less than certain.
“Sixty ships against more than twice that number, sir?”
Brutus smiled.
“Ah, but they have them trapped. With the army at the port, it shouldn’t take much to get a surrender from them. It’s these other vermin I’m more concerned with.”
The trierarch cast his gaze soberly over the four dozen heavy Veneti ships making their way toward the other side of the immense bay. With the numerous small islands that spotted the huge expanse, it was of prime importance to keep the Veneti fleet in view, or they could quickly land any number of refugees on one of these isolated isles and tracking them down later would be near impossible.
Brutus frowned. It would take the fleet about an hour at full speed to reach the narrow entrance to the bay from Darioritum. Given the trierarch’s estimate of the difference in speed between the two fleets, the enemy could be there almost ten minutes before the Romans, though that was based on estimates from a day with strong winds. The current occasional gusts would work against the Veneti, especially loaded down with refugees as they were. Five minutes then. That was enough to keep them in sight.
He nodded to himself and then turned back to the trierarch.
“And split the remaining four squadrons. I want them in a wide cordon as we chase down the fleeing ships. When they turn to deal with us I want to be able to close the line like a net.”
The captain, his face still registering his lack of confidence in the plan, saluted and strode across to the naval signifer, standing near the long halyard that ran from the main sail along fully half the length of the hull. As Brutus watched, willing extra speed from his men, the trierarch relayed the commands and the signifer began selecting his crimson flags and running them up the line in view of the other ships.
Brutus heaved a sigh of relief when, almost instantly, the commanders of the other squadrons’ flagships relayed the signals to their own vessels and within moments the entire fleet broke up into smaller groups to tend to their individual assignments.
Tensely, as the Aurora began to turn back toward the west, he watched the majority of the fleet bear down on the helpless vessels at the dockside and offered up a prayer to Neptune that his prediction would hold.
Many Gauls might have been tempted to fight to the death; to the last man. They had seen it happen time and again over the last few years. If the Veneti fell into that category then the six squadrons would have trouble and might not even be able to hold them. The fact that the Veneti had fled every potential engagement with the Roman forces, however, suggested that they had their survival in mind at all times and, given the presence of four legions watching them from the shore and a determined fleet blockading them in, they would have to be insane to do anything other than surrender.
No. That part of the fleet was no longer an issue, Neptune willing.
It was the fifty or so ships already straining to pull ahead that were the problem.
They were trying to flee and that would not happen. And when it didn’t happen, they would have no choice but to turn on the Romans and try to fight their way clear.
Already the Aurora had come about, along with the remaining thirty five ships of these four squadrons, five having been lost to conditions out at sea over the past few months. Brutus watched with satisfaction as the pursuing flotilla spread out into a wide line, staggered to allow plenty of room for each vessel. Now that they were following the Veneti, racing in their wake, the oarsmen pulling with all their might, it was clear that heavy loads and lack of strong winds were hampering the enemy quite badly. Their lead on the Romans was fairly steady, occasionally widening and then shrinking as the wind gusted.
The young officer sighed and stood leaning back against the rail. The next three quarters of an hour would likely hold very much the same view, but with different scenery slipping past. In the intervening time, all he could realistically do was watch and perhaps eat something to keep his strength up. Taking a deep breath and nodding his satisfaction to the trierarch, he slid down the rail to sit on the deck, leaning into the corner. His weary frame sagged with relief.
It had been two days since he’d had a chance to shut his eyes properly. Yesterday had been filled with the tense journey up the coast. Then last night they had anchored offshore in the darkness and watched the headlands keenly for a signal from Fronto and Balbus. Oh, he’d had the opportunity for a rest then, but who could find easy sleep on the eve of such an important action and while waiting for news upon which everything hinged?
After Fronto’s signal and then Balbus’ in the early morning darkness, the fleet had approached and landed to convey supplies to the victorious Roman units and their engineers. He’d taken the opportunity for an hour’s shut-eye then, but it had seemed ill-fitting for the commander of the fleet to lie abed on the flagship while his fleet worked throughout the night and morning to supply the forts.
Then, with the dawn light, the fleet had moved into the bay slowly, in a wide net, checking out each bay and cove on the many islands as they moved in toward their target. While Brutus had anticipated that the Veneti fleet would be docked in its entirety at Darioritum, it had been a necessary chore to scout the entire bay as they moved to make sure that no Veneti squadrons lay in wait to spring a trap from behind as they bore down on the city.
