The Road To War

by Peter Tonkin

  User looked at the steaming offal. ‘If it was Brutus’ liver,’ he growled, ‘I’d eat it raw!’

  ‘Well,’ said Artemidorus, ‘one day it might be. Then you can eat his liver – and his heart into the bargain. In the mean-time, we’ll keep Nebet and your boys in our minds and try to find them when we get the chance.’

  *

  User nodded but turned away and walked to the stern of the ship where he stood leaning against the sternpost looking back into the steady pressure of the northerly wind like Orpheus looking back for his lost Eurydice. He knew the truth behind Artemidorus’ kindly words. Brutus’ legions had slaughtered his family. He would never see them again. Beside which the loss of his wealth and employees, vessels and warehouses in Xanthus was as nothing. What he had discovered in the blazing city last night had turned him from a bystander into a committed soldier.

  After a few moments he called to Artemidorus. ‘Two things occur to me at once,’ he said as the secret agent joined him. ‘The first is this –your mission to Alexandria must in some way damage Brutus, who is Antony’s enemy, and you are Antony’s man. Secondly, that the more swiftly you complete your mission, whatever it is, the quicker we might see the murderous bastard defeated and start looking for my family.’

  ‘So?’ asked Artemidorus.

  ‘So. I wish to be more than your travelling companion. I wish to help you achieve whatever Antony has tasked you with. I, my brothers, our vessels and what is left of our fortune are at your service. All I ask is one favour.’

  ‘Name it.’

  ‘That you tell me what your mission is; as much as you safely can. The more I know, the more I can help.’

  Half an hour later, User was still standing at the stern rail. Thinking through what Artemidorus had revealed to him. Assessing how the mission, if successful might bring about the death and destruction of Brutus, his plans, hopes and dreams.

  But even in the middle of his murderously vengeful thoughts, the seafarer in User was keeping a weather eye out. The vista astern of Glaros was not without its beauty. On his right, the shore line they had rowed away from last night still sat low on the horizon. A column of smoke like the result of a volcanic eruption rose above the smoldering city, beginning to blow southward as though pursuing them. Immediately behind them, Homer’s wine-dark sea, with the surface reflecting the high azure sky but beginning to stir and seethe under the influence of the following breeze. Away to the left hulked the hilly backbone of southern Rhodos, the length of the island stretching as the land became lower and leaner until only a beach – invisible from here – joined an islet to the main bulk. An isthmus at low tide, he remembered, a true island only at high tide.

  His memories distracted him, and he turned a little, shading his eyes against the wind and the glare as he looked at that little island away on the far horizon. He had taken Nebet and the boys there once for no real reason, just for pleasure. So unlike him, the stern, almost Roman paterfamilias he had become more recently. If only…

  But then he frowned. The shape of the distant island was wrong. His eyes must be playing tricks he thought. He blinked and discovered that his eyes were streaming once more.

  Artemidorus and Puella joined him, concerned that he was brooding here alone. The insightful Greek spy saw the look of surprise fleeting over the Egyptian’s face at once. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  It was as though the question made User’s vision clear at last and his understanding return.

  ‘Ships,’ he said. ‘Two Roman battle quinqueremes have just rounded the island at the southern point of Rhodos and it looks like they’re coming after us.’

  v

  ‘After us?’ demanded Halys. ‘How can they be after us?’

  Artemidorus took a deep breath. It was a long story. He just needed to give the highlights. ‘When we brought two men from the lists of proscribed enemies of the state out of Rome and across to Macedonia with us, we knew there was a risk,’ he said, ‘even though we were ordered to do so by Caesar Octavianus. They were both planning to join Brutus and his armies in the east. We separated from them in Dyrrhachium and they managed to come on ahead of us, travelling with a messenger sent to Brutus with news of his wife’s death. A messenger sent by his mother Servilia, I would guess.’

  ‘But they got ahead of us by ten days, maybe more,’ added Quintus. ‘One way and another.’

  ‘We know they joined Brutus because we saw one of them in Xanthus last night,’ Artemidorus continued.

  ‘They know what our plans are,’ added Ferrata. ‘No details, just in general. Plans and destination. So, no doubt they’ve passed that information on.’

