The Bane of Gods

by Alaric Longward

  I had fought in a sea battle.

  It would be a deadly, shit terrible battle, and you could only do your best not to fall into the sea, and to keep your damned footing.

  I grabbed a soldier that was passing us, on his way to join his friends. He gave me a questioning look. “What shall Alexander do?” I yelled at him

  He cursed and leaned closer. “We’ll fight.” He pointed a spear at a ship to the right side. “We are not running. Too slow anyway. The Black Wave shall ram the one on the far right. The captain will guide us for the middle ones, and will instead turn to ram the one with the shit blue snake flags on the side. That’s the pirate called the Blue King. Has a blue cape and thinks he is the son of Neptune. Mad shit. Crazier than a drunken monkey. The other trireme will do its best to guard us as we fight or sink their leader.” He pointed at the mass of men on the foredeck. “Join us. We need all the swords.”

  I nodded and he ran off.

  Indeed, the ship on the right had a flag of blue serpent, fluttering proudly in the wind from the aft.

  “Where are they from?” Adalwulf called out, as we went for the mast in the middle

  “The Blue King is Lycian, originally,” yelled Alexander, who joined us, holding a sword. “His men work from Crete, but they are Lycian pirates! They have spies everywhere on the harbors.”

  As we got to the mast, I heard Armin exhorting his men, helping the centurion to bolster the bravery of the soldiers. “They’ll fight like children. Used to butchering pigs and old men. But kill them and they’ll squeal like swine,” I heard him saying, as the men laughed dutifully. The milites were professional enough. Some men held bows, all had pila, and many shields were clanking as men stayed low on the deck. There was no ballista on the ship, no catapults, nor a boarding bridge, ironically called the corvus, but the ship itself was a weapon and its hull was creaking and complaining, the timbers groaning as it was begging to be let loose on the enemy. Some items were rolling around the deck, sweat stank, so did piss, and the doctor was yelling something below.

  “Ready!” yelled Alexander.

  “Ready!” screamed the pilot.

  “Do it!”

  “Starboard! Turn!” screamed the pilot, and the order was conveyed below. The piper played a frantic tune, the officer screamed.

  “Hold on!” yelled Alexander.

  The ship lurched, a wave of water smashed over us in an arc, wetting the flesh and the deck, and then the ship surged forward with commands I couldn’t pick up.

  A bireme that was the one in the middle was looming near, and then we were past it. I heard the screams of the frustrated pirates, saw an armed, swarthy captain demanding for it to turn about, and even glimpsed the other biremes coming for us further away. Our fellow trireme was following us, aiming deck-weapons for a turning bireme. I heard the terrifying sound of a ballista as that trireme fired on the enemy.

  The blue-flagged bireme was dead ahead, trying to turn, the flag temporarily out of wind and hanging lax.

  More screams echoed, and the ship turned further starboard, then turned back to port, and then, timber screeching, oars were being lifted, the ram raced along the enemy’s splintering oars, then the hull of the enemy ship. We all fell on our faces. A tearing sound like a curse from Hades echoed across the sea, men were screaming for gods to help them, and the ship shuddered.

  “The ram broke off! They are gutted, though!” yelled an officer on the bow, grinning, bleeding from his head. Then arrows fell around him, and he fell on his back, silent, shafts jutting from his chest. More of the arrows fell amongst the men on the deck. A legionnaire, and a Praetorian were hit, and some rowers were screaming. We were passing the enemy, unable to row, propelled along too slowly, and I knew we might get caught by the other enemy biremes.

  I saw pirates, a lot of sea dogs staring at us from their deck, and noticed their ship was tilting, and the men falling out of sight. A blue caped man in a stained white tunic was running unsteadily on the deck, his black and white beard foamed, and yelling desperate orders. He was trying to rip off his chainmail. Some men were jumping overboard.

  The ship was gutted, indeed.

  We passed the enemy and the oars crashed back to the sea.

  “Cheer, boys!” screamed the grinning Alexander, and the men cheered. I saw the grin disappear, the face go white, and I knew we were in trouble. “Turn us around!”

  I looked behind.

  Another bireme was close, so very close, and the second trireme was engaging yet another, not far.

