Cato stared at him and nodded. ‘As do I.’
Then he took a deep breath and crossed the deck towards the tribune. ‘Tell the governor we are making full sail and will return to Alexandria without delay.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The tribune saluted, and then hesitated. ‘Is there anything I should report to him, sir? Any progress you have made in locating the renegade?’
‘No. There’s nothing,’ Cato admitted. ‘Now be off.’
The tribune went to the side and climbed down the rope ladder on to the deck of the sleek yacht. At once the crew fended it away from the side of the warship and raised the triangular sail. The wind filled the sail with a dull crack and the yacht heeled as it picked up speed and pulled away from the Sobek, heading west.
Cato turned to the trierarch. ‘Set course for Alexandria. Signal the other ships to follow us.’
‘Aye, sir.’
As the warship got back under way, Cato stood at the side rail, staring towards the coastline. Ajax was out there, somewhere, and free to continue wreaking damage along the delta, unavenged. It was a bitter thing to swallow, but there was nothing that could be done about it.
The wind strengthened during the day and the ships ploughed through a choppy sea, sending clouds of spray exploding into the air as the bronze-capped rams punched through the swell. The rigging, taut under the strain, hummed as it vibrated and the yardarm stretching across the deck bowed under the pressure from the sail, all under the anxious eye of the trierarch. Then, in the middle of the afternoon, there was a faint crack and Cato turned to see that one of his ships, the Thoth, had slewed to one side. The yard had shattered and the sail collapsed beneath the splintered ends of the length of timber.
‘Heave to!’ the trierarch ordered. ‘Signal the order to all ships!’
Cato bit back on his frustration as the flotilla rolled gently on the waves. The trierarch hurriedly went below to consult his charts and then came back on deck to report to Cato.
‘There’s a small naval station only a short distance along the coast, sir, on the Tanitic mouth. The Thoth can put in there under oars to pick up a spare yard and then catch up with us tonight. She’s the fastest sailer in the flotilla, sir. It shouldn’t take her long.’
‘Very well, pass the word to the trierarch of the Thoth. As soon as it’s done, we continue on course.’
The trierarch nodded and hurried to the stern of the warship where he picked up a speaking trumpet and bellowed the instructions back to the Ibis, who passed them on to the Thoth. Shortly after, the oars emerged from the hull and began to drive the vessel through the waves towards the shore as the crew on deck cut away the shattered yardarm. The rest of the ships braced up their sails and continued to the west.
The flotilla was beached well before sunset in order to give the Thoth a chance to catch up before night set in. The crews set to work building their fires for the night and then cooking some of the fresh rations they had taken on at Casium. The sun crept down towards the horizon and as it touched the palms on the distant headland, Cato came across Hamedes staring out to sea.
‘I thought you’d be at prayer.’ Cato smiled, jabbing his thumb towards the setting sun.
The priest flashed a guilty smile. ‘I’m worried about the other ship. It hasn’t arrived yet. It hasn’t even been sighted.’
‘No. The repairs are probably taking longer than was thought. I don’t suppose a small naval station gets many visitors other than . . .’ Cato fell silent. A cold tide of dread seeped up through his guts. He turned and hurried down the beach towards his ship, seeking out the trierarch.
‘The supply station you sent the ship to. Tell me about it.’
‘I’ve called in there a few times over the years. Not much to say.’ The trierarch pursed his lips. ‘They carry stores and supplies. They have a small team of carpenters who can make emergency repairs. The garrison covers the Tanitic mouth and mounts patrols into the delta. Used to be a lot busier before it began to silt up and the mangroves made the tributary unusable for shipping.’
‘Show me the location on the chart,’ Cato ordered.
While the trierarch hurried up the gangway on to the ship, Macro came over. ‘You look like you’ve swallowed a turd. What’s happening?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Cato replied, trying to stifle his anxiety. ‘It’s just a feeling. A possibility.’
The trierarch returned, clutching a rolled-up map. He knelt in the pool of light cast by the nearest fire and spread the map. His finger traced along the coastline and stopped. ‘Here, sir. That’s where the supply station is. Epichos.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
The sails had been taken off the ships and the yards lowered to the deck to reduce the chance that they would be spotted from the shore as they approached. The oars were out and the warships were making their way, very slowly, towards the headland. Cato stood in the foredeck turret straining his eyes as he stared towards the distant outline of the watchtower, barely discernible against the night sky. Macro had landed with a handful of legionaries over two hours earlier. Shortly afterwards he had sent a boat back to the Sobek to report that there were three ships beached on the shore in front of the supply base, one of which was the Thoth. There had been no sign of any movement on the ship. That was proof enough for Cato and he had given the order for the attack he had planned with Macro to go ahead, as soon as the first hint of dawn appeared on the eastern horizon.
