Funeral Games t-3

by Christian Cameron

  ‘I have the helm,’ Peleus said.

  ‘There’s a Lesbian freighter just clear of the headland,’ Peleus said, swinging them a few points to the north. ‘I’m going to turn away from those ships I don’t know – who may be blockading Macedonians, or may not – and offer the pirates behind us, if they are pirates, a nice fat Lesbian merchant.’

  Satyrus ran forward to watch. The ships off to the south and west were just a line of marks against the sea – black hulls and no sails – but the flash of their oars as they rowed was rhythmic and predatory. Four – five – six ships. A column of ships.

  To the north, a big round-hulled merchant under sail made to cross their path, broad-reaching on the wind and trying to hold a course as far west of south as he could get out of his sails. Satyrus watched him for a moment and then ducked back under the mainsail and ran back along the deck.

  ‘Those are warships to the south,’ he said.

  ‘Aye,’ Peleus said. ‘That they are.’

  The two dark shapes behind them began to gain in resolution as they rowed harder.

  Peleus watched them as the distance closed. ‘Poseidon’s mighty dick, those are our friends with the machines,’ he said, his voice now certain. ‘How can that be?’

  Satyrus didn’t have an answer for him. ‘What should I do?’ he asked.

  Peleus swung his lips from side to side, pursed and unpursed them, and looked aft again. ‘Pray?’ he said. He smiled, and swung the tiller a fraction more. ‘Man the top-deck oars,’ he called.

  The oar master sounded a bronze drum once, and then called ‘Ready!’ Most of the rowers were in position. On a ship with fewer than two hundred men, news travelled fast.

  ‘Ten stades and we’re safe,’ Peleus said out loud. He cheated his helm another fraction to the north. ‘Oar master, give us a touch of speed.’

  The oar master started to call the beat, and the upper-deck oarsmen gave way with a will, rowing carefully so that the drag of their oars wouldn’t fight the last push of the breeze.

  ‘Sail down on my command,’ Satyrus sang out, and got a nod from Peleus, and the deck master had them all lined up, with Agathon handling a rope despite the stripes on his back – he’d been punished in Xanthos that morning, beaten with a rope.

  The breeze was failing them as they came in with the land. It was a matter of judgment as to when the oars were of use, and then again when the sails became a liability – the sort of fine judgment that could make all the difference in the world.

  ‘Lower decks ready,’ the oar master called.

  ‘Mainsail down,’ Satyrus called at a nod from Peleus.

  The deck crew released lines at the rail and the sail folded to the deck in a gleam of red. The pirates – if the dark hulls were pirates – were coming up fast. Their bows shone clear – the Phoenician had a pair of eyes painted above his ram.

  Something flashed astern, out of the sun, and splashed into the sea well astern, and then there was the sound of a distant thud.

  ‘There they are,’ Peleus said. ‘Same fucking ships.’ He pulled the steering oar a little farther to the north, so that their course lay opposite to that of the Lesbian merchantman on the southern tack.

  ‘All oars!’ he roared. ‘Best speed, boys!’

  Off to the south, the warship squadron was at full speed now, but Peleus had fooled them by steering farther to the north of his course every stade. They were coming on in a column, led by the two heaviest ships, and despite having the advantage of the tide and fuller galleries of rowers, they weren’t gaining ground. But there they were, like breakers or a lee shore, a threat that couldn’t be ignored.

  ‘Macedonians. Some Corinthians, and maybe an Asiatic,’ Peleus said. ‘Antigonus’s fleet.’ He shook his head. ‘You can’t see it, but we’re already past them. They’ll give up in a minute – they’d better, or we’re in a lot more trouble.’

  The bolt-thrower astern fired again, and the bolt skipped over the waves to pass them before it sank.

  ‘Poseidon, I hate those things,’ Peleus swore. ‘A new calf smoking on your altar, Wave-Treader, if you will see me safe into Rhodos.’

  One more time, as they heard the protests of the Lesbian, Peleus moved the steering oar and pushed the bow north, so that they were now on the opposite tack to the merchant ship, almost at right angles to their initial course, and the two pirates astern had to fetch their wake to make distance. They were no longer losing the race, and the angry merchant ship, which had to turn south to avoid collision with the madmen aboard the Lotus, called insults as they shot by.

  ‘And will the pirates take the easy prey?’ Peleus asked. ‘And how dare they come so close to Rhodos?’

  Satyrus shook his head.

