Last year, Porcius and four other men had caught one of the wretched Gallic recruits from the fledgling Thirteenth legion in the latrines and had taken out their frustration on him, beating him half to death before they saw sense and fled. All because he was a Gaul and hadn’t belonged in a Roman uniform. Hard to believe they’d done that, given the Gaulish-born centurion before him now, carrying the pride of Rome into a screaming enemy with no thought for his own safety.
At that moment, Porcius wouldn’t have been the Veneti for all the gold in Rome. A fresh wave of shame for his past actions washed over him and he ground his teeth, turning to the man behind him.
“We’re clear. Let’s go help the centurion!”
Brutus pointed past the rigging.
“That one.”
The trierarch nodded and gestured to his men. The Roman fleet had worked systematically over the last twenty minutes, shredding the sails and severing the cables on the Veneti ships and now, with most of the enemy floundering and waiting to be boarded under the watchful eye of a number of triremes and quinqueremes, the last eight Veneti ships were attempting to flee the engagement.
The Aurora, along with nine other Roman ships, bore down on the desperately fleeing Veneti, granted a higher speed by the lack of wind and determined to put an end finally to the attritive warfare of this tenacious coastal people.
What hope could they have of avoiding the inevitable at this point?
Brutus frowned as he squinted into the distance and slowly the reason for the Veneti flight became clear. What looked like the coastal undulations common along this region was, upon closer examination, the entrance to a river, wide at the mouth, but rapidly narrowing. The Gallic ships with their shallow draft and intimate knowledge of the area would know exactly where they could safely sail, while the Romans would be at a considerable disadvantage. The lack of wind would no longer be the deciding factor then.
They would simply have to stop the Veneti before they could reach the safety of the river. He realised as he stood, fuming at the situation, that the trierarch was watching him with concern.
“We need to stop them getting as far as that river, or we’ll end up beached for certain.”
The trierarch nodded, though there was a smile on his face.
“I don’t think that’ll be a problem, sir.”
He turned, ignoring the look of confusion on the staff officer’s face, and pointed to the celeusta at his goat-skin drum, busy beating out a back-breaking rhythm for the oarsmen.
“Slow us right down.”
As Brutus watched in disbelief, the oarsmen settled into a relaxed mode, following the now-ponderous beat of the hammer, while the trierarch had the signal sent to the other ships to follow suit.
“What are you doing?”
The trierarch turned his grin on the commander.
“Listen, sir.”
Brutus cocked his head to the side and concentrated. He could hear the noises of the ship, the splashing of the waves, the distant shouts of the Veneti on their ships…
… and the onagers.
He grinned.
The artillery emplacements on the fort above, under the control of the Eighth legion, had begun to fire once more, gradually finding their range on the fleeing ships. The trierarch had slowed the Roman squadron to keep them clear of danger.
Brutus watched with relief as the range was quickly adjusted. Moments passed and then the first blow hit home. A massive boulder struck one of the central ships of the group, ripping through the ropes, wrecking the deck, smashing the mast and causing general devastation.
Shouts of alarm went up from the Veneti. The ships at the head of the group strained to try and get ahead, though there was little they could do, too reliant on a failing wind as they were.
The artillerists of the Eighth made their mark once more as the latest adjustments in range brought a group of five shots to the very head of the group of vessels. Two of the shots disappeared into the water harmlessly, overshooting slightly, while the other three hit the two lead vessels, all but crippling them immediately.
The Veneti fleet foundered and, with signals sent by the trierarch of the Aurora, their accompanying vessels spread out, each marking a target, leaving the flagship at the centre, following up on the rear of the fleeing vessels.
Chaos ensued among the Veneti.
After a further volley of deadly rocks had fallen among the lead vessels of the escaping flotilla, Balbus’ men settled into a steady rate of fire that brought their missiles down ahead of the enemy bows, deterring them from proceeding into the river mouth.
Brutus grinned. He would have to buy Balbus and his men enough wine to float a trireme when this was over.
Three of the eight vessels were already beginning to disappear beneath the waves, the damage from the repeated artillery fire too much for them. Three others had come to a full stop, the artillery fire dangerously close ahead and realising that their fight was over.
The nearest two vessels, at the rear of the Veneti flotilla, however, seemed to have other ideas. Their steering oars moved and the vessels began to turn, much more sharply than Brutus could have expected.
“I don’t believe it. They’re coming for us!”
The trierarch nodded.
“Your orders?”
Brutus shook his head. What could they do other than engage?
“Prepare the marines. As soon as we get close enough, have the men at the front and back use the hooks to do what they can while the marines board from amidships. Have the platforms raised for the marines so they can cross.”
The trierarch saluted and strode across the deck to his second in command, where he began to give out the orders.
Brutus once more watched the two approaching ships.
The quinquereme Accipiter and trireme Excidium came alongside for support, the remaining vessels concentrating on the surrendering or floundering ships.
“What are they hoping to do?” Brutus asked the trierarch, eying the enemy carefully. “Two against three and we have better manoeuvrability. Our marines are trained legionaries. What can they possibly think to achieve?”
The trierarch frowned.
“Not sure, sir. But whatever it is, they mean business. They’ve trimmed their sails just right. There’s not a lot of wind, but what there is, they’re using to the maximum. That man’s a good sailor.”
“They’re coming surprisingly fast.”
The trierarch continued to watch and a frown fell across his face. Brutus glanced across at him.
“What?”
“They seem to have no sense of self-preservation. A sensible captain would be turning to concentrate on the Excidium first. Take the smaller ship down and then concentrate on the others. Or at least split off and send one ship around each flank: one against the Excidium and the other on the Accipiter. But they’re both running central, straight for us. They’ll be surrounded by the other ships and then they’re doomed.”
Brutus watched the ships bearing down on them. The trierarch was right. In half a minute those two vessels would slide neatly into the gaps between the three Roman ships.
“A symbolic victory!”
“Sir?” The trierarch furrowed his brow.
Brutus shook his head in disbelief.
“They’re only doing what the general did. Caesar went for their capital. It was a grand gesture of Roman power; a symbolic victory to break the spirit of the tribes. The Veneti have lost the war and they know it, but they’ve identified the flagship of the fleet. Two against one. A symbolic victory. They don’t care about the Accipiter or the Excidium at all, and they don’t expect to survive.”
The trierarch nodded.
“Full speed! We need to outmanoeuvre them!”
But his calls were too late and Brutus could see that already. The Veneti war galleys closed on the three Roman vessels. The trierarch of the Excidium was prepared and the oarsmen withdraw their oars, leaving a bare side to the approaching enemy. The Accipiter followed suit, but too slow, some of the complex five banks of oars failing to withdraw in time.