Sands of Egypt

by S. J. A. Turney

  The signal having been given by the shot, everything sprang to life in an instant. Faster than Fronto could turn to catch it all, the oars were run out and the rowers counting, ready to dip them, the steersman heaved his apparatus, the ballista crew found the second stone and began to load, the scorpion crew tracked their own target, every figure threw off his brown blanket, and the man with the fire fungus set light to his torch and began to move. First he lit a small brazier by the scorpion, then raced along the port side, touching the torch to other containers of coals, which sprang to life.

  Caesar’s fleet would need no signal now. That something was happening would be clear.

  Fronto watched the trierarch’s plan unfold and was impressed despite himself. The ballista crew were among the better artillerists Fronto had seen at work over two decades of war. That first shot had been aimed lower than he’d expected, and not directly at the ship in front. Instead of striking deck, rail or mast, it had instead hit the starboard oar bank, smashing several of the oars and knocking others back as it bounced along them.

  Fronto winced. He knew enough of naval dangers to know what that meant aboard the Aegyptian ship. Far from just losing a few oars, it meant that several great heavy beams had just been slammed against the chests or backs of the men pushing them. Rowers would have died in their seats, ribcages crushed by the oars. Between the few men that would have suffered, the broken oars, and the utter chaos in rhythm it created, that central ship was now in trouble already, more than two hundred paces from engaging. With one bank of oars still dipping in time, they slewed dangerously, yawing off to the starboard.

  The ship keeping pace with it at that side lurched immediately, their commander seeing the danger and being forced to turn away from the fight to avoid collision with the stricken warship. Fronto couldn’t help but let out an exasperated laugh. With one shot of artillery the captain had, even if only temporarily, put two of the three ships out of the fight.

  Now, the plan moved into its next stages. The steersman turned them gently, guiding them to the gap between the pair of troubled ships and the remaining active one. As he did so, the second artillery crew took advantage of the closer range and the angle, and released their bolt, touching flame to it beforehand. The fiery missile arced out from the prow towards the most distinctive figure on the deck of the stricken ship.

  The central vessel’s own trierarch was obvious, dressed in gleaming bronze and bright green and shouting out orders with a desperate tone. The bolt took him in the back and carried him halfway across the deck before pinning him to a rail, where his clothes ignited and he floundered, pinned, burning and screaming. Suddenly deprived of orders and command, the ship exploded in chaos, veering wildly away.

  Fronto wondered why the archers remained still, when presented with such tempting targets, but the trierarch clearly had a plan. They were coming close now to the remaining ship, and a sudden blast from the steersman’s whistle launched the next attack. The port oars continued apace, while the starboard ones shifted expertly into back-oaring, even as the steersman heaved his steering oar around. The Chimaera turned more sharply than any ship Fronto had been aboard, and his stomach heaved worryingly as they changed course in the blink of an eye. Six heartbeats and they were on an intercept course with the remaining ship, racing for their side. The oarsmen reversed their stroke expertly once more and all broke into a ramming speed with perfect timing.

  The enemy vessel had nowhere near sufficient time to react. Their trierarch yelled urgently, and the ship turned, trying to veer away, but there was not enough time. Enemy sailors fled their oar benches and the rail in panic as the Chimaera bore down on them at a terrific speed.

  They struck the enemy ship almost perfectly centrally, and just as they coasted into the kill, the oarsmen lifted their oars and leaned them back. Fronto grabbed the rail in the same manner as every other soul aboard, and held on for dear life as the two ships collided.

  He’d never paid a great deal of attention to the shape of ship’s rams – he’d never been a lover of the sea or committed to the fleet – but he’d seen enough used in his time to know what to expect, and was therefore surprised when what happened was totally different.