  ‘In spite of the fact that we saved their lives,’ persisted Artemidorus, ‘they will not think twice. They know how crucial our mission is. Any message going from Antony to Cleopatra is likely to result in damage to their cause. So, they have obviously taken steps to stop us getting to Alexandria.’

  ‘But how?’ demanded Halys. ‘How have they had time to warn the ships in Rhodos to come looking for us?’

  ‘Looking for any vessel bound for Alexandria, perhaps,’ said User. ‘There don’t seem to be all that many.’ He glanced around the empty sea.

  ‘But even so, how would they have passed the message on so fast?’ Halys shook his head. ‘It seems hardly possible. Still, a couple of fat tubs like those quinqueremes have no chance of catching my Glaros. Not with a wind like this under her tail.’

  Artemidorus turned away, unconvinced by Halys’ confidence. He looked back at the two distant quinqueremes. Just in time to see, right at the mast-head of the eastern vessel, a shape that could only be a man standing high in the rigging. And no sooner had he recognised what he was seeing than a bright flash of light seemed to beam out from the distant figure’s chest. ‘They’re using mirrors,’ he said. ‘Mirrors to signal.’

  And sure enough, there on the eastern horizon well south of them, he saw an answering flash of light.

  ‘Watch!’ he shouted. ‘Watch the western ship. She is bound to be signaling too!’

  ‘There,’ shouted Furius at once.

  ‘And an answer,’ chimed in Kyros. ‘From the west and south of us.

  ‘Two ships chasing from behind; two more waiting ahead. If the first pair can’t catch us, maybe the second pair can cut us off.’

  ‘They’re trying to box us in,’ agreed Halys, stroking his beard. ‘But they won’t manage it. They haven’t counted on my Glaros’ speed.’

  ‘Right,’ agreed Artemidorus. But even as he spoke, he frowned, because it wasn’t right. There was something else going on. ‘Halys,’ he said, ‘how long would it take the pair of ships ahead of us to close with us?’

  ‘Until after dark tonight,’ he answered with a shrug. ‘Those two back at Rhodos will never do more than sit in our wake. But the two on either side of us will probably get close after sunset.’

  ‘And in the mean-time?’

  The captain shrugged again. ‘In the mean-time we keep sailing straight for Alexandria. Douse our lights in the darkness, slip through the gap between them and sail home free.’

  *

  By sunset, the two quinqueremes that had been following them from Rhodos were still there. Further behind and hull-down, little more than masts and fat-bellied sails standing above the horizon, driven south by the same steady northerly that was helping Glaros stay ahead of them. But their busy signals continued to flash. And to be answered by the two quinqueremes closing relentlessly on the left and right fore quarters, being rowed steadily across the wind, and coming together like a pair of jaws.

  ‘They must know we will slip between them in the dark,’ observed Halys, over-confidently. ‘They are simply wasting their time.’

  ‘Perhaps…’ Artemidorus and User went aside with his contubernium to discuss the situation.

  ‘It has to be a trap,’ said Artemidorus.

  ‘I agree. But how will it be sprung?’ wondered User.

  ‘Too early to say. Bu
t I agree with Halys. It will be sprung after dark.’

  ‘Let’s kill and cook the last of the lambs and goats except for the milkers. Give everyone a solid meal. In case things get strenuous later.’ User suggested.

  ‘Just slaughter? Not sacrifice?’ asked Kyros.

  Artemidorus looked down at him. The boy was gifted, intelligent; a warrior of enormous potential – especially as Puella was training him in the use of both hands to wield weapons so that he would become ambidextrous like her and almost as deadly – while Notus was gently helping him become an excellent forger. But he was still both young and superstitious.

  The secret agent looked around his contubernium and understood at once that Kyros was not the only one nervous about the impending darkness, especially as it would be the first night of the week or so when the moon was dark. ‘A lamb to Erebus and a goat to Nyx,’ he said. ‘That way we’ve covered both darkness and night.’

