06 The Eagles Prophecy

by Simon Scarrow

  Cato knew he was in a desperate situation, and the thought that his only line of escape lay in jumping over the side flashed through his mind. But armoured as he was, he realised he would sink straight to the bottom of the sea. So, he clenched his sword tightly, eased his shield forward and waited for the next attack.

  ‘Sir!’ Felix’s voice carried across the background din of fighting from the other ships. ‘Sir, get down!’

  Cato and the two men facing him heard the whirring sound at the same instant, but only the Roman realised the danger in time to act, and threw himself down on the deck and covered his body with his shield. Slingshot whipped overhead, cracked into timber and several thudded into the bodies of the two pirates. Both men crumpled to the deck and lay groaning.

  ‘Hold fast!’ Felix shouted to his men.

  Cato waited a moment to make sure that no more shots were coming his way, then he rose up. He glanced at the last two pirates. The big man was already dead, his skull crushed by a direct hit. His young companion had been struck in the back, smashing his shoulder blade and some ribs, and as he gasped for breath, blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He glared up at Cato, as his hands groped across the deck towards the handle of a sword. Cato kicked the weapon away and leaned over him.

  ‘Are you their leader?’ he said in Greek.

  The injured man said nothing, but continued glaring with hate-filled eyes, and then spat a globule of bloody saliva at Cato’s face. The centurion wiped it away.

  ‘Have it your own way.’

  Cato raised his sword to strike and the pirate commander clenched his eyes shut and flinched. Cato smiled, and walked away, back towards the boarding ramp, where the last of Minucius’ marines were crossing over. With nearly two centuries of marines crowded on to the deck there was little room, and Cato had to squeeze through to find Minucius and Optio Felix.

  ‘We have to move fast. This ship’s sinking, and I doubt the others will stay afloat for much longer. Come on!’

  Cato pushed forward to the bows where a handful of the marines were skirmishing with the pirates on the deck of the Trident, neither side willing to be the first to leap across the narrow gap between them.

  ‘Give the front rank space!’ Cato shouted, thrusting men aside. ‘Get back there!’

  As soon as there was enough room for the men at the side rail to swing their arms effectively Cato grabbed a javelin from one of the men and thrust it towards the pirates. ‘Use javelins! Clear that deck!’

  The marines who still had javelins took aim and hurled their weapons at point-blank range, skewering those pirates who did not have the sense to fall back. As soon as the deck was free of the enemy, Cato clambered up on to the side rail, checked his balance and leaped across the gap, landing clumsily on the Trident’s deck. He straightened up, raising his shield and sword as he called back to the others,’Come on!’

  He didn’t wait for them, but charged towards the men fighting about the mast. Some of the pirates were aware of the new danger and had already turned to face the fresh wave of Roman marines. Beyond them, Macro’s voice rose above the din as he shouted encouragement to his men and foul abuse at the enemy. Cato smiled. Then he clenched his teeth as his shield slammed into that of the nearest pirate, the impact jarring his arm right up to the shoulder. Cato swung the weight of the shield back as his sword arm thrust forward, knocking aside a desperate parry and sinking the point deep into the man’s stomach. Wrenching the blade free, he swung the shield forward, knocking the pirate down to one side, and made for the next enemy, an axe-wielding giant who screamed a high-pitched war cry as he staggered towards the centurion. The axe thudded into the shield, unbalancing Cato long enough for the giant to recover, swing the shaft round again, this time aiming low at Cato’s legs. Cato was forced to leap back against his own men, and with a cry of glee the huge man raised the axe up for an overhead blow. There was nowhere for Cato to retreat. Instinctively, he crouched low, tipped his head down and charged forwards, under the blow, and the iron cross-piece of his helmet smashed into the pirate’s face, knocking him senseless.

  The marines swept forwards, hacking and thrusting at the enemy, and the ferocity of their assault instantly broke the pirates’ will. They retreated, then turned and ran, foolishly hoping to find a safe haven from the marines. Only a few small knots of the enemy fought on, back to back, or forced up against the side rail. And there they died, cut down without mercy. A few dropped their weapons and pleaded for mercy, but the marines were in no mood to take prisoners and they fell across the bodies of their comrades who had gone down fighting.