All in all, it had been a tiring two days with moments of sleep snatched where he could, out of sight of the men. He couldn’t even imagine how the rowers kept up this tremendous pace, sleeping as they had been for only two hours at a time and in shifts. They must be exhausted.
He watched with admiration the crew working hard and the minutes slipped past as he chewed on meat and bread and allowed the relief of a rest to wash through him.
Brutus realised to his embarrassment that he had actually fully drifted off as the trierarch shouted him for the second time.
“Yes?”
He clambered to his feet and glanced across to the man, who was pointing ahead. The young man rubbed his tired eyes. He could hardly blame himself for falling asleep in the circumstances, but he’d have preferred not to do so in full view of the crew as they worked.
His gaze followed the trierarch’s gesture past the rows of heaving oarsmen, across the massed ranks of the marines on the centre of the deck where they stood ready for action, and to the scene unfolding ahead of the ships.
He must have been asleep for some time and cursed the trierarch under his breath for leaving him to rest. They were rounding the last island, a long, narrow spit, and bearing down on the narrow entrance to the bay.
Ahead, the Veneti ships raced toward the gap.
Brutus straightened his tunic and shifted the cuirass that had slipped uncomfortably during his nap. Taking a deep breath, he strode to the rail where the trierarch stood.
“Have the hooks readied. We may only have one go at this, so it needs to work first time. If the wind picks up and they get an opening, we’ll lose them.”
The trierarch nodded and bellowed out his commands as the officer watched the enemy intently. The first few Veneti ships were approaching the channel.
“Now, Fronto… now!” he grumbled to himself.
Why wasn’t he…
But he was.
Brutus smiled as the first huge rock arced up from the stronghold on the promontory and fell into the water with a huge spray, halfway between the hulls of the two leading ships. Even at their current distance, Brutus could hear the shouts of panic and dismay.
“Any moment now” he muttered, his eyes flitting back and forth between the various ships.
Several more artillery shots left the ramparts of the two coastal forts. The first fell into deep water close to another vessel but the second and third hit home, one smashing through the hull of a ship, holing it instantly, the second shattering the deck boards of another and bouncing along the surface, wreaking havoc as it travelled.
The catapults having found their range, more and more heavy stones began to arc out from the promontories and fall among the Veneti fleet, while the ballistae began to fire, their huge bolts plunging in among the crews and passengers, killing indiscriminately.
Panic gripped the Veneti fleet and they veered as fast as they could, turning away from this deadly corridor. No vessel could make it though the narrow channel intact and they had quickly recognised that.
Brutus watched with satisfaction as the ships turned and tried to flee along the coast to the north, past Balbus’ fortification, trying to find an exit other than through the narrow channel or past the Roman fleet.
The wind was beginning to pick up, just as Brutus had been nervously anticipating. Now was the time; now or never.
He signalled the trierarch and, as the orders were given and passed from ship to ship, the entire Roman force changed direction and moved in to cut off the Veneti’s escape.
“Full speed! Bring us alongside them!”
A quick glance and he counted eleven vessels that were already disappearing beneath the waves at the entrance to the channel. Fronto and Balbus’ artillery had done a fine job, but had now ceased the barrage, as the Veneti moved away, for fear of striking a Roman ship.
He watched, taking short, tense breaths, as the Roman ships bore down on an intercept course, while he willed the wind to stay down long enough.
Slowly, the Aurora edged close to a huge Veneti ship. This was the first time Brutus had been aboard a Roman vessel as it closed on one the Gaulish ships and he stared, a lump in his throat. The deck of the enemy ship seemed so much higher, close up. If he stood on the trierarch’s shoulders he could grip the rail, but not on his own. The timber used in the construction was weathered and seasoned oak, thick and dark and strong. The enormous mass of folk on deck was an equally impressive and worrying sight. They would outnumber the Roman marines by about four to one.
In the last moments, Brutus had the heart-stopping fear that his hook-weapons would be too short.
The Aurora pulled alongside the fleeing Veneti vessel, the rowers shipping their oars at the last moment in order to allow the hulls to close safely.
“Hooks!” bellowed the captain.
All along the left hand side of the ship the ranks of rowers, having dropped their oars, grasped the weapons that had been stacked on the deck nearby and hoisted them up.
Brutus almost sagged with relief as he watched the hooks being raised. Thirty men along the rail lifted long, heavy poles with a sharpened hook affixed to the end, the base being held for stability by another rower.
Without waiting for a further command, the men began to hack at the halyards and rigging and any rope they could reach with the long poles, even managing the occasional swipe at the sail itself. Here and there, as the surprised Veneti rushed to the edge to try and fight off this bizarre and unconventional attack, the hooks were used to gruesome effect on the sailors before their attention was turned to the next rope.
