Legionary(8)

‘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 pirate 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.