The Eagles Prophecy

More ships beached either side of the flagship, disgorging their marines, and their centurions hurriedly formed their men into ranks as they arrived on the beach. A short distance beyond them the pirates were shouting their war cries with a rising intensity. Men clattered their weapons against their shields and individuals thrust forward towards the Romans, screaming insults and gesturing defiantly. From the distant battlements of the citadel came the sound of a powerful horn, splitting the air with a deep resonant note that carried clearly across the bay and echoed off the slopes of the mountain above. A great cheer rose up from the pirate ranks and they rolled forward unevenly, gathering pace and then charged down the sand towards the Roman line. The archers and catapults on the Roman ships had time for just one volley. Then the marines hurled their javelins forward, snatched out their swords and presented their shields to the enemy. Scores of the pirates were struck down by missiles and tumbled over in fine sprays of sand. Their comrades swerved round them or jumped over, sparing them no more than a glance as they charged the Roman line.

The loose sand robbed the charge of much of its impetus and the two sides came together in a string of individual duels and small skirmishes along the shoreline. Vespasian watched the fight with an initial stab of doubt and uncertainty, such as he always felt when his men first came into contact and there was no telling who had the advantage. But it was soon clear that the pirates were outclassed and outnumbered by the marines and they were slowly driven back up the beach and across the shingle beyond, leaving a bloody flotsam of dead and injured in their wake. As the battleline reached the huts, the rearmost pirates began to turn and run away, some discarding their shields and weapons as they went. Their leaders tried to head them off and drive them back into line with blows from the flats of their swords, and when that didn't work, cutting their men down as a warning to the others. However, the moment the enemy was thrust back amongst the huts, any cohesion that was left in their ranks was shattered and the rout became general as they streamed away up into the shelter of the wooded slopes. The marines broke ranks and went after them, ru

Only a handful of the enemy, out to the flank nearest the citadel, managed to form up and retreat to safety along the causeway, pursued all the way by the marines. A bireme from the second squadron attempted to get close to the causeway to bring its catapult to bear on the enemy as they edged back towards the citadel, but immediately came under bombardment from the artillery sited along the wall. When the first incendiary struck the bows in a brilliant explosion of flame and sparks, the trierarch hurriedly backed his ship out of range. As Vespasian watched, arrows and slingshot from the ramparts began to strike the marines down, but such was the heat of their excitement that they continued pursuing the pirates right up to the defensive ditch before they realised the danger and began to back off, shields raised as they retreated along the causeway. The last of the pirates ran across the drawbridge into the citadel, the gates were closed and a moment later the drawbridge slowly began to rise until it was almost vertical in front of the gate.

The battle was over then, Vespasian decided. After mopping up the pirates still scattered about the bay, only the siege of the citadel remained. Telemachus and what was left of his men were bottled up on the rock behind that wall. They had lost every one of their ships so there was no way they could escape, and there would be no ally to attempt to relieve them. Their defeat was as certain as night follows day. Only one issue remained in doubt: the secret purpose for which all this blood had been shed; the recovery of the scrolls. That, Vespasian decided, was going to be tricky. If they were still in Telemachus' possession he would surely try to use them to strike some kind of a deal. That was something Vespasian could not easily permit. The Rave

The sounds of fighting had diminished, to be succeeded by the pitiful cries of the injured and occasional clatter of weapons from some isolated duel as the last of the pirates with any fight left in them defiantly sold their lives.

Vespasian descended from the tower on the foredeck of the Horus feeling content, but drained by the strain of the days since he had taken command of the fleet. Soon it would be over, and if all went well, he would return to Rome in triumph and present Narcissus with the scrolls.

When the last of the pirates had been cleared from the bay the Roman fleet began to unload their equipment and supplies. Some prisoners were immediately set to work digging a ditch and raising a rampart across the end of the causeway to contain their comrades in the citadel. Others were constructing a palisade around the Roman beachhead.

Vespasian, satisfied that disembarkation was proceeding in an orderly fashion, took a small boat across the bay to where Macro's ships floated amidst a tangle of fallen rigging and were surrounded by floating wreckage and bodies. Streaks of blood ran from the scuppers down the side of each galley. Scattered across the hulls, wedged into the timber, were arrow shafts and heavy bolts. As the prefect's boat approached, picking its way through the debris of battle, the exhausted survivors appeared along the sides of the ships and someone raised a ragged cheer for the commander. When his boat drew alongside one of the biremes, Vespasian clambered up the wooden rungs of the side ladder and on to the deck. He was immediately struck by the evidence of the desperate fight these men had put up while waiting for the rest of the fleet to arrive. Bodies lay heaped about the mast, and the decks were smeared with dried blood and discarded weapons and equipment. Overhead the main spar hung at an almost vertical angle, the severed starboard shrouds swaying lazily.

'Where's Centurion Macro?' he asked the nearest marine.

The man gestured across the deck to where the trireme loomed over the other vessels. 'There, sir.'

Vespasian crossed over and climbed the boarding ladder to the larger vessel. It too bore the scars of the recent fighting and, as Macro's last line of defence, was where all the injured had been carried. They lay or sat in long rows to each side of the deck and several marines were busy erecting awnings to shelter them from the sun. Some of the wounded saluted the prefect as he passed by. Descending the steps from the aft deck, Macro marched towards him with a broad smile. The centurion was heavily bandaged around his chest and there was a red-brown crust where blood had seeped through the dressing.

'Good to see you, Centurion.'

'You too, sir.' Macro saluted.'Though you had us worried for a bit.'

'Worried?' Vespasian looked round at the scarred hull and tattered rigging. He could well imagine the desperation of the men who had held out here while the fleet raced towards the bay. He turned back to Macro and smiled. 'Surely you didn't doubt me, Centurion? I'd hoped after the years we have served together you'd have a little more faith.'

'Oh, I knew you'd come, sir. I just wasn't convinced I'd still be around when you got here.'

'Well, you are. I hope you've been looking after young Ajax.'

Macro nodded at the main hatch. 'He's down below, sir. Had him moved there after we took this trireme, since it was the safest place. Centurion Minucius is guarding him.'