The Death of Kings

A few seconds later, arrows began to spit into the air from both of the enemy triremes. There was no order or aiming to them, just the steady firing high into the air with the hope of pinning a legionary under one of the long black shafts.

The ramming ship alone would have slid astern in clear seas, but obstructed from the front by the first trireme, Accipiter had to dodge, with all the oars on one side ordered to reverse. The strokes were clumsy, but it was faster than simply having them raised clear while the other side brought Accipiter round. It slowed them down, but Gaditicus had seen the need to head for the outside line, or he would be caught between the two ships as the second pulled alongside.

Accipiter crunched past the prow of the first trireme, shuddering as the speed fell off. Gaditicus had the slave-master ready for the move and below decks the oars were pulled in quickly. The professionals of the trireme were not fast enough. Accipiter snapped the beams in groups of three as she passed, each one crushing a man into bloody pulp, deep in the heart of the enemy vessel.

Before the Roman ship had travelled more than half the length of the trireme’s oars, the bronze ram of the second smashed into Accipiter with the cracking roar of broken timbers. The whole ship groaned at the impact, like a living animal. The slaves below began to scream in a horrific chorus of terror. They were all chained to their benches and if Accipiter went down, so did they.

Arrow fire cut into Accipiter’s deck, but there, if nowhere else, was the evidence of lack of army discipline. Julius thanked his luck that they hadn’t the training to fire volleys as he ducked under a shaft that whined nastily over his head. The shields protected the men from most of the shots and then the heavy corvus was leaning out and over, seeming to hang in the air for a moment when the ropes were cut, then slamming down into the enemy deck, its spike holding it as solid as the retribution to come.

The first of the legionaries ran over the causeway, crashing into those who waited, yelling defiance at them. The usual advantage of numbers was gone against either of the two attacking ships. Both seemed packed with fighters, their armour and weapons a mixture of old and new from the whole of the coastal ports.

Julius found Cabera at his side, his usual smile missing. The old man had taken up a dagger and shield, but otherwise wore his habitual robe, which Gaditicus had allowed as long as it was checked for lice twice a month.

‘Better to stay with you than down in the dark, I think,’ Cabera muttered as he took in the unfolding chaos. Both ducked suddenly under their stiff wooden shields as arrows hummed past them. One shaft struck near Julius’ hand, rocking him back. He whistled softly as he saw the barbed head had come through.

Heavy bronze hooks clattered onto the planking, trailing writhing coils. Men began to leap onto Accipiter’s decks and the noise of battle sounded all around, clashing swords and shouts of triumph and despair.

Julius saw Suetonius spread his men out in a line to meet the attackers. Quickly, he ordered his twenty in to support, though he suspected they would have run in without him if he had been slow. There could be no surrender with Accipiter holed and every man there knew it. Their attacks were ferocious in their intensity and the first over the corvus cleared the decks before them, ignoring wounds.

Cabera stayed with him as he moved in to engage and Julius felt comfort from his presence, reminding him of other battles they had survived together. Perhaps the old healer was a good-luck charm, he thought, and then he was into the arc of enemy blades and cutting them down without conscious will, his body reacting in the rhythms Renius had taught him year after hard year.

Julius ducked under a hatchet and shoved the wielder when he was off balance, sending him sprawling by the feet of Pelitas, who stamped hard without thinking in the legionary’s classic battlefield reaction. If it’s upright, cut it down. If it’s down, stamp it flat.

The corvus was packed with soldiers as they jostled and shoved to get over. They were an easy target for archers and Julius could see a group of them against the far rail of the trireme taking shots when they could see through their own men. It was devastatingly effective fire at that short range and more than a dozen legionaries went down before those on board cut the archers apart like so much wheat, in a bloody frenzy. Julius nodded with pleasure as he saw it. He felt the same hatred for archers that all legionaries felt who had known the terror and frustration of their long-range attacks.

The second trireme had backed oars and pulled almost free of Accipiter, the damage done. Gaditicus watched them manoeuvre as he held back units to repel their assault when it came. The situation was changing too rapidly to predict, though he did know the pirates couldn’t stand off. Accipiter could be sinking, but she would not begin to settle for minutes more and the legionaries could yet fight their way clear onto the other trireme, taking command there. It wasn’t impossible that they could salvage some sort of victory if they had an hour and were left alone, which is why he knew there would be another attack as soon as the second ship could clear its ram and bring its fighters close enough to board. He swore to himself as the last cracking timber sounded and the sharp prow pulled away from Accipiter, with the new orders to their oarsmen shouted quickly in what sounded like a mixture of Greek and dog Latin.