Brutus grinned as the main sail of the ship suddenly came away from its pinned position with a ripping noise and whipped around uselessly.
The effect on the Veneti ship was instant and far more profound than even Brutus had expected. Bereft of its propulsion, the huge ship slowed rapidly. The oarsmen on the free side of the Aurora were still rowing like mad, using the pressure between the two hulls to keep their course straight, and the change in speed of their target resulted in the Roman vessel shooting out ahead.
The oarsmen quickly stopped their work, but Brutus grinned and yelled down at them.
“Keep going. Bring us round their other side and we’ll repeat the job there!”
His grin widened as he realised that the fleet were having similar successes all the way along, the Veneti ships being rendered helpless.
He turned to the trierarch.
“Ready the marines.”
Atenos narrowed his eyes. As soon as the Roman fleet had appeared around the headland in full view of the city of Darioritum, the Veneti ships had reacted in selfish panic. Those vessels that were already under sail and out on the water made a desperate run for the open sea cutting past the Romans dangerously close, perhaps a quarter of their fleet in all, but carrying many of the women and children who had already boarded.
The rest of them, wallowing in the port area and with no hope of achieving speed quickly enough to escape the Romans, desperately tried to set their sails. For a moment, the big centurion wondered what they were up to. As Commander Brutus split his fleet and a number of triremes and quinqueremes raced off after the fleeing Veneti ships, the rest of the Roman vessels closed in on the port like a net.
Why were they setting their sails, then? They had no hope of running.
They couldn’t be planning to fight?
And yet, as he watched, much of the remaining Veneti fleet prepared for action, while a few of the more sensible vessels made for the jetties and relative safety.
Atenos grinned as he watched the nearest heavy ship, it’s huge square sail still furled, using the low wind and the small sail at the bow to guide itself toward the smashed jetty upon which he stood.
Perhaps a third of the remaining Veneti had seen the futility of the situation and were now making for the docks or the bank nearby, the rest racing out to meet the Roman fleet. The legionary next to him cleared his throat.
“Do we accept their surrender, or send to the general to deal with it, sir?”
The huge Gallic centurion turned a wolfish grin on him.
“Neither. Form up!”
The legionary looked confused, but came to attention along with the other eight remaining men of Atenos’ squad on the wooden boards. On the other jetties, the rest of his century heard the order and snapped to attention, wondering what they were doing.
The centurion watched the huge Veneti galley close on the jetty. The tall sides were at just the right height to board from the wooden walkway. It would be amusing then watching the triremes trying to disembark here onto a jetty some eight feet higher than their deck. He continued to gaze, stony faced, as the ship came alongside him.
To the rear of the port, the rest of the Roman force was busy dealing with the surrendering horde of warriors that had become trapped at the seaward end of the oppidum. Sooner or later they would have to clear the way to the jetties and repair the damage done to them. For now, though, the First Century of the Tenth Legion’s First Cohort was alone on the wooden jetties.
The Veneti warriors on board had their hands raised in a gesture of surrender as the vessel bumped against the timber of the jetty and came to a stop. Several legionaries staggered with the impact, but regained their composure quickly and returned to attention.
Atenos turned his fearsome, blood-soaked face to the surrendering Veneti and barked out a number of commands in the guttural dialect of the Gauls. Warriors flinched and ran the plank out to the jetty, hurrying off the ship and past the Roman column to stand, dejected, on the wooden planks, awaiting the decision as to their fate and hoping, presumably, that their surrender would earn them clemency.
Atenos watched as the last of the hundred or so passengers disembarked and, as the crew made to follow, he held up his hand and shouted something else in Gaulish, causing them to return to their stations.
“Sir?”
Atenos turned to the small party of Romans.
“Get aboard!”
The legionaries, confused yet obedient, turned and rushed up the boarding plank to the deck of the huge Veneti ship. Atenos followed them up and turned his fierce gaze on the ship’s captain.
“You speak Latin?”
The man’s face gave him the answer to his question and he sighed before reeling off instructions in their native tongue. The man shook his head defiantly.
“Yes you damn well will.”
Striding over to the shaken captain, Atenos, a head taller than him and drenched in blood and gristle, grasped the man by the tunic and lifted him off the floor until they were face to face, before speaking to him slowly and deliberately, almost in a growl.