  Halys agreed that feeding the oarsmen and the crew was an excellent idea. The lamb and the goat were sacrificed. Their smoke as they roasted darkened the sky above and ahead of the liburnian – a suitable offering to the god of darkness and the goddess of night. Then the blood went over the side to keep Poseidon happy.

  As Artemidorus and User took the roasted meat round, they took the opportunity to talk to the oarsmen. ‘There’s a chance you will be rowing tonight. Be ready. And bear in mind that if you do row it will be in battle order. No singing.’

  ‘Furthermore,’ added User, ‘when you have eaten, smear the lamb fat and the kid fat along your oars. Oil the leather of your row-holes. There is no point having you working in silence if your oars are squealing like pigs at slaughter.

  vi

  By the time everyone reassembled by the steering oar where Halys and his gubernator stood, it was almost dark. ‘Now we’ll see,’ said the captain. And see they did – but not what he expected. First the quinquereme ahead on their left and then the one on their right lit all their lamps at the stempost – with extra light for the captain and navigator. They ran lanterns up to the outer ends of the spars against which their great square sails were furled. They even ran lanterns up to the mast-heads where the soldiers with their signal mirrors no longer had enough light for their work. And, away on the horizon behind Glaros, the pursuing vessels also hung lanterns on the masts and rigging still visible.

  ‘They’re trying to frighten us,’ huffed Halys. ‘Well, we’ll show them! Light the lanterns, men. And see if you can’t squeeze a little more speed out of the sail. It shouldn’t be too hard; the wind has picked up again. Boreas is on our side, as well as Erebus and Nyx. All sacrifices well invested.’ He laughed. ‘Even yours, Quintus!’ he called to the seasick soldier’s back as it strained over the nearest rail.

  But User and Artemidorus were not as convinced as the ebullient captain that the gods were holding protective hands over them and all was well. The pair of them stood at the foot of the mast, listening as the great sail strained to contain the wind and the spars and rigging strained to control the straining sail. After a few moments, Puella, Kyros, Notus, Furius, Ferrata and Hercules joined them. Crinas remained below almost as seasick as Quintus.

  ‘I would wager,’ said User, ‘that you are thinking of your personal demigod Achilleus.’

  ‘Yes. As it happens, I am,’ nodded the spy.

  ‘Nothing unusual there,’ observed Ferrata drily. ‘Sometimes I think we have all stepped out of Homer. Achilleus,’ he nodded at Artemidorus. ‘Ajax the greater,’ he nodded at Hercules. ‘Briseis,’ he looked at Puella. ‘You get your choice, User – Agamemnon or Patroclus.’

  ‘Let the boy be Patroclus,’ said User, nodding at Kyros. ‘If he can stay alive long enough. Notus can play Meriones. I am content with Agamemnon.’

  There was a short silence. They all knew that it was the beautiful Briseis who caused the terrible rift between Achilleus and Agamemnon when the warrior wanted her, and the monarch stole her from him. Puella shifted uneasily, feeling the sudden tension there.

  ‘And who would I be?’ wondered Furius.

  ‘Ajax the lesser,’ answered Ferrata. ‘Diomedes if you were better looking; you’re certainly a good enough warrior. But as things are.... With that face…’ he shrugged apologetically.

  ‘And you, Ferrata,’ wondered User. ‘Who are you? Odysseus?’

  ‘No,’ laughed the Iberian. ‘Quintus is Odysseus, widely travelled, cunning and secretive, never reaching home. And I? I am from The Odyssey. I am Polyphemus of course. I am the one-eyed Cyclops!’

  As their laughter died, User grew serious. ‘But tell us why you were thinking of Achilleus,’ he said.

  ‘Not so much Achilleus,’ answered Artemidorus. ‘As of his Myrmidons and their black ships.’

  There was another brief silence as they all thought this over.

  ‘Black ships,’ said Ferrata softly.

  ‘You mean ships with black sails and no lights,’ said Kyros.

  ‘A pair of them, I’d say, sitting dead ahead between us and Alexandria, with a great rope or net strung out between them, waiting for us to rush through the narrow gap between the two well-lit quinqueremes closing in ahead, charging south at full speed just like we are doing now, straight into their clutches.

  vii

  ‘The obvious thing to do is wait until they are just about to close their trap on us and then somehow slip away,’ mused Halys.