Macro would strike first, taking the watchtower on the headland and the lookout post before the sentries could detect the ships approaching from sea and raise the alarm. He had taken Hamedes with him in case they were challenged. Hamedes would claim that he had been forced ashore when his fishing boat had begun to leak. It might buy them a few moments, long enough to spring a surprise. As soon as the towers were in Macro’s hands, he would signal the ships waiting to attack. Cut off from the sea, Ajax and his men would be trapped in the fort. They would have to surrender, or more likely they would choose to fight to the last man. Either way, their end was assured, Cato reflected.
He heard the ladder creaking behind him and a moment later the trierach joined him.
‘Too early for Macro to go into action, I suppose.’
‘Yes, but not long now.’ Cato glanced at the horizon and thought he detected the faintest loom dividing the sea and the sky. ‘When we get the signal, I want the ship to enter the bay as swiftly as possible. Ajax must not escape.’
‘We’ll do it in good time, sir. The Sobek will be past the headland long before the enemy can put to sea. You have my word.’
‘And I shall hold you to it.’
Neither man spoke for a moment before the trierarch asked, ‘Do you think there’s a chance that some of the crew of the Thoth were taken prisoner, sir?’
‘I doubt it. If I am any judge of Ajax’s character, he will not have spared their lives. And that might be a good thing.’
‘Sir?’
‘Those prisoners he took during the rebellion in Crete were often saved for a far worse fate than a quick death.’ Cato’s tone hardened. ‘Your comrades are dead. Set your heart on avenging them.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Cato turned and looked round at the dark masses of the other vessels. There was no sound from them, even though hundreds of marines and legionaries stood and waited on their decks, while hundreds more manned the oars. Aside from the faint rush of water along the hulls and the splash of oar blades, the ships were like shadows as they stole towards the coast.
‘There, sir,’ the trierarch said quickly. ‘Dawn’s breaking.’
Cato looked. There was a definite glow along the horizon now. He turned towards the watchtower once again. Still nothing. He muttered under his breath, ‘Come on, Macro. It all depends on you.’
Macro lay flat on the ground beside an outcrop of rocks. Twenty paces away the squat mass of the tower on the headland loomed against the skyline. Already, there was a thin wash of light that allowed him to pick out some of t
he detail in the ground around him. His party had disposed of the sentries in the lookout post and had been about to take their second objective when a small group of men had approached from the direction of the fort. There had just been time to take cover, and a moment later several figures strode past. There was an exchange of words with the men in the tower but the sound of the small waves breaking over the rocks on the headland made it impossible to make out what was said.
If the party of men didn’t leave soon he would have to risk making his attack against less favourable odds. In addition to Hamedes, he had ten legionaries with him. Ten men against the half dozen who had approached the tower and perhaps another four or five inside. Ten Romans and one priest, Macro corrected himself. Still, Hamedes was solid enough and might be useful in a tight spot. Two tenders and their sailors were waiting in a small cove back along the headland, ready to evacuate them if for any reason they failed to take the towers and had to escape in a hurry.
Macro eased his hand back and drew his sword, wincing at the faint sound of scraping as the tip cleared the scabbard. He held it tightly as he raised his head as much as he dared to get a better view of the tower. Beside him Hamedes took a sharp breath and whispered, ‘We should go, Centurion. There’s too many of them. They’ll kill us.’
‘Quiet,’ Macro hissed. ‘And don’t move, or I’ll kill you myself.’
He switched his attention back to the tower, clearly visible against the horizon. It would not be long before the sentries caught sight of the approaching ships and raised the alarm, Macro realised. Then, at last, the men from the fort turned away from the tower and began to retrace their steps along the headland. As they passed Macro’s hiding place, his heart began to race as he recognised their leader.
‘Ajax,’ he breathed softly through gritted teeth. He felt his muscles tense like iron and an icy rage gripped his body so that it took all his self-control not to spring from cover and hack the gladiator to bloody pieces. As he lay, trembling with fury, visions, smells and emotions filled his mind with a raw intensity as he recalled the shaming torments that Ajax had subjected him to. Torments that he had tried to forget and suppress. Things he had never confessed to even his closest friend, Cato, and never would. Macro shut his eyes, blanking out the barely discernible figure of Ajax. He breathed deeply, fighting back against the memories that threatened to overwhelm him. When he opened his eyes again, the gladiator and his companions had disappeared down the track that led to the beach on the inside of the headland.
Macro rose into a crouch and turned to the silent shapes lying on the ground behind him. ‘On me,’ he growled softly.
He moved forward, keeping low, and there was a faint swishing through the dry grass behind him as his men followed. Keeping in the shadow of the rocks, Macro moved stealthily towards the tower. He could see that the heavy door at the base of the tower was open. Above, on the platform, he heard voices muttering and a faint rustle as the morning breeze stirred the tips of the palm leaves of the sunshade. Macro scurried across the open ground in front of the tower, making straight for the door. Then a figure appeared in the frame, and froze. Macro powered forward, lowering the tip of his sword. At the last moment he punched the blade forward and it ripped into the man’s midriff an instant before Macro’s shoulder struck him in the chest. He slammed the man back through the door, across the interior of the tower until he struck one of the posts holding up the floor above. The man grunted as the breath was driven out of him and warm spittle and blood splattered Macro’s face. Clamping his spare hand over the man’s mouth, Macro thrust the sword up into the ribcage, ripping through vital organs. His opponent struggled frantically and then abruptly slumped forward on to Macro. He drew back, wrenching his blade free, and eased the body down on to the ground. Around him, his men crowded into the tower.