The captain looked terrified and quickly nodded. As soon as Atenos dropped him back to the floor, he turned and began shouting commands at the crew. The huge centurion returned to his men as, behind him, the crew began to get the ship moving once more.
“We’re collecting the rest of the century and then we go out to help the fleet. At ease for now.”
As the men of the First century relaxed, Atenos stepped to the rail. It really was impressive watching the Veneti sailors at work. The ship was huge and heavy, powered only by the wind in the small front sail and yet they were already sliding through the water moments after the command was given.
He looked over at the captain and shouted another command before turning to look at the legionaries standing to attention on the other two jetties. Close by, other ships were making for the docks and this ship would be getting in the way.
“You men get ready.”
The big war galley slowed as it approached the end of the jetty and Atenos waited until he judged the timing to be right.
“Come aboard!”
The legionaries looked at one another in surprise. The ship was still moving and there was a gap of several feet between the jetty and the deck. The first man who jumped landed badly, falling to his knees and grazing them on the deck. Atenos tutted at him and beckoned to the rest.
“Get aboard or you’re swimming after us!”
The men ran in a small knot and leapt aboard, some landing well, others falling as they hit the deck. As soon as they were safely on the ship, the captain picked up the pace as he made for the next jetty. Behind them, another Veneti ship had already begun to dock at the jetty they had left, yet more vessels closing in behind.
The whole procedure was repeated at the third jetty, though with greater ease, since they knew what was coming. After another shouted command in Gaulish, the huge centurion turned to his men.
“Anyone here had experience of fighting as marines?”
There was a long, unbroken silence.
“Me neither, but I’ve seen it done. No shield walls or testudos. As soon as we get near the first enemy ship I want everyone near the rail. On my command you run and jump for the enemy deck. When you get there you come up fighting and don’t wait for orders or formations. Just kill anyone who isn’t one of us. If you miss the jump, you’ll fall between the hulls. I wouldn’t recommend that, so jump carefully. Everyone clear?”
The legionaries roared their understanding and saluted.
Atenos turned to look ahead as they broke clear of the many vessels trying to reach the docks and into the open water, heading toward the fleets, where the conflict was already underway. The Veneti ships outnumbered the Roman fleet by almost two vessels to one, but the Roman crews had adopted a peculiar tactic: they were sailing around the beleaguered Veneti, safe in the knowledge that the lack of strong winds left the enemy slow to manoeuvre. What they were hoping to achieve with this peculiar activity was beyond him until he saw, with a grin, two huge ropes give way on the nearest enemy vessel, allowing the sail to flap loosely over to one side, where it fell to the deck, useless.
Roman sailors and marines were hacking with some kind of pole-arm at anything available and were crippling the enemy ships with surprising speed and efficiency. Rather than boarding them there and then, they were leaving them, helpless and immobile, while they moved onto the next. Once they had the whole Veneti fleet becalmed and unable to move, they could deal with them at their leisure.
Atenos laughed. He had, given the navy’s record so far, presumed that the Roman fleet would be the ones desperately trying to outmanoeuvre the Veneti, but the situation seemed to have reversed this time. Commander Brutus had apparently identified a way to even the odds. Of course, there was still the issue of dealing with the aggravated, howling Veneti warriors on board the impotent vessels once they were stilled. The fight wasn’t over yet.
Shouting another order in Gaulish, he pointed at the near vessel that had now been abandoned by the Roman fleet, the trireme moving on to cripple another ship. The captain shifted the steering oar and Atenos’ heavy vessel swung toward the bestilled enemy.
The Veneti on board glanced at the healthy ship bearing toward them and cheered, yelling encouraging cries that turned only moments later into shouts of outrage and consternation as they realised that the warriors on board the new galley were the iron and crimson figures of Roman legionaries.
Atenos turned to the men beside him.
“What do you say, Porcius? Do we offer them terms?”
The legionary grinned up at his centurion.
“Be rude not to, sir?”
Atenos turned back to the captain, who was watching with deep regret as he steered his ship to deliver his tribe into the hands of their enemy. Stepping to the rail, the centurion bellowed an offer to the men on the helpless ship.
The answer was not immediate, as it took a moment for the Veneti warrior to drop his trousers and turn around. Atenos almost laughed at the audacity of the man, a warrior after his own heart, but that heart hardened and his face soured as he listened to the shouts and jeers and suggestions concerning possible animal stock in his lineage being issued defiantly from among the enemy.
“That would be a ‘no’ to surrender then, sir?”
The huge centurion closed his ears to the increasingly brutal insults and turned to his men.
