Legionary: Land of the Sacred Fire

by Gordon Doherty

  ‘Aye?’ Pavo frowned, remembering Gallus’ quarrel with the portmaster. ‘You suspect trouble?’

  ‘No, I expect it,’ he said with a mirthless grin, then strode over to a cluster of legionaries playing dice.

  Pavo heard the raucous laughter that erupted as Felix made some quip about one legionary’s personal hygiene. But he could not shift his gaze from Gallus.

  The salt spray had long-since coated Gallus and chilled his skin, but he was unblinking. He sensed the world drift by all around him, as if crying out to him to remind him he was alive. The sun-bleached coastline of southern Anatolia, the crashing waves, the skirling breeze, the tang of the sea air, an occasional shadow from scudding clouds and the heat of the pleasant sun. But he was lost in his thoughts. His gaze remained on the small, carved wooden idol in his hand. It was well worn, but the features of a muscular Mithras emerging from cold, lifeless rock were still discernible.

  Mithras, he mouthed silently; we made a bargain, did we not? I pledged everything to you and asked only one thing in return. That you allow me to forget.

  No sooner had the words crossed his lips than the images returned to him. Olivia. The sweet, scented nape of her neck. The warmth of her as he slid his hands around her waist. The awe in which he beheld the tiny bundle in her arms. Baby Marcus’ ice-blue eyes staring back at him in equal wonderment. Ice-blue, like steel. At once, he closed his eyes. But he could not stave off the echoes of the clashing blades, then the images of the roaring pyre and the blackened bodies of mother and child at the heart of its fury.

  Why will you not allow me to forget? Must I do more for you?

  Only a stinging spray of saltwater offered any form of reply. He took off his helmet, shaking the water from the black plume, then smoothed at his grey-flecked peak of hair. He turned from the prow to look over the deck and his men. Their faces were untroubled. They jibed and joked. They still had the gift of the soldier’s skin, he thought. That tough callus that grew over a legionary’s heart soon after his first taste of bloodshed and loss. They might need it, he thought, the dark cloud of the missing escort galley still hovering in his thoughts.

  At that moment, his gaze fell on a lone figure at the stern. Pavo. The young optio had been a mere recruit only a year or so previously. Crucially, he had been one of the few that had survived the treacherous events in the time since. He noticed that Pavo looked to the eastern horizon, lost in thought like a reflection of himself only moments ago. The young optio toyed with the bronze medallion hung around his neck. Gallus knew of the lad’s conviction that the piece was some link to his father.

  ‘Aye, we all seek answers,’ he muttered to himself. Realising he was close to smiling, he gripped the idol of Mithras tightly once more, tucked it away in his purse and grimaced, turning to face forward once again. ‘Perhaps the east will offer us both . . . ’ his words trailed off.

  Squinting and shading his eyes from the sun, he saw something in the waves between their fleet and a limestone cove on the coast. It was a liburnian – a swift vessel with a solitary mast and a single bank of oars. The sail was sun-bleached and dyed with red, vertical stripes. There was something splashing, thrashing wildly in the vessel’s wake. The crew seemed to be crowded around the stern, cheering and whooping. Gallus frowned and then his nose wrinkled as he saw what they dragged behind the boat. A man, bound at the wrists. His body was stained red with wounds, and the crew were throwing cuts of bloody meat into the surrounding water. The man’s distant screams were harrowing, and Gallus soon realised why. Dark, shining humps split the water’s surface near the thrashing man. Then fins and thrashing tails. Next, the surface erupted as a blacktip shark burst from the depths. Its jaws stretching wide to reveal a ridged, pink throat lined with dagger-like teeth. In an instant, the jaws clamped down upon the tethered wretch. This cut the screaming short as blood pumped into the air and the water turned crimson. A cheer erupted before another poor soul was led up to the stern of the vessel. His wrists were shackled, and he wore a blood-spattered, off-white tunic hemmed with purple – legionary issue. The man puffed his chest out in defiance and spat some curse at his captors, drawing raucous laughter from them. The crew pulled in the rope from the sea and looped the frayed and bloodied end around the man’s shackles.

  ‘No! Pirates?’ Felix said, sidling up next to him.

