Hannibal's Children (22 page)

"Should we wear armor?" Flaccus asked. "If we do and fall overboard, we'll sink like bricks."

"Might as well," said Brutus. "Drowning is the least of our hazards, I believe."

"Full gear," Marcus ordered. "The Greeks don't favor boarding and deck-fighting. The pirates will want to board. Hand-to-hand fighting is our specialty, isn't it? Now get your shields. The missiles should be arriving soon."

As he spoke, the frantic activity continued all around them. The catapults and ballistas began to launch missiles with a deafening clatter, but the pirate vessels were low in the water and difficult to hit. To make matters worse, with the yard lowered but the mast still up, the ship began to wallow, making accurate fire impossible and the task of the rowers more difficult. Getting the mast down required the coordinated effort of every sailor on the ship and the job was unfinished when the first arrows began to arrive.

The Romans were mailed, helmeted and shielded in a matter of moments. Unlike other forms of armor, the Gallic mail shirt slipped on over the head like a cloth garment and could be donned in seconds. With helmets on and shields up, the Romans were invulnerable to the storm of missiles that rained on the ship: not only arrows, but lead sling pellets that could crush in an unprotected skull. The nearly naked sailors began to take heavy losses, as did the marines who worked their engines in armor but without shields.

Marcus had been impressed with Aeson's tales of sea fighting, but it was clear that the man could put little of his experience to work when caught so completely by surprise. The pirates, on the other hand, knew exactly what they were doing. Marcus knew all too well that surprise and sheer luck determined the outcome of a fight more often than strategy or tactics.

Before Aeson could get his ship properly ready to fight, the first grapples sailed across the distance separating the ships. The surviving marines ceased work on the futile machines and picked up their small shields.

"At least they're not trying to ram," Flaccus said, his face rigid between the cheek plates of his helmet.

"We could cut the grappling ropes," Caesar suggested.

"No," Marcus said. "We want them to get close."

"Why?" Flaccus asked.

"Because our swords are short!" Brutus said, raising a raucous laugh among his companions. The sailors and marines stared at them as if they had gone insane.

The pirates were attacking from the starboard side. Marcus guessed that this was because they would have to face only half of the ship's artillery this way. The pirate's deck was crowded with men, all screaming and waving their weapons. Most were armed with small shields and short curved swords or wicked-looking axes. Some wore helmets but only a few had body armor. Many were entirely naked except for their weaponry.

"What are you fools doing?" Aeson shouted.

"We're going to board them," Marcus said.

"You
are going to board
them?
You will do no such thing! If you want to make yourselves useful, try to repel them when they start to board!"

"We don't fight that way," Marcus explained. He turned to address his followers. "We won't try to board until the ships are actually touching. Too much chance of falling between the hulls if we try to jump across, and we'll be unbalanced at best when we land on their deck. Let's have two staggered lines. At my command, the first line throw their pila, then the second. We're going to board amidships, so that's where you throw. The second the hulls touch, the first line steps across. Second line, wait until the first is firmly established, then come across. We'll clear the center of the deck, then the first line will face left, the second face right and clean the decks from the center to each end. Then we'll see about the other ship."

Aeson gaped at this demonstration of lunacy for a moment, then barked orders at his oarsmen. They leaned on their sweeps for the oar-battering maneuver he had described but the pirates were expecting it and the general chaos robbed the tactic of effectiveness. Pirates seized the oars and dragged them from the hands of the rowers or hacked through them with axes. Only a few were injured by the flailing wood.

When the ships were no more than five paces apart Marcus pointed at the mass of men crowding the rail opposite. "Your spears go between that tattooed lout with the axe and the black man with the red shield. Now throw!"

As if controlled by a single brain, the right arms of the first line rocked back, paused, then snapped forward. The Roman pilum was a heavy javelin with a thick, four-foot shaft of wood and another two feet of iron shank tipped with a small, barbed point. It was designed to nail an enemy's shield and deprive him of its protection. At this range, the terrible missiles went through the light shields of the pirates as if they were made of parchment, skewering the men behind them. So crowded was the deck that some of the spears pierced the man behind the primary target as well.