  Sure enough, away to the south and west, the military squadron had abandoned their chase. Dark was coming on, and they needed a beach.

  ‘Look at that!’ Peleus said.

  Astern, the two pirates ignored the merchant ship, which actually passed between them with another chorus of insults.

  ‘They’ve been paid well,’ Peleus said. ‘Ready to take the helm?’

  Satyrus walked over. ‘Ready to take the helm,’ he said, and took the oar into his hands. The living ship moved under his grip.

  ‘You have the helm,’ Peleus said.

  ‘I have the helm,’ Satyrus said.

  ‘On my word, we’re turning ninety degrees off our course and running for the harbour.’ Peleus left him and ran forward, calling to the oar master.

  Satyrus grinned, suddenly understanding. Because the Macedonian squadron was pulling for its night beach, they’d opened a different road into the harbour – in effect, the Lotus would pursue them – and the pirates would once again have lost ground. Too much ground this time to overtake.

  ‘Everyone together – steering oar keep her steady, and the oar banks will turn us. Ready? All ready? On my command,’ Peleus shouted. Heads came up as all the bench leaders showed that they understood.

  The ship rowed another stroke north. Peleus was watching the pirates. Satyrus didn’t even turn his head. That was Peleus’s job now.

  ‘Hard to port!’ Peleus roared.

  Instantly, the oar master translated the order into rowing orders. In three heartbeats, the port oar banks were backing water, the steering oar bit deep, and every sailor and deckhand on the half-deck ran to the starboard side and threw themselves outboard, and forward the marines and archers did the same. Satyrus, eyes on the bow, saw his sister and Dorcus throw themselves on the outboard lines like deck-crewmen. Every bit would count.

  The Lotus turned from north to west in twice her own length and raced on, her way virtually undiminished.

  Aft, the predators couldn’t even get their engine to bear. They rowed on for precious seconds as their prey jigged like a rabbit chased by dogs, and then they took too long to make the turn – the heavier Phoenician trireme took so long to make the manoeuvre that she was almost a stade north of her prey and lost several stades in distance.

  The big Phoenician chose to lose more ground and fire his machine again. It was his last throw – it cost more time and more manoeuvres.

  ‘Lie down!’ Peleus shouted, and got his back against the stem. He looked stricken as he realized that Satyrus was standing up with nowhere to hide – a long-stretched moment as Satyrus saw the bolt leap from the engine in the last of the sun, but it passed harmlessly off to the south, mistimed, and the older man straightened up with a wry look for his own worries.

  As the last fingers of the sun reached across the wine-dark sea, Lotus shot past the headland at ramming speed and into the outer harbour, the pirates already turning away in their wake. Down on the beach below the Temple of Apollo, a small crowd of onlookers cheered them as Peleus ordered the rowers to crash-stop the ship, putting their oars into the water against her momentum.

  Peleus rubbed his back and straightened. ‘All’s well that ends well,’ he said. He shook his head. ‘Too damned close for an old ma
n.’

  ‘I never saw your trick coming – neither did the pirates!’ Satyrus said.

  Peleus just shook his head. ‘Your sister’s right,’ he said. ‘My nerve ain’t what she used to be.’

  They unloaded a hidden cargo of finer things – amulets, engraved seal stones and super-fine Aegyptian linen – and the real cargo, Aegyptian emmer wheat. Leon’s factor had already arranged buyers for every item, and Satyrus, as the navarch, received a small bundle of papyrus notations indicating the value of the cargo and the final sale. Not an obol changed hands – the money stayed on paper, where pirates couldn’t seize it.

  ‘Athenian tanned hides to Smyrna,’ Satyrus said.

  ‘Already loading,’ the factor said smugly. ‘Glad you know your business, boy, but we know ours. Nestor the Gaul is factor in Smyrna. Land him the hides and he’ll have a load of stuff for you to carry back to Aegypt. Wool and oil, that’s my guess.’ The short man smiled for the first time. ‘He must love you, boy. Trusted you with the Lotus.’

  Satyrus smiled in confusion and let that comment go.

  Peleus took him from the factor’s office to the Rhodian navy’s offices by the Temple of Poseidon, just above the ship sheds. ‘Every officer is supposed to report in,’ Peleus said. ‘If you plan to stay in this business, you’ll do well to be one of them.’

  Satyrus went up the steps with Peleus. By the time they were abreast of the courtyard of the temple, a dozen scarred veterans had greeted Peleus with the utmost respect. They went in through a row of painted wooden columns and joined a dozen men in weather-worn chitons and oil-smeared cloaks gathered around a pair of older men on wooden stools.