  The one chasing us seemed to be gliding over the water like a cloud. While the ship with the pirate leader suddenly lurched to the side, with a chorus of horrified men, breaking wood, the ship coming for us had no wish to give up.

  This ship had a red pennant, one with a trident armed man with a fish tail. The ship was coming like a speeding hound, and foam flew high. A wild, tall man was screaming at the bow, hefting a short spear, and men with hooks and ropes could be glimpsed behind. They passed the sinking ship and the unfortunate crew, we turned, but too slowly.

  The enemy ship aimed for our rear.

  The flute below played frantically, the rowers heaved, and we lurched forward with some speed, but the enemy rammed us chaotically. Their bow tore through our port side oars, snapping dozens. And yet, we turned just enough to foil the ram. Like a nervous virgin boy trying to get under the tunic of a woman, the foe made a clumsy move, too fast, and mostly missed. The ram was scraping along the hull; the ships crashed into each other and stole each other’s speed. More oars were breaking, many on the pirate vessel now. There were arrows striking the deck, the mast, and men, leaving them howling on the deck.

  The bireme ended up side by side with us.

  The pirate hooks flew in the air, the ropes grew taut and, slowly, we stopped moving.

  A throng of hands and savage faces suddenly rose from the enemy deck near the aft of our galley.

  “Back!” Alexander yelled. “Get to the back!”

  All fifty men, Praetorians and ship’s soldiers turned and rushed along the heaving deck, and as they passed us, we joined them. Armin gave me a cold stare and went back to pushing the men towards the enemy that was climbing and clambering over the side, as more and more ropes and hooks were securing the hold of the smaller vessel on ours.

  They might have a smaller ship, but there were a hundred fighters in it.

  The roaring, swarthy men jumped over, some falling on our deck, one stumbling to the sea between the ships. A dozen men, soon more were landing amidst our men.

  The centurion screamed an order. “Pila! Swords in their guts.”

  It was a needless order. Pila were tossed and the javelins tore to the mass of pirates, and swords were flashing. Men fell and screamed, horrified with wounds, or silent as grave. There was little room, our canvas was trampled to the deck, and then the enemy, with ever more men pushing the milites back, charged savagely, and some went down to the rower’s pits.

  We charged right back, pushing shields to the mass of the enemy on a deck swaying in the waves.

  Or, rather, we let Armin and the soldiers charge, while staying near the mast. We merely watched.

  A throng of our men stabbed at the teaming foe, who were constantly reinforced by men loping over the sides, some now even behind us, braving a wider gap between the ships. Blades stabbed, shields pushed, and the heaving anthill of violence surged back and forth before us, spreading over the not-so-wide deck. Men fell, twitching, pissing themselves, and there was little semblance of order in the mad battle as the pirates pushed to the middle of our formation. In the terrible press, I saw Armin pushing a sword at a man’s throat, and Praetorians fighting around him with desperation. The legionnaires too were rallying around Armin.

  Men were screaming a warning. I turned my head to see one more bireme, not far.

  Adalwulf was cursing, looking for an opponent. I saw in his eyes that he had lost all confidence on my plan.

  So had I.
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  Then, the enemy seemed to gain the upper hand. More and more were loping over to our ship, and the fight spread from bow to the aft, and even around us. Alexander and the ship’s centurion pulled men to fight near us, where enemies were loping over the gap on splintered oars set precariously between the two ships. There, they were pushed back by a pirate champion, who was a wild, swarthy man with a long-bladed sword and a small metal shield. Both tried to stab at the madman, but he pushed to their midst, rammed the shield into the head of Alexander, and stabbed the centurion in the throat. The young soldier fell to his knees, the milites hesitated, and Armin was screaming. “At them! Don’t hesitate! Bloody them to their balls! Who shall win the centurion’s place! Earn it!”

  Men rushed past us to help Alexander, screaming wildly, slipping on the bloody deck.

  We still hovered just outside the battle, but the foe was coming. Flavus grunted, and tossed his spear at an armored pirate near us, who fell into the rower’s pit. Adalwulf and I stared at the milling, dreadful battle, and still waited.