  Cato drew back from the mêlée to draw breath and take stock. There was only a handful of the enemy fighting about the mast, trapped between Cato’s men and the survivors of Macro’s century. When the last man had been killed, Cato pushed through his marines, anxious to seek out Macro and make sure that his friend was still alive.

  The scene around the mast appalled his eyes. Twisted bodies, Roman and pirate, were heaped on the deck, which was drenched in gore that ran in livid red streaks towards the scuppers. No more than a dozen wounded and breathless marines still stood in a tight circle around the base of the mast. Macro stood amongst them, spattered with blood as he looked around wildly. Then his eyes fell on Cato and he slowly smiled.

  ‘What the bloody hell kept you?’

  The nervous relief was infectious and Cato laughed. ‘Well, if this is all the thanks we get, next time I won’t bother.’

  ‘You bloody better.’

  Cato wiped his blade on the cloak of one of the fallen pirates and sheathed his sword, then reached out a hand and grasped his friend by the arm. ‘Well met, in any case. Now we have to go.’

  Macro frowned. ‘Go?’

  ‘Get off this ship.’

  ‘But we’ve just won the bugger back.’

  ‘She’s sinking. All three of them are. Let’s go.’ Without waiting for Macro to reply, Cato turned to the rest of the marines and filled his lungs.’Back to the Spartan, lads! Quick as you can!’

  A few feet away Cato saw one of the men rifling the body of a richly dressed pirate and he angrily strode over and kicked the man away. ‘No time for that. Optios! Get your men moving!’

  The marines withdrew towards where the ram of the pirate ship was buried in the side of the Trident. They scrambled back across the gap, helping injured comrades as best they could, but only a few men could cross at once and Cato stared about him in frustration, slapping his fist against his thigh. Macro shook his head, and looked at his friend with a wry smile. ‘Now what are you fretting at?’

  A deep groan filled the air and Cato felt the deck shudder beneath his boots, causing him to stumble. He recovered, and nodded towards the ship that the Trident had succeeded in ramming. ‘There! That’s what I was afraid of.’

  The decks of the ship were already awash and a moment later the sea closed over the side rails as she began to sink, dragging the prow of the Trident down with her. The timbers of the Roman bireme protested at the huge strain placed on the fabric of the vessel, and the marines, sensing the end was near, scrambled for the deck of the other pirate vessel. But even as they swarmed over the narrow gap, there was a loud crash from forward, and just behind the Trident’s bow strake the deck shattered as if a giant fist had smashed up from beneath the surface of the sea. At once water surged over the ruined bows, the deck lurched down at a sharp angle, and the marines still aboard scrambled for a handhold. Cato dropped his shield and threw himself towards the side rail, grabbing on to it with all his strength. There were still wounded men on the deck and now their groans of agony became cries of terror at the dreadful fate swirling up the slanted deck towards them.

  For a moment Cato was gripped by the same icy horror. Then he saw Macro, holding on to the rail a few feet away. His friend winked. ‘Time we disembarked, I think.’

  Only a handful of marines were left alongside the two centurions and they leaped across the gap towards the outstretched
arms of their comrades and were hauled to safety. As Cato and Macro waited for the last of their men to quit the Trident there was a sudden cry of alarm from the deck of the pirate ship. Cato looked round and saw that she was sinking quickly, dragged down by the combined weight of the first two ships. The foredeck lurched down, almost level with the surface of the sea. Cato felt water closing around his thighs as a wave swept across the deck of the bireme.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ Cato muttered. ‘We’re not going to make it.’

  06 The Eagles Prophecy

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ‘Don’t just bloody stand there!’ Macro yelled. ‘Jump!’ Cato stared as his friend clambered up on to the side rail, braced himself, as he rose up on his feet, tottering unsteadily. Then Macro launched himself across the gap and thudded against the bow of the pirate ship. His hands grasped the rail and immediately a couple of marines grabbed his arms and hauled him on to the foredeck. The sea had reached Cato’s waist and he knew the Trident was moments away from sinking.

