Poseidon's Spear (Long War 3)

by Christian Cameron

  Doola and his archers all put a shaft on their bows and waited. Just for a moment, we would lie across the bows of the trailing ship – at less than a stade.

  ‘Now!’ I cried.

  The port-side oarsmen backed water, laying on their oars for two strokes.

  The ship pivoted on the stern.

  The port-side Phoenician seemed to shoot at us like an arrow from a bow.

  ‘Ramming speed!’ I shouted. I think I screamed it.

  Seckla rolled over and said something to Alexandros, who called out – and the deck crew dropped the boatsail off its yard. The breeze filled it instantly, and the ship leaped ahead.

  The archers loosed – all together.

  If they hit anything, I didn’t see it. You can’t always have a miracle on demand.

  Our turn, on the other hand, took the Phoenicians by surprise, and our boatsail gave us a tiny advantage in speed but a wonderful, instant advantage in stability.

  We were now running north-west, with the wind on our starboard quarter.

  The port-side Phoenician came closer.

  Doola’s archers got off another volley. Then they cheered. Then they shot again.

  And then the port-side Phoenician stopped gaining. Her beak was so close: Poseidon, I can still see it, the waves pushing against it, the eyes on either side wicked with battle lust, the beak itself so close I could have leaped to it.

  For three heartbeats, we were a spear-length apart.

  And then we passed them, shaving her beak. I’d love to tell you there was a tiny thump as the beak touched our stern – but I don’t think it happened like that.

  And we were away. Now we were running easily, and they had to slow to make the turn.

  By the time they made it, we were ten ship-lengths ahead.

  Seckla was propped up in the bow. He was pointing at the mast and giving orders, and before I felt I had to go forward and sort things out, the mainmast began to rise. It, too, had cables run to the crown. It went up and up, and seemed to take an hour, and astern of us, the Phoenicians started to gain. Again.

  Far astern, over by the island, Lydia made the turn in the channel and Nike appeared in her wake. Amphitrite was somewhere to the north, and I’d lost her again against the low-lying coast.

  ‘We cleared their archers,’ Doola said. ‘There’s not an archer left alive on that ship.’

  I wasn’t sure that made much difference.

  Again, if I’d had a signalling system – a way of telling Lydia what I intended – I might have made a fight of it. I was confident that I could take any one of the Phoenicians; I was pretty sure that, given the favour of the gods, I could take both, with the Lydia and the Nike ranging up on their sides.

  But the risk would have been immense, and the gain very small. Because as the mainmast went home in its box and the chocks were pounded in with mallets, I knew that, barring a weather change, my trireme was safe. None of the Phoenician ships was faster. That was vital. We were all about the same: the second Phoenician had a small edge in speed, which she had squandered waiting for her consort.

  Now both ships were five ship-lengths back, and too far to the north. Neither had started to raise their mainmasts, and their rowers were flagging.

  Five stades behind me, Lydia’s mainsail spread like a pale flower turning its face to the sun. Nike followed suit.

  The three rear Phoenicians still hadn’t made the turn in the channel.

  ‘Mainsail!’ I called. I put the helm down, used the steering oars to bring the wind right aft, and then the mainsail was sheeted home and Doola was ordering the oarsmen to get their oars in.

  I raised my arms and prayed to Poseidon, right then and there. I sent the Alban boy, whom I christened Tempo, for wine. And I poured it into my favourite bronze cup and threw it over the side, and oarsmen cheered.

  It took the Phoenicians a quarter of an hour to get their sails up, and they lost ground with every heartbeat, so that by the time their big striped sheets were hung, they were halfway back to the horizon, and we were running free. Behind them, a nick on the north-eastern edge of the bowl of the world, was Amphitrite, I assumed.

  But the bastards didn’t give up.

  We’d run off the beach with no food and almost no water – remember, we’d sold our amphorae.

  Now, with parched rowers drinking the little water we had aboard, fresh water was an immediate crisis. And as if they knew our ill planning, the Phoenicians dogged us, well to windward but always close enough to snatch us up.

