2nd of Sextilis – Massilia
Brutus strode out of the building that served as his headquarters on the island, hurriedly pinning his cloak in place. It may still be summer at Massilia, but the sea could carry a cutting breeze nonetheless.
‘What did it say, precisely?’
The sailor – one of a number of scouts he had put in position facing the city to keep him apprised of any activity – shrugged. ‘I’ve been a long time out of that game, admiral. My knowledge is rusty at best, but there is definitely another fleet departing Massilia with immediate effect. The signals didn’t carry the same warnings of direct danger, though. Whoever it is using the signal light was quite vague.’
‘If he is risking everything to send us signals from the walls, we have to trust that he is doing the best he can. Perhaps the enemy are fleeing? Maybe Ahenobarbus is returning to his master? Whatever the case, we need to stop ships leaving every bit as much as entering Massilia. How’s the fleet?’
‘Ready to sail, sir.’
Brutus nodded and descended the stairs toward the wharf. In more peaceful times, this island and the small dock and structures on it had been used as something of a ‘holding pen’ for busy times in the port. When ships were backed up they could put in here to jetties and wait for their turn in Massilia, for the city was without doubt one of the busiest and most wealthy of all the ports on the Mare Nostrum. Now, it served as Brutus’ base of operations and was perfect for the task, but for the fact that the jetties were not facing the city. In fact, the place was part of an archipelago of four islands, and the various rocks, combined with the shape and orientation of the islands, made this very location the most comfortable, sheltered harbour, but faced inconveniently away from the besieged city.
Eighteen ships sat at the jetties, almost filling the small port. Twelve he had built at Arelate, plus the six he’d captured during that ridiculous naval engagement over a month ago. They were now all well-supplied and decked out for war, and the crews had been augmented with every good sailor or brave soldier Brutus could lay his hands on. The Massiliots might still outnumber him, but his fleet was better and more prepared than ever.
Across the harbour, men were scurrying aboard ships and things being made ready. The ships were prepared to sail.
‘Give the order,’ Brutus shouted, waving to the musician at his balcony above the quayside. The man lifted his horn and blew a sequence of notes. The ships began to move, pulling away from the jetties almost immediately, and Brutus picked up the pace, making for his flagship, the Superbia – a wide and strong trireme taken from Ahenobarbus last month. There was something satisfying about using the enemy’s best ship as his command vessel. He had renamed it the Superbia – the Pride – in acknowledgement of his family’s descent from Tarquinius Superbia, the last king of Rome.
Barely had he slipped aboard than the ramp was drawn in and the ship began to depart, following much of the fleet, which was already making for open water. The south-east-north-west orientation of the harbour made for easy arrival and departure, the prevailing summer winds allowing ships to drift into port close-hauled on a port tack, with little need for rowing, and out in a similar fashion. The sailors used their oars to heave the vessel out away from the wooden jetty and then beat a short rhythm in the water to the piper’s tune just to gain momentum. By the time Brutus was at the bow with the commander of his legionary marines, the sails had billowed free and then been set to broad reach on the starboard side. The oars were shipped and the wind carried the Superbia smoothly out of harbour and toward the Mare Nostrum.
No matter how many times he experienced it, this moment always thrilled Brutus. No grunting dip and thrust of oars, no fighting, ramming, desperate manoeuvring or shouting of orders. No worry about the enemy. Just the beautiful, peaceful, almost dream-like placidity of drifting out on the water with the practiced precision of a good sailor.
All too soon the peace was over. The Superbia rounded the first of the two rocky headlands and began to jostle into position at the heart of the fleet. As they approached the second bluff, a signal was given by the trierarch at the rear and the entire fleet fell into unified motion, the same tune playing on each vessel, its piper tapping the beat with his foot as hundreds and hundreds of oars rose, circled and dipped, tearing through the water and pushing the vessel onwards before breaking free in a burst of white foam and cycling to dip again. On each ship the sail was furled. There was little wind and it would only take a mis-set sheet to cause havoc with the fleet’s disposition.
It was not as peaceful as the departure under calm sail, but there was something beautiful about such organised efficiency at sea, too. The mechanical precision of it all.
