‘Why are we falling behind?’ Fronto asked as he approached the helm. ‘This seems to be a fast ship.’
The trierarch gave him a weird grin that reminded him worryingly of Salvius Cursor. The sort of grin usually given by someone covered head to foot in blood and smiling when they should instead be apologising. His two silver teeth gleamed.
‘I thought we’d play shepherd to these sheep, sir.’
‘What? We’ve no marines. We’re no better off than them.’
That grin notched up two more worrying marks.
‘On the contrary, sir. This is the Chimaera. We’ve got two pieces of artillery, not one like the rest of the sheep. Every man here is armed and a trained killer. We’ve got twelve bows and a stock of arrows, ‘cause some of my men are damn good archers and gull meat makes a pleasant change from fish on a coastal voyage. We have a longer ram than many, and it’s a single, bronze-sheathed beam that cuts through hulls, rather than your messy, three-pronged Roman ones that barge them open. And we carry a corvus like the biggest Roman ships. Above that we’re the fastest in the fleet. And my lads lost a couple of friends on the beach, too. They’re itching to make amends.’
Fronto’s eyes narrowed. ‘Fast. Secret armaments. Killers on the oar benches. You’re pirates!’
The man laughed. ‘I could take serious offence at that, sir. I’m Caesar’s man, after all. But even an honest ship has to make a living between big voyages, and sometimes that takes you into dangerous waters. It’s best to be prepared and to have an edge, just in case.’
‘Bloody Rhodians,’ Fronto said, rolling his eyes. ‘I’ve half a mind to order you to get back in the middle of the fleet.’
‘But we’d be no good there.’
With a sigh, Fronto nodded. It was true. Instead, he concentrated on watching the enemy in their wake as they sailed on west, the sun sinking towards the horizon. He began to count them, but looking at the rising and falling horizon did little for his ongoing health, and he kept having to swallow down his stomach’s few remaining contents and recount. After some time, he reckoned Caesar’s fleet probably outnumbered the enemy by three to two, but with no army aboard, the battle would be the enemy’s with little doubt.
Discouraged, he turned and watched the coast flow past. It looked almost identical all the way. Featureless dun coloured landscape, sometimes low, sometimes a little higher, rarely with any greenery, dotted with local small hamlets that survived on the fishing industry and trade from the coastal caravan routes east to Alexandria and west to Leptis Magna.
By the time someone called out the second hour of the journey, Fronto was not at all surprised to find that they were now the very last ship in the fleet, almost as close to the lead enemy vessel as they were to the vanguard of their own force.
The next signal must have been given with flags, for the first Fronto knew of it was when the trierarch waved him over. He came to rest at the rail beside the Rhodian captain, who smelled of spice, strong wine, and deviousness.
‘Message from the flagship: we’re at the anchorage. The lead ships are already navigating the sandbanks, and word is being passed back to each vessel about their assigned position. I’d probably best warn you now, Legate, that we’re not going in among them.’
‘We’re not?’
‘There will only be limited room in there, and should the worst happen they will all be trapped, unable to adequately manoeuvre between the sand banks. The strongest advantage the Chimaera has is its speed and manoeuvrability, and I cannot compromise that by trapping us between sandbanks. We will stay at the edge of the fleet but in open water. If the enemy have sense they will leave us alone for fear of the sandbanks and of the rest of the fleet.’
Fronto glared at him suspiciously. ‘And if they have no sense?’
‘Then it’s going to be an interesting night, sir,’ grinned the Rhodian, the golden rays of the dying sun gleaming off his teeth and the rings of the hand that had gone down to clutch the hilt of his sword meaningfully.
Fronto hurried back to the prow and watched as the fleet slowed. Gradually the entire group came to a halt as each vessel in turn was guided in among the sandbanks and moved into position for the night. Fronto knew little enough about the ways of the sea, but he could picture what was in the general’s mind. The fleet was all coming to a halt and dropping anchor still pointing west and still fully crewed. Every ship had sufficient food, and now adequate water, to see them through the night. And in the morning, probably before dawn while the enemy still dozed, they would start to slip west once more, heading out of the far side and making for the harbourage of the Thirty Seventh. If all went to plan they would be racing west before the enemy could do much about it, and could rendezvous with sufficient men and ships to make the battle theirs.
