The Mask of Command

by Ian Ross

  *

  All that day they scoured the waterways of the river country. Castus sent the Lucusta and two of the Frankish boats west down the main channel of the Vahalis to the sea coast, to scout the inlets for signs of the enemy. The rest of the flotilla kept together, moving steadily southwards between the islands and mudbanks. The Roman ships had dropped their yards to the deck, and had a lookout clinging at each bare masthead, checking that no vessel moved too far from the group, and scanning the country in all directions. They moved slowly, their oars barely rippling the sluggish waters, the smaller craft probing ahead with rods and lead line to find the deeper channels.

  It was an unsettling landscape, flat and greyish-green, threaded with grey-brown water. The air was heavy with the smell of the sea. At times the ships moved out into open estuaries, rolling with the chop of the incoming tide. At others the islands closed in to form narrow culverts, hedged with tall banks of reeds and thick scrub, or creaking bulwarks of tangled driftwood. As the tide dropped it left exposed sandbanks and stretches of mud, covered with scuttling crabs and shrieking gulls. Wide flatlands lay between some of the islands, covered with what looked like lush green grass, but the few men who tried to walk upon them sank at once to their waists in black muddy ooze.

  And hour after hour there was no sign of their prey. Barely any sign of humanity at all. Around noon they came across a clutch of collapsing huts, clearly unoccupied for years. Some abandoned fish-traps clogged the nearest tideway, and once they passed the wreck of a boat, black-green with moss and barnacles.

  ‘Ever feel like you’re being watched?’ Senecio said as he stood with Castus on the stern deck of the Bellona.

  ‘I’ve been feeling it since dawn,’ Castus replied. He was eating lentil porridge and raw onion, washed down with vinegar wine. ‘Surely we should have seen something by now? A smoke trail on the horizon, even...’

  ‘And they could be all around us,’ Senecio said, glowering at the nearest island. ‘Just waiting for the right moment to attack...’

  At least they would be prepared for that. The Bellona had only her lower bank of oars working; the upper-tier men had armed themselves and stood ready at their benches, with the marines of the Second and the archers. But the long slow day was sapping their morale. Castus could feel it. The gods only knew how the crews of the smaller ships were faring.

  ‘Reckon we’re close to the Scaldis estuary now,’ Senecio said, several hours later. ‘We should find a safe anchorage before dusk. Deep water, good holding ground. Bring the flotilla together. We’ll have to spend another night aboard ship.’

  Castus nodded, and moments later he saw the man at the masthead waving the signal to the other vessels. A whole day, he thought, and nothing to show for it. Had the Saxons really left this place and returned to their distant homes at the top of the ocean, the far north? He doubted it – no chief would assemble such a strong warband and bring it all this way just to capture a few ships loaded with stores. No, they were here somewhere, and soon enough he would discover them.

  They found their anchorage an hour later: a wide channel between bushy islands, clear of sandbanks even at low tide. Dusk was falling as the last ships joined them, the Lucusta and her two Frankish consorts, reporting no sightings along the sea coast. The vessels anchored in formation, the Bellona at the centre in midstream. Castus had ordered silence, but as he paced the deck in the gathering darkness he could hear loud voices and gusting laughter from the Frankish ships moored across the channel. The barbarians had brought drink with them, and would not rest easily without it.

  He would take the last watch of the night, he decided, and clambered down into his cramped cabin to rest. After the day’s frustrations he expected sleep to be elusive, but there was little to think about now, few considerations chasing through his mind. With a single heavy sigh he slipped into unconsciousness, deep and profoundly dreamless.

  ‘Dominus,’ a hushed voice was saying. Castus felt somebody shaking his foot. He opened his eyes to total blackness, and for three heartbeats could not remember where he was. Then he made out the faint moonlight through the cabin scuttle, the vague shape of his orderly beside the bed. ‘Dominus,’ Eumolpius said again. ‘Change of watch.’

  Yawning, Castus swung himself upright and groped in the darkness for his cloak and belts. He felt as though he had slept only half an hour, not two-thirds of the night. Stumbling, cursing, he hauled himself up the ladder onto the deck. Breathing deeply, he tried to clear his mind of the last traces of sleep. The moon was half full, but covered by cloud, and only a slight misty radiance lit the estuary. Castus shuddered, pulling his cloak tight around him, although the air was softly damp and still.