“No quarter. They’ve been given the option to surrender and declined it, so I don’t want to see you stop just because somebody waves their arms at you.”
There was an affirmative murmur among the men and Atenos turned back to the rail. The two ships were closing rapidly.
“Alright. To the rail. Prepare to board.”
The legionaries moved into position, twenty seven men, along with their officer, each professional and eager for the fight. Atenos nodded with satisfaction. It was men like this that made the Roman army the force that would eventually conquer the world, the sky, and possibly even the Gods themselves.
He watched as the gap narrowed, taking a deep breath. The Veneti warriors howled and bellowed, banging their swords on the rail, encouraging their enemy to make the first move. ‘Well,’ Atenos thought, ‘let’s not disappoint them.’
“Board!”
The two ships had closed to a distance of perhaps three or four feet when the first man jumped and was caught mid-flight by a Veneti spear thrust out in defence. The blow was far from fatal, catching him in the hip, but arrested his momentum and caused the man, screaming, to plummet into the cold water between the two ships. A second man joined him mid-jump as a swung sword blow scythed a jagged wound across his chest.
The rest of the men began to land on the enemy deck and come up fighting just as the ships finally met with a deep, resounding thump that mercifully drowned out the crack of bones and stifled screams of the two men caught between the grinding oak hulls.
Atenos leapt, not waiting for the last of his men to cross first.
Landing heavily, but allowing his knees and ankles to bend and take the strain, the huge centurion came up facing a group of Veneti warriors, his sword gripped in his right hand, the broken shield long-since discarded back on the jetty.
Three men leapt at him, shouting, and Atenos lashed out with his left fist, delivering a punch that would have floored an ox, the force of the blow knocking the left-most man clean from his feet and sending him tumbling into the press of men behind. At the same time, his gladius parried the first lunge from another man, barely sidestepping an attack from the third in time. A legionary appeared to his right, trying to help push the enemy back from his beleaguered centurion, but was felled by a heavy blow from a man Atenos couldn’t even see.
Sidestepping to his left, the centurion slashed out with his gladius, feeling it bite into flesh, though unable to identify whose in the mass of howling Veneti. The other man stabbed out with his spear, his blow restricted due to lack of room, but good enough to connect. Atenos grunted as the point of the spear dug into his chest close to his armpit, and ducked to the side before the man had the opportunity to drive the blow home, wincing instead as the blade came free, tearing out a chunk of flesh, which fell away amid the fragments of ruptured mail from his ruined shirt.
As he ducked down and grasped the fallen enemy’s sword with his free hand, he heard a metallic clunk and realised that the blow had severed two of the leather straps on his harness, allowing the phalera he had won by the Selle River last year to roll away across the boards and disappear over the edge into the waters of the bay.
He growled angrily and stood, the long Celtic blade in his left hand too large to be wielded so by most men. He flexed his muscles, ignoring the pulsing pain in his armpit, and grinned through his crimson, streaked face at the man with the spear.
For a moment the man flinched, and then recovered himself, desperately gripping his spear and waving it defensively at the centurion.
Atenos rolled his shoulders and shouted something in Gaulish before leaping forward into the press of enemies, both swords slashing out as he attacked.
Behind him, legionary Porcius, back to back with a companion, fought off a howling warrior and realised a space had opened up before him. Glancing over at his centurion, he shook his head.
Last year, Porcius and four other men had caught one of the wretched Gallic recruits from the fledgling Thirteenth legion in the latrines and had taken out their frustration on him, beating him half to death before they saw sense and fled. All because he was a Gaul and hadn’t belonged in a Roman uniform. Hard to believe they’d done that, given the Gaulish-born centurion before him now, carrying the pride of Rome into a screaming enemy with no thought for his own safety.
At that moment, Porcius wouldn’t have been the Veneti for all the gold in Rome. A fresh wave of shame for his past actions washed over him and he ground his teeth, turning to the man behind him.
“We’re clear. Let’s go help the centurion!”
Brutus pointed past the rigging.
“That one.”
The trierarch nodded and gestured to his men. The Roman fleet had worked systematically over the last twenty minutes, shredding the sails and severing the cables on the Veneti ships and now, with most of the enemy floundering and waiting to be boarded under the watchful eye of a number of triremes and quinqueremes, the last eight Veneti ships were attempting to flee the engagement.
The Aurora, along with nine other Roman ships, bore down on the desperately fleeing Veneti, granted a higher speed by the lack of wind and determined to put an end finally to the attritive warfare of this tenacious coastal people.
What hope could they have of avoiding the inevitable at this point?
