One Shout Turns Rowing Songs to Battle Roars
The rowing songs turned to battle cries with just a single shout.
“Enemy!”
“Slow down! Drop those oars, all of you!”
“Row faster! Push forward—we need to form up! Row! Row!”
“Galbaginus! I don’t need a perfect formation! Anyone who can surge ahead, do it—the laggards go into reserves! You lead the reserves!”
“Yes, Magister Militum!”
“I can’t send attack signals! Use your judgment! Support our weak points or hit theirs! Caius! Caius!”
“Here!”
“Take the right wing’s tip! The left will hold—they’ll hit us from the right!”
“Understood!”
We were hugging the coastline to the right now. The sun hung at a decent angle, no fog in sight. Both sides had been merrily singing their way along, lalala, so this was a surprise encounter for everyone. In moments like these, the less stupid, less sluggish side won.
“Move your asses! Row! Men of Britannia! The sea didn’t spawn just those barbarians! Row harder! Fear not—remember I stand at your forefront!”
[Whoosh—Splash!]
The waves, calm that morning, suddenly turned nasty. Good thing we were near shore; in the open sea, we’d have all drowned before the fight even started.
I rowed with all my might, shoving the ship toward the left wing’s end. Roman legionaries surged forward one after another, forming a ragged line, roaring in response to my voice.
“As Mare Nostrum is ours, so too is the Hibernian Ocean—Rome’s! Artorius’s!”
“Artorius! Artorius Invictus!”
“Punish them, Lord! By His sword!”
Chi-Rho symbols—first two letters of Christ—mingled with Roman eagles, laurels, and Avalonia’s water droplets, fluttering wildly. The red wave crested high over the blue.
Across from us, the stunned barbarians began to stir, catching my senses. Sunset and waves blurred them into haze; to their battle-high warriors’ eyes, it might all look like a phantasm. But I’d never once missed an enemy’s move on the field. I couldn’t.
“Now! Sound the attack! Attack! Attack!”
[Bwaaaaaam—!]
Before they could recover or turn, I bellowed the order like lightning. The cornu blared across the sea, tails twisting urgently to relay to the fleet; red flags surged forward as one.
[Screech—Whoosh—Splash! Creak! Whoosh—Splash!]
I’d rowed so hard the prow cleaved waves with a groan from the mast.
“Nngh—”
“Urgh—”
The two seasick lads amidships got a rude awakening, but tough luck. Hang in there just a bit longer.
“[Enemy! They’re coming! Romans!]”
“[What the hell!? Nothing was there! The coast was clear!! What’s that fleet?!]”
As we closed, their voices sharpened. Couldn’t make out the words, but the panic said it wasn’t good news. They were way more shocked than us.
A quick glance: shabby armor and helmets, but every one had a solid shield and spear. My battle-sharp mind—ten times keener—took in their ships too. Same barbarians, but eastern ones (Saxons, Angles) built wider, longer hulls than Hibernians. Oddly, theirs seemed leather-clad—was it fireproofing or decoration? Looked warmer, anyway.
“Prepare! Battle stations!”
“Javelins! Ready javelins!”
“How’re we throwing in this chop!?”
“Grapples! Front rank, grab grapples! Hurl when close! Board and kill! Simple! Dead simple!”
As I sized up foes and churning lines, Avalonia’s legionaries prepped on instinct. No seasoned navy here—sudden swells, my mad rowing made javelins iffy. So they snatched grapples, shields up, swords ready: they’d figured it out.
Now just verify the math.
“[H-hey! That one’s too fast! Fast! What the hell is that ship!!]”
“[Mad bastard! Whatever trick, it’s too deep alone! No luring needed—kill and pull back! Overwhelm it!]”
“[Mananan! Look here! Fresh Roman skulls for your altar soon! Attack! Attack!!]”
[Hoooooo—]
Long barbarian pipes—screeching like human wails—rose one by one, spewing foul tones. Attack signal, no doubt. My ship jutted out alone; they’d swarm, devour, bolt.
Reading raider scum’s minds was child’s play now.
“Avalonia! Ready!?”
“Artorius! Artorius Invictus!”
“Lead us to victory, Invictus!”
Six enemy ships bore down on us—no fear in my dopamine-drenched lads. Even the seasick rose, clutching swords. Fleeting thought: maybe we were Britannia’s scariest.