Gaditicus sent his remaining reserve of soldiers to the other side of Accipiter, guessing they would board on the opposite side to split the defenders. It was a sensible move and served its purpose, though if the first trireme could be taken quickly enough, then all his men could be brought to repel the new attack and the day might not be lost. Gaditicus clenched his fist over the hilt of his gladius in what he knew was useless indignation. Should he have expected them to meet him fairly and be cut to pieces by his soldiers? They were thieves and beggars, after the silver in his holds, and it felt as if small dogs were bringing down the Roman wolf. His hand shook with emotion as he saw the bank of oars pulled in on one side and the second trireme sculling towards his beloved ship. He could still hear the screaming of the slaves below in a constant chorus of terror that wore at his nerves.

Julius took a blow on his armour and grunted as he reversed his sword through a man’s face. Before he could take in his position, a bearded giant stepped towards him. Julius felt a touch of fear as he saw the enormous height and shoulders of the warrior carrying a weighty metalworker’s hammer that was stained red with blood and hair. The man’s teeth were bared and he bellowed as he brought the weapon over his shoulder in a downward blow. Julius backed away, bringing his arm up to parry in reflex. He felt the bones of his wrist snap in the impact and cried out in pain.

Cabera darted quickly between them and sank his dagger into the man’s neck, but the warrior only roared and brought the hammer back round to sweep the frail healer away. Julius reached for his own dagger with his left hand, trying to ignore the agony of grating bones. He felt dizzy and suddenly detached, but the enormous man was still dangerous, though blood fountained from the neck wound.

The bull-like figure staggered erect and swung again in blind pain. The hammer connected solidly with Julius’ head with a dull crack and he collapsed. Blood pooled slowly from his nose and ears as the fight went on around him.

CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_54ecd554-0ce0-5773-ac66-59bdaabe761a)

Brutus took a deep breath of clean mountain air as he looked back at their pursuers. With Greece spread out below them and the slopes covered with tiny purple blooms lifting a rich scent into the wind, it seemed wrong to be dwelling on death and revenge. Yet, as Renius had predicted, the group of riders contained at least one good tracker, and over the last five days they had remained doggedly on their trail despite a number of attempts to lose them.

Renius sat on a mossy rock nearby with his shoulder stump exposed, rubbing grease into the scarred flesh as he did every morning. Brutus felt guilty each time he saw it, remembering the fight in the training yard of Julius’ estate. He thought he could even remember the blow that had severed the nerves of the arm, but there was no calling it back after all this time. Though the flesh had formed a pink pad of callus, raw patches would appear that needed to be salved. The only real relief came when Renius was forced to leave the leather cap off and let the air get to the skin, but he hated the curious looks it brought and shoved the cap back on whenever he could.

‘They’re getting closer,’ Brutus said. He didn’t need to explain, the five men following had been in both their thoughts ever since first sighting them.

The sun-hammered beauty of the mountains concealed a poor soil that attracted few farmers. The only signs of life were the small figures of the hunters making their slow way up. Brutus knew they could not stay ahead of horses for much longer and as soon as they reached the plains below the Romans would be run down and killed. Both of them were approaching exhaustion and the last of the dry food had gone that morning.

Brutus eyed the vegetation that clung to life on the craggy slopes, wondering if any of it was edible. He’d heard of soldiers eating the singing crickets that haunted each tuft and clump of grass, but it wouldn’t be worth it to catch one at a time. They couldn’t go another day without food and their waterskins were less than half full. Gold coins still filled his belt pouch, but the nearest Roman city was more than a hundred miles away across the plains of Thessaly and they’d never make it. The future looked bleak unless Renius could come up with an idea, but the old gladiator was silent, apparently content to while away an hour rubbing his stump. As Brutus watched, Renius pulled one of the dark flowers and squeezed its juice onto the hairy pad that hung from his shoulder. The old gladiator was always testing herbs for their soothing effect, but, as usual, he sniffed with disappointment and let the broken petals fall out of his good hand.

Renius’ calm expression suddenly infuriated Brutus. With a pair of horses under them, the pursuers from the village would never have come close. It was not in Renius’ nature to regret past decisions, but every pace gained on the footsore Romans made Brutus grunt in irritation.