The trierarch prepared to turn, shouting the orders for the rowers and the aulete with his pipes but, as the first ships rounded the headland, the whole plan changed and orders were given to push dead ahead, with an increase in pace.
The Massiliot fleet had indeed put to sea again, and there were as many ships now as there had been on that previous occasion. Brutus strained to see the enemy, his eyes watering in the salty breeze. They had departed the harbour of Massilia, but rather than racing for the island as they had last time, they were running south along the coast toward the headland where the shoreline turned east. The same prevailing wind that had allowed Brutus’ ships to drift out of the harbour under sail was filling the enemy’s sails and driving them at speed.
They were fleeing.
They had to be.
At this distance – something around a mile and a half – the precise makeup of the ships in the fleet was rather difficult to determine, but the young Roman’s sharp eyes and practiced seamanship picked out a few salient details. While there were as many ships as there had been on that previous occasion, they were this time of a much different makeup. Many were much smaller – fishing boats or minor traders that had obviously been hurriedly outfitted to bulk out the fleet. None of those would be of great use against the besieging fleet, many of whom were large, heavy military vessels.
But they were not coming for a fight. They were running along the coast. Perhaps they had hoped, with the many rocky headlands and coves combined with the impressive speed of the following wind, to clear the area before Brutus and his fleet got wind of their emergence?
‘Beam reach,’ Brutus shouted back at the trierarch.
‘Sir?’
‘Set full sail on the beam reach. We have to catch them.’
‘Admiral, if there is just one mishap…’
‘Order the ships to space out as best they can, but I want every oar in that water pushing us forward and we make use of every breath Zephyrus gives us. As soon as they round the second headland and break east, the wind will throw them ahead. Forget the risks... full sail and oars.’
The trierarch clearly disapproved, but the signal was given, regardless. Across the fleet, eighteen ships reacted with military efficiency, sails thumping free and booming as they caught the wind, while sailors hauled on ropes to secure them and set them in the beam reach position to make the best of conditions. Even as the sails caught and the ships were hurled onwards with sudden rapidity, the pipers on each vessel changed tune, the rhythmic melody changing to a jaunty, staccato refrain that had every oar rise and dip, rise and dip, rise and dip at a vastly increased pace.
Brutus leaned on the bow, his nerves jangling as he watched ships that had only a moment before been moving in perfect unison and at a uniform distance suddenly closing on one another dangerously. The sudden proximity forced others to veer slightly, in order to avoid a clash of oars that might prove disastrous to both. It was hazardous in tight formation to rely on both wind and muscle, but he could not let the enemy fleet get away.
They were running, and if they were running then there was a good reason. In all likelihood the ships carried something important, and the most important thing to the defending garrison was Domitius Ahenobarbus. It was hard to avoid a tiny thrill at the notion of catching the enemy commander at sea and putting an end to his defiance.
The Caesarian fleet was closing. The Massiliots were almost at the headland the locals called the Chair of Lug. Beyond that was the second, southernmost headland, Lug’s Cross, and as soon as they rounded that one, it would all come down to whatever speed they could coax out of oar or canvas. Brutus’ fleet was bearing down on the enemy at an oblique angle, making for the same turn. Each oar stroke brought them closer, and Brutus could see even now that it would not be enough to head them off, but they would be so close.
Every moment they were a little nearer. He could see the ships now, could see how many of the merchants and fishers that had been added to the fleet were near ruinous, but had been patched up with emergency measures and made sailable, if barely so. Why? Had Ahenobarbus put all his good Roman personnel on board and fled, leaving the city in the hands of the natives?
Simultaneously cursing and throwing pleas to Neptune and Mercury to close the gap, Brutus remained at the bow rail, watching his ships coming dangerously close to one another in a desperate attempt to catch the fleeing Massiliots.
As the first of the enemy ships rounded the high, white, rocky headland, Brutus clenched his teeth. His lead ships were gaining, but his own fleet had become of necessity somewhat spread out in an attempt to avoid collisions. The enemy were becoming similarly strung out, with two of the small, leaky native vessels being gradually left behind.
The two fleets rounded Lug’s Chair and ploughed on south for the next main headland – Lug’s Cross – which signified the point that the coastline turned east. The two small fishing vessels with the recently-fixed strakes and patched sails, which were clearly unable to keep up with the bulk of the Massiliot fleet, turned and made for a bay with a pleasant-looking sandy beach. Above the cove stood a small native village of the Albici where any fleeing native would find aid and shelter.