If everything went according to plan.
In Fronto’s experience, that more often failed to happen than actually succeeding.
Gradually, he watched the ships slipping in through the bright blue-green waters, between the brown banks that were only visible from certain angles as they lurked just beneath the sea’s surface. By the time there were only seven vessels still outside, he could make out the details of the enemy fleet following them. One thing was sure: they were well crewed, from the myriad shapes visible.
His misgivings about the possibly-mad Rhodian captain grew with every moment. Finally, he watched the last few Caesarian vessels moving into position and chewed on his lip as the Chimaera made no effort to follow them in, nor even to come close, remaining on the very periphery of the fleet, where they dropped anchor.
His suspicions about the piratical origin of this ship and her crew increased as he watched the crew settling in. Rhodos had once been a bastion against pirates, but even recently, the plague had begun to rise once more. Pompey may have rid the sea, officially, but who knew how many pirate vessels still quietly plied the east, every bit as dangerous as the ones that had captured Caesar himself as a young man.
Fronto looked aft. The enemy fleet had slowed some distance away and observed the Chimaera from there.
The crew of the Rhodian vessel did not prepare for their night in the same way Fronto had seen other sailors doing. Each man took charge of his own position. The oars were drawn in, but neither raised nor put away, simply lying across the decks and benches, ready to run back out at a moment’s notice. Half the crew left the benches, while the other half settled down to sleep on them, pulling blankets the same colour as the deck over them and sleeping between the oars. The rest moved into positions of good observation for either lookouts or archers with more wood-coloured blankets. Fronto noticed several carrying bows and quivers with them. Other men lay beside the anchor chain, covered up. The trierarch and his steersman stayed in position, leaning against the hull side and covering themselves. A passing sailor handed Fronto a dun coloured blanket, and Fronto stared at the deck of the Chimaera.
In less than a hundred heartbeats it had gone from being a hive of activity to giving out the appearance of a deserted hulk. Unless you knew the men were there, in the growing half-light they were exceedingly hard to spot.
He mused worryingly for a moment that remaining in a position that granted the most manoeuvrability looked a lot like inviting an attack. He found a place to lie and sank to the deck, drawing his blade on a whim and lying it by his side. He pulled the brown blanket over him and bunched part of it under his head for a pillow. His last coherent thought was to liken the Chimaera to a lilia – those nasty little pits with a sharpened stake in the bottom, covered with grass to hide them from sight. Innocent and quiet, but with a surprise awaiting the unwary foot, which would lead to a really bad day. A few moments later, weariness from a day of retching overtaking him, he was asleep.
Chapter Nine
Aegyptian coast west of Alexandria, 11th December 48 BC
‘Hush, Legate. No fuss. Quiet. Come.’
Fronto floundered blearily in his blanket, blinking in surprise. The sailor was an ext
raordinarily lucky man, in that Fronto had his sword to hand, and had he not managed even in the fog of half-sleep to remember where he was, he might have instinctively grabbed it and hacked off the man’s arm as he shook the slumbering figure.
‘Wha…’ he managed in a low whisper.
‘Come,’ repeated the sailor.
As Fronto shook himself and extricated his cold, achy form from the blanket, he watched the shape of the sailor ducked low at the rail, moving with catlike grace away towards two other figures. He realised then that there were still signs of evening sunlight staining the sky. The sun had set but its glow remained. He could not have been asleep for more than a quarter of an hour, but had been so damn weary that he’d immediately fallen into a deep slumber.
Blinking and shaking it off, he struggled up to a similar crouch, wondering how many more years of sleeping rough he had left in him, and scurried across the deck close to the rail with considerably less poise than the sailor.
The trierarch crouched at the rail with one of his men, and turned, beckoning as Fronto approached. Reaching the man’s side, Fronto came to a halt as the captain pointed off into the evening gloom.