While the pirates were reeling from this unexpected onslaught, the men of the second line hurled their weapons. The result was consternation on the opposite deck and suddenly there was a gaping hole in the wall of men along the rail opposite. Two seconds later the ships crunched together and shuddered.

"Now!" Marcus shouted. The Romans already had their swords out. Marcus stepped onto
Drakon's
rail, then made the short hop to the deck of the pirate vessel two or three feet below. The Romans had been drilled from early youth in the procedures for assaulting an enemy parapet, and this was nothing more than the familiar drill in an unfamiliar setting. The surprised pirates rallied when they realized that the line of strange warriors before them had no more than ten men in it, with ten more lined up on the rail behind them. With savage howls, they assaulted the small line of Romans.

At this point, the murderous Roman gladius began to do its work. The sword was no more than twenty inches long, but its twin edges were viciously keen, the blade as broad as a man's palm and tapered to an acute point. While the pirates assaulted the line with their all but unprotected bodies, the Romans ignored the flailing weapons and concentrated on killing. Their long shields did not overlap or even touch, but were separated by about eight inches. The swords darted through this gap in underhand thrusts, each thrust gutting a man or opening his neck to the spine. Even the merest stroke from one of the terrible blades was sufficient to open an arm or leg to the bone.

"Shove!" Marcus shouted. Each man took a step forward, thrusting out with the boss of his shield, pushing the pirates back. Then the metronomic thrusting of the swords began again, littering the deck with bodies and parts of bodies. Each thrust was delivered with incredible speed, the arm drawing back instantly within the protection of the shield, making a hit on the sword arm all but impossible.

Crowded together and unable to achieve proper distance or balance, the pirates could not strike effectively. With their bodies covered by their shields and armor, the only real target offered by a Roman was his head, and this was protected by the superbly designed Gallic helmet. Only when a weapon came straight for his face did a Roman even bother to take defensive action, and then it was only to incline his head slightly so that the enemy blade slid off the brow or cheek plate of his helmet.

With the first shoving maneuver, the second line boarded. The two end men of the second line used their shields to protect the flanks of the first line, which were growing exposed as they advanced. The lines began to lose their fine cohesion as they trod on bodies and the deck grew ever slipperier with blood. But by this time the pirates were already beginning to lose heart. This was like fighting some sort of reaping machine. Every man who got within an arm's reach was eviscerated.

The marines and sailors aboard
Drakon
began raining javelins and slingstones among the pirates not engaged by the Romans and within a few seconds the center of the pirate deck was secured. Then the Romans did their facing movement and the butchery resumed in a different direction.

Marcus engaged each enemy that came before him, his shield raised to just below eye level. He dispatched each with a short, upward jab. The years of drill and practice made this second nature, allowing him freedom to assess the situation and maintain such control as was necessary over his line. As leader, he held the right flank of the first line. It was the post of honor and it carried an extra danger: He was vulnerable to attack on his unshielded side.

A naked pirate, painted scarlet all over and armed with an axe, came screaming at him. The axe presented a problem. Brought straight down with full force it could cleave even his fine helmet. For this special peril, Marcus deviated from the usual underhand thrust, instead raising his sword overhead, the blade horizontal as he thrust with his shield and leaned in close. As the axe came whistling down, his blade sheared through both of the pirate's forearms, and arms and weapon went flying. The maimed pirate howled in horror, staggering back, waving what remained of his arms and spraying fountains of blood from his severed arteries.

Soon the pirate attack lost its brainless ferocity and the freebooters began to fall back, unable to cope with this unprecedented killing machine. Some dived overboard and began swimming for the other ship. As the pirate mob broke up, the Romans gave a savage shout and waded into them, the line widening as they began to wield their blades in short chops and slashes, foregoing the exclusive use of the point. It was time for the slaughter.