‘How can you just sit there while they climb up to us? The immortal Renius, victor of hundreds of bouts to the death, cut to pieces by a few ragged Greeks on a hilltop.’

Renius looked at him, unmoved, then shrugged. ‘The slope will cut down their advantage. Horses aren’t much good up here.’

‘So we’re making a stand then?’ Brutus demanded, feeling vast relief that Renius had some sort of plan.

‘They won’t be here for hours yet. If I were you, I’d sit down in the shade and rest. You’ll find sharpening my sword will calm your nerves.’

Brutus scowled at him, but still took up the older man’s gladius and began to work a stone along the edges in long strokes.

‘There are five of them, remember,’ he said after a while.

Renius ignored him, fitting the leather cup over his stump with a grunt. He held one end of the tying thong in his teeth and knotted it with the ease of long practice while Brutus looked on.

‘Eighty-nine,’ Renius said suddenly.

‘What?’

‘I killed eighty-nine men in the bouts in Rome. Not hundreds.’

He rose smoothly to his feet and there was nothing of an old man in his movement. It had taken a long time to retrain his body to balance without the weight of his left arm, but he had beaten that loss as he had beaten everything else that stood against him in his life. Brutus remembered the moment Cabera had pressed his hands into the grey flesh of Renius’ chest and seen the colour change as the body stiffened in a sudden rush of returning life. Cabera had sat back on his heels in silent awe as they watched the old man’s hair darken, as if even death couldn’t keep its grip on him. The gods had saved the old gladiator, perhaps so he in turn could save another young Roman on a hilltop in Greece. Brutus felt his own confidence build, forgetting the hunger and exhaustion that racked him.

‘There are only five today,’ Brutus said. ‘And I am the best of my generation, you know. There is not a man alive who can beat me with a sword.’

Renius grunted at this. ‘I was the best of my generation, lad, and from what I can see, the standard has slipped a bit since then. Still, we may yet surprise them.’

Cornelia groaned in pain as the midwife rubbed golden olive oil into her thighs, helping the muscles to uncramp. Clodia handed her a warm drink of milk and honey wine and she emptied the cup almost without tasting it, holding it out for more even as the next contraction built in her. She shuddered and cried out.

The midwife continued to lather oil over her in wide, slow strokes, holding a cloth of the softest wool in her hands, which she dipped into a bowl of the liquid.

‘Not long now,’ she said. ‘You are doing very well. The honey and wine should help with the pain, but it will soon be time to move you over to the chair for the birth. Clodia, fetch more cloths and the sponge in case there’s bleeding. There shouldn’t be much. You are very strong and your hips are a good size for this work.’

Cornelia could only moan in response, breathing in short gasps as the contraction came on fully. She clenched her teeth and gripped the sides of the hard bed, pushing down with her hips. The midwife shook her head slightly.

‘Don’t start pushing yet, dear. The baby is just thinking about coming out. It’s dropped down into position and needs to rest. I’ll tell you when to start pressing her out.’

‘Her?’ Cornelia gasped between heavy breaths.

The midwife nodded. ‘Boys are always easier births. It’s girls who take as long as this.’ She thanked Clodia as the sponge and cloths were placed next to the wooden birthing chair, ready for the last stages of the labour.

Clodia reached out and took Cornelia’s hand, rubbing it tenderly. A door to the room opened quietly and Aurelia entered, moving quickly to the bed and taking the other hand in her own tight grip. Clodia watched her covertly. Tubruk had told her all about the woman’s problems so that she would be able to deal with any difficulty, but Cornelia’s labour seemed to focus her attention and it was right that she should be present at the birth of her grandchild. With Tubruk gone from the house to complete the business they had discussed, Clodia knew it would fall on her to remove Aurelia if she began her sickness before the birth was over. None of her own servants would dare, but it was not a task Clodia relished and she sent a quick prayer to the household gods that it would not be necessary.

‘We think it will be a daughter,’ Clodia told her as Julius’ mother took up station on the other side.

Aurelia did not reply. Clodia wondered if her stiffness was because she was the lady of the house and Clodia only a slave, but dismissed the idea. The rules were relaxed during a labour and Tubruk had said she had trouble with the small things that people took for granted.

Cornelia cried out and the midwife nodded sharply.

‘It’s time,’ she said, turning to Aurelia. ‘Are you up to helping us, dear?’