‘Sir?’ called the trierarch, gesturing to the two small boats.
‘Forget them and stay on the fleet. All ships. Pass the word.’
There was a small amount of risk in that. Briefly, Brutus considered the possibility that Ahenobarbus had been clever and played the greatest of tricks, using his whole fleet as a decoy so that he could safely leave Massilia and put to shore just down the coast. But Brutus didn’t think so. The man was clearly too arrogant for such a base ruse. Besides, he couldn’t have known for certain that Brutus wouldn’t send vessels in pursuit of the pair. He almost had.
‘How far is Lug’s Cross?’ he shouted to the trierarch.
‘From here about four miles, sir.’
Brutus fretted as he tried to judge the relative speeds. His fleet were gaining. It was fractional, but he was sure they were gaining. If so, they could afford to maintain the chase. If not he would have to try something new and dangerous… if he could think of anything, that was.
Chewing on his cheek, he held up his hand and put his thumb between his eye and the largest of the enemy ships at arm’s length. Too big. He cycled through his other fingers until the fourth one matched perfectly the size of that ship. He then stood, silent, thoughtful, with his arm raised and that finger between him and the ship, one eye closed and squinting.
The deck beneath him thrummed with oar strokes, dipped and rose with the waves, yet he stood still, one hand on the rail for steadiness and the other raised. As they moved interminably forward and the jagged landscape south and east of Massilia slid by, gradually he saw the black of the enemy hull around his finger. Proof. They were getting closer, no matter how marginally so.
‘We’re gaining,’ he shouted.
‘But at this rate, sir, they might be in Greece with Pompey before we get there.’
Brutus ignored the comment and watched as the two fleets raced on, making for that high bluff that would signify the turning east. At that point they would be moving outside Massilia’s sphere of influence and making toward Tauroentum along the coast, a small port town that happened to host one of Caesar’s supply depots.
Gradually, the land slid by, each rock and cove marking perhaps a quarter of a mile along the chase. Then, faster than he had anticipated, the jagged bluffs of Lug’s Cross were approaching. The Massiliot ships raced past beneath them and began to make preparations to turn, sails being shifted into the running position. Lug’s Cross consisted not just of a rocky outcropping, but also of a barren, grey, craggy island separated from the mainland by a channel just fifty paces across.
Reaching the outer edge of the island, the first Massiliot ship turned and slid out of sight. Behind it, more and more ships did the same. Brutus eyed the narrow channel, just for a moment wondering whether a trireme with oars shipped might slip through it. Casting the idea aside as madness, he concentrated ahead. The Superbia had gradually moved toward the front of the fleet. Not quite the lead vessel, but among the front runners.
He watched ship after ship disappear around the rocky isle of Lug’s Cross, and prayed as hard as he’d ever prayed that they would catch the enemy at the far side.
Three enemy ships.
Two.
One.
The last of the Massiliot fleet vanished around the outcropping, and the lead vessels of Brutus’ fleet were but a whisper behind them. The first two ships of the fleet – the Celeris and the Demeter – turned the corner of the isle, their sails mimicking the enemy in their configuration as sailors hauled on ropes to take advantage of the strong wind.
Brutus clenched his teeth, spray rising in a fine mist around him, the dangerous rocks of Lug’s Cross looming over the port bow, his knuckles clenched white on the rail.
The Superbia rounded the headland.
Brutus’ breath caught in his throat.
This was no flight from Massilia at desperate speed. The defenders had lured him – lured his ships. In the wide sea beyond the point, a massive fleet awaited. Already those Massiliots who had been first around the headland were turning and forming up on the flank of a force of fresh Roman warships flying the eagle and lightning flag of Pompey.
Brutus ran a quick count in his head but quickly lost track. Of the newly-arrived Romans there were sixteen – all strong, veteran military vessels. Of the Massiliots, in excess of thirty. More than double Brutus’ numbers, at least.
‘Admiral?’ shouted the trierarch.
‘What?’
‘The order to turn back, sir. While we can.’