  ‘Sir!’ a voice called out behind him.

  Cato glanced over his shoulder and saw a young marine clutching the rail further down the deck with one hand. His other shoulder had been shattered by a deep wound and the arm hung uselessly by a few raw tendons. He stared at Cato, and there was no mistaking the plea in his expression. But it was already too late to do anything. As Cato watched, the sea swept over the Trident and the young marine disappeared in a crimson swirl. Cato was seized by a will to live. He scrambled up on to the ship’s rail and leaped across to the pirate vessel, only a few feet above the surface of the sea. The impact drove the breath from his body. His fingers scrambled for purchase on the ship’s side before a hand clamped on to his wrist and a powerful arm hoisted him up the side, over the rail and dumped him on the deck.

  Macro’s chest was heaving as he looked down at Cato. ‘No pissing about next time. When I say jump, you jump.’

  ‘I thought I was supposed to ask, how high?’

  Macro stared at him.’There’s a time and a place for smart remarks, lad. This ain’t it. Come on.’ He grabbed Cato by the arm and hauled him to his feet.

  Over the side Cato could see the distorted outline of the Trident disappearing beneath the sea’s surface. For a moment there was a deep groaning and grinding as the Trident hung on to the ram of the pirate vessel, and the deck shuddered under Cato’s feet. Then, with a jarring crash, the side of the bireme gave way. The deck thrust up beneath the Romans, sending several sprawling, and the Trident fell away into the dark depths of the ocean. A handful of men floundered amid the flotsam, screaming for help. Macro pulled his friend away and the two centurions followed the marines over to the end of the boarding ramp where the men were anxiously pushing forward to reach the safety of the Spartan’s deck. Even released from the burden of the Trident, the pirate vessel was rapidly succumbing to the water rushing in through the hole driven into her side and her motion on the sea felt leaden. Water gleamed only a short distance beneath the gratings on the maindeck.

  The ship suddenly lurched as the sea surged over the stern. With a gurgling hiss water poured across the left beam, slanting the deck over even further. Macro grabbed for the base of the foremast with his spare hand.

  ‘She’ll capsize,’ Cato realised. ‘Quick! Over the side.’

  Macro stared at him. ‘Over the-’

  ‘It’s our only chance.’ Cato braced one foot against the base of the mast and hurriedly unstrapped the belt around his waist. Then, grunting with the effort, he wrenched his scale armour over his head and threw it on to the deck, where it slid down the slope and splashed into the water. ‘You too!’

  As Macro ditched his weapons and armour, Cato clung on to the foremast. The other marines had all returned to the deck of the Spartan and were hauling the tackle to raise the crow from the pirate ship’s deck and swing it back aboard the trireme.

  ‘There!’ Macro threw down his chain-mail vest. ‘I’ll go first. Then you follow and we go straight over the side before this thing rolls over on us.’

  The timbers of the vessel began to creak and groan alarmingly as the angle of the deck increased. Macro slid down into the water along the side rail. He landed with a splash and immediately turned and looked back at Cato, arms raised to cushion his friend’s landing. Cato nodded, swallowed nervously, and let go. He shot down the sloping deck and crashed into Macro. Then both of them waded on to the side rail, took a breath and leaped into the ocean swell. The sea closed over Cato’s head and at once his ears were filled with the dull roaring of his grunts as he struggled to make for the surface. He was aware of a dim shape close by, and a hand gripped his arm and pulled him up, towards the shimmering light.

  Macro and Cato broke the surface of the sea and gasped for air. A short distance ahead of them was the weathered side of the Spartan, seeming to be as tall as a building from water level. The sound of rushing water from behind them was deafening and, sensing a shadow fall upon him, Cato glanced round and looked up at the glistening dark hull of the pirate vessel as it began to roll over.

  ‘Swim!’ he spluttered. ‘Swim for it!’

  The two centurions struck out towards the trireme, kicking clumsy strokes with their booted feet. The roar of cascading water pounded in their ears and for a moment Cato felt a current drawing him back, before he kicked free of it, struggling to keep up with Macro. Then, with a crash of spray, the pirate vessel capsized just behind them, sending out a wave that picked them up and carried them several feet towards the trireme before it subsided. Cato glanced back and saw the glistening hull rising above the sea, dark and barnacle-encrusted like a rock. Macro spat out a mouthful of salt water and shook the drenched locks of hair away from his forehead.