  In his experience, the ram punched through the enemy boards and smashed and tore into the ship, then the attacking vessel would have to either desperately try and pull back, or stay lodged there and send men aboard to finish the enemy off. Not so, the Chimaera. As the ram struck, long and narrow and shaped like a blade, it sliced into the enemy hull like a sword. The ships lurched and slammed as expected, but on another whistle, as soon as the crew regained their footing, the oars were back in the water in a reverse stroke, pulling them away. The smooth shape of the ram made it a simple job to extricate, and in moments the Chimaera was reversing smoothly, leaving a neat hole in the enemy ship into which water was pouring in great torrents.

  The ship was done for, and its crew knew it, for sailors were already leaping into the water. They were little more than five or six hundred paces from the shore here, and the water was not dreadfully deep, so any man with reasonable strength would likely make it to the beach, and every man knew it, trusting to their muscles rather than the doomed timbers of their ship.

  Fronto gave a loud laugh. The mad bastard Rhodians were right. They knew precisely what they were doing. Indeed, those low transport vessels full of soldiers were now closing, and suddenly the archers were at work, dipping arrows into the burning coals of their braziers and loosing into the tightly packed boats full of men. The chaos that ensued among the enemy was impressive. Most of them began to turn immediately in a panic, racing back for the enemy fleet and away from this Rhodian nightmare.

  The trierarch appeared from somewhere, grasping Fronto’s shoulder. ‘Feel like a fight, sir?’

  Fronto nodded, brow creased. ‘Where?’

  ‘Let’s take one of them.’

  ‘Take one?’

  ‘I’m feeling acquisitive, Legate. Up to it?’

  Fronto gave another exasperated, slightly crazed laugh, and nodded. ‘Why not.’

  ‘There’s one ship still untouched. We’ll have that one.’

  The Chimaera backed out of the fray and began to turn, and Fronto took in the carnage they had caused with wide eyes. The troop carriers were hurtling back to safety, some of them on fire. The holed ship was already disappearing beneath the surface, though the sea was shallow enough here that its position would in the end be marked by a mast still protruding from the water, even as it settled on the seabed. That left only two ships. One of those was only now starting to right themselves after the loss of one oar bank and their commander. The other was way out and having to manoeuver to bring itself back into the fight.

  ‘Artillery,’ bellowed the trierarch. ‘Artillery and archers, put that fucking thing out of its misery.’

  As the Chimaera turned with astonishing speed and grace, its missiles began to arc out at the ship that had not yet recovered from its damage. The starboard bank of oars took another rock, repeating the carnage of the first blow, while flaming missiles from both scorpion and a dozen bows struck again and again, hitting men and dry timbers alike. Unable to adequately row, and busy putting out endless fires, they were largely removed from the fight, and when one particularly well placed missile plucked the enemy steersman from the stern and hurled him into the water, it was clearly over for them.

  ‘One left,’ grinned the trierarch.

  Fronto peered at the remaining enemy ship that was now racing towards them. In the distance he could see that several more enemy warships had detached from the fleet and were moving towards them, but at the same time half a dozen of Caesar’s vessels were moving out of the sandbanks to come to their aid.

  ‘This could end up in a full sea battle,’ Fronto noted, ‘and we’ll lose that, you realise?’

  The trierarch nodded. ‘That’s why we need to finish this fast and put them off the idea of another battle. Be prepared for a quick fight
and hang on tight. This will be a little bumpy.’

  Fronto tore his eyes from the approaching ships to each side, the light now almost gone, and squinted at the looming shadow of the remaining vessel hurtling towards them. He realised with a start that the Chimaera was turning gently, back towards the Roman fleet, which would present the enemy with a lovely side attack. He chewed his lip. What was the crazy Rhodian planning now, making himself such an easy target?

  Watching carefully, he did as he’d been bid, grasping the rail with his free hand and holding tight, legs set apart for optimum stability. A fresh wave of nausea struck him, and he had trouble fighting it back this time. The enemy were coming for them at ramming speed, continually adjusting their course to keep on track for a perfect strike amidships. Fronto watched with interest as the Chimaera’s crew readied. A few men were busy gathering up odd spilled coals that had fallen from the braziers during various manoeuvers, and slinging buckets of sea water over singeing timbers. Others extinguished the braziers with great columns of steam that rose into the dark sky. Archers nocked and remained poised, the only men not holding on. Artillerists had their twin weapons loaded and waiting, clutching the timbers tight.