  ‘At least our Frankish friends have gone to sleep at last,’ Felix said, his cloaked form appearing out of the gloom. ‘They were getting quite rowdy out there.’

  ‘Hopefully they haven’t all gone to sleep,’ Castus replied. He peered out across the waters of the channel, but most of the other vessels were lost in the darkness and he could only make out the shadowy form of the Satyra moored just ahead, and two of the troopships a short way astern. Felix passed him a cup of vinegar wine and he drank slowly, listening in to the silence of the surrounding land. The deck creaked, somewhere a marsh bird cried and the water lapped at the hull beneath him, splashing quietly.

  Three hours until sunrise. Castus leaned back against the starboard ballista mount, sipped his wine and waited. Where are you? he thought, scanning the black emptiness of the estuary, as if he could force the enemy to reveal themselves by willpower alone. He waited, as the night seemed to grow darker and the damp air chilled him through his cloak.

  Then, in the first misty grey of dawn, sliding out from the land with only the barest whisper of oars, came the silent keels of the enemy.

  *

  The cry of a sentry on a distant boat startled Castus from his watchful trance. At once there were more shouts, and a moment later the bray of a trumpet somewhere in the grey mist. Castus threw off his cloak, stepping to the rail as the men on deck stumbled up from their blankets and grabbed their shields and weapons.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Senecio said, clambering up the ladder. Castus was still peering into the darkness, unsure. It was happening quickly, he knew that: there were shouts from all around now, the clash and yell of combat somewhere off to the left. Impossible to determine the distance and exact direction. A trumpet sounded beside him, oars and boots and shields battering the deck. The Bellona rolled with the motion, and Castus felt her turning slowly with the current.

  ‘Anchor cable’s cut!’ one of the sentries shouted. ‘We’re drifting!’

  ‘Hands to the oars,’ Senecio cried at once.

  No enemy craft had come close enough to cut their cable, surely? Castus stood with feet braced, his sword in his hand. Already he could see the shapes of the nearest vessels, the deck of the galley Pinnata swarming with figures. Where had they come from?

  ‘Men in the water!’ somebody called. ‘They’re all around us!’

  The voice choked off as a figure vaulted across the rail, hurling a knife to strike the sentry in the throat. Immediately the soldiers closed in; three spears struck the intruder through the chest, and he fell back into the water. But there were more of them, long-haired bearded men, stripped to their loincloths, grabbing at the shipped oars and swinging themselves up the hull, scrambling onto the deck with long knives between their clenched teeth.

  ‘Repel boarders!’ Senecio was yelling. Castus took a step back, glancing around. As he turned he saw a man dragging himself up over the stern, his hand clasping the deck railing. He had a brief glimpse of a face glaring up at him, a snarl of teeth between the dripping strands of hair, then he stamped forward, swinging his blade in an overarm cut that chopped through the man’s wrist and bit into the wood of the rail beneath. The man screamed, then vanished into the black water. The severed hand dropped onto the deck.

  Now, with the mist thinning and the fir
st sun glowing through the clouds, it was possible to make out what was happening. The swimmers must have come out under cover of darkness, trying to kill the sentries on the smaller vessels and disable the larger ones, while the main Saxon force approached under oars. Already the Pinnata and two of the Frankish boats were locked in bloody combat, their drowsy crews trying to beat back the attackers appearing from the water all around them. Further downstream, the black shapes of the Saxon vessels had closed with Bonitus’s boats, and were circling the Satyra. At least some of the Romans had reacted promptly: Castus saw the scout galley Lucusta already under oars, the few archers and the light ballista on the narrow foredeck returning the Saxon missiles. They must have cut their own cable to have moved so fast.

  Oars clashed and boomed below the deck of the Bellona, and a moment later the lower-tier blades splashed into the water on both sides, the voice of the rowing master and the beat of the mallet urging the oarsmen to their strokes. At least now, Castus thought, they would not drift into shoal water and run aground. He had remained standing on the stern while the marines drove the intruders from the deck; all of the men who had climbed aboard were dead or had retreated, and the men of the Primigenia were slinging the bloodied corpses over the side. The dawn estuary echoed with the sounds of battle, the cries of rage and pain, the thud of shields. But it still felt dreamlike, a combat of ghosts.