Brutus’ eyes narrowed as he peered at the enemy. There was a chance, depending on who these new arrivals were. He took a deep breath.
‘Sound the order for full speed.’
* * *
The Caesarian fleet bore down on their enemy at speed, each ship now piping and hammering a pace like the pulse of a racing horse, oars ripping through the water like lion’s claws, sails full and rounded, throwing them east.
The Massiliots were still trying to form themselves up. There was a certain feeling of panic about their sudden movements, while the newly-arrived Pompeian fleet sat in formation to one side. There was no homogeneity to the force arrayed before them. Had Brutus planned something like this, the two fleets would now be working in concert to destroy the Caesarians. In fact, the Pompeians sat with their oars still, very much separate from the Massiliot force that was turning desperately to face their pursuers.
‘Sir, we can’t take on that many ships,’ the trierarch said in a hiss, having come forward urgently.
‘Yes we can.’
‘It’s madness, sir.’
‘Perhaps. But calculated madness. Look at the enemy closely.’
‘Admiral?’
‘What we face are two separate fleets. The new arrivals are not forming up with our friends. I think we’re looking at two different strategies here. The Massiliots think they’re leading us into a trap and that the Roman fleet are here to leap on us. And I think they expected us to flee at the sight. See how they panic and how desperately – and badly – they turn? And the Pompeian ships are not moving to take us. I think they expect the Massiliots to do the work. They are here to support and mop up. That ship is the Argo.’
He pointed to what appeared to be the Roman flagship. ‘The Argo is the favoured vessel of Quintus Nasidius. I’ve met Nasidius and talked to him. He’s a good sailor and a capable strategist, but he’s a cautious man. Not one to force an action unless he’s certain. I don’t think he trusts the Massiliots. Possibly not Ahenobarbus either.’
‘You don’t think he’ll attack us?’
Brutus shook his head. ‘He will, but only if he thinks it will be an easy win. Until then he will happily let the Massiliots weaken us.’
‘And they will. They alone outnumber us two to one.’
‘Maybe, but they’re scared, tired, disordered and didn’t expect us to keep going. Have the orders passed around the fleet. No one is to make for Nasidius’ ships and I don’t want a single arrow sent their way. We leave them out of this entirely for as long as possible. Concentrate on the Massiliot vessels.’
The trierarch, still clearly less than convinced, saluted and ran off to the aft once more.
The Demeter, slightly ahead and to the right, responded well to the relayed orders. He had been making for the largest of the opposition, which was clearly the Argo, but immediately veered off to port once more, selecting as a new target one of the largest ships of the Massiliot fleet. The Celeris tacked across the front of Brutus’ flagship, moving to the shoreward side to join in taking on the ramshackle fleet of the besieged city.
Brutus turned. The rest of his ships were spreading out, all of them now in sight, with the last rounding the headland, all heeding their orders and manoeuvring toward the left to take on their erstwhile enemies rather than the new Roman fleet. The rear vessels were even now moving to ramming speed in an effort to close the gap.
The Superbia was making for one of the larger triremes in the enemy fleet but Brutus, eyes still narrowed into the salty spray, waved an arm at the trierarch. ‘Come to port a little. Make for the rounded trader with the green sail.’
‘Sir?’
‘Just do it. Ramming speed. Ship oars on approach and at the very last moment bring us to the right, alongside. Archers prepare to loose when you’re close enough to see them pissing themselves.’
Uncomprehending, the ship’s captain and crew did as ordered, shifting their focus from the big warship to the smaller trader. It was a gamble, but a good one. The sort Brutus liked, because it was gambling not on events controlled by luck or nature, but on the spirits and cunning of men, and Brutus knew how to read an enemy.
It might help a little to take out one of the biggest enemy vessels first, but there would be a good chance they would be bogged down in close fighting then, no one would see what happened, and nothing would change. But with the trader…
The smaller vessel was slightly separated from the others. It was of very poor quality and had recently been badly repaired for this journey. Yet despite this, it had been decked out well above the rowers and housed two heavy bolt throwers of the sort that could deliver a critical blow to a ship’s hull. Sometimes it was better to make a big show than to be quietly effective.
The Superbia bore down on the trader. Brutus could picture the captain’s face. It would be a mask of panic, wondering what madman was bothering with him when there were bigger ships to take out.