“Fight without fear! In life, in death! I stand foremost! I’ll protect your kin! So fight free!”
I stowed the oar, snatched my club from the stern. Ahh—that heavy, cool heft. Time for Barbarian Head-Breaker Artorius, Whack-a-Mole Master.
“[Mad Roman! This is the sea!]”
“What’s that!?”
A big swell: javelins impossible, barely stand. Traders from Italy griped Britannia’s seas were the worst. Bobbing on dark blue on flimsy wood? Yeah, 1000% agreed. Best bet: ram hulls, grind and fight.
[Whish—Whishwhish—Fweee! Ting-]
They were shipboard pros—threatening javelins glanced shields; mostly grapple lines flew.
[Thud-]
I watched, then snatched one mid-air.
“[Eh?]”
“Come here.”
[Crack!]
“[Wha—]”
Yanked the iron-gripped barbarian aboard—
[Whoooosh—Bam!]
“[Guhk-]”
Fist to face, caved it in, dumped him under dark blue.
Idiot. Hooked me? Won’t surface twice.
[Whish-whish-whish-]
Whirled the stolen grapple, gauged weight.
[Fweeee—Thud!]
Hurled; hooked their hull.
“Hup!”
[Whoosh!]
“[Aaagh!]”
“[What—what!]”
“[Grip it!]”
One-arm yank: their ship rocked, flung three cockiest raiders to sea. Delivered to my prow, eyes bulging—I had no words, just swung the club horizontal, right to left.
[Whoom-]
[Bam! Splat! Crack! Crunch—Thwack!]
First crumpled flattest; ends flew skyward.
“[Aaaah—]”
“[Uwaaa—]”
“[Aaak! Aaaak! Guuaaaagh!]”
[Splash! Splish-splash!]
Aerial crew plunged; middle one, half-dead bones snapping, wailed agony.
“Board and finish! Spare sea-fallers! Remember: kill all onboard! Ignore swimmers!”
“Yes, Magister Militum!”
“Time of blood and iron, barbarians!”
“Artorius judges you!”
Legionaries took brutal orders in stride, blue gladii drawn, cautiously boarding for cleanup. Amid it, I checked stunned barbarian faces at our prow, gathered our grapples in both hands.
“[C-cut—sever lines! You idiots!]”
“[R-run! Row reverse!]”
“[Mananan...]”
Twisted tough, waterlogged— their crude daggers’d take ages. I hauled like tug-of-war.
“Hup!”
[Thud! Whoosh!]
“[Aaagh!]”
“[Abandon ship!!!]”
“[Ugh!]”
“[Agh!]”
More flung; some leaped voluntarily. A few bravely jabbed spears—I dodged or armored sloppy throws, clubbed like thrashing fish.
[Bam!]
“[Gyaaak-]”
[Wham!]
“[Aaagh!]”
Screamers survived unlucky; most died instant or sailed to sea-splash.
Six ships captured now; my lads boarding, slitting throats—less soldiers, more fishermen hauling.
Funny: chaos, high swells, dusk dimming ruddy light—they kept mothballing to my ship.
Their speed-trap annihilation plan? Crushed.
“Uooooh!”
“Check that one good.”
“Yes, Magister Militum!”
Another ten inbound? But Romano-British ships filled in behind; fight’s done.
Land or sea: encircled meant finished. No Artorius over there—they’d drown or die aboard.
Flee me? Try it. I’d row this pace a week nonstop.
My gaze shifted to my warriors’ safety—no reckless fools?—when one stood out: Peredir. Vengeful ghost, eyes mad from father’s death, wept joy, bathed red.
“You! Traitors! Why! How!”
Exhaustion? Rage? Hands shaking, shield-bashing, sword-slashing, fist-pummeling. Brutal; eerier: nearby legionaries stabbing away ignored it.
[Bwaaaaaam—!]
“Kill ‘em all!”
“No mercy! Command’s kill all aboard!”
“By Artorius’s solemn will!”
[Hoooooo—Whooooooo—]
“[Flee! To the isles!]”
“[Any land—get off here!]”
“[Encircled! Back! Back, not flank!]”
Romano cornus mixed barbarian pipes; Roman cheers drowned screams. Crimson sky veiled hellscape below—but couldn’t hide dark sea turning red.