  I saw Sejanus briefly near Armin, and then he disappeared.

  Armin was roaring like a king of war.

  He stood over two enemy dead, taunting the foe. The enemy, enraged, charged past him. Two Praetorians fell, hacked down by axes, before the pirates caught swords and fell over their victims in their rage to get to Armin. The enemy captain, the familiar salt-and pepper bearded man, was heaving around wildly, urging his men forward. Few fell to the sea, as rowers from our ship joined the fight, holding axes, cudgels, and daggers, cutting the pirates on the bow from the railing. Panting, bloody, terrible, the pirates hacked down at them, and more of them jumped over the deck like an endless avalanche, but the soldiers and rowers fought to contain them. Yet another Praetorian fell, and then another, but the short swords of the Roman army were killing pirates like lambs as well. Heaps of corpses were growing on the deck and fewer men were trying to crawl over them.

  The enemy captain saw his men losing heart, yelled manically, and rushed forward to try to win the day, many of his largest men followed, and disaster struck.

  Three, then five milites fell under wicked axes and cudgels, and the captain’s sword. What had been a semblance of a Roman line on the deck, crumbled into chaos and desperation. Armin was pressed by two men. Two more Romans fell, stabbed by daggers.

  “Must go in,” Adalwulf said, swaying on his feet, the rage of battle in him. “No more time to lose.”

  I nodded, as the battle-madness took hold of me. Woden whispered to me of bravery, of savagery, of murder, and of a glorious death, and I felt my mind numb to the terror, my limbs strengthen with rage.

  We pushed forward. I threw my spear, and took down a large pirate, who was left mewling on the deck. I pulled my sword, and followed Adalwulf, and we fought the gleeful enemy in the middle of the deck. I stabbed my weapon into the chest of a young pirate, his face lost in an instant as he fell back. Adalwulf roared before me, spatha high above, and smashed a pirate down in red rage, and then another. Berserkers, touched by the gods, we saved the battle.

  In that shit terrible melee, I stabbed Nightbright meticulously at men before me. A pirate appeared, his ax coming for me, and Nightbright went through his throat. The blade hit/deflected/blocked a spear and I pushed close, my sword sliding into the man’s belly. One pirate bireme could be seen circling the battle, the captain uncertain, but arrows and spears fell on our backs, some hitting other pirates. No love lost between them, they were probably thinking on who would rule the Lycian brotherhood after the Blue King. Hull down, or sunk, the Blue King’s ship was gone from the battle and this world.

  Then, just there before us, I saw the pirate captain fighting, his best men still with him, all dark and red from the sun, swords and chain glinting. A Praetorian was there, shield up, sword locked with the pirate’s blade. Men were roaring and pushing around them.

  There, Armin also fought.

  He led his few Praetorians forward. He slew a silver-ear-ringed officer, the skull parting in two pieces, and fought the captain. We slowly pushed the pirates back, back to the side, to the rowers, some of whom were sawing at the ropes holding us together. The galleys were drifting apart.

  There, trapped, a dozen pirates were making a desperate stance, snarling at our faces, their captain hacking at Armin.

  I made my way towards them.

  I pushed past two legionnaires who were fighting a trio of pirates. A Praetorian was there, stabbing a pirate in the gut, and I, Woden help me, slit the Praetorian’s neck as I went past. A pirate and a soldier locked in a weaponless struggle appeared in front of me, and I pushed them into the rowing pit. Adalwulf was slaying men nearby, laughing spitefully, and I saw Flavus was making his way for Armin as well, smelling an opportunity.

  Armin was before me.

  He was in a crushing struggle with the panting enemy captain, going back and forth, trying to free his weapon for a stab, near the railing now. The captain tried to grope for a dagger in his belt, and Armin’s sword hilt bashing the man’s face. The captain pulled Armin to him, and tried to bite Armin’s neck, his sword swinging wildly around them. They were hovering near the water’s edge, pushing a rower to the sea as they did, then a pirate. I noticed we were moving slowly, as some men below rowed, and suddenly the bireme was no longer there, but the yawning sea. Flavus was next to me, and stabbed at one of the pirates, a feverish look in his eyes. Armin, finally, managed to free his sword, and he pushed the enemy to the edge. His sword made a short, quick chop, and the pirate roared as the blade sunk to his side crudely. Armin, pushing at the dying man, turned, and saw us coming.