The flagship tore ahead, every oarsman groaning with effort as it raced through the waves at ramming speed.
By now, he reckoned, the merchant captain was shitting himself, wondering how to get out of the way. He would be looking left and right, but the Massiliot fleet had lined up to face their pursuers, and he was neatly tucked between two larger vessels. Given the opportunity, he might have been able to move backwards, but there were other ships in the way there too. And forward was just into yet more danger, of course.
There was a barely-audible thud. The captain had at least decided on a useful plan of action. A heavy iron bolt from the artillery on board shot through the air and vanished beneath the waves some twenty paces in front of the Superbia. They would have time for one more shot, maybe two if they got both artillery pieces ready, and then it would be too late. He would have to hope this one wasn’t a fluke and that they were just bad at range-finding in general.
‘Ready?’
Thirty paces.
Twenty five.
Another shot. Efficient attempt, speedy loading. Bad aim. The second bolt missed the Superbia entirely by the height of a man, plunging off between the dipping oars and into the water.
Twenty paces.
There were now audible shouts of alarm from the merchant crew.
Fifteen paces.
Nothing was going to stop the collision now, at least in the minds of the trader’s crew. Their ship was a rickety hulk that had been sitting in port pretty much derelict and had been hastily nailed, caulked and pitched back together, decked out and filled with a nervous crew. What they were facing in Brutus’ command ship was a huge, strong military trireme in fully working order, commanded and crewed by hardened, enthusiastic warriors and bearing a bronze beak on the prow designed to tear through a ship’s hull like a pilum through a summer tunic. The Superbia would rip through the trader and scatter its timbers and crew across the waves.
Ten paces.
But that would also tie down Brutus’ flagship.
‘Now.’
The Superbia suddenly dipped to the right and Brutus’ knuckles strained to hold him at the rail as every oar on the ship rose sharply from the water and disappeared into the ship. The wind in the sails was enough to maintain the blood-chilling momentum of the Superbia and, with the talented helmsman at the rear steering oars, the ship immediately lurched left slightly again.
Five paces.
Brutus braced and dropped below rail level and every archer and marine did the same. Splinters could kill on board ship.
The Superbia soared alongside the small trader, their hulls mere feet apart, screams of panic on board the other ship. The great trireme smashed through the trader’s oars like kindling, shards and pieces of jagged timber whirring through the air. Better still, because of the spacing of the ships, at the far side, Brutus could see a similar thing happening with an enemy warship. The Massiliot trireme had assumed Brutus was going to ram the trader and so had not shipped oars. Consequently, the Superbia was shearing the blades from their oars too as it ran between the ships.
Even as the archers risked the hell of flying splinters to rise and release their arrows, Brutus could see through the rail the dreadful effect of sailing through a line of oars. Every pole they had hit had been pivoted back at speed within the ship, crushing and smashing the men trying to row. Ribcages were flattened, men broken in two. Screams and blood flowed. It was horrifying.
The arrows finished the job. On his own authority the archers’ commander had split his forces to face both sides. Arrows raked the merchant ship and the more distant trireme at once.
Brutus could almost feel the enthusiasm among the Massiliots melting away.
And suddenly they were out from between the ships and into the very heart of the Massiliot fleet. Behind them, dismay filled the air. The trader was little more than a blood-soaked dead hulk, most of its crew crushed or pinned with arrows, its sails torn and port side oars smashed. It drifted forward, out of the fight entirely. The parallel trireme had similar problems, having lost its starboard oars and suffered a cloud of arrows. It wheeled slightly as its trierarch and crew tried to regain control.
Battle had now been joined fully.
Brutus glanced back to see enemy ships engaged with his own fleet. Grapples flew through the air, trailing ropes, and found purchase, hauling ships close enough for their soldiers to cross and begin the wholesale violence for which they were trained. Arrow clouds formed above individual fights. Most of the grapples were from Caesarian ships, but Brutus knew with a lump in his throat that most of the arrows had been loosed from Massiliot ships. They were filled with the Albici, the majority of whom were competent archers.
Still, despite the fact that the Massiliots outnumbered them and were fighting back with strength and the courage born of those who know they have no other chance, he could see that his own fleet were gaining the upper hand.