‘What’s going on there?’ a voice called down the flight of wooden stairs leading up to the platform. ‘Portius?’
There was a faint hue of wavering orange light from above, illuminating the topmost stairs.
‘Let’s go,’ Macro growled, running to the stairs and pounding up to the first level of the tower. When he reached the top, he saw a room with several sleeping mats lining the wall, a table and stools and weapons rack. There were two men. One rising up on an elbow, disturbed from his sleep. The other was near the top of the stairs, close to the weapons. He was quicker witted than his companion downstairs and instantly snatched at a spear and lowered the tip towards Macro as he and his men raced into the room. The spear tip thrust forwards and Macro swerved aside, crashing into a stool that sent him sprawling. The legionary behind him did not see the danger until it was too late and the spear thudded into the shoulder of his sword arm, the impact spinning him round against the shaft and knocking it to one side. The next man thrust his way past, and hacked at the spearman’s neck, cutting deep. With a sharp cry the renegade collapsed back, on to the floor, the butt of the spear clattering beside him. The man on the mattress made to get up but was cut down before he reached his feet.
‘The roof!’ Macro called out as he scrambled to his feet. ‘Move!’
The first few men ran past, climbing the last flight of stairs. Macro went after them. There was a brief cry of alarm, quickly cut off. As he emerged on to the roof, Macro glanced round. There was a low wall topped off with a wooden rail surrounding the roof. In one corner was the palm-leaf shade. In the opposite corner the signal brazier. There were four bolt throwers. A dull glow came from a small niche where an oil lamp stood ready to light the brazier.
‘You two!’ Macro pointed at the nearest of his men. ‘Get downstairs and seal the door. Barricade it with whatever’s to hand.’
He hurried across to the rail and stared towards the fort. A handful of torches glowed by the main gate and by their light he could see a pair of sentries standing on the gatehouse, apparently unconcerned. The dark shapes of three ships lay beached on the shore in front of the fort. There was no sign of alarm.
‘Good.’ Macro nodded to himself. Then he turned and crossed to the brazier, snatching up some of the kindling. He then carefully picked up the oil lamp and made his way down the stairs and outside. He set the lamp down and made a small pile of the kindling against the side of the tower facing the sea, and presented the flame of the oil lamp to it. The pallid yellow flicker licked the bundle of dry twigs and palm leaves. Then there was a puff of smoke as the flame caught and quickly spread through the rest of the bundle. The wall around the fire lit up with a bright yellow glow and Macro stood back and turned to look out to sea, searching until his eyes fixed on the distant shapes of the warships.
There was a shout from inside the tower and Macro looked up and saw light flickering from a small window halfway up the wall. The light quickly intensified and now the crackle of flames came to his ears.
‘What the hell?’ He hurried round to the door as the first of his men came stumbling outside.
Macro grabbed the legionary. ‘What’s going on?’
‘There’s a fire in the sentry’s quarters, sir! The oil lamp must have gone over and set light to one of the bedrolls.’
‘Fuck,’ Macro gritted his teeth. ‘We have to put it out, quick.’
He ran back inside, up the stairs. Already the air was thick with smoke and the flames flared up against the walls, lighting the space in a hellish red light. There were shouts from above as the flames licked up the stairs. Macro looked round desperately, then saw an amphora leaning in the corner. He rushed over and snatched it up, and pulled out the stopper, instantly releasing the sharp tang of wine. Moving towards the fire, and wincing at the heat that struck him like a stinging blow, Macro shook the contents towards the flames. The wine landed in gouts, quenching the flames, but not quickly enough.
‘Bugger this,’ Macro growled, stepping back. He hefted the amphora, took aim at the wall where the flames were most fierce and hurled the jar. The heavy pottery exploded, wine splattered on the rough plaster and drenched the sleeping m
at below. Snatching up a cloak from the table, Macro started beating out the flames.
He looked over his shoulder and saw Hamedes. ‘Give me a bloody hand!’
The priest hesitated for an instant, his eyes wide with fear, then he plucked a cloak from a peg on the wall beside him and joined Macro, smothering the remaining flames. When the last of the fire was stamped out, Macro nodded his thanks. He looked round the smoke-filled room. An acrid stench gripped his throat and he coughed. Throwing the cloak down, he stumbled to the stairs, pushing the priest ahead of him, and climbed up on to the roof. He crossed to the wooden rail and breathed deeply to clear his lungs. The dawn was coming up fast; a band of pale light thickened along the horizon. By its glow Macro could already see the full extent of the bay from the shadowy mangroves, across the water to the fort. Several figures had emerged from the gate and were looking directly towards the headland. More appeared on the walls of the fort and then there was a shrill blast of a horn.
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