Brutus frowned as he squinted into the distance and slowly the reason for the Veneti flight became clear. What looked like the coastal undulations common along this region was, upon closer examination, the entrance to a river, wide at the mouth, but rapidly narrowing. The Gallic ships with their shallow draft and intimate knowledge of the area would know exactly where they could safely sail, while the Romans would be at a considerable disadvantage. The lack of wind would no longer be the deciding factor then.
They would simply have to stop the Veneti before they could reach the safety of the river. He realised as he stood, fuming at the situation, that the trierarch was watching him with concern.
“We need to stop them getting as far as that river, or we’ll end up beached for certain.”
The trierarch nodded, though there was a smile on his face.
“I don’t think that’ll be a problem, sir.”
He turned, ignoring the look of confusion on the staff officer’s face, and pointed to the celeusta at his goat-skin drum, busy beating out a back-breaking rhythm for the oarsmen.
“Slow us right down.”
As Brutus watched in disbelief, the oarsmen settled into a relaxed mode, following the now-ponderous beat of the hammer, while the trierarch had the signal sent to the other ships to follow suit.
“What are you doing?”
The trierarch turned his grin on the commander.
“Listen, sir.”
Brutus cocked his head to the side and concentrated. He could hear the noises of the ship, the splashing of the waves, the distant shouts of the Veneti on their ships…
… and the onagers.
He grinned.
The artillery emplacements on the fort above, under the control of the Eighth legion, had begun to fire once more, gradually finding their range on the fleeing ships. The trierarch had slowed the Roman squadron to keep them clear of danger.
Brutus watched with relief as the range was quickly adjusted. Moments passed and then the first blow hit home. A massive boulder struck one of the central ships of the group, ripping through the ropes, wrecking the deck, smashing the mast and causing general devastation.
Shouts of alarm went up from the Veneti. The ships at the head of the group strained to try and get ahead, though there was little they could do, too reliant on a failing wind as they were.
The artillerists of the Eighth made their mark once more as the latest adjustments in range brought a group of five shots to the very head of the group of vessels. Two of the shots disappeared into the water harmlessly, overshooting slightly, while the other three hit the two lead vessels, all but crippling them immediately.
The Veneti fleet foundered and, with signals sent by the trierarch of the Aurora, their accompanying vessels spread out, each marking a target, leaving the flagship at the centre, following up on the rear of the fleeing vessels.
Chaos ensued among the Veneti.
After a further volley of deadly rocks had fallen among the lead vessels of the escaping flotilla, Balbus’ men settled into a steady rate of fire that brought their missiles down ahead of the enemy bows, deterring them from proceeding into the river mouth.
Brutus grinned. He would have to buy Balbus and his men enough wine to float a trireme when this was over.
Three of the eight vessels were already beginning to disappear beneath the waves, the damage from the repeated artillery fire too much for them. Three others had come to a full stop, the artillery fire dangerously close ahead and realising that their fight was over.
The nearest two vessels, at the rear of the Veneti flotilla, however, seemed to have other ideas. Their steering oars moved and the vessels began to turn, much more sharply than Brutus could have expected.
“I don’t believe it. They’re coming for us!”
The trierarch nodded.
“Your orders?”
Brutus shook his head. What could they do other than engage?
“Prepare the marines. As soon as we get close enough, have the men at the front and back use the hooks to do what they can while the marines board from amidships. Have the platforms raised for the marines so they can cross.”
The trierarch saluted and strode across the deck to his second in command, where he began to give out the orders.
Brutus once more watched the two approaching ships.
The quinquereme Accipiter and trireme Excidium came alongside for support, the remaining vessels concentrating on the surrendering or floundering ships.
“What are they hoping to do?” Brutus asked the trierarch, eying the enemy carefully. “Two against three and we have better manoeuvrability. Our marines are trained legionaries. What can they possibly think to achieve?”
The trierarch frowned.
“Not sure, sir. But whatever it is, they mean business. They’ve trimmed their sails just right. There’s not a lot of wind, but what there is, they’re using to the maximum. That man’s a good sailor.”
“They’re coming surprisingly fast.”
The trierarch continued to watch and a frown fell across his face. Brutus glanced across at him.
“What?”
“They seem to have no sense of self-preservation. A sensible captain would be turning to concentrate on the Excidium first. Take the smaller ship down and then concentrate on the others. Or at least split off and send one ship around each flank: one against the Excidium and the other on the Accipiter. But they’re both running central, straight for us. They’ll be surrounded by the other ships and then they’re doomed.”