‘Admiral?’
He turned again at the shout and saw the helmsman pointing wildly ahead.
The Superbia had carried through the front rank of Massiliot ships and even now was passing through a second. This line, however, was wider spaced, and there was plenty of room for the Superbia to pass between vessels. His archers were loosing at longer range now, landing arrows on the ships to either side, and it had been Brutus’ intention to burst from the rear of the enemy fleet and slew round with as much speed as they could muster to come up behind the remaining Massiliots.
His plans had just changed.
Two triremes, each a good sized and strong Massiliot ship, were bearing down on him. They had been the first two ships to pass the headland and had moved into position, forming the rear of the enemy fleet. And now they were coming for the Superbia.
‘What do we do, admiral?’ shouted the trierarch.
Brutus, his heart in his throat, looked left and right and quickly over his shoulder. They were distinctly short on options. Astern, the ruination of the trader and the destroyed oars of the trireme had caused them to drift closer together, blocking any hope of back-watering and extricating themselves, the way they had come. And the ships of the second line, though they were wider spaced, were still close enough to prevent the Superbia from veering left or right. Ahead lay the two vessels converging on him. The two fastest and most powerful ships in the Massiliot fleet, each with artillery and with bronze beaks of their own. They were trapped.
‘What’s faster than ramming speed?’ he shouted to the trierarch.
‘Nothing. There’s nothing faster than ramming speed.’
‘Then you need to invent it. Hold the straight course as fast as we can go. Don’t deviate unless I shout.’
‘Sir, we can’t ram two ships.’
‘Just sail. And fast.’
The trierarch’s eyes were wild as he saluted. Brutus heard the aulete playing his fastest tune, then trying desperately to speed up even that. The men at the oars gasped in disbelief and effort as they bent to a pace that no ship’s crew could maintain for more than a few heartbeats.
‘Row, men,’ Brutus shouted. ‘It’s row or die. But be ready. I’m going to give the command to ship oars shortly, and then to row once more. You have to be fast.’
They bore down on the two ships that were coming at them from oblique angles ahead-left and ahead-right. They had just cleared the second row of Massiliot ships. There was nowhere to go but straight between the two ships. And there almost certainly wasn’t adequate time to do it.
‘They’re going to hole us from both sides at once, sir,’ shouted one of the senior crew nearby where he clutched his sail-rope and stared, terrified, at the ships converging on them.
‘Maybe,’ admitted Brutus. ‘But maybe not.’
Neptune, Zephyrus, Mercury and Fortuna, he said silently, I will devote an altar to each of you if you see us through this, and I’ll build a bloody temple over the top with my own money.
The Superbia shot forward like an arrow from Neptune’s own bow, carving a path through the waves the likes of which had never been seen. Brutus wanted to shout encouragement to his men, but found his voice silent, his throat dry, his skin prickling and ice cold.
The two triremes closed at a frightening pace. The Superbia was aimed slightly toward the one on the left. Brutus could now clearly see the crew of that ship preparing for a head-on collision. The other ship was preparing archers and artillery, expecting to hit the Superbia amidships.
Five.
‘Two points to starboard,’ yelled Brutus.
Four.
The Caesarian flagship turned very slightly, aiming now directly between the enemy vessels.
Three.
There were cries rising from both Massiliot ships now, a strange mix of triumphant euphoria and desperate panic. Some of them believed they were about to drive home the critical victory of the fight while others were seeing disaster looming. Entirely understandable, thought Brutus, since he felt much the same. It was all on a throw of the divine dice now.
Two.
‘Ship oars!’
One.
Every oar aboard the Superbia rose within the ship, standing vertical.
Brutus closed his eyes as his vessel slipped between the two who were converging on it. He heard a number of dreadful noises and cries and, a moment later, opened them to see open blue water ahead. He had never sweated this much.
‘Row, you bastards,’ he shouted, exhilaration filling him. As the oars were run out to each side and the musician began his tune once more, Brutus turned and looked along the length of the ship across the stern.
