The Eagles Prophecy

'Best get some sleep, sir. You never know what the morning will bring.'

'Sleep. Yes, in a moment. You too, Optio.'

Felix saluted and retreated towards the dense mass of dark shapes sprawled across the deck of the Spartan. Cato watched him go, and then turned back to gaze out into the night, more unnerved than ever.

At length the strain on Cato's senses became too much and he found a vacant stretch of deck close to the bows. Leaning his back against the base of the canted foremast, he closed his eyes and feigned sleep. If his men could sleep under such conditions then he must be seen to as well. Little by little, the gentle heave and fall of the deck, the creaking of the rigging and the soft churn and hiss of the sea alongside lulled him into slumber.

'Sir!' A hand shook his shoulder. 'Sir! Wake up!'

Cato blinked his eyes open and found himself staring along an unfamiliar plane of wood. For a moment he was confused, then memory flooded back and he raised himself up, wincing at the numbness of the arm he had been resting his head on. He twisted and looked up at Felix.

'What is it?'

'Lookout reports sails to the north of us, sir.'

Cato thrust himself up from the deck and rose stiffly to his feet. Most of his men were already on their feet and silently staring out to sea. Cato pushed past them and made his way up on to the aft deck where Albinus acknowledged him briefly. Cato nodded back.

'My optio says you've sighted something.'

'Several sails. More appearing all the time. Over there.' He raised an arm towards the horizon. 'From the coast of Illyricum.'

'Pirates?'

'Almost certainly. There's no other fleets operating in these waters.' He turned away from Cato and bellowed up to the masthead, 'How many can you see now?'

After a short pause the lookout called back, 'Fifteen. Still hull down, but some of them look big, sir. Biremes or better.'

Cato coughed. 'Seems they knew we were coming. As I feared.'

'They must have known all along.' Albinus frowned, and added, grudgingly, 'Seems you were right, sir.'

'Thank you.'

Albinus suddenly craned his neck forwards.'Look there!' Cato stared towards the horizon, and as the Spartan lifted on a swell, he glimpsed several tiny dark shapes on the very rim of the ocean.

'How long before they can reach us?'

Albinus pursed his lips. 'Three, maybe four hours. But it won't come to that. The prefect will have to turn south until we make the coast.'

'Why retreat? Surely we can take them on?'

'Not loaded down like this, and not while they have the advantage of the wind at their backs. Once we've landed the supplies and equipment we can turn on them quickly enough. Then you'll see the buggers turn about and run for it,' Albinus smiled.

'Captain!' the mate called out. 'Flagship's signalling!'

Albinus faced forward and squinted at the Horus. A long red pennant was rising up the mast, and the breeze lifted it up and out in a flickering ripple. Albinus shook his head slowly.

'What's the matter?' Cato asked. 'What does that mean?'

'It means that the prefect is a bloody fool,' Albinus replied softly.

'What?'

Albinus waved a hand towards the red pennant. 'That's the signal for the fleet to attack.'

'Attack? I thought you said we couldn't.'

'No…'

Cato was confused. 'So what's he doing? There must be some mistake.'

But even as he spoke the crew of the Horus let fly the sheets of their mainsail. The tiny figures of sailors spread out along the yardarm quickly furled the sail, and a moment later the sides of the flagship bristled with oars.

As Captain Albinus bellowed out a series of orders to his own crew, Cato could only watch in horror as the sternpost of the flagship turned away from him. Slowly the Horus gathered speed as the oars churned up the grey surface of the sea, and the quinquireme surged forward, directly towards the pirate fleet.

06 The Eagles Prophecy

CHAPTER NINETEEN

'Beat to stations!' Albinus roared across the deck.'Sail in! Oars out!'

This was the moment for which sailors and marines had trained over many years, and, at the sound of the ship's drum, the men on the deck burst into activity. Sailors swarmed up the rigging, and spread out along the yard to take in the sail. Cato ran forward to join his century, the heavy thud of his boots accompanied by the clattering and scraping of oars being run out below the main deck. All around him marines scrambled into their armour, then snatched up sword and dagger belts and strapped them on, before reaching for their helmets and shields. When he reached his kit Cato found Felix already there, holding out his chain-mail corselet.

Cato nodded his thanks. 'Soon as the men are kitted up, get the javelins issued. And bring some more cases up from stores.'

'Yes, sir.'

As Cato fumbled with the leather ties of his helmet he glanced back towards the aft deck. Albinus was leaning on the rail, staring over the side towards the Horus. As the Spartan's sail was furled the trireme began to slow down. Then, from below deck, the sharp rap of the pausarius' hammer began to sound the pace for the men at the oars. The blades dropped down into the sea with a rolling chorus of splashes, then with an audible collective grunt of effort, the Spartan lurched forward. It took a moment for the crew to find their rhythm, and then the deck steadied as the warship ploughed forward. The moment they were immediately behind the flagship, Albinus shouted an order to the steersman, who threw his weight against the shaft of the huge oars hanging over the stern of the Spartan. As the broad blades of the steering oars bit into the sea, Cato felt the deck shift beneath his boots and instinctively grabbed at the side rail. Beside him Felix saw the gesture and smiled.

'Better get used to the feeling, sir. There'll be plenty of turning when we close with them pirates.'

'Let's hope they decide not to make a stand.'

Felix looked at his centurion guardedly. 'Why's that, sir?'

'We're overloaded. They'll have the advantage in speed, if not strength. I just hope they count the numbers and beat a retreat.'

Optio Felix glanced forward over the bows at the cluster of distant sails on the horizon. As the trireme rose on a swell the dark hulls of the pirate ships were clearly visible against the gleaming blue of the sea.

'Doesn't look like they're going to run for it.'

'No.' Cato pressed his lips together. The enemy fleet was steadily closing on them, with no sign of changing course. 'Tell Minucius to get the crow ready.'

Felix saluted and turned forward. A moment later Minucius was bellowing orders at his men to drop their shields and javelins, and follow him back to where the boarding device was lashed to the deck in front of the mast. As they set to work, Cato glanced back down the length of the ship, and noted the time it took for the Spartan to make the quarter-turn into the wake of the flagship. To his mind the trireme was an unwieldy vessel, a perception confirmed by the far quicker turns of the biremes as they fanned out on either side of the Horus and took up position on the flanks. It was just like on land, Cato reflected. The heavy bulk of the quinquireme and the triremes in the centre, like the legions, and the lighter vessels on the flanks, like cavalry, waiting to exploit their speed over the open space before them. Slowly, as the two fleets crawled across the sea towards each other, the Roman vessels took station on the flagship and the formation flattened from a chevron into a broad line, with a small reserve of two triremes and four biremes held back to plug any gaps that opened in the Roman fleet.

Cato raised a hand to shade his eyes as he gazed round, looking for Macro's ship. Then he saw the small three-pronged design on the bows of a bireme, out on the left flank. Cato squinted and just made out a red crest on one of the helmets packed in at the bow. He smiled, wondering what Macro was making of his new cavalry role. No doubt his friend was itching to get stuck into the pirates and would order his trierarch to ram the first available enemy. As Cato watched, the distant outline of a crow rose above Macro and his men and hung at an angle, ready to plunge down and impale an enemy vessel.