Yet, although inwardly proud of Caesar’s regeneration of the capital, Octavius still brooded over the contents of his sister’s correspondence.
“Whilst in the market yesterday, concealed in my litter, I heard a water vender call our uncle the new Gracchus.” Octavius, conscious of his history, briefly and darkly wondered if Caesar would meet the other legendary reformer’s fate.
Success breeds as many enemies as failure.
*
The prow of the sleek vessel cut through the water like a freshly-sharpened plough moving through virgin soil. The trireme had been built for speed, its crew bred for violence. The wind fed the sails, giving the ship’s oarsmen a well-earned rest. Many of the crew whetted blades, in preparation for the raid. Dice tumbled upon the slick deck. Lucky talismans were kissed - and prayers offered up to Neptune - out of superstitious routine. The spray from the ocean freckled piratical faces.
The breeze hissed. The signet ring on the hand of Sextus Pompey tapped upon the figurehead of a lion, painted gold, which gazed out from the bow of the ship. The commander’s gaze was as adamantine as the vessel’s totem. Internally he was uncharacteristically anxious for once though, for his crew were a long way from the waters in which they usually operated. Yet the ambitious commander wanted to expand the frontiers of his marine empire and influence. Rome shuddered at his name, or so the young man believed; soon Greece would suffer for Caesar’s sins as well.
A sun-polished complexion gifted an already attractive countenance a healthy glow. His build was that of a soldier’s but his features, mannerisms and dress were those of an aristocrat. His hair was blond, as golden as his lion’s mane, and was styled and fixed into a distinctive quiff at the front, to help pronounce and remind people that he was his father’s son. An air of brooding melancholy made the famous, or infamous commander, even more handsome and enigmatic - but the Roman corsair finally permitted himself a slight smile, for the bay seemed perfect. Perhaps the gods were smiling on this new campaign after all.
“Do you want to disembark now, or head further down the coast?” his loyal lieutenant, Menodorus, asked.
“Here will be fine. We will be in danger of being seen if we venture too close to a settlement. We are far from home my friend. Surprise must be our ally.”
“I will get the men to ready the anchor and launch the boats. Hmm, it seems we have a small audience,” Menodorus then remarked, squinting up at the cliff face, rippling the vicious scar which ran from his temple down his right cheek.
The commander’s piercing blue eyes scrutinised the three figures approaching from above - assessing their age, social status and the potential threat they posed.
“Give the nod to Alexander and Pollux, just in case,” Sextus Pompeius finally ordered.
“That’s neither a merchant nor military vessel,” Agrippa said gravely.
“But these waters are supposed to be free of pirates,” Salvidienus argued, unconvincingly. “What shall we do? Surely we should run back and warn someone?”
“We have the higher ground. We also have fire arrows, which will not react too kindly to their timbers or sails,” Agrippa wryly announced, grinning.
“Are you saying we should fight, rather than flee?” Octavius asked.
“Perhaps we should do both. One of us should run back and sound the alarm. We have warships in port that can set sail immediately and hunt them down,” Agrippa replied.
The pirate vessel continued to skim closer towards them, borne upon the incoming tide. There is such a thing as animal cowardice, as well as animal courage. The former - whilst gripping Octavius’ heart like a bear trap - dictated that he should run as fast as his legs could carry him. Although Octavius did not want to volunteer to be the one to sound the alarm, hope swam through his veins like adrenaline that Marcus might suggest that he be the one to escape any perilous confrontation. Yet so too a voice sounded within Caesar’s nephew, that he could not leave his companions. “Nobility has its responsibilities,” Caesar had remarked.
Whilst unhooking his bow from his shoulder and unsheathing the quiver of arrows which were specially coated so as to set them on fire Agrippa spoke, or rather commanded: “Rufus, you’re the fastest runner over a long distance, so you must head back to town. Octavius and I will do our best to stop their raid from here.”