  ‘Peleus!’ said the oldest, a gnarled man with a beard as white as the snow on Olympus. ‘I heard a report you were inbound.’

  ‘Here I am. This young scapegrace is Leon’s nephew, Satyrus. A passable excuse for a navarch. Satyrus, the two old men are Timaeus and Panther. They command the fleet this year.’ Peleus walked around, clasping hands with the men his own age.

  ‘That’s Satyrus, son of Kineas of Athens? Eh, boy?’ Panther looked like his namesake, with a shock of white-grey hair unthinned by age, fierce eyebrows and a mighty beard that failed to hide the furnace that burned behind his eyes. ‘When are you going to rid us of that poxed whore Eumeles? Eh, boy?’

  Satyrus cleared his throat. ‘My sister would have killed him already,’ he said. ‘I’m giving it some thought.’

  ‘Lord of stallions, I can hear his balls clanking together from here!’ Panther said. He turned to Peleus. ‘We were just talking about your pirates. After you came in, guess what they did?’

  Peleus shrugged. ‘Hauled their wind and rowed north?’

  Satyrus smiled. ‘May I guess, sir?’

  Panther growled. ‘Have a go, boy.’

  ‘They sailed south and coasted along, looking at Antigonus’s fleet,’ he said.

  Timaeus narrowed his eyes. He looked at Panther, and Panther grunted.

  Peleus smiled. ‘Smart lad,’ he said. ‘So, why?’

  ‘They aren’t pirates,’ Satyrus said. ‘Or rather, they aren’t just pirates. They’re out to get Melitta and me – for Stratokles and Athens. Maybe as part of a wider deal.’ He shrugged. ‘Stratokles the Informer is just the sort of man to have a safe-conduct from his own opponents. And to want to spy on them.’ He shrugged. ‘Give the man his due – he’s good at what he does.’

  ‘Athens has no great love for Cassander, and that’s a fact.’ Panther looked around. To Peleus he said, ‘When Antigonus comes at us, will Ptolemy back us?’

  Peleus nodded. ‘He has to. He’s building a fleet. It’s not a fleet the way you or I would have a fleet, but it’s better than nothing.’

  Timaeus grunted. ‘Part of One-Eye’s fleet is on our beaches, blockading us.’ He rubbed his chin, eyes on the floor.

  Satyrus looked down and realized that he was standing on a chart of the Inner Sea. His sandals were on the coast of Rhodos, with Helios’s rays detailed in gold, and Smyrna was two steps away. ‘The rest have vanished,’ Panther said, pointing vaguely at the coast of Asia.

  ‘For all I know, Demetrios took them straight into Alexandria to burn the place. He’s a bold one.’ Timaeus shook his head. ‘We put all our cruisers to sea to avoid blockade, and then they made their move, and we’re blind.’

  ‘Our harbour is empty, if you didn’t notice. We don’t have any more ships to send as scouts. Your lading says you are bound for Smyrna. Will you scout the coast of Palestine on your way back?’ Panther spoke urgently to Peleus. ‘Our need is great.’

  Peleus looked at Satyrus. ‘It’s his call to make, gentlemen. Palestine is well off our course. And we couldn’t get the news back here.’

  ‘You could get word to our station on Cyprus. Peleus, we’re hard-pressed. And we’re on the same side.’ Timaeus rose from his chair.

  Peleus shrugged. ‘I’m as Rhodian as the rose, Timaeus. But I serve an Alexandrian and I’m an honest servant. Last year you sent ships to serve Antigonus One-Eye.’

  Panther shrugged. ‘It was expedient. You know who we prefer.’

  ‘Welcome to the Olympic Games of politics, boy,’ Peleus said to Satyrus.

  Satyrus stepped forward. ‘Will you find a merchant to take Lord Leon’s hides across to Smyrna?’

  Timaeus nodded. ‘We can do that.’ He shrugged. ‘Eventually.’

  ‘So we’ll pick up some luxuries to pay the oarsmen and ship empty for the Palestinian coast,’ Satyrus said.

  Peleus nodded. ‘And we’ll fly.’

  ‘That pair of wolves will be on you as soon as you leave harbour,’ Panther said.

  Peleus nodded. ‘They almost caught us when we were fully laden,’ he said. ‘Unless the gods will our doom, empty, we’ll be over the horizon before they can get in range with their infernal engines.’