  His eyes went to cold slits, and he tried to free his sword. The captain, dying, held on to his hand.

  I shook my head in apology, and stabbed at Armin.

  He pushed the pirate to my blade, snarled as Flavus lunged at him and, lightning fast, grasped the wrist of Flavus.

  Before I knew, Flavus, the captain, and Armin all fell overboard.

  “Hraban!” I heard Adalwulf yell.

  I turned, saw a Praetorian before me, sword coming, and knew I was about to be gutted for my perfidy.

  The man hissed, spat, and his eyes rolled on his head, and he fell before me.

  Sejanus was there, hand up, blade bloodied.

  The berserker in me demanded his death. Adalwulf agreed, as he appeared and struck the man’s neck. He fell and stayed silent.

  Sejanus spoke very carefully. “You promised me. I have kept my part.”

  I nodded, and gave him a bloodthirsty look. Evil men were needed on my new path, and Sejanus surely qualified. It had not been hard to entice him. I felt naked and paranoid without Wandal and Tudrus, but I was committed to men like him, desperate, greedy men. When Armin had appeared, it had been a surprise for him as well. He could have changed sides back to Lollius, but he hadn’t. He had so much greed, he was willing to risk death itself for what he might gain with Tiberius. And if Tiberius refused what I was about to suggest to him, Sejanus knew he would not leave Rhodes.

  I pushed away the savage demand in my head to kill him just in case.

  We need him to fool Lollius. He needs me, for the promise of position he could never have imagined.

  I spoke. “I did. You did well.”

  He looked around, terrified. “I’m risking much.”

  “And if we succeed, your reward shall be great,” I told him. “As agreed.”

  He took a ragged breath, avoiding the looks some Romans were giving us. “I shall aid you. You do, after all, need men you can trust, though I don’t know your full plans.” He smiled. “I guess we shall see Tiberius, then.”

  Adalwulf was shaking his head, disgusted, but I stepped away, fatigued and shamed.

  I looked around.

  The battle was over. No Praetorian lived, save for Sejanus. The deck was heaped with the dead and the dying, and some twenty milites were alive. Some eyed me with distrust, having witnessed the deaths of the Praetorians
, but I didn’t care. I stepped to the side of the railing. The other trireme was coming for us, and two biremes were fleeing.

  We had won.

  Men cheered themselves hoarse. A flute played a savage tune, and Alexander was leaning on the mast, a javelin in his chest being pulled out. The pirate champion was dead and he was sitting on him. He was pale, but might survive. He gave me a judging look and shook his head.

  I turned to look at the sea filled with bodies and debris, and couldn’t see Armin. Or Flavus.

  I cursed, for despite surviving Armin, I had lost a piece of the plan I had devised.

  CHAPTER 10

  Rhodes seemed hot as a volcano. The great forges of the dverger in Svartalfheim, I thought, might feel much the same as the oppressive air lingering over the island, and the winds were just occasional brief bursts of relief, that left one begging to be back on the sea. Our trireme was leaking badly, the boards on the side had been cracked, and the bow was twisted, with the ram neatly cut off. The wounded were transferred to the other galley. After what seemed like an eternal trip across the remaining sea we went for the shore, and the ship crashed on the pebbly beach forlornly, while the other trireme turned to race to the town of Rhodes to fetch help.

  For the dozens of lightly wounded that stayed with us, the heat was as welcome as a bite from a rabid dog.

  The beach was filled with shelters made of sails, rope, and oars, and flies found the flesh and wounds of the milites a surprising and pleasant change to their usual diet of shit and goat meat. Most of the milites were running up and down the pebbly beach to reach a small, ramshackle village that was not far, but apparently, there were men already headed our way since the soldiers returned with news that tore the wounded Alexander off the scrutiny of his men and ship. I walked off and turned to stare at the tilting hull of the ship, where the rowers were pulling it higher on to the beach, grunting with the effort. The men were toiling like mad ants, and soon the galley would be as safe as it could be.