A short silence ensued, as though the reality and risk of the situation fully dawned upon the three adolescents. They might never ever see each other again. Their laughter and reminiscences beside the riverbank not two hours ago now seemed a world away, unreal. Octavius nodded, as if trying to convince himself, as well as Rufus, that it was a good plan and everything would turn out well. The pirates appeared to be without horses. Should a group of the raiders land and make their way up the steep track, which was located over the other side of the bay, then Octavius and Agrippa could still make their escape without their pursuers even knowing in which direction they had fled.
A nervy Salvidienus nodded back and smiled encouragingly at his two friends. He would repay the relief he felt at being picked to sound the alarm by running as if his life depended on it. As the wiry youth dropped his provisions and bow to the ground, Octavius advised him to:
“Make haste slowly. Pace yourself. We’ll be okay, so don’t you burn yourself out with the burden of our safety on your shoulders, Rufus. Even Oppius couldn’t hit us with an arrow from down there - but even you couldn’t miss in terms of us shooting down upon their ship,” Octavius reassured his companion.
“I’ll be back before you know,” Salvidienus replied.
“Aye, and bring a bottle of Falernian with you this time, to toast our victory,” Agrippa exclaimed, attempting to lighten the mood.
Salvidienus nodded, filled his lungs twice with the sea air, and sped off.
*
“And now there are just two it seems,” Sextus remarked to his second-in-command.
“If they have any sense they’d all be off. We should not suffer the young fools gladly. But rather we should gladly see the young fools suffer,” Menodorus drily replied, whilst polishing the decorous ball of amber on his sword.
“Unhoist the sails. Bring us to a stop. Put down the anchor. We are close enough I think,” Sextus quietly informed his lieutenant - who then bellowed out his commander’s orders - all the while not taking his eyes of the two youths on the cliff top.
“You’re not worried about those two cubs are you?” Menodorus asked, observing the slight disquiet in his friend’s expression.
“More curious than worried I’d say. Why haven’t they all fled? Are they ignorant of our intent? Or just curious themselves?”
“Either way, they’ll pay for their ignorance or curiosity - and they’ll either be dead, slaves or hostages worth ransoming by sun down,” the pirate replied in his raspy, Spanish accent.
Menodorus now removed his gladius and, with a sharpening stone that he wore like a lucky pendant, he began to whet an already well kept edge. The blade gleamed, mirroring the cold glint in the sadist’s eye. He licked his lips in anticipation of the youths’ imminent deaths, for deaths presaged plunder, good food and women. Indeed Menodorus couldn’t remember the last instance when so much time had passed without him having killed someone; such had been the length of their voyage. Sextus had sensed the men’s disquiet too - Alexander and Pollux were only too pleased to be let off the leash - which is partly why he had finally decided to launch his first raid. So too he had sailed in these waters many years ago, with his father, and recalled the relative seclusion and affluence of the region.
*
The claret firmament faded to a dull brown. The timbers of the pirate ship turned black, the sea charcoal grey. The first flaming arrow shot across the sky like a comet, roaring and then thudding into the deck of the ship. For a second or two mouths were agape - and hearts stood still - as if the fiery bolt had been sent by the gods. But petrification but lasted a moment before half a dozen men frantically ran to the shaft and stamped o
ut every cinder of the unexpected, abominable missile.
Fire stokes the nightmares of every sailor. Ships seldom sink, but they often burn. People drown in silence, but the death rattles curdle the blood of men being burned alive. Even the imperious air of the self-titled ‘Son of Neptune’ was shattered. Menodorus bared a set of small, sharp yellow teeth and spat out a curse.
“We have more arrows than you have feet to stamp them out. You would do well to leave these shores,” a youthful but purposeful voice issued from above. Sextus could but make out the build of the figure above, as Octavius too failed to pick up the facial features of the person he addressed.
Sextus allowed himself a brief, begrudging smile at the audacity of the youths.
“What’s your name, boy?” the commander then bellowed up, in an attempt to buy some time.
“You can call me Teucer,” Gaius replied, naming himself after the famed Greek archer in the Illiad. Agrippa had no need to warn Octavius about not using his real name. Either the pirates would not believe him, or they would target him as a hostage worth ransoming.
“Well then young Teucer, how would you like to cut a deal?”