  ‘That would be easier said than done,’ warned his gubernator.

  ‘Perhaps not, if we prepared…’ Halys stroked his beard thoughtfully.

  ‘Continued to prepare,’ interrupted User. And he told Halys what he and Artemidorus had already told the oarsmen to do in preparation for silent running.

  ‘Think about it,’ said Artemidorus. ‘They seem to be relying on several things. First, that we have not worked out their plan yet. Secondly, that even if we do, there will be precious little we can do about it. We can douse the lanterns easily enough, but to make any meaningful change in speed and heading we would have to do some serious sail-handling, difficult enough in daylight – almost impossible in the dark. Thirdly, deploying the oars while the vessel is under way and running at full-speed would be dangerous to put it mildly. It would more than likely cripple us. Damage the oars themselves possibly even snap the rigging and break the mast. Do their work for them.’

  ‘I agree,’ nodded Halys. ‘It all seems to turn on how fast we can get the sail down and slow enough to get the oars working safely, because only the oars will take us across the wind east or west.’

  ‘We’ve been thinking about that,’ said Artemidorus. ‘And we think we have an idea that might work.’

  For the next hour, as Glaros continued southward at full-speed, with all her lanterns aglow, the oarsmen continued with the preparations User and Artemidorus had asked them to do. Halys and his sail-handling team made subtle changes to the rigging, then sent men to stand – or hang – immediately beneath the lanterns. As close to the brightness as they could come while still concealed by the shadows that seemed to be growing ever deeper. As though Erebus and Nyx themselves were close above the racing vessel, hoping to see what Artemidorus and User were planning.

  Halys produced a whistle and agreed a series of signals. Artemidorus’ contubernium went around the ship from stem to stern ensuring that everyone knew what action to take when they heard each signal. Quintus, faint but intrepid, went below and rifled through the weapons that they had brought with them from Rome – as augmented in Brundisium. When his mission was satisfactorily completed, the rowers got ready to deploy their oars, laying them across the width of the slim hull, with their handles in the laps of the opposite teams, their blades just inside the leather-bound oarlocks. When everything was in position, the lamps down here were doused until there was just enough light to see by – one above the pausarius with his drum on the low stage at the stern, one at the bow a hundred feet away and one either side of the mast which stood midships like the trunk of a tre
e.

  So, at last everything was ready. All they had to do was wait.

  Which was, of course, by far the hardest part.

  *

  The quinqueremes were so close now that it was possible to hear the song of their oarsmen keeping the oar-blades digging into the water in unison. It was possible to see the watchkeepers high on the prows which towered above the sleek liburnian even at this distance, lit as they were by lanterns hanging from their incurving stemposts. To see the way the water creamed palely along the length of their massive rams.

  Artemidorus stood at his post waiting, trying to calculate Halys’ own calculations. How much sea-room remained between those massive rams? Eight stades? Ten? More than a Roman military mile at any rate. And how far ahead were they? Four stades? Less? Three? And how far beyond the two oncoming vessels, drawing ever nearer like the Clashing Rocks trying to crush the Argo, were the black ships waiting, lights doused, nets out, ready to close the trap? It was like a problem set by Pythagoras or Euclid. But it was alive, in motion, ever changing…

  He was so distracted by his calculations that Halys’ first piercing signal made him jump. The lamps all went out as though by magic. As far as the watchers on the quinqueremes were concerned, Glaros must simply have disappeared. At the second signal, which followed almost immediately, Artemidorus and User were in action. Quintus had armed them both with big battle-axes. And in unison they brought the blades down, cutting into the deck rails where the rigging ran through the blocks, severing the lines holding the foot of the sail in place, despite the risk their action posed to the mast itself. With a sound like a thunderclap, the sail flew upward, releasing the wind that had driven the ship southwards. The mast groaned, and the rigging howled even though it had been carefully strengthened for just this moment. Immediately the way began to come off her. Artemidorus stood in the darkness, feeling the ship begin to hesitate, surging, heaving and pitching uneasily, like a galloping horse confused by a sudden change in pace. Slowing. Slowing…