‘See there, Legate?’
Fronto shook his head. He could see the distant shapes of the Aegyptian ships gathered some way away, but in the twilight gloom could make out little more.
‘They come for us.’
‘What? I can’t see anything.’
But as he concentrated he realised that he could. Some of those shapes were moving, slowly and indistinctly, but they were definitely breaking away from the enemy fleet and becoming larger as they approached.
‘How many?’
‘I make it three warships and five smaller civilian barques.’
‘Warships to surprise and overwhelm, and barques full of men to seize the ship,’ Fronto mused.
‘Quite.’
‘How do we warn the others? How do we raise the alarm without causing a full-scale engagement? Most of our ships are trapped in the sandbanks.’
The trierarch looked at him as though he’d suggested stripping naked and going for a swim.
‘Alarm, sir?’
Fronto’s brow creased. ‘Well, yes. The alarm for the fleet.’
‘We don’t need the fleet, sir.’
Fronto blinked. ‘Three warships? Five transports?’
‘Three slow warships. Five small transports.’
‘Don’t be an idiot, Captain. There is a time for bravery, but hubris helps no one. Warn the fleet.’
‘With respect, Legate, you have no authority on my ship. I’ll not endanger anyone else when we are more than capable of dealing with the problem.’
Fronto clenched his teeth. ‘Caesar will be exceedingly angry with you, even if you survive, which is unlikely. Give the signal.’
‘No.’
He glared at the trierarch. ‘Then how do you intend to beat such heavy odds?’
‘By using the best muscle I have, Legate: the one between my ears.’
Fronto fell silent, staring at the man. ‘You had better be as good and as lucky as you think you are, Captain.’
‘I’m better.’
With a deep breath, Fronto nodded and, keeping low, scurried off towards the ship’s stern. In positioning themselves out to the rear of the anchored fleet by some distance, the Chimaera had been swung slowly so that she faced the enemy, her stern to the rest of the fleet. A clear sign that the trierarch was more concerned with the ships behind them than being ready to depart swiftly with the rest. But then if the ship was as swift as the man said…
Still, Fronto knew over-confidence when he heard it, and he knew damn well what Caesar would think of all this. He knew his duty. Reaching the rear rail as the men of the ship burst into silent and very slow life, he gestured to one of the sailors. As the man crawled over, Fronto whispered.
‘What is the signal for an attack warning?’
‘Three flashes of the lantern, sir, but we’re under an enforced darkness command. No lights on the ship.’
Fronto fumed. This was ridiculous. He gestured angrily at the man. ‘Find a lantern, get it lit, and send the signal to the fleet.’
‘The trierarch will throw me overboard, sir.’
‘I’ll do a lot bloody worse than that if you don’t send the signal. Do it.’
The man looked into Fronto’s eyes and for a moment was clearly considering refusal. In the end, though, he nodded, yet there was still more than a trace of disobedience in that gaze. How had Fronto had the misfortune after the beach attack to end up on a ship full of disobedient and suicidally insane ex-pirates?
Leaving the man and hoping to Hades that he was actually going to do as ordered, Fronto hurried forwards. He had to admit that he was impressed. The men who’d been asleep on the oar benches were now sat hunched low, still covered with their blankets, but gripping the oars ready to run out. Half those men who had left the benches were now back and in a similar state. The rest had made ready with the minimum of noise, movement and fuss. Hardly a breath of activity had shown aboard the ship, but now a dozen archers were crouched at the port rail, evenly spaced, and two men were raising the anchor with slow, quiet grace, the capstan well-greased to keep it silent. Men sat low, gripping ropes ready to pull and release, and crews were already at the twin artillery pieces, one loaded with a heavy stone ball and the other with a long bolt. Close to the latter a man crouched with a rag-wrapped torch and a small knobbly handful of something.
Fire fungus, Fronto realised. Deep in the fibrous mass there would be a glowing ember, and a few puffs of breath would reignite it. He was suddenly damn glad that these Rhodians were part of the fleet and not prowling the sea, looking for helpless traders.