“I would much rather cut your throat,” Agrippa replied, his voice echoing through the air and scaring off a brace of gulls who were loitering on the cliff top.
“And who might you be?” an amused, rather than threatened, Sextus Pompey replied.
“Ajax,” Marcus Agrippa immediately retorted, taking the name of Teucer’s brother. “What’s yours?”
“Odysseus,” the wily commander answered, smirking. Sextus did not want to reveal his presence in the region quite yet. So too the youths might just have figured that he was lying - trying to scare them - should the Son of Neptune have announced himself. “I’m actually beginning to like these two scoundrels. It’s somewhat apt though that they’ve named themselves after a couple of dead heroes,” Pompey remarked to his lieutenant. Menodorus barely registered the comment however, watching as he was the two figures of Alexander and Pollux nimbly scaling the cliff face.
“Your first shot could have but been guided by fortune. Prove to me that you’re a threat, rather than just lucky - and we’ll be on our way.”
Octavius this time allowed Agrippa to nock his arrow, set the tip alight via the uncovered lamp that rested on the ground, and fire the shaft down at the stationary vessel.
An arrow once more thudded into the deck of the trireme - with pirates and buckets of water this time extinguishing the dangerous bolt with less drama. Sextus raised his eyebrow in appreciation of the keen eye and strong arm behind the missile. He grinned to himself however as well, for the adolescents had risen to his bait - and arrows would now be absent from their bows for when Pollux and Alexander surprised them.
Their limbs ached but the two cutthroats gave no indication of their fatigue as they suddenly and terrifyingly emerged from climbing the cliff face. The first, Pollux, had been a gladiator, freed by Spartacus. He had escaped over the Alps years ago and made his way to the Spanish coast, turning pirate there. A harelip gave the muscular Athenian a permanent mocking expression, which now chilled the blood of Octavius. The second assassin, Alexander, was as wiry as his comrade was brawny. His dark eyes glittered with prospective sadism, his villainous grin revealing a brace of dog teeth in his radish coloured gums. Both men removed their swords from the backs of their belts, seemingly in unison. Sextus would reward them well for a job well done - and they would relish the easy kills.
Octavius and Agrippa edged back immediately, out of range of retrieving their arrows. Octavius gulped and was perhaps on the brink of running - and abandoning his friend - or begging for mercy.
First there was the faint sound of the knife scraping against its sheath. Then there came the whisper of the weapon darting through the air. Then there came the abrupt thud, as Agrippa’s hunting knife found its target of the pirate’s barrel chest. The freshly sharpened blade managed to puncture the former gladiator’s heart and lungs. Although his twisted mouth was agape in agony, silence but issued forth from the Athenian.
Agrippa no sooner observed his hunting knife buried up to its hilt in the large cutthroat’s chest, than he quickly turned to Octavius and grabbed the fishing knife from his friend’s belt. He deftly threw it at the second assassin. Disbelief first lined Alexander’s expression after observing his friend Pollux felled by the adolescent, but shock was quickly displaced by rage. Not only was Agrippa’s second throw less accurate than his first, but the slender fishing blade lacked the power and potency of his own knife.
The dog-toothed pirate seethed in pain as the knife lodged into his left shoulder. The air was filled with curses and spittle. Rather than wait for the pirate to attack him however Marcus suddenly launched himself at the assassin. As Alexander was half-way through swinging his gladius at his target, his shoulder - and seemingly his entire left side - flared up in fiery pain as Agrippa’s bow, carved from yew and horn, smacked into his upper left arm. Steel jagged into bone and sinew. Taking advantage of his enemy’s brief disorientation Agrippa proceeded to grab the hilt of the knife, twisting it in unison with the sneer which appeared on his face. With his other hand Marcus grabbed Alexander by the throat. Within half a second he pushed the weakened pirate back, throwing him off the cliff. His scream curdled the air. Sextus and his crew were gripped by the sight of the flailing figure fall to his death in the shallow waters below, yet none could discern in the falling light whether the victim was friend or foe.