  ‘Aye, Cretans, I’d wager. And that,’ he stabbed a finger at the crippled hull of a Roman bireme dashed against the rocks near the edge of the cove, pirates scurrying across its remains to salvage its cargo, ‘was the escort vessel we were supposed to meet in Rhodos.’ He nodded to the man in chains at the stern of the liburnian. ‘And that poor bastard,’ Gallus continued as the crew kicked the shackled man from the ship and into the sea, ‘is the last of her crew.’ Blood spray and tortured screaming followed, and both men looked away, sickened.

  ‘Look, there’s another liburnian,’ Zosimus added, stabbing a finger between Gallus and Felix, pointing to the cove. Sure enough, hidden by a protective arm of rock, another of the nimble pirate warships rested, its bow anchored on a stretch of white sand.

  Gallus’ skin prickled. Centurion Quadratus’ trireme was far behind – barely a dot in the western horizon, and they could not risk facing these two light and lithe pirate liburnians alone. He sucked in a breath to give the order to turn round, but another cry cut him off.

  ‘Mithras, they’ve seen us!’ Noster shrieked.

  A lone figure high up on the seaborne liburnian’s mast was waving and crying out, one hand pointing right at the Roman trireme. The men on deck instantly leapt into action, rushing to man the oars and adjust the rigging. Likewise, the train of men on the shore of the cove dropped their cargo and rushed to the beached liburnian, readying to launch it.

  Gallus’ eyes narrowed on the liburnian as it tacked round under oar until the wind filled its sails. At once, the oars were withdrawn and the nimble vessel cut through the waves, headed straight for the lone Roman trireme. He glanced to the gradually growing form of Quadratus’ ship – still too far away to aid them, then swept his gaze across his men, meeting the eyes of every one of them.

  ‘We’re on our own. To arms!’

  Pavo buckled his sword belt on over his mail shirt, fumbled with the straps of his helmet, hefted his shield and spear, then took his place just in front of the legionary line. They stood facing the prow, watching as the liburnian sliced ever closer. His heart thundered in his chest and he welcomed wryly the now familiar pre-battle symptoms of a parched mouth and full-to-bursting bladder.

  ‘Get your armour on! Shields up, spears held high, take the strain!’ Centurion Zosimus cried, striding across the legionary front as the pirate liburnian sliced ever closer.

  Pavo saw Habitus and Sextus jostling to swap places in the line. He barked at them; ‘You heard the centurion – get in line, ready to face your enemy!’

  ‘Noster, Rufus – will you lift your bloody shields,’ Sura added from his position on the right of the front rank. ‘The centurion and optio will shout at you and tell you they’re going to kick your arses, but I will actually kick your arses!’

  Meanwhile, Gallus was perched at the front of the vessel with the beneficiarius, one foot on the prow, one hand grasping the rigging for balance, the other raised, directly overhead. They had to destroy or engage the seaborne liburnian before it could garner support from the other one, almost fully launched now. In a good wind like this, the two liburnians would dance around the sturdy but cumbersome Roman trireme.

  ‘Come on,’ Gallus growled through gritted teeth, one fist clenched, as if willing the Roman trireme and the onrushing liburnian to collide. Pavo saw there were more than one hundred crewmen onboard. A motley bunch, scarred, sun-burnished, some lining the prow, others clinging to the mast and the rigging. They clutched blades, spears, shields and bows and were clad in leather and scale vests. Some wore felt caps, others old Roman helmets and some eastern style conical helms with leather aventails. At the last, the pira
te vessel banked to one side. Gallus’ hand fell to the right. ‘They’re cutting past!’

  ‘To the right, ready plumbatae!’ Zosimus cried. Each in the legionary line unclipped one of the lead-weighted darts from the rear of their shield. With a thunder of boots and rustling of armour, they rushed to the right lip of the trireme.

  Pavo hoisted his plumbata as the trireme tilted, revealing the deck of the liburnian – a good seven feet lower than the trireme’s. The pirate crew had bunched together mid-deck and every one of them held a sling overhead, already blurred in motion and ready to loose.

  ‘Shields!’ Gallus cried as they cast their sling-arms forward and loosed.