The enemy vessels never stood a chance. They had gambled all on pinning Brutus with their rams, just as he had gambled all on the speed of his men. While the Superbia shot free like a bolt from a scorpion, the two Massiliot ships collided. Oars splintered and sheared, killing their rowers in droves. Neither was at enough of a side angle for the bronze beaks to tear open their hulls, but the metal rams caught, one being torn from the ship entirely, leaving a gaping hole at the prow. Both ships ground to a halt, scraping alongside, tearing timbers from each other and wrecking their hulls. Brutus heard a fatal cracking noise from one, and immediately its stern rose slightly in the water. Its spine had cracked. The two ships were mangled and tied together by their mutual wreckage.
They had done it.
Now they only had to win a battle against incredible odds.
* * *
The Superbia turned ponderously. The men, exhausted from their incredible labours, responded to a much lesser pace from the aulete, relying more on the sails to come about than the oars. Brutus was impatient to rejoin the fight, but he also knew it was a lot to ask of his men, taking into account what they had already given and what they had just been through.
Ahead, two more of Brutus’ ships had pressed through the Massiliot fleet and were bearing down on the two damaged vessels to finish them off. Beyond that, the battle was hard fought.
‘Bring us back into the action,’ Brutus shouted to the trierarch, who simply nodded and distributed the commands. The flagship gradually righted and began to make once more for the Massiliot lines. Selecting one of the strongest looking of the enemy ships out on the flank, Brutus gestured toward it.
‘That one. Ram it if you can.’
‘Sir, that’s dangerously close to the Pompeian fleet.’
Brutus nodded but waved the argument aside. It was. But that was part of it. The new ships – they had to be led by Nasidius, else they would surely have joined in by now – were still sitting silent and still, observing the as-yet inconclusive battle happening off their bows. If they were going to be swayed to attack by Brutus’ own successes, he felt sure they would have done so by now. And if his victories were not pushing Nasidius into joining the fight, then perhaps…
The large Massiliot trireme on the flank was far from oblivious to the danger. Spotting the Superbia bearing down on their rear at increasing speed, they immediately began to move. Hemmed in to fore and starboard by their friends, they began to turn to port, toward the fleet of Nasidius. As their oars began to roll and dip and the ship picked up speed, the trierarch behind Brutus shouted for any change in orders.
‘Make for where they were, but be prepared for last moment changes,’ Brutus replied.
Familiar with his admiral’s strange and uninformative style of command, the ship’s trierarch nodded.
Brutus watched as they bore down on the position of the departing trireme. The fleeing ship was now making for the relative safety of the Pompeian galleys, while the vessel beyond was already locked in combat with another of Brutus’ ships. Currently the battle against the Massiliots could still swing either way. The enemy had more vessels, even after the destruction Brutus had already wrought. And the Caesarian crews might be more tired, but they were better and stronger.
Time to change the odds to the tune of one…
‘Ready…’
He watched the lines of warring Massiliot vessels as they closed, and marked off distances in his head. There was no point in attacking the vessel ahead, for they were busy with another Caesarian ship. Besides, the two were tied together with grapples and ropes and sinking them might just take an allied ship to the sea bed as collateral. And the ship to the left was even now picking up speed as it fled for the Pompeians.
‘Three… two… one… hard to starboard!’
This time, the trierarch had anticipated the move. As the helmsman hauled on his steering oars, the commander bellowed ‘ship oars!’
The Superbia veered suddenly to the right.
The crew of a liburnian that had been decked out and filled with archers suddenly burst into desperate activity, shouting warnings and panicking. Men who could see what was coming threw themselves into the water at the far side and began to swim as fast as they could, buffeted by the waves.
The Superbia hit the liburnian at tremendous speed, even having shipped their oars.
The bronze beak at the prow of the ship tore into the side of the enemy vessel just below the waterline. The bronze plates that had been attached to the prow from there up slammed into the timbers, cracking and splintering strakes, snapping oars as though they were toothpicks, killing oarsmen by the dozen.
Every man on the Superbia’s deck was thrown forward with the collision. A few, like Brutus and the helmsman, maintained their grip on the timbers and staggered in place. Many fell to the deck. The enemy ship lurched, driven sideways through the water by the power of the collision, and rocked dangerously. Men screamed and fell into the water or were thrown around like a child’s doll.