  ‘All boarders repelled, dominus,’ Felix reported, tipping his helmet back. ‘The men are up and ready, artillery spanned and loaded. They won’t catch us out like that again.’

  ‘What’s the damage?’

  ‘One dead, six injured. Reckon we got about ten or eleven of them.’

  ‘Make that twelve,’ Castus said, thinking of the man at the stern. The severed hand was still lying on the deck in a spatter of blood; he booted it over the side.

  A gang of crewmen were heaving the spare anchors up from the hold; others were busy with the new cable. Eumolpius appeared with the padded linen vest Castus usually wore beneath his cuirass. Castus put it on, and his orderly tightened the straps beneath his arms and buckled his belts and baldric over the top. It would provide some protection against missiles at least; Castus was a strong swimmer, but wearing any heavier armour in a naval battle seemed unwise.

  All along the rail there were soldiers, legionaries of the Second and Twenty-Second standing together across the rowing benches with locked shields. Behind them, on the gangway, were the archers and javelin men. The Bellona was a floating fortress now. It was time to take the fight to the enemy.

  CHAPTER XX

  Away in the offing the crew of the Pinnata appeared to have won their struggle against the boarders. Blood streaked the hull of the galley, but Castus could see more injured and dead aboard than able men. And now the Saxon longboats were closing in on the Bellona and the anchored troopships beyond. The heavy beat of oars, the hoarse chant of the barbarian warriors, sounded loud on the waters. These Saxons boats were bigger than the Frankish vessels, broader in the beam, and their tall stem posts were carved into the shapes of savage beasts. Standing up in the lead boat was a bare-chested muscular man with matted hair and beard. He raised his shield and spear above his head, letting out a deep roaring war cry that carried across the dawn estuary. One of the ballistae spat, but the bolt went wide. The Saxons were coming on fast, their oars bursting spray from the water.

  ‘Surely they’re not going to ram us?’ Senecio muttered through his teeth.

  Arrows flickered around the bare-chested chief at the prow, but he did not flinch as the vessels closed. Castus could hear the rapid ratcheting clack as the ballista crew next to him reloaded. His gaze was fixed on the approaching boat.

  A flat thwack from the ballista, and Castus watched the bolt sail over the head of the Saxon chief and arc down into the stern of the boat, killing two oarsmen instantly and pinning a third to the thwarts. But the ballista crew could not depress their weapon any further, and now the Saxons let out a cheer and threw themselves into a last driving stroke that would bring their boat crashing against the oar bank of the galley.

  ‘Portside – ship oars!’ Senecio screamed. ‘Prepare to fend them off!’

  With a thunderous clatter the oars ran inboard, the Bellona swinging round in the water as the far bank kept rowing; but the Saxon boat was already alongside, the chief tensed in the prow ready to spring.

  ‘Javelin,’ Castus said, reaching back. Felix passed him the weapon, and Castus jumped up onto the deck rail. A moment to swing his arm and take aim, then he flung the javelin with all his strength. The Saxon chief noticed him and raised his shield – too late. The barbed iron head struck him below the shoulder, the long weighted shank plunging down through his chest. His body buckled, then he toppled sideways into the water. Every man on the Roman deck roared as he fell.

  Now the oars were slamming out again from the galley’s hull, the wooden blades battering against the Saxon boat. Castus saw one of the barbarians smashed down by an oar-blade, another knocked sideways into the water. But the rest were scrambling forwards, ready to leap, hurling grappling hooks across to catch on the galley’s rail and between the oar benches. Many of the soldiers of the Twenty-Second had armed themselves with falxes, hooked scythe blades mounted on long handles; as the Saxons hauled their grappling lines taut, the falx blades swung and sheared through them.

  A smell of burning tar and smoke, and a moment later Castus saw the two men with a heavy earthenware fire-pot slung between them. They heaved, and the pot flew from its rope cradle and spun, trailing smoke, to shatter on the Saxon deck. Screams from the warriors packed behind the beast- carved prow as burning coals, pitch and tow sprayed along the length of their vessel. The men on the Bellona cheered again as the longboat yawed away from them, the warriors desperately trying to quench the blaze. Smoke eddied across the deck, and the air smelled of blood and burning.