As he neared the commander, the trierarch beckoned to him.
‘Would you deliver three messages for me, Legatus? I don’t want to take my eyes off the enemy.’
Fronto nodded and hissed an affirmative.
‘Tell the ballista “target three”, the scorpion “man down two” and the steersman “tactic one”.’
Fronto pursed his lips. ‘Ballista three, scorpion two, steering one. Got it.’
He glanced out to sea. Those other ships were coming closer all the time. Scurrying low across to the war machines in the bow, he found the crew of the ballista. They had loaded and primed their weapon slowly and in silence, and it now sat at maximum safe torsion, awaiting target and release.
‘Trierarch commands target three,’ Fronto hissed to them. The men nodded their understanding and began to move the machine ever so slowly, tracking the distant shapes. He hurried across to the scorpion and found it in the same state, foot long bolt ready for release. The man with the fire fungus now had it open in halves and was blowing on one, keeping it low, well below the rail.
‘Man down two,’ he hissed, receiving a nod. Leaving them to it, he raced along the rail, keeping low, to the rear of the ship. There the steersman stood with the other sailor nearby, striking flint and steel to ignite the oil lantern in his hand. Either the man was not having a great deal of success or he was deliberately failing, which Fronto certainly wouldn’t put past this lot.
‘Tactic one,’ he told the man at the steering oars, who nodded.
Job done, Fronto hurried back to the prow. The enemy were noticeably closer now. The three Aegyptian warships had fanned out to approach like three claws, the transports in their wake, ready to take advantage of an overwhelmed ship.
Fronto hadn’t realised how still the sea and the ship’s motion had been, until they began to drift and the old familiar queasiness arose in his middle, threatening to overcome him. He fought it down as best he could. He’d eaten nothing for ages. There was nothing to bring up but a little drinking water.
The anchor was now in the ship and they were unrestricted in movement. Fronto glanced back at the stern, but nothing was happening yet. The oars had not been run out and the steersman remained still. There would be no use for the sail this
evening, for not a breath of wind stirred the sea. Another glance forward and the enemy were getting worryingly close. Did they truly believe the Chimaera was still asleep? Quite possibly. The enemy vessels were still three abreast, perhaps two ship-lengths apart.
For a moment, Fronto wondered how long the Rhodian captain intended to wait in silence before making his move, but then he noted the trierarch’s eyes. They flicked continually back and forth now between the approaching ships and the artillery mounted in the prow. Whatever he had planned was based upon missile range. Fronto knew the weapons well enough, despite these being of a slightly different, Greek-style manufacture, to know the rough ranges. The ballista with its fifty-pound stone ball would be the first to find range, and even if they were good shots, the longest range they could hope for a good level of accuracy was two hundred paces.
It was hard to judge distance at sea, for Fronto at least, and attempting to do so was made all the more troublesome by the fact that looking out over the undulating water did little for his stomach. Still, he bit down on the waves of nausea.
Four hundred paces, he thought.
Slowly, he became aware of something. They were moving. Barely noticeably, but they were. Without the power of oars or sail, still they were manoeuvring. The steersman was using the current of the water and his twin long oars to very slowly turn the ship. Even as Fronto watched, the central of the three enemy ships passed their direct prow line and to the port ever so slightly.
He grinned.
The devious bastards, these Rhodians. Without even the appearance of movement, they had shifted just enough to put the ballista in perfect firing line so that the prow beak was not in the way.
Three hundred paces…
He took several deep breaths and clutched his sword tight, though if he had cause to use it then they were probably in trouble and fighting for their lives. In momentary annoyance, he looked back and noted there was still no sign of a signal being sent out by lantern.
‘Now,’ whispered the trierarch close by, more to himself than to anyone else. A mere half dozen heartbeats passed before his word became law. The call to action was announced with a massive ligneous cracking sound as the ballista crew released their catch, and the cords snapped tight, launching the heavy stone rock at speed.
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