Pirata: Hunters of the Sea

Book 3: Pirata

by Simon Scarrow, T.J. Andrews

Genres: Historical Fiction; Ancient

Synopsis

Part three in the new Roman pirate series of novellas from the Sunday Times bestselling authors Simon Scarrow and T. J. Andrews.

AD 25. As Roman naval squadrons patrol the Adriaticum, a young pirate captain hunts for prey. But his most dangerous enemy may be on his own side ...

The young pirate Telemachus has impressed Captain Bulla with his courage and skill, and has been made captain of a small ship, Galatea, with his loyal friend Geras as first mate. Their target: the trade routes of the northern Adriaticum, with the promise of rich and easy pickings. But the exhilaration of command quickly fades as Telemachus and his men struggle to find any ships worth looting. Supplies are running low, and mutiny is brewing. Suspecting treachery by his arch enemy Hector, whose own ship was dispatched to other waters, Telemachus fears not only for his crew, but for his dream of rescuing his brother Nereus from slavery.

When Telemachus learns of a rich cargo ship at anchor, he senses his chance for glory. A fortune in ivory and spices is in sight. There's a catch, though: the port is host to an auxiliary garrison of the Roman army. Only the most reckless captain would dare target this prey. Telemachus will need to call on all his cunning and survival skills if he is to win the day, avert mutiny, and exact his revenge on his tormentor ...

The full novel of PIRATA is available now.

(P)2019 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: March 21, 2019

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 84

Sample

Chapter One

Petrapylae, late spring AD 25

‘My money’s on the grey one,’ the stocky pirate announced. ‘He’ll win this fight easily.’

Telemachus glanced at his companion and frowned. ‘What makes you so sure of that?’

‘It’s obvious,’ Geras said. ‘That bird’s much bigger than his opponent. Besides, grey cockerels make the best fighters. Everyone knows that. Trust me, he’s going to tear that other one to shreds.’

Telemachus turned his attention back to the makeshift pit as the two handlers approached, clutching their prize-fighting cockerels. A jostling crowd of pirates stood in a rough circle in the courtyard, their drunken shouts echoing off the walls as they eagerly awaited the next fight: the last of the day’s entertainment. The pirates had gathered in the gloomy corner of the citadel to pass the time laying bets on the local cockerel fights while they waited for the order to put out to sea. Soon the men of Poseidon’s Trident would be returning to the Illyrian coastline, ready to prey on the merchantmen that still dared to sail up and down the coast of the Adriaticum.

Telemachus looked on keenly as the handlers crossed the blood-splattered pit and approached the umpire. A hushed silence descended over the crowd as the man announced the competitors for the bout: a grey-feathered cockerel versus a white fowl with a bright red breast. As with the day’s earlier contests, it was to be a fight to the death, with the last bird standing declared the victor. While the umpire spoke, the handlers prepared their fighters for battle, petting them and checking the curved metal spurs fastened to their legs. The spurs’ sharpened tips glinted viciously in the pale light of late afternoon. The smaller of the two cockerels struggled in its handler’s grip, flapping madly and drawing a curse from the man as he fought to keep it under control. Telemachus pointed out the cockerel to his companion.

‘I reckon the white one’s got a chance.’

‘Him?’ Geras replied, raising an eyebrow. ‘You must be bloody joking.’

‘Why? What’s wrong with him?’

‘What isn’t, more like!’ Geras spluttered. ‘Look at him! The scrawny bastard is half the size of the grey bird. You’d get better odds on me being the next emperor of Rome.’

‘He’s smaller,’ Telemachus conceded. ‘But he’s got the longer reach, and he’ll be faster than his opponent. He might surprise us.’

‘Have it your way, lad. But I wouldn’t bank on it. Especially with the way your luck’s gone today.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Your judgement hasn’t exactly been very profitable so far, has it?’ Geras gestured to his friend’s leather belt-purse. ‘You might be a ship’s captain these days, but you’ve got a lot to learn about the fine art of cockerel fighting.’

Telemachus looked away, mixed emotions swirling inside his chest as he recalled his swift promotion. Several days had passed since the men of Poseidon’s Trident had seized Petrapylae, capturing the fortified village from a rival pirate gang. The battle had been hard-fought and bloody, but Captain Bulla’s men were now firmly established in their new base, and there was a palpable sense of excitement among them at their imminent return to sea. After going weeks without a share of any loot, Trident’s crew were keen to resume the hunt for prey along the Illyrian coastline.

Bulla had placed Telemachus in command of the smaller of the two ships that would soon venture out into the Adriaticum. The cargo vessel Galatea was to be his first independent command as a pirate, and he should have been thrilled at the prospect. Instead he felt only a growing sense of dread. News of his rapid promotion had been greeted with hostility by some of the older hands among the crew, who resented seeing the young recruit appointed ahead of them. Unless he could quickly establish his authority, Telemachus feared that his first command might also turn out to be his last.

‘When are we heading back out to sea anyway?’ Geras asked. ‘You’re close to Bulla. You must have some idea.’

‘Soon enough, I should think. He won’t want to delay much longer. Especially with this lot desperate for a share of some loot,’ Telemachus added, tipping his head in the direction of the other pirates.

‘Let’s hope it won’t be much longer. The wine and women in this village ain’t exactly cheap. I imagine you could do with some loot as well. Help free that brother of yours.’

Telemachus thought of his enslaved older brother, toiling away in a forge in Thorikos for his callous Roman master, and felt a hot prick of anger. He consoled himself with the knowledge that as a ship’s commander, he would be on a double share of any plunder they captured. Should he enjoy a successful campaign out at sea, he might be able to free Nereus much quicker than he had initially hoped. If his brother was still alive, Telemachus reminded himself grimly. It had been months since he’d heard any news, and he prayed to Jupiter, best and greatest, to spare Nereus from the terrible accidents that often befell slaves working in the dangerous forges around Thorikos.

‘It’s about to begin,’ Geras said, breaking into Telemachus’s dark thoughts. ‘Last bout of the day. Better be a good one, this.’

Telemachus turned his gaze back to the pit as the two handlers brought their cockerels close together. The birds instantly tensed their bodies at the sight of one another, flaring their colourful hackles and crowing wildly. With the fighters suitably provoked, the umpire – a wizened veteran called Calkas – gestured for the handlers to retreat to the chalk lines that had been marked out several paces apart, while bookies moved around the edge of the circle, taking bets from the crowd. Geras placed what was left of his money on the big favourite, while Telemachus laid down a few sestertii on the white-feathered cockerel: all the money he had left from his share of the grain the pirates had seized from the rival gang at Petrapylae. The grain had been sold on to a pinch-faced merchant in a neighbouring port and the money distributed among Trident’s crew, with each man due a share according to his seniority. At long odds, a big win on this last fight would cover his previous losses, and perhaps leave him with a small profit.

Once all the bets had been placed, there was a loud crack as Calkas stamped his staff on the flagstones, signalling for the handlers to release their birds.

‘Begin!’

‘Here we go!’ Geras roared. ‘Come on! Get stuck in!’

An excited chorus of cheers came from the onlookers as the cockerels charged forward, leaping and meeting in a frenzied blur of flapping wings, slashing claws and torn feathers. Telemachus craned his neck, straining to get a better view of the action as the birds jumped forward and tore into each other again. Their handlers stood at opposite edges of the circle, cla. . .