  ‘Starboard!’ somebody shouted. ‘Another boat!’

  Castus turned just in time to see the second Saxon vessel begin its ramming assault on the opposite bank of oars. The barbarians gave a last powerful heave, and the sharp prow of their boat came rushing in against the galley’s side, the shallow hull riding up over the oars that were still in the water. The Bellona rolled wildly with the pressure on her beam, and the crack of breaking oar-shafts and the screams of men came from the lower benches. More grappling hooks came arcing across, and the deck heeled further as the barbarians hauled on the ropes and the marines tumbled back across the gangway to face the new threat. Already the attackers in the second boat were flinging themselves at the galley, some jumping down onto the oars pinned beneath their keel, while others clambered over the beast- prow and leaped the gap between the hulls.

  ‘Drive them back!’ Castus shouted, snatching up a fallen shield as he pushed his way through the chaos of men clogging the gangway. The first Saxon on the Roman deck had already been cut down by a scything falx blow; the second and third were right behind him, striking overarm with their spears. More of the attackers were scrambling up the side, clambering over the wrecked stumps of the oars.

  Castus banged his shield rim down onto the rail, breaking a Saxon’s arm. He punched a second man with the boss, driving him back into the threshing water. The deck was heeling so steeply that he had trouble standing upright; with one foot braced against the rail he sliced down with his sword, cleaving through two of the grappling ropes. A ballista bolt spat past him; the artillery crews had swung their weapons around to shoot along the deck at the mass of attacking Saxons.

  One of the attackers, a bearded giant with long braided locks whipping around his head, took a running jump from the prow of the Saxon boat, straight across onto the Roman deck, battering down two defenders as he landed. With a plunging blow of his spear he slew another man. Castus swung his shield, climbing between the rowing benches and along the tilting deck. Many of the Romans had already retreated to the far side of the ship, across the barricade of the lowered yard, trying to use their
weight to level the deck as they flung darts and javelins at the boarders. The big Saxon with the braids was roaring defiance, holding his position, oblivious to the missile storm, dead and injured men all around him as his comrades came scrambling across in support.

  Castus hauled himself up the tilt of the deck, studded boots grating on the planking. He got his shield up, then took two running steps and launched himself at the Saxon. The spearhead slammed against his shield and he heaved it aside; before he could strike, his boots skidded on a slick of blood and he slipped to fall on his back. The Saxon towered above him, lifting the spear to stab downwards. Castus kicked out wildly, catching the warrior behind the knee and knocking him sprawling back onto the rowing benches. Spears and javelins rattled above him, iron blades slicing through the air. Then he was back on his feet, scrambling for balance as the Saxon reared up again and flung the spear at his head. Castus dodged, then brought his sword down in a wheeling overhand cut that smashed past his enemy’s shield and chopped down through his collarbone, hacking deep into the Saxon’s torso like a butcher’s cleaver cutting meat.

  Blood sprayed as he dragged the blade free, showering the warriors at the ship’s rail. For a heartbeat the big Saxon remained swaying on his knees, then he toppled. With a yell of triumph the Roman marines surged back across the gangway, driving into the attackers with shield boss, falx and spear. The Saxons still clinging to the Bellona’s rail fell back; faced with the wall of battering shields and striking blades, many flung themselves down into the water as the remaining grappling ropes were cut loose behind them. Those left aboard the boat were heaving at their oars, trying to back away from the galley while the archers and ballista crews picked them off one by one.

  As the Saxon boat fell away from the starboard beam, the galley rolled back onto an even keel. Castus climbed across the gangway to the other side; the first boat was still there, wallowing only a few paces away, where it had been driven back by the ramming oars. The men aboard had managed to extinguish the fire and were massing again for a renewed assault. But, as Castus watched, one of the big blunt-ended troop barges came rowing up behind the longboat, heavy sweeps pushing it fast through the water, Modestus and his men crowding the foredeck with bows, darts and javelins. Modestus yelled the command, and the Romans flung a storm of missiles into the Saxons crowding the oar benches. Many found a mark; a moment later the heavy timbers of the barge’s bows crashed against the Saxon hull. Wood creaked, and the boat rose and began to capsize as the warriors flung themselves into the water to be speared and shot by the Romans on the barge.