  Pavo dropped his dart and pulled up his shield with a heartbeat to spare, a piece of shot crunching through it and hissing past his temple. The legionary nearest him was punched back, too slow to raise his shield, the shot taking him in the cheek. Three others fell back likewise, the rest of the hail flying overhead, or battering down on shields and deck.

  The liburnian peeled away, seemingly ready to circle around and come headlong for the trireme once more. The pirate leader looked back at them, perched on the stern. He was a swarthy man with dark, curly hair and glinting gold hoops in each ear. He wore hide boots, a fine white tunic, an embroidered green cape and a curved falcata in his sword belt. His face split in a broad grin as he took to calmly carving slices from an apple with his dagger and crunching upon them. ‘Be sure not to bleed upon your cargo – keep it good for me!’ he called out, then threw his head back in laughter.

  Zosimus roared at this, thumping a fist down upon the vessel’s edge. ‘Draw your bows! This time, be ready!’

  Pavo glanced over his shoulder to see Quadratus’ trireme closer but still too far away to help. Then he glanced to the cove, the second liburnian was now free of the sand and the crew were climbing aboard. ‘They’ll tear us apart like those sharks,’ he hissed to Sura, by his side.

  ‘They’re coming again!’ Gallus cried out from the prow, his eyes trained along his nose like a hawk watching its prey.

  ‘Nock your bows, be ready to loose!’ Pavo cried as he nocked an arrow to his own bowstring then drew it back until his arm tensed and his forefinger touched his cheek, his gaze trained on the spot where the liburnian would pass in moments. But something didn’t feel right. His bow seemed to lack tension. As before, the liburnian cut across the right of the Roman trireme. Zosimus raised his arm and chopped it down like an axe. ‘Loo . . . ’ his words trailed off.

  The deck was empty . . . no, the crew were crouched behind the lip of the vessel, shielded from Roman sights. The legionary bows slackened in confusion. Suddenly a whirring filled the air, from the liburnian’s sail.

  Pavo looked up just in time to see the shark-like grins of the clutch of slingers clinging to the mast, and perched along the timbers behind the sail. ‘Loose!’ Zosimus cried. The Roman bows loosed, but with a flurry of dull and weak twangs, arrows flew wildly off course, some dropping meekly into the waves, others sailing high up, almost vertically, before toppling back onto the Roman deck. Not one troubled the pirate crew. Pavo glared at his bow – the sinew and horn had split and the bowstring was sodden. The damp! he cursed, then braced as he heard the pirate slings spitting forth. ‘Down!’

  A punch of ripping flesh and crunching bone rang out. The salt spray was tinged red. One young legionary staggered back, dropping his shield and clutching at the dark-red hole that a piece of slingshot had punched in his forehead. Confusion washed over his features as blood pumped from the hole, then his eyes rolled and he crumpled to the deck. Seven more fell. The undamaged liburnian once again peeled clear of the Roman vessel. The pirate leader threw his apple core into the waves then cupped his hands around his mouth;

  ‘Your ships will make a fine addition to my fleet,’ he cried, his smile broadening.

  Zosimus threw down his shield and grappled the edge of the vessel with one hand then reached out with the other, as if strangling an imaginary victim. ‘Come and fight us on foot, face to face, steel against steel.’

  Felix watched as the liburnian came round again. ‘We need to halt them, pin them, somehow.’

  ‘Aye, a harpax would be a fine thing,’ Gallus growled, his expression darker than a thundercloud.

  Pavo’s thoughts raced – he had seen etchings of the ancient grappling hook that the republican galleys had used, centuries ago, to snare, reel in and then board enemy vessels. But etchings were of no use now. He looked all across the deck. There were planks of timber, barrels and strips of leather and linen, but they needed something solid – something fastened to their trireme that would also catch on the pirate liburnian. Then his eyes locked onto the anchor chain.

  He looked up, seeing Gallus’ eyes fixed on it too. The tribunus turned, met Pavo’s gaze and those of every man nearby. ‘Get the anchor to the lip of the boat!’

  ‘What the?’ Sura frowned as a group of legionaries clustered around the rusting iron burden. ‘We’re dropping anchor?’

  ‘In a way, yes,’ Pavo wheezed as he crouched and helped lift the iron monolith to his shoulders, the barnacles scraping on his knuckles. Even with the efforts of twelve men, the burden was enormous. ‘Now give us a hand.’