Brutus watched the ships bearing down on them. The trierarch was right. In half a minute those two vessels would slide neatly into the gaps between the three Roman ships.
“A symbolic victory!”
“Sir?” The trierarch furrowed his brow.
Brutus shook his head in disbelief.
“They’re only doing what the general did. Caesar went for their capital. It was a grand gesture of Roman power; a symbolic victory to break the spirit of the tribes. The Veneti have lost the war and they know it, but they’ve identified the flagship of the fleet. Two against one. A symbolic victory. They don’t care about the Accipiter or the Excidium at all, and they don’t expect to survive.”
The trierarch nodded.
“Full speed! We need to outmanoeuvre them!”
But his calls were too late and Brutus could see that already. The Veneti war galleys closed on the three Roman vessels. The trierarch of the Excidium was prepared and the oarsmen withdraw their oars, leaving a bare side to the approaching enemy. The Accipiter followed suit, but too slow, some of the complex five banks of oars failing to withdraw in time.
The Aurora, however, was still under orders to make full speed and the row upon row of oars remained in the water, pushing the vessel forward. The two Veneti vessels barged into the gaps between the Roman ships, smashing whatever oars remained protruding from the hull as they slid tightly into place.
The enemy captains were every bit the sailors that the trierarch had imagined. Their timing had been perfect. Rather than racing into the gaps, as they approached, their sails were loosened and luffed heavily, failing to catch the wind and slowing the ships rapidly. By the time the two hulls drew alongside the Aurora they were almost at a stop.
Sailors aboard the two high hulls threw out ropes and grapples, grabbing the Roman ship and pinning themselves to it, bring the three vessels to a virtual halt and dragging the hulls together. The Accipiter and the Excidium were unprepared for the manoeuvre and shot on forwards, passing their targets and trying to pull to a stop urgently.
The oarsmen of the Aurora, already aware of the situation before the orders began to ring out, grasped swords, shattered oars, or whatever makeshift weapons they could find and rose from their seats to deal with the coming onslaught. The centurion in charge of the marines barked out an order and his men split into two units that stepped toward the rail at either side.
And suddenly the world was filled with deadly activity.
Not bothering waiting to lower boarding planks, knowing that their attack was virtual suicide and they would not be sailing home, the Veneti leapt from the higher decks of their ships and down to the timber surface of the Roman flagship as soon as the vessels were close enough. The number of people that had been on board the enemy vessels was astounding, the ships having picked up as many refugees from the city as they could manage, and Brutus watched with fascinated horror as waves of Veneti poured over the edge of their vessels onto the Aurora’s deck, like violent, screaming waterfalls.
The staff officer stood close to the steering oars and the trierarch, watching the attack with a glassy stare. The enemy that leapt from the two ships were not what he had been expecting. There were traditional Celtic warriors among them, certainly, but this attack was something different; something sad and horrifying. The vast majority of the boarding enemy were women, children and old men, wielding whatever weapons they could find aboard their vessel, down to even sharpened sticks.
These were no Gallic army, but the desperate refugees of Darioritum, and yet they launched themselves into a violent attack that would end with them all dead, just in a last effort to destroy the Roman flagship and ruin the pride of Caesar’s fleet.
Madness.
And yet it looked very much as though they might succeed. The Aurora’s accompanying vessels were even now reversing their oars and moving slowly back to the fight but, even when they arrived alongside the enemy vessels, they would not be in a position to help the flagship until they had first secured the two Veneti vessels, the former being trapped and squeezed between them.
The Roman crew were largely well-trained and well-armed, particularly the marines, a detachment drawn from the Ninth, but experience and equipment was only of so much use against odds of at least five men to one, which was Brutus’ estimate as he watched.
The last of the Veneti leapt down into the fray, their own vessels now abandoned to fate. The commander watched in amazement as the melee seethed across the deck ahead. The sheer number of people aboard the Aurora was making it impossible to see how things were going. There were so many bodies heaving back and forth that hardly an inch of deck space was visible. And the fighting was spreading.
Spreading his way.
Brutus blinked. The far end was already secured, with little or no activity around the ship’s bow. Yet there had been but a moment ago. And now the fighting was getting dangerously close.
The young officer shook his head in realisation as he drew the sword from the expensive, decorative scabbard at his waist. Not only were the Veneti targeting the Roman flagship for a symbolic victory, they were well aware of where the ship’s commanders would be and what a Roman officer looked like.