  ‘Shit! That was close.’

  ‘Too close,’ Cato muttered, still kicking his feet to keep his head as far above the surface as possible and spitting out a mouthful of seawater. ‘Ergh! This stuff’s strictly for the fish.’

  He raised an arm and waved it towards the faces lining the side rail of the trireme. ‘A rope! Get a rope down here, now!’

  With legs and arms working furiously against the burden of their heavy wool tunics, Macro and Cato just managed to stay afloat. Then a rope snaked over the side of the trireme and splashed into the sea a short distance away. Macro stretched an arm towards it, his fingers brushed against the coarse hemp, and closed tightly round the rope.

  ‘Pull gently!’ he shouted up to the trireme and the rope steadily tightened and then began to draw them in. Already a boarding net had been lowered over the side and two sailors had scrambled down and held out an arm each towards the two officers thrashing through the swell.

  ‘What are you bloody waiting for?’ Macro shouted. ‘Get in here and give us a hand!’

  The sailors hesitated a moment then let go of the net and plunged towards Macro and Cato as they struggled towards the boarding net.

  Moments later the two centurions were slumped down on the deck, gasping for breath as water pooled around them. Albinus was standing to one side, shaking his head in mock disapproval.

  Cato swept the straggling hair from his brow and looked about at the ships scattered all around the Spartan, some still locked in battle. Just over half the biremes were still afloat, or seemed to remain in Roman hands. One of the pirate ships, struck by incendiaries, was ablaze from end to end, and black smoke billowed over her side in a dense swirling cloud. Another pirate ship was settling in the waves, about to sink. All the other enemy vessels were hurriedly disengaging and weaving a course between the battered wrecks and the survivors of the Roman fleet as they made for open sea. The reason for their flight was clear enough: the prefect, with the rest of the heavy warships, was bearing down on the heart of the battle. A safe distance behind and off to one side followed the trireme of Telemachus, skirting round the main strength of the Roman fleet as he made for the small force of pirate ships that had wrought havoc amongst the overloaded Roman biremes.

  Cato rubbed
his brow. ‘Thank the gods, it’s over.’

  ‘It’s not over,’ Albinus replied quietly.’Not by a long way. They’re just regrouping. Then they’ll be hanging around the fleet, waiting for the chance for a quick strike, like mountain wolves around sheep. If we don’t make land before dusk then they’ll come in under cover of dark and pick off the weaker ships right under our noses.’

  The lookout called down, ‘Signal from the flagship, sir!’

  Albinus tipped his head up to face the man, squinting into the bright sky. ‘Well?’

  ‘All ships to form up on the Horus.’

  With the large warships wallowing over the swell, the smaller ships rowed in towards the protection of the quinquireme. The trierarch of the Horus stood on the foredeck, raised a speaking trumpet to his lips and began bellowing a string of orders. These were relayed from ship to ship and when every vessel had raised a pennant to acknowledge the orders the Horus gave the execution signal. With the flagship in the lead, the other triremes formed a thinly stretched diamond shape across the sea. Packed into the middle of the diamond were the smaller vessels, most showing signs of the battle they had just survived: damaged rigging, torn sails and some with livid streaks of red trailing down from their scuppers.

  Once the fleet had formed up it began to crawl across the sea, making for the coast of Illyricum, still out of sight over the horizon. The men at the oars had been exhausted by the battle manoeuvres and the ships raised their sails, while their trierarchs prayed that the northerly breeze would hold.

  The pirates wasted no time in pursuing their humbled foe, and their dark triangular sails hovered on the flanks of the Roman fleet, waiting for their chance to strike, just as Albinus had foreseen. Every so often, one of the pirate ships would suddenly alter course and steer for an opening between the triremes, trying to penetrate the defensive screen. This time the advantage lay with the Romans, whose vigilance paid off as the triremes moved to close down any gap the pirates had hoped to exploit.