  ‘They’re coming round again,’ Zosimus yelled, ‘and the second liburnian is on its way too.’

  Gallus’ glare sharpened as he ushered Pavo and the legionaries over to the ship’s edge. ‘That’s it, keep low, keep down,’ he encouraged them as they took the anchor on their backs, crouching below the lip of the vessel.

  The liburnian cut once more along the side of the trireme.

  ‘Slings again, ready shields!’ Zosimus bawled.

  But before the Cretan pirates could loose their hail, Gallus stood tall. ‘Up and over!’ he roared.

  Pavo cried with the colossal effort of rising with the anchor on his back. His comrades groaned likewise, but the iron monolith ground and splintered against the edge of the trireme and then, at once, the weight was gone.

  Pavo panted, seeing the pirates gawp, their slings falling limp. The pirate captain’s broad grin faded, and his face greyed as the anchor hurtled down, then plunged into the deck of the liburnian with a crash of shredding timber. Dust and splinters billowed into the air, and then all was silent. For a moment, it seemed that the hole in the deck had caused little harm as the liburnian continued on its sweeping course. But then the anchor chain lifted and grew taut as the liburnian drew away from the hull of the Roman trireme. First, there was a groan of timber, then a chopping, snapping and shredding of collapsing hull. The Roman trireme tilted, but the lighter liburnian took the brunt of the stress.

  ‘Pull down the sails!’ the pirate captain cried. But it was too late. With the liburnian at full sail, the grappling anchor caused the pirate vessel to pivot sharply, almost dragging its hull below the water so acute was the angle. This jolted the pirates, casting them across the decks like toys. Some were catapulted overboard, one serving as an appetiser for the gathered shiver of sharks – his body torn apart in moments.

  As the snared and crippled liburnian settled, the legionaries hauled at the anchor chain and drew the vessel back towards the trireme. When the hulls touched, Gallus stepped up on the edge of the trireme and glowered down on the pirate crew, his teeth clenched and his eyes alight with fury. Pavo joined him. Zosimus, Sura and the rest of the century were quick to follow.

  ‘Finish them!’ he roared.

  Like swooping eagles, the century leapt down onto the pirate deck. They came together as one, nudging together, spears raised, shields interlocked. The pirates’ shock faded when they realised they had no option but to fight or die.

  The leader drew his hook-ended falcata blade, then waved his men together. They presented a rabble of shields and blades. With a cry, they rushed the Roman square.

  Pavo felt his whole body tremble with battle-rage as a roar tumbled from his lungs and mixed with those of his comrades. A clatter of iron on iron was accomp
anied by a ferocious jolt to his shield arm as the Cretan pirate charge battered the Roman square back.

  ‘Stay together! Cut to the throat, to the thigh, keep your shields high,’ Pavo cried out as he felt the legionaries either side of him struggle to stay on their feet. He lowered his shield just enough to see over it, and was greeted by the sight of a bald, sunburnt giant thrusting a curved blade at his face. Pavo jinked to one side, the blade singing past his ear, then jabbed his spear out, lancing the giant through the chest. The giant’s grimace suddenly vanished, and a look of confusion replaced it along with an eruption of black blood from his lips and nostrils. Pavo ripped his spear back from the man’s ribs, then slipped on something and crashed to the deck. He shuddered as he realised he had fallen in the spilled guts of one of his dead comrades, but when the legionary square pushed forward around him, he knew they were winning. He leapt up and barged forward to take his place in the front line again, drawing his spatha and hacking out at the rodent-faced brigand that lurched for him. The spatha blade cut through the man’s neck and brought with it a shower of blood. Pavo felt the hot gore splatter on his lips and grimaced at the familiar metallic stench.

  ‘Come on – let’s finish this,’ he heard Gallus urge them on. ‘These bastards have had their day, now let’s show them the road to Hades!’

  With renewed vigour, the Roman square barged forward. Pirates fell in swathes and the shattered decks ran slick with blood.

  ‘Fight on, you dogs,’ the pirate captain roared, hacking at one of his men who fled from the fight, ‘our reinforcements are almost here.’