The Aurora, however, was still under orders to make full speed and the row upon row of oars remained in the water, pushing the vessel forward. The two Veneti vessels barged into the gaps between the Roman ships, smashing whatever oars remained protruding from the hull as they slid tightly into place.
The enemy captains were every bit the sailors that the trierarch had imagined. Their timing had been perfect. Rather than racing into the gaps, as they approached, their sails were loosened and luffed heavily, failing to catch the wind and slowing the ships rapidly. By the time the two hulls drew alongside the Aurora they were almost at a stop.
Sailors aboard the two high hulls threw out ropes and grapples, grabbing the Roman ship and pinning themselves to it, bring the three vessels to a virtual halt and dragging the hulls together. The Accipiter and the Excidium were unprepared for the manoeuvre and shot on forwards, passing their targets and trying to pull to a stop urgently.
The oarsmen of the Aurora, already aware of the situation before the orders began to ring out, grasped swords, shattered oars, or whatever makeshift weapons they could find and rose from their seats to deal with the coming onslaught. The centurion in charge of the marines barked out an order and his men split into two units that stepped toward the rail at either side.
And suddenly the world was filled with deadly activity.
Not bothering waiting to lower boarding planks, knowing that their attack was virtual suicide and they would not be sailing home, the Veneti leapt from the higher decks of their ships and down to the timber surface of the Roman flagship as soon as the vessels were close enough. The number of people that had been on board the enemy vessels was astounding, the ships having picked up as many refugees from the city as they could manage, and Brutus watched with fascinated horror as waves of Veneti poured over the edge of their vessels onto the Aurora’s deck, like violent, screaming waterfalls.
The staff officer stood close to the steering oars and the trierarch, watching the attack with a glassy stare. The enemy that leapt from the two ships were not what he had been expecting. There were traditional Celtic warriors among them, certainly, but this attack was something different; something sad and horrifying. The vast majority of the boarding enemy were women, children and old men, wielding whatever weapons they could find aboard their vessel, down to even sharpened sticks.
These were no Gallic army, but the desperate refugees of Darioritum, and yet they launched themselves into a violent attack that would end with them all dead, just in a last effort to destroy the Roman flagship and ruin the pride of Caesar’s fleet.
Madness.
And yet it looked very much as though they might succeed. The Aurora’s accompanying vessels were even now reversing their oars and moving slowly back to the fight but, even when they arrived alongside the enemy vessels, they would not be in a position to help the flagship until they had first secured the two Veneti vessels, the former being trapped and squeezed between them.
The Roman crew were largely well-trained and well-armed, particularly the marines, a detachment drawn from the Ninth, but experience and equipment was only of so much use against odds of at least five men to one, which was Brutus’ estimate as he watched.
The last of the Veneti leapt down into the fray, their own vessels now abandoned to fate. The commander watched in amazement as the melee seethed across the deck ahead. The sheer number of people aboard the Aurora was making it impossible to see how things were going. There were so many bodies heaving back and forth that hardly an inch of deck space was visible. And the fighting was spreading.
Spreading his way.
Brutus blinked. The far end was already secured, with little or no activity around the ship’s bow. Yet there had been but a moment ago. And now the fighting was getting dangerously close.
The young officer shook his head in realisation as he drew the sword from the expensive, decorative scabbard at his waist. Not only were the Veneti targeting the Roman flagship for a symbolic victory, they were well aware of where the ship’s commanders would be and what a Roman officer looked like.
The fighting was getting ever closer and the bow was now empty simply because the Veneti were trying to reach Brutus and the trierarch. A really symbolic action if they could defiantly present their conquerors with the head of the fleet’s commander.
Close by, the trierarch drew a blade and stepped toward him, the celeusta joining them. A group of four marines broke from the fighting and ran toward them, forming up in front as a small shield wall.
Brutus closed his eyes for a moment and offered up a silent prayer to Juno. For all the expensive training he had, he’d very little experience in actually using his sword in combat. Staff officers rarely found themselves in life or death situations. People like Fronto and Balbus, who were just as at home in personal combat as they were on a horse giving out orders, were a rarity even in the modern army. Brutus was a strategist, not a gladiator.
Opening his eyes once again in response to a loud, guttural cry, he saw the first of the Veneti burst through the mass toward them. The action was still moving this way and the Roman forces were clearly still horribly outnumbered, a thin line of armed oarsmen fighting madly to hold the Veneti away from the stern.
The first man who broke out had been quickly and efficiently put down by one of the marines from the Ninth and Brutus looked down at the spindly figure of the old man. Ridiculous. The Gaul must have been a sixty year old civilian and he had attacked Roman legionaries with a belaying pin!
There was little time for more than a passing glance, though, as three more men burst out of the press. This time, two were civilians, but the third was a warrior, armoured in mail and wielding both a heavy axe and a stolen Roman gladius.
The three attacked the marine shield wall and Brutus watched in horror as the big warrior felled one of the marines instantly with a double blow. Another Roman disappeared to the deck beneath two young Veneti lads who combined their attack to butcher the screaming legionary with their daggers. Quickly, the remaining two marines reacted to the situation and once more got things under control. The legionaries dealt with the warrior and then leaned down and swiftly dispatched the two young men, though not quickly enough to save their compatriot, who lay on the deck in a spreading crimson pool, stabbed a dozen times and staring lifelessly at the sky.
Brutus rolled his shoulders. Was this to be their fate? Lying untended on a deck, staring at the Gods and testament to the rebellious nature of the Gauls?
Four more of the Veneti lunged through and, as they did, the remaining cordon of Roman sailors that had been keeping the fight away from the officers broke, the whole screaming melee flooding toward them.
Brutus steadied himself. The Veneti were now coming in force. The five men, two legionaries and three naval officers, retreated to the heavy rear rail of the ship, the last refuge. Among the bellowing Gauls running toward them were occasional Roman sailors or legionaries, hacking madly at the men, women and children around them, largely ignored by their victims who, in a lust driven by desperation, fixed their sights on the officers.
The trierarch watched the oncoming flood of Veneti and turned to his commander.