  I summoned Doola and Sittonax. I thought longingly of the wine I’d just thrown over the side. Did Poseidon even know this sea, with its horrifying ten-foot-high rollers and whitecaps in every weather?

  Sittonax pointed at the long line of low-lying land to the north and east. I could already see the promontory that marked the extreme westward end.

  I hadn’t marked what it meant, but before Sittonax spoke, I realized that this must be the westernmost point of Europe.

  We were sailing off the edge of the world.

  ‘What’s north of here?’ I asked. ‘How far to your Sequana River? The River of Fish?’

  He shook his head. ‘A long way.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve never been there. But it must be four days – maybe six.’

  Detorix had mentioned the Sequana like it was near at hand.

  ‘And the main islands of the Venetiae?’ I asked. They were three days’ sail, or so Detorix had said.

  Sittonax shrugged, palms up. ‘I’m not a sailor,’ he said. ‘I’m a guard. I was hired inland. On the Sequana, where the big ships unload.’

  ‘Poseidon’s rigid member,’ I swore. I remember, because Doola looked shocked. It made me laugh, which in turn lightened the tension.

  Behon was working on the deck crew, and he came aft eagerly. He spoke rapidly to Sittonax, and pointed north and west. With the wind.

  ‘He says we can make Alba in a day on this wind. To Dumnonia, among his own people.’ Sittonax looked deeply sceptical.

  I tugged at my beard. ‘Ask Behon what he did before he was enslaved,’ I said.

  He looked at me. ‘Fisherman,’ he said in Greek.

  Aha.

  ‘Very well. Doola, how’s Seckla?’ I asked.

  Doola leaned forward. ‘Gut shot,’ he said softly. ‘It went about three fingers in. Oozing blood. He’s fine for the moment.’

  We both knew what a gut shot meant. Sepsis and a nasty death.

  ‘Go and stay by him,’ I said. I turned to Alexandros. ‘Take the helm.’

  To Sittonax: ‘Ask him whether this wind will hold.’

  ‘Two days.’ The Alban made an odd motion with his lips, as if tasting the wind.

  ‘Ask him what the coast is like in his Dumnovia.’ I was weighing my non-existent options.

  ‘Rock, and more rock.’

  I swore. ‘We’re going to run on that coast in the dark.’

  He shrugged, as if to say that all of us were in the hands of the gods.

  In late afternoon, the wind changed two points – to the north.

  As the sun dropped towards the endless Western Ocean, the wind rose and we had to brail the mainsail. Seckla was up and moving – I’d have gathered hope, but I had seen this before. Men with gut wounds got better for a little while, and then—

  Apollo came with his deadly arrows, and took them.

  As the red ball of the sun fell into the Western Ocean – by the gods, daughters, to look west at the setting sun, and see nothing but open ocean is perhaps the most terrifying sight I’ve ever had within the orbit of my eyes. Somewhere out there were the Hesperides. It was like—

  Like living in a myth.

  While being chased by slavers.

  We weathered the great promontory of Gaul at sunset; the sky was already full of stars, and the swells lifted our bow and it fell, and the sail was too full for my comfort. Far astern, Lydia and Nike followed me, and Amphitrite, who could sail better on any wind but dead astern, had ranged up and la
y five stades away, as close to beautiful as she would ever be in the red, red sunset.

  We buried the Phoenicians over the horizon, but when we were at the top of a wave, our lookout on the mainmast could see their mainsails flashing red to white in the setting sun. And far, far to the east, a column of smoke caught the last light where the lead Phoenician galley burned.

  I don’t want to say that I thought I could take all six of them.

  I’ll only say that, had I had drinking water aboard, I might have tried.

  But my men were already desperate, and if we had had to row, even for ten stades, I think that they might have started to die. Remember, I had men who were a few days out of desperate bondage. A third of my rowers were strong enough, but as thin as young trees.

  But the knucklebones were cast, the sail was brailed, the helm set and we ran north, and the sun set in the Outer Ocean like an evil eye into an alien sea of blood, and we could all but hear the hiss as it plunged red-hot into the sea. It had an evil look, and by the gods, we were all afraid.