  Satyrus took a deep breath. ‘We need three days,’ he said. ‘The crew needs a rest.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Timaeus said. ‘Perhaps one of our cruisers will come in and we won’t need you at all.’

  Satyrus turned to Peleus. ‘And my sister stays aboard,’ he said.

  Peleus shrugged. ‘Done,’ he said.

  A day of debauch and a day of rest, and the Golden Lotus’s crew mustered on the beach, surly or smiling depending on their natures. Many of them had acquired companions, most of them temporary, and a few of them had gained or lost possessions – Satyrus could see a younger oarsman with what appeared to be a cloth-of-gold chlamys wrapped around his shoulders, standing next to an older man with his head between his knees who appeared to be completely naked. But none were late, or absent, and every man of them had his rowing cushion, whatever the state of his dress.

  Peleus stood up, wearing a bronze breastplate and carrying a helmet. ‘This is a war voyage,’ he shouted. ‘Anyone want to sit it out? I have a pair of javelins for every man and I’ll add an owl to everyone’s pay. But we won’t ship much of a cargo and that means no shares.’

  Kyros, the oar captain, spoke up. ‘What about captures?’

  Peleus nodded. ‘Right enough. But we’re scouting an enemy coast, boys. Not much time to make a capture. If we do, shares by the custom of Rhodos.’

  Kyros nodded and went back to squatting on his haunches.

  Peleus turned to Satyrus. ‘That’s what passes for a council among men who use the sea,’ he said. ‘We’ve got the tide.’

  Satyrus nodded. ‘Let’s use it then.’

  The two wolves were aware as soon as the Golden Lotus passed the Temple of Apollo and left the inner harbour. Peleus watched them under his hand as they threw their oars aboard and then pushed their sterns down the beach. But they didn’t have the wind and their rowers were slow to respond and the Lotus drew away effortlessly.

  ‘Good riddance,’ Peleus said, staring under his hand. ‘Heavy metal in their bows and no mistake. I won’t be sorry to see the last of them.’

  The last they saw of them were their masts slippin
g away under the horizon as the coast of Asia came up on the port bow.

  Satyrus could see the first of the tell-tale headlands that would lead him into Xanthos. ‘I guess we’re not going into Xanthos,’ he said.

  Peleus shook his head. ‘Beautiful day, crew hard as old wood. Let’s use this fine west wind while it blows and see if we can make the beaches of Pamphylia. If the weather holds,’ he said, and made a horn sign with his hand, ‘we might coast into Paphos on Cyprus, and we’ll never see those cocksuckers again.’

  Kyros took a dipper of water from the butt amidships and raised an eyebrow at the helmsman. ‘I won’t mention that to the boys, I guess.’

  Peleus barked a harsh laugh. ‘Maybe when the moon rises.’ He glanced at Satyrus. ‘It’d be something to tell your grandchildren, that you went from Rhodos to Paphos in a day’s rowing.’ He came and stood by Satyrus for ten strokes of the oars, and then they felt the true west wind at their backs.

  Peleus gave one of his rare smiles. He turned to the deck master. ‘Hoist the mainmast, Kalos. Get the cloth on her.’

  ‘Mainmast and mainsail, aye,’ Kalos answered. Short, hairy and scarred, his name spoke for what he was not – beautiful. He was perhaps the ugliest man Satyrus had ever seen, Stratokles included, but he had a sense of humour, and often claimed that he had been an avatar of Aphrodite in a former life and was paying the price now.

  Of course, he was also a highly skilled seaman. In less time than it took to pull an oar a hundred times, the mainmast was up and roped home, and the mainsail was drawing, taut as a board and round as a cheese.

  ‘Navarch,’ Peleus said gruffly, ‘if you’ll have my advice, I’d say that we could make the run to Paphos.’

  Satyrus nodded a few times, considering. ‘Then carry on,’ Satyrus said.

  ‘It’s only that it is open water all the way. No landfalls and no refuge.’ Peleus raised a shaggy eyebrow.

  ‘For one day? Are we sailors or not?’ Satyrus asked rhetorically. ‘What’s the heading?’

  ‘Years since I did it.’ Peleus squinted at the sun and the sky. ‘South and east. No – more south. I like that. Hold that course.’ He looked at the wake for long enough that Satyrus thought he might have changed his mind. ‘Deep-water sailing is where we find out if you can mind your helm or not,’ he said. ‘No landmarks. No seamarks. Your wake is straight, or he ain’t. Hear me, lad?’