  ‘Steady,’ called the trierarch.

  Men waited.

  The enemy closed, racing at them, sending up twin white horses of foam from the prow, oars working rhythmically to an unheard tune.

  ‘Steady.’

  Fronto clenched his teeth.

  ‘Now,’ the captain bellowed.

  The oars began to dip, one side forward, one side back, as the steersman heaved his burden aside. The Chimaera began to move, sluggishly at first, but picking up pace with impressive speed. In heartbeats they were turning to face the enemy, who were now worryingly close. As soon as they faced the warship, prow to prow, the oars settled into a uniform rhythm and the Chimaera and its target hurtled towards mutual destruction.

  The enemy prow swayed this way and that momentarily, its commander uncertain of what this crazed Rhodian ship was up to, and unsure how to react. The two vessels closed towards mutual collision, and suddenly the steersman gave two short and one long blast on his whistle.

  In response, the starboard oars lifted from the water for a count of four as the port ones worked, turning the entire vessel to the right a touch. At that count of four, they fell back into the water and pulled again, straightening the line while the port oars were hauled swiftly inside.

  The enemy captain realised what was happening too late. Desperate shouts echoed across the deck as their own rowers were ordered to pull in the oars.

  They did not have time.

  Having jogged slightly right, The Chimaera met the enemy vessel not head on, but smoothly side by side. The prow, sharp and designed to cut easily through the water, instead cut its way through the enemy oar banks, smashing them like kindling. Screams and the sounds of shattering wood rose all along the enemy rail as the oars pulverised their rowers, killing most in an instant. The two ships were robbed of most of their momentum immediately, and it was easy work for the Chimaera’s crew to throw out grapples and pull the two ships together, before the corvus boarding ramp was swung out and to the side to drop to the enemy deck, its twin iron fangs biting into the boards and anchoring it there.

  Even as the two ships came to a lurching halt, the archers and artillerists released and then grabbed for the nearest timbers. Twelve arrows, one bolt and a heavy rock smashed into the enemy crew, pulverising them. A few of the Chimaera’s men fell with the collision, but most managed to hold tight.

  By the time the ships were motionless, the Rhodians were moving. With the exception of the trierarch and the steersman, every crewmember had now torn a blade free and was racing for the corvus. Shaking his head in disbelief, Fronto joined them, gladius gripped tight as he sprinted up onto the ramp and across to the Aegyptian vessel.

  He had to admire the enemy, that they still had fight left in them. In this state many a crew and captain would have surrendered, but the Aegyptians rallied their men to defend. Their crew was more numerous than the Rhodians, but not dangerously so. Clearly the bulk of their fighting men had been committed to the low transports, expecting the three warships to easily disable the Chimaera and leave her open for boarding.

  Instead, they were in trouble. Fronto winced as he passed across the ramp between the two ships, partially at the sight of the lapping waves below, which continued to make his stomach gurgle and clench, but more so at the slaughter aboard the enemy ship. Bodies lay strewn, ruined and bloody across the benches, broken and torn pieces of oar among them from the terrible blow the Chimaera had struck.

  He dropped to the enemy deck and avoided with distaste treading in what was left of a man who’d been struck by the ballista’s stone ball. The Chimaera’s crew were calling to each other or shouting cries of battle in the Greek tongue, but in such a thick regional accent that Fronto had trouble comprehending it.

  The notion that these men had been, and potentially still were, pirates had never sat so comfortably with Fronto. They exhibited a strange glee in their viciousness, a chilling competence at combat, and clearly not one iota of remorse or shame over wanton butchery. They killed with impunity, and more than once, as Fronto pushed his way among them looking for a target, he saw scenes of savagery so far beyond the norm that it reminded him of Salvius Cursor. They were not just killing. They were making a statement.