  Dawn, and I was still at the steering oars. I sucked on a piece of old bread to get saliva into my mouth. Men drank more questionable things: water from the bilge, urine mixed with seawater. Next to loss of breath, thirst is the fastest way to bring a man to desperation. Try it sometime. See how long you can go without water. You can go a day, but after a few hours, it becomes the sole focus of your thoughts.

  The worst was that the sun found us alone. When you run at night without lights, it is easy to lose your consorts. There were no landmarks – no rocks, no coast. In fact, the very worst of it was that once we lost sight of the coast of Gaul, we didn’t even know which way north was.

  That’s right. Think about it, friends. What magical device would give us direction? All I knew was that the helm was the same way I’d left it, and that the sun rose in the east, give or take a few degrees. But a few degrees at sea can be a great distance.

  Alone, on the Outer Ocean. No sails, no land, a few gulls.

  On and on we rode at a breakneck pace on a freshening wind.

  ‘How far?’ I asked Behon.

  He rubbed sleep from his eyes. ‘How would I know?’ he said through Sittonax, who naturally was very happy to be awakened to translate.

  ‘You used to sail here, remember?’ I asked.

  Behon shook his head. ‘No one but a fool comes out on the Great Blue,’ he said. ‘I never leave the coast.’

  He drew lines on the deck with a charred stick, showing me how the coast of Alba ran east to west, with the coast of Gaul like the hypotenuse of a shallow triangle, so that he would sail east into the rising sun across the south coast of Alba and then touch on Gaul – far, far from where we were. If we were anywhere. If his chart was accurate – the drawing of an ignorant man who measured distance in vague notions of time – then we were south of Alba, west of Gaul. And more than a hundred stades from any land.

  It would have been more terrifying, if I hadn’t been so thirsty.

  We ran north, and north. One of our Africans sprang off his bench at about noon, took his oar in hand, ran to the side and jumped.

  He was gone in a few moments.

  The sun was relentless, for autumn in the north.

  I tried to sleep. Tried to daydream. Tried to imagine sex – Briseis, Lydia – or combat. Anything that would lift me and take me from water. But a dream of Lydia’s lips became my tongue questing her mouth for water, and a daydream of fighting Persians became a picture of drinking their blood.

  About noon, Doola and a pair of our fishermen rigged the charcoal fire amidships and began to boil seawater. They took the biggest cauldron they had and got it boiling, and the vapour that rose off the boiling water they collected in a tent made of Doola’s bronze breastplate. They collected it as rapidly as they could, and in an hour’s work they got about two cups of drinkable water.

  They accomplished very little, except that they made everyone feel better. And the water was passed around. One man – one of the Greeks – tried to drink the whole cup, and when one of the Albans pulled it away, he spilled it.

  Alexandros drew his sword and refused to let the oarsmen gut the Greek. The young man was becoming an officer.

  Doola went back to boiling water.

  The coast of Alba resolutely refused to appear.

  On and on we ran north, and I lost my ability to tell time. Time passed. Eventually, the sun set again. Towards last light, I thought I saw sails in the south, but I had sparkles in my eyes and I had already spoken twice to Heracles by that time. I don’t think these were true visions, but merely phantasms of my waterless brain.

  And then came the night.

  Had I been in my right mind, I would have been afraid of running on a rock-bound coast, but perhaps I no longer believed in the coast of Alba. Yet I could think of nothing but water, and if I slept, it was fitful, and if I woke, I was not fully in the world. I think that at some point in the night a sea monster, or just a whale, broached near us and vented, and I was not even scared, but merely curious with the lethargy of the dying.

  I could go on, but I shan’t. Eventually, the sun rose.

  And revealed the coast of Alba. Rock girt and grey, even on a bright day, Alba rose from the sea like my monster, and my heart with it.

  I don’t remember saying anything to anyone, but in moments, the deck was astir and everyone was awake. Behon staggered aft and stood with me, and muttered – whispered – things. Sittonax came aft after him.

  ‘He says you’ll make a fine landfall,’ Sittonax whispered.