Even over the clamour and din of death and destruction, Brutus could hear the fatal sound of water gushing in through a holed hull. The liburnian was doomed, taking on water at sickening speed.
The Superbia’s trierarch called out his orders and a dozen sailors rushed to the front, two men to an oar, lowering the great timber poles and using them to push against the ruined liburnian’s hull. At the same time, the flagship’s oars were run out and the crew began to backwater, extricating themselves from the sinking ship.
Brutus straightened as they came free and began to retreat into open water. The liburnian was listing badly now as the hull filled with ever more water. Those men below deck would be fighting the terrible force of the sea rushing into the space, while those atop the deck were throwing themselves out into the waves and desperately trying to swim clear.
The hole they had made was enormous, especially in comparison to the small hull of the liburnian and, with a tremendous crash, the broken ship slammed down sideways onto the surface, the mast snapping like a twig, and began to slowly disappear beneath the waves. The lucky men who had managed to swim clear might get picked up by any ship not currently involved in a fight, or they might continue to swim away from the battle. Good luck to them. They would have to swim half a mile against the sea’s currents and waves to reach shore. Most would die before they even cleared the last fighting ship. Perhaps the ones who hadn’t made it clear were the lucky ones, for as the liburnian finally disappeared under the water, the vacuum it created pulled a number of men after it into the depths, where they at least would drown quickly, rather than sinking under the surface after an exhausting quarter of a mile of fighting the waves.
Brutus hardened his heart. No man could fight a battle if he allowed his conscience to rule him.
There were distant calls and, along with every face on the ship, Brutus turned in response. Orders were being given throughout the Pompeian fleet.
The men of Brutus’ ships held their breath.
The first great Pompeian trireme moved. It turned, slowly, ponderously, and began to sail away to the south. Another followed, and then another. The flagship – the Argo – went with them, bearing Nasidius away from the battle. Within moments, the entire Pompeian fleet of sixteen ships was sailing away, and the Massiliot who had fled toward them was tagging along with them desperately.
Brutus could almost taste the wave of dismay that washed over the remaining Massiliots. They had been abandoned by their saviours, and the same fleet under the same man who had crushed them a month ago outside the harbour of Massilia was doing exactly the same again further along the coast.
They had won. Brutus knew it. The fighting wasn’t over yet, but the battle was won. In addition to the Pompeian fleet sailing away and putting ever more distance between them and the Caesarians with every heartbeat, he could see how everything had changed with the knowledge that the enemy had been abandoned. The two Massiliot ships that had collided were even now disappearing beneath the water while Brutus’ vessels that had gone to finish them off were selecting new targets from among the enemy fleet. The liburnian was gone from sight, and two more ships of the Massiliot fleet were sinking, just masts and beaks jutting from the waves, sails bobbing loose on the water while men tried to climb onto them to save themselves. Other Massiliot ships were damaged or broken beyond repair, including the green-sailed merchant Brutus had hit first. Others were ruined. Two alone of all the Caesarian ships had suffered severe damage, but at a quick glance it looked likely that both could be saved with speedy work.
The enemy were running, now.
Brutus watched any free Massiliot ship turning and racing away. They simply could not get past the fight and the remaining ships of Brutus to follow Nasidius wherever he was going, so they turned tail and sailed away north around the headland, making for Massilia and home.
He let them go. Their return to the besieged city would add little strength to the place, and their tidings of defeat and abandonment would further damage the morale of the defenders.
Even as those ships disappeared from sight around the rocks, Brutus counted. One Massiliot escaped with the Pompeian fleet. Five sunk. Four currently tied to his own vessels with ropes and grapples, and which were now surrendering, realising they were lost. He had captured four more. Five, if he wanted the ruined trader he’d first hit. No. He would save the men from it and sink the thing. It was of no value. Even if one of his own damaged ships could not be saved, he had come into battle against three to one odds with eighteen ships under his command. Within the hour, he would be sailing back to the island base with twenty one ships and a stunning victory.
Was it possible to enjoy a triumph in a ship instead of a chariot, he wondered?
‘Signal any free ships and tell them to return to port and harry the enemy as they go. I want those bastards running for their lives all the way to Massilia and panicking the populace when they get there.’
For the first time that morning, the trierarch of the Superbia grinned at him as he saluted.