Marcus saw the man who had to be the captain, waving a sword, shouting and trying to make his men resume the fight, but the heart was gone from them. This man wore a fine Greek helmet and a corselet of crocodile hide. Strangely to Roman eyes, he wore heavy facial cosmetics, his lips and cheeks rouged, his eyes outlined with kohl. Enraged, the man came for Marcus, perhaps hoping to break the Romans by killing their leader.

The line had opened so that Marcus fought alone, engaging the enemy captain man to man. The pirate was too wily to obligingly expose himself to the short sword for which he had quickly gained respect. He wielded his curved blade in short, zigzag cuts while protecting himself adroitly with his small, round shield. Marcus advanced against him, forcing him back. The man had no choice but to retreat unless he wanted to go shield to shield. He had only a short space of deck in which to retreat.

When he was almost against the bow rail, the pirate chief lunged forward, diving to the deck and rolling, trying to amputate Marcus's leading foot. It was a clever and effective move, but Marcus merely grounded his shield and the curved blade clattered off its bronze rim. Marcus stabbed downward through the man's neck, his point sinking into the deck beneath. He jerked the blade free and the pirate chief thrashed on the deck for the space of a few heartbeats, his blood fountaining across the planks, then he lay still.

The Romans found themselves to be the only living creatures aboard the ship. They raised a cheer, taunting the pirates who were still floundering in the water, striving frantically to reach the other vessel, which was already backing off, its oars churning the water to foam.

Even as they cheered, the surviving marines aboard
Drakon
finally got their incendiary missiles prepared and their engines working. With an immense clatter, five of them fired at once and five balls of roaring flame converged on the second pirate vessel. The same wind that had sped
Drakon
along the coast now spread the fire with incredible swiftness the whole length of the ship. Men screamed and burned and jumped into the water. The destruction was as complete as it was rapid. For the Romans, the vicious hand-to-hand battle had been no more than ordinary legionary's work, but this fire at sea was appalling.

When they reboarded
Drakon,
the sailors were already erecting the mast while the oars flailed the water. Under Aeson's frantic orders the sail was hoisted in haste.

"Aren't you going to put a crew aboard the ship we captured?" Marcus asked him.

"Ordinarily," said the skipper, "I'd do exactly that, or at least take it in tow. It would fetch a fair price at auction in Alexandria. But, if you'll notice, there's a ship afire just to windward and the flames and sparks are blowing this way. We're getting away from it as fast as possible."

"What about the survivors?" Marcus said, pointing to the men flailing in the water.

"Pirates are worth practically nothing. Only the mines and quarries buy them. We'd get a handful of drachmae for the lot. It's not worth the risk."

"I meant we could use a few for questioning."

"We're getting away from here, Ambassador," Aeson said. "They can be our offering to the sea gods."

"I quite agree, Marcus," Flaccus said. He was watching the burning ship with horror. The heat was intense even at a distance of fifty paces and the sailors were sluicing the ship with buckets of seawater as glowing cinders landed on the deck and sail. "Let's leave our captain to his work."

The Romans were already cleaning the blood from their gear. In the close confines of the deck fight they had all been liberally splashed with it, and blood was notorious for corroding fine steel. They carefully washed every trace from their metal and only then did they bother to clean their bodies and treat their wounds. The sailors and marines regarded them with wonder and Marcus had a feeling there would be no more landlubber jokes from them.

"Who is hurt?" he asked. Flaccus had a bad gash on his sword arm. Others had minor nicks and cuts, and some had trod on the dropped weapons that littered the pirate deck. Their hobnailed caligae protected their soles, but there were some cut ankles. Marcus looked at unwarlike Flaccus disgustedly. "I might have known you'd get hurt."

Flaccus shrugged. "I'm a philosopher by nature, not a soldier." His sword arm was red to the shoulder, but only a little of the blood came from his wound.

Marcus commandeered a bucket of seawater from a sailor and dipped his blade into it, carefully sponging the steel until it was bright again. He sighted along the edges but found no nicks or notches. This was another reason the Romans favored stabs to the belly or throat. They were much easier on the blade than cuts that might land on armor or metal shield rims.