  In moments Fronto found himself facing a swarthy-skinned fellow with a stained grey tunic, wielding a kopis-style curved blade. The man bared his teeth and swept out with the sword, bringing it across in a back-slash at Fronto’s middle. The legate threw his gladius in the way, deflecting the blow, but expertly twisted his wrist and managed to turn his parry into a slash that carved a narrow line across the man’s upper arm.

  The Aegyptian cried out and glared at Fronto, dabbing the wound with his free hand and noting the blood on his fingers as he pulled it away. Snarling, he lunged.

  ‘Stupid,’ announced Fronto as he simply leaned aside from the blow and brought his gladius up hard, slamming the point into the pit of the extended arm. It was not the perfect strike, which would carry it deep into unprotected torso and the vital organs there, because of its upward trajectory, but what it did do was irreparably ruin the man’s shoulder before tearing out through muscle and taking part of his neck with it, smashing the collar bone in the process.

  The man fell away, screaming, sword falling from helpless fingers. In a perfect world, Fronto would pause and drop to kill the man and put him out of his agony, for it would take him a long time to die from that. This was an imperfect world, though, and Fronto had other worries. He stepped over the body and advanced, looking for another enemy sailor, his attention suddenly drawn by a roar.

  A man was running at him, spear raised. Fronto glanced around himself, taking in his position. His chances of parrying a spear from a charging man were small, and while he could probably sidestep, if he failed it would be the last thing he ever did.

  Luck was with him. Space had opened up behind, and Fronto backed away carefully, footsteps precise. The man bellowed and leapt in for the kill, eyes on his opponent. His feet struck the fallen Aegyptian with the ruined shoulder, who lay, shuddering and moaning and hitherto unnoticed behind Fronto, and his eyes widened. He fell forwards with a squawk, the spear going awry and thudding into timber. Fronto immediately discounted him as a future threat and picked out another swordsman beyond. In reaching this new target he made sure to stamp down hard with a hobnailed boot onto the spear man’s back with a satisfying crunch, keeping him out of the fight.

  The new swordsman watched him carefully, blade held ready to strike or parry as required. Fronto was busy trying to decide how to play it when he noticed a Rhodian coming at the man from behind, teeth bared in a gleeful rictus. Fronto smiled sweetly at the swordsman, who frowned, wondering what the Roman was up to, right until the Rhodian’s sword took him in the neck, ripped free in a welter of bloo
d and flesh and a bloodcurdling scream.

  The Rhodian gave Fronto a grin and nodded his thanks, turning and running off to deal with another.

  The fight was all but over.

  Fronto shook his head in disbelief. The Chimaera had taken on three warships and sundry transports. In a matter of perhaps half an hour, she had sunk one, disabled one and captured a third, causing the others to flee. Brutus would be envious of such a victory. Better still, where he knew damn well that Caesar would have come down like a ton of bricks on the Rhodians if they’d failed, he appreciated such insane bravery when it worked. Politicians were fickle like that, after all. There was a small chance of the Rhodians being disciplined, but there was a much greater chance of them being lauded and rewarded.

  As Fronto wiped the gore from his sword with a rag torn from a body, and strolled back towards the boarding ramp, he smiled to see the Aegyptian banner being lowered from the ropes. The one that went up might have had some Greek slogan on it, but it was red, and bore Caesar’s bull emblem. No one could doubt the ownership of the vessel now.

  His gaze strayed out to sea. The enemy warships that had been coming for a second wave of attack had turned and were heading back to their fleet. Moreover, that fleet was on the move, diminishing gradually as they fled the shoreline. The crazy Rhodians had been so victorious and so terrifying that they enemy were retreating.

  They had won. Night was almost falling, which put any further fighting beyond reason, too, so they would be safe now. Fronto grinned. This may very well turn out to be the first sea voyage he had ever actually enjoyed.

  Chapter Ten

  Approaching Pharos Island, Alexandria, 13th December 48 BC