Pollux lay upon his back, semi-conscious. Blood trickled out from his mouth, accompanying the shallow breathing of the giant, but vulnerable, man. The large hunting knife was still lodged in his sternum, the ribs acting like teeth, chomping down on the blade. Agrippa’s hand slipped off the handle of the weapon at first, such was the amount of slick blood covering it, but once he had wrestled the blade free the remorseless youth immediately cut the assassin’s throat, terminating the gurgling noise of his shallow breathing completely.
Despite his exertions Agrippa’s demeanour still appeared calmer than Octavius’. Octavius had remained rooted to the spot during the entire fight and now gazed at his friend - who peered over the edge of the cliff for further assailants - as if he was a stranger. There had been both a sense of method and instinct in the actions of Agrippa during the fight. One would have scarcely believed that the youth hadn’t killed before. Later that night Marcus would replay the encounter - and he would suffer fearful nightmares based upon how the violence could have unfolded; yet more so he felt a sense of purpose and pride in regards to what had happened. Finally he’d had an opportunity to test his skills and mettle. He had killed an enemy of Rome. And he had protected Octavius, as if it had been his duty to do so.
Agrippa collected his thoughts for a few moments and, briefly, an expression of pensiveness and something else overcame him - borne from the overwhelming experience and emotion which besieged his nerves. But then he reined himself, took two deep breaths and picked up his bow.
The scarlet sun finally sunk over the horizon, darkening further the young lion’s glowering countenance.
Sextus Pompey nervously bit his bottom lip and glanced up at the cliff top. He stood at the prow of the ship so his men could not observe the burgeoning worry and frustration in his features. Surely Pollux and Alexander had dispatched the two irksome youths without any trouble? Or had the boys not been alone? Perhaps they had been with their girlfriends - and they’d been trying to impress them by challenging the pirate ship? The two brutish assassins had enjoyed themselves with women before – ‘spoils’ they had called them. But just as Pompey sensed that something was somehow wrong, he was duly proved right.
The bow creaked, almost wincing in pain, as Agrippa drew the string back more than perhaps he had ever done in his life. Anger fed his strength. The following morning the youth would offer up a prayer of thanks to Mars for inspiring him the night before - but equally his heart pumped oxygen and adrenaline through his body t
o power his bulging forearms. The bow sang, twanged, and the flaming arrow roared through the raven-black air, akin to the sound of the air whooshing inside a seashell. The bolt rained down like a fist of molten lava from a volcano.
Missile after missile was unleashed, pimpling the deck and rigging in flames. Octavius would hand the arrow to Agrippa. Agrippa would set the bolt into place and draw the bow. Octavius would then hold the lamp up and, as soon as the arrow-head caught alight, Agrippa would fire. Before the shaft even found its target, Octavius would have another shaft ready.
“Back! Back! Retreat you dogs!” Menodorus snarled at his company of oarsman, whilst the rest of the crew scrambled around the vessel, attempting to stamp and douse out the growing epidemic of small fires.
Smoke, instead of the familiar smell of sea air, filled the nostrils of the Son of Neptune. If he wanted to land and raid now - and take his revenge on those sons of fortune above - then he would be in danger of losing his ship and means of escape. Sextus Pompey appreciated the value of living to fight another day however, and had ordered Menodoros to sound a tactical retreat.
The rhythm of the drum, which set the pace of the company of oarsman, skipped a beat as one of the accursed missiles landed at the stroke-master’s feet. He further comically lost time by trying to stamp out the potential blaze, whilst simultaneously attempting to keep stroke. An oarsman was even gruesomely struck in the neck by an arrow, his eyes bulging out of his head - but his comrades either side of him principally regarded the dying man as motivation to row quicker.
The pirate ship finally began to crease the sea around it and move away from the shore. Menodorus marshalled the bucket teams and oarsman. Before long Agrippa had to fire up into the air to reach the vessel, instead of just down upon them - and eventfully, despite pulling a muscle in his shoulder, the trireme was out of range. Finally his efforts caught up with him and Agrippa, his arms feeling like jelly, dropped his bow and gasped for air. Octavius put a fraternal hand on his back and retrieved his canteen of water for his fatigued friend.
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