  Behon pointed a little east of north. ‘The island of Vecti, he says. Foreign ships come there.’

  I put the bow at Vecti and we ran on.

  By the time the sun was clear of the eastern horizon, the island was obvious, set away from the coast, and I could make out the eastern headland.

  ‘I assume the beach is on the landward side?’ I asked.

  Behon shrugged. ‘Never been there,’ he said, through Sittonax.

  And then the last hour. Two men were dead – slumped at their benches, gone in their sleep. We put them over the side, and the deck crew went to their stations as if they, too, were dead.

  I was going to have to turn west into the channel between Vecti and the mainland of Alba, and then land stern-first on what I hoped was a beach. I would need the rowers to row.

  We made the turn, and the mainsail came down in a rush and tangled the rowers, and for minutes we rose and fell on the swell, unmoving, crippled by our own fatigue and our timing. And then, as slowly as a snail on a log, we got the sail clear and the rowers began to row, like small boys trying to row for the first time in a fishing boat.

  Pitiful.

  An hour passed.

  Another.

  Now I could see the beach, and there seemed to be people gathered there.

  Slowly, like raw beginners, we turned the ship, got the bow to the channel and backed her onto the beach, catching crabs with every stroke.

  If the people on the beach hadn’t rushed to our aid, we might have lost the trireme at the every last. The port-side oars failed – men simply stopped rowing. Perhaps they thought we were home and safe. And the tide and waves caught us and threatened to throw the hull up the beach and break us.

  But Albans waded out, grabbed our ropes and got our stern aground. Behon called out to them, and Tempo, and they waved.

  And water came aboard, in skin, in light wooden buckets and big bronze beakers and shallow bowls – every man, woman and child on the beach suddenly had water, and I had the discipline to watch as men drank, and then I couldn’t stop myself. A light-eyed man gave me a tin pail, and I drank and drank. And paused, and drank again.

  And drank and drank.

  Perhaps the most amazing thing about thirst is how very quickly you recover. All that is required is water. In moments, your head is clear; the lassitude falls away.

  If you have been without water too long, there may be cramps.


  I had cramps.

  I slumped to the deck and looked at the tin bucket, and what I realized after a few breaths was that I was looking at a bucket, a household bucket, perhaps for feeding cows, and that it was made entirely of tin.

  11

  The wind came up at midday, while we were still in an orgy of drinking the water. The blow began from the east, and as the wind went around the points of the compass it rose and rose, and when it settled as an easterly, it shrieked along the beach like a racehorse.

  We got rollers under our keel and moved our black ship up the beach. I was afraid of storms, but I was more afraid of being caught by the Phoenicians with my keel in the water where they could just tow her off.

  And then, full of water, we were given a meal – and we went to sleep. I’d love to tell you that we posted guards and acted like good sailors or even good pirates, but we passed out, and it was twelve hours before most of us were up.

  I had the energy to help a dozen other men pitch a tent – to pull Seckla into it, lie him on blankets and curl up by him with Doola on one side of him and Sittonax on the other. It was cool in mid-afternoon, and promised to be cold at night.

  In the morning, Seckla was moaning on his bedroll. I knew what came next. In the dawn, I considered putting a knife in him. Gut wounds are horrible. I’d watched a few.

  But Doola’s eyes were open, and I knew he’d never forgive me.

  But again, Behon worked to our rescue. He found a doctor – one of the Kelt doctors, who were also priests, men of learning and often musicians – and led him by the hand to Doola’s side.

  ‘Good morning,’ said the white beard, in a passable imitation of Attic Greek. Then he rolled Seckla over and examined his stomach wound for some time.

  ‘No food,’ he said. ‘Nothing but water. I’ll be back.’ He picked up his heavy staff and left our tent.

  Seckla moaned, but he didn’t scream. Yet.

  Outside, we could hear rain on the tent, and I went out. We were two hundred men in four tents, stacked like cordwood; the easiest way out was to crawl under the edge. It was wet, and cold.

  I found Behon standing in the rain, and Sittonax. We walked through the downpour to the water’s edge, and looked out into the mist. The wind was from the south, and moderate enough.