The fighting was getting ever closer and the bow was now empty simply because the Veneti were trying to reach Brutus and the trierarch. A really symbolic action if they could defiantly present their conquerors with the head of the fleet’s commander.
Close by, the trierarch drew a blade and stepped toward him, the celeusta joining them. A group of four marines broke from the fighting and ran toward them, forming up in front as a small shield wall.
Brutus closed his eyes for a moment and offered up a silent prayer to Juno. For all the expensive training he had, he’d very little experience in actually using his sword in combat. Staff officers rarely found themselves in life or death situations. People like Fronto and Balbus, who were just as at home in personal combat as they were on a horse giving out orders, were a rarity even in the modern army. Brutus was a strategist, not a gladiator.
Opening his eyes once again in response to a loud, guttural cry, he saw the first of the Veneti burst through the mass toward them. The action was still moving this way and the Roman forces were clearly still horribly outnumbered, a thin line of armed oarsmen fighting madly to hold the Veneti away from the stern.
The first man who broke out had been quickly and efficiently put down by one of the marines from the Ninth and Brutus looked down at the spindly figure of the old man. Ridiculous. The Gaul must have been a sixty year old civilian and he had attacked Roman legionaries with a belaying pin!
There was little time for more than a passing glance, though, as three more men burst out of the press. This time, two were civilians, but the third was a warrior, armoured in mail and wielding both a heavy axe and a stolen Roman gladius.
The three attacked the marine shield wall and Brutus watched in horror as the big warrior felled one of the marines instantly with a double blow. Another Roman disappeared to the deck beneath two young Veneti lads who combined their attack to butcher the screaming legionary with their daggers. Quickly, the remaining two marines reacted to the situation and once more got things under control. The legionaries dealt with the warrior and then leaned down and swiftly dispatched the two young men, though not quickly enough to save their compatriot, who lay on the deck in a spreading crimson pool, stabbed a dozen times and staring lifelessly at the sky.
Brutus rolled his shoulders. Was this to be their fate? Lying untended on a deck, staring at the Gods and testament to the rebellious nature of the Gauls?
Four more of the Veneti lunged through and, as they did, the remaining cordon of Roman sailors that had been keeping the fight away from the officers broke, the whole screaming melee flooding toward them.
Brutus steadied himself. The Veneti were now coming in force. The five men, two legionaries and three naval officers, retreated to the heavy rear rail of the ship, the last refuge. Among the bellowing Gauls running toward them were occasional Roman sailors or legionaries, hacking madly at the men, women and children around them, largely ignored by their victims who, in a lust driven by desperation, fixed their sights on the officers.
The trierarch watched the oncoming flood of Veneti and turned to his commander.
“Get overboard, sir.”
“What?” Brutus stared at him.
“We’re dead men now. Even if the other crews are on their way, they’ll never be in time. You need to go overboard now.”
Brutus shook his head. He may not be prepared for, or any real use in, a fight to the death, but he was damned if a Roman fleet commander was going to be seen fleeing the scene. Better to die honourably than to run away.
“Just pay attention to them, not me.”
The trierarch held the officer in his gaze for a long moment. He’d always assumed that he’d die aboard a ship and at least they’d won the war, even if they lost this particular battle. The rest of the squadron would take their revenge on these bastards, but they couldn’t be allowed to take the head of the commander first.
Brutus set himself in the stance he’d seen Fronto take, preparing for the clash.
He was totally unprepared when the trierarch smashed a sword pommel into his bared head, driving the consciousness from him instantly. Morpheus enfolded him in his arms and together they sunk into blackness.
The trierarch halted the officer’s fall and gestured to the celeusta. The rowing officer nodded, dropping his sword and grabbing Brutus, hauling him easily up. Turning his back on the attacking Gauls, he heaved the officer over the rail and watched as the young man plummeted heavily into the water, the cuirass pulling him instantly beneath the waves.
Moments later, the celeusta hit the water, his buoyancy guaranteed by his lack of armour, and he kicked down into the cold deep until his hands touched the cold steel of the officer’s chest plate. Looping his arms beneath Brutus’ shoulders, he kicked for the surface.
As he broke into open air, gasping, he wrestled with difficulty with the man’s shoulder and side straps until the cuirass came away and disappeared into the deep. A small rivulet of blood bloomed on the officer’s head where he had been struck by the trierarch.
The celeusta looked back up toward the deck above. The sounds of violent melee were clearly audible, but his fight was over for now. His job was to get the commander to safety.
Turning his back on the Aurora as its last Roman occupant fell to a scything blow, the celeusta secured his grip on Brutus and began to swim for the shore.