All along the Roman line, the well-organized defenders were easily dismissing the first wave of Nortlanders. “Seems like it’ll be an easy day for us,” Legionnaire Janus quipped.
Then the Scioparto and Hamdar crashed together, the winches on the enemy ship having finally reeled in their smaller prey.
“All repeater teams back to the line!” bellowed Julius. The rapidly firing crossbow teams had taken few casualties, but Julius wanted to save their firepower and manpower for the slugfest that he knew was coming.
Although only a few paces away, his legionnaires moved carefully, as the deck was awash with blood and guts, debris from the continual bombardment, and dead men from the skirmish. The first few teams were back within the safety of his shield wall when the boarding bridges crashed down. Large, heavy planks had been nailed together to form thick bridges wide enough for two or three men at a time to cross. To Julius, they looked like roadways that delivered death instead of goods.
For a brief moment after the bridges slammed down, there was one of those pauses in combat where the contestants of battle found themselves temporarily off balance, awaiting something. It’s just like what Tribune Appius talks about when he tells us about those ancient battles of Carthage, and at Delphi; like Emperor Caesar in Gaul or Emperor Hadrian facing down the Picts. Julius found it somewhat humorous that his brain was choosing to think about that, rather than the obviously bloody situation about to occur. At least I get to kill some Nortland scum. Especially Nortland pirate scum. It’s always open season on them.
With a wordless cry, the main Nortland force charged across their bridges and onto the Roman vessel.
“For my sister! For the Emperor! For Rome!” Julius yelled over their animal cries as he led his men against the boarders. The two lines crashed together, bodies flying and shields shattering. This force of Nortlanders seemed to be equipped with more two-handed weapons, including those dangerous mechanical axes that Julius remembered from the battle atop the Brittenburg curtain wall. These men were the largest and most dangerous. Their weapons could chew through even the specially designed scuta and break the shield wall by literally destroying the shields.
His men worked methodically, attempting to strike at the Nortlanders from afar with their plumbata, or hold them off with the short spear, pinning them until a fellow legionnaire with a spatha could end their threat. The two lines flexed, their seemingly unstoppable momentum first giving the barbarians the upper hand.
“Hold them! Hold them, boys! Remember your drill,” Julius encouraged, using his shield to trap an axe against the deck and surgically stabbing out with his sword, leaving a nasty cut through the meat of a thigh. The man fell, only to be replaced by another barbarian, who swung his sword at Julius’s head. Ducking, Julius could feel the wind of its passage on his neck, and then a soft rain of dyed red hair began to sprinkle his face and eyes. Bastard cut my officer’s plume. Julius was distracted, trying to get the itchy red hair out of his eyes.
The Nortlander didn’t give him the chance to recover. He reversed his stroke and Julius caught the sword on the side of his helmet, just as his shield partner severed his attacker’s arm at the elbow. The blow clanged off of Julius’s head, and his vision swam. He dropped back, allowing a filler to take his place on the line so he could recover.
A harried medico was pulling another man out of the line, blood streaming from several large cuts and abrasions, when he noticed the centurion stagger backwards. He grabbed Julius and placed him on an overturned barrel. “I’ll be back for you, sir. Don’t close your eyes. You probably have a concussion.” Julius nodded weakly, feeling a wave of exhaustion sweeping aside his adrenaline. He sat on the barrel for what could have been minutes or seconds, for all Julius knew. He watched the press of men before him, his legionnaires holding off a force twice their size.
It was only a matter of time until they broke somewhere.
I’ve got to get a message to the tribune. We need help. Gathering his wits, he looked around for a speaking tube. Spying one only a few paces away he stood, pausing as the world swayed, then staggered over to the tube and uncorked it.
“This is Centurion Caesar of the XIII Germania on top deck. We’re being pushed back and need reserves.” He closed his eyes, praying that someone was listening on the other end. He heard a brief, but maddeningly unintelligible comment from the other end.
Finally, someone responded: “Centurion, your men are on their own. The ship interior has been penetrated on B Deck and our forces are pinned down in hall-to-hall fighting. You’ll have to find a way to destroy their boarding equipment or force them back.”
“I don’t have the manpower-”
“Just do it, Centurion. Or die trying. We don’t have time to dawdle. Get those barbarians off this ship. That’s an order.”
Julius didn’t bother to respond. Leaving the speaking tube uncorked, he returned to his men. Although exhaustion and confusion had overwhelmed his earlier enthusiasm, Julius now saw what was about to happen. Grimly, he tightened his helmet and shield, drew his sword, and waded back into the fight, steely determination and anger growing in his chest.
“Push them, lads-all together!” Gwendyrn shouted from his position on the left flank. Julius could hear his deep bellow cutting through the sounds of battle. He watched the left flank began methodically pushing the boarders back, each step condensing the enemy troops, hampering their abilities to strike unencumbered. “Come on, lads, you’re going soft on me. We don’t want to take them on a date. We’re not inviting them over for wine. Push them off the gods-damned ship!” Gwendyrn exhorted his men.
Julius hurriedly gave similar orders to his men, as the Roman line began to stretch thin between the left and center. The left was advancing so quickly that the center would soon be unable to support it. Already the trapped men were sliding to their left, around the edge of the advancing shield wall, hammering at the thin line of legionnaires protecting the vulnerable side of the wall. If they gave way, Gwendyrn’s entire flank could dissolve. Jupiter damn him, if only he had told me what he was doing, we could help. Although Julius trusted his subordinates, Gwendyrn was far more willing to take the initiative than his other subordinate, Sub-Centurion Hespinus, currently commanding the squads on the right flank.
Julius grabbed a wounded legionnaire, who gave a half salute with a bandaged arm seeping blood. “Find Hespinus. Tell him we need to push them back over the edge. Use the railing as a weapon. He has two minutes to prepare before we go.” The man repeated the message quickly and raced aft, navigating the press of bodies to find the officer.
Julius turned and gave the order to his boys. He brought up all his reserve men, and even threw a few wounded warriors who could still hold shields back into the mix.
It was all or nothing.
He checked the pouches on his belt, finding the phosphorus flares right where they should be. Destroy the enemy ship, or die trying. Gripping them tightly in his hands, he mentally counted down the two minutes.