“Now, Homer!” I shouted.
On cue, our fifty crewmen cried, “Up with Red Beard! Down with Pompey! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!”
The enemy slowed sharply. I could see curious faces looking down from the pirate bow.
“Ramming speed!” I shrieked.
I jammed the steering oar to one side. The rowers redoubled their efforts, throwing their full strength into the frantic tempo. Paulla was calling the beats. It felt like we were literally flying over the water.
“Cease rowing! Starboard oars up!” I commanded.
The rowers lifted their oars and heaved them high in the air, bracing their shoulders against them.
“Heads down! This is it!”
The Hesiod was pointed like a ballista bolt along the enemy’s starboard bank of oars. Nothing could have turned us. It was too late to evade. Our bronze-covered ram went straight down the forest of oar shafts like a thunderbolt. We heard countless cracks and tearings and splinterings as oar after oar was broken in half.
“Now we turn and board them?” cried Paulla.
“No! Full speed ahead!”
Using our own oars, which had survived unhurt, to shove off from the crippled pirate ship, we cleared the wreckage of the enemy side and swiftly passed to its rear. It tried coming after us, but with only half its propulsion intact, it could only turn in circles. Our crew, drenched in spray, couldn’t resist giving them one last farewell.
“Up with Red Beard! Down with Pompey! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!” they shouted gleefully.
Meanwhile, the pirates were bearing down once more upon the Rapacious and Pompey’s flagship. With horror, we watched as the Sword of Cilicia rammed the Roman admiral’s galley, catching it just before the prow. It wasn’t a damaging blow, but the two ships were now locked together. A horde of pirates was gathering on the quinquereme’s boarding deck, intent on slaughter.
The Rapacious was caught between two fires. That is, two pirate triremes faced it, and as soon as it spun its bow round to fend off the first, the second would maneuver to ram from the side. It was twisting this way and that, backing water all the while. The shore was all too near.
“Switch shifts, now!” I called. “Fresh rowers! Quickly, quickly!”
The men of Tragias exchanged places on the benches, and fresh backs and biceps took control. The others looked to their weapons, Paulla went forward to direct the ballista, and Homer joined me.
“Sir, we must save that Roman!” he said, pointing to the Rapacious.
“I know,” I replied. “We’ll have to wait till the last moment – timing, Homer, timing is everything!”
We were about a hundred yards from the Rapacious. One of the pirate triremes veered to ram, but without momentum, and the Rapacious was able to evade. But this left it exposed to the other pirate galley, which backed water, lining up with the Roman ship’s side.
“Don’t they see us?” I asked Homer.
Half a dozen ballista bolts answered my question. Both pirate galleys had us in their sights. Several missiles struck home among our rowers, and another barely missed Paulla at the bow.
“Fill their places!” I ordered. “Prepare to ram!”
Once more, we accelerated across the sea. We were coming in at an angle behind the pirate that was backing water. But we were far faster. In moments, we had come level with the enemy prow.
“Port oars only!” I shouted. “Port oars only!”
The Hesiod turned very sharply. I wondered if we would capsize. Then, suddenly, we came out of the turn and were flying toward the pirate bow.
“Both sides! Both sides! Ramming speed!”
The fresh strength of Tragias gave six quick pulls of the oars and we impacted on the pirate ram. Our own bronze ram struck it right where it joined the trireme hull. There was a sickening lurch and an ear-splitting crack, and the pirate ram was sheared off as if by a chisel.
“Starboard oars up!”
In the nick of time, the Hesiod lifted the ten starboard oars, passing directly under the shattered pirate bow. The enemy was still afloat, but without its ram it would be quite unable to attack.
A tremendous cheer went up from the Rapacious. Then the Roman galley turned against the first attacker, beating it back and threatening to strike in turn.
Now we were fifty yards off from Pompey’s flagship. Shouts and cries and the scrape of metal reached us from the point where the quinquereme had dug itself into the Roman ship: a ferocious mêlée was underway as the Romans fought back the pirate boarding party.
“That’s it!” I shouted to Homer. “That’s the battle now!”
I changed course toward the stern of the Sword of Cilicia. My face was flushed with the joy of our first successes. It was so much more satisfying to maneuver the Hesiod with oars than to be always imploring the gods for a favorable wind. The steering oar felt like a toy in my hand.
The quinquereme loomed overhead. We were too low for the ballista bolts to hit us. In a few strokes we would reach the pirate hull.
“Ready your weapons!” I ordered. “Now for Rome! Now for Tragias!”
The oarsmen tugged with all their strength, accelerating one last time, and then the Hesiod ’s ram smashed into the side of the pirate stern. We did hardly any damage – for the quinquereme was built of huge thick timber – but we were stuck. That was all we needed. The blood rushed to my head.
“Now for it!” I cried. “Everybody out, we’re boarding her! Board her, board her!” But the men on the boarding deck were already following Paulla into the belly of the Sword of Cilicia. The others dropped their oars, seized their spears and swords, and clambered after them. Homer and I brought up the rear.
Inside, it was a shambles. There was a choice of going down to the lowest oar-deck or up a damaged ladder at the side. Sensibly, Paulla led them upward. She had no weapon, which meant she could use both her hands to climb.
To my astonishment, the first room we passed through was the very storage chamber in which we had been held prisoner. At least this enabled us to get our bearings.
“Marcus!” called Paulla. “Marcus, we must be right below the poop deck!” She was pushing back through the crew.
“Any sign of the pirates?” I asked.
“One or two, but they took to their heels when they saw us,” she grinned.
“Let’s go for the poop deck, then,” I said. Then, to the men of Tragias: “Everybody with a red dot on your forehead, follow the lady! If you’ve got a yellow dot, stay with me!”
The red dots followed Paulla up the ladder to the main deck. The yellow dots came after me.
A strange sight met our eyes. The enormously long deck of the Sword of Cilicia was almost empty. All the pirates were concentrated on the boarding deck, where the Romans had apparently repelled them and stormed aboard. But then the Pirate Admiral had rallied his men, pushing the Romans off again, and the pirates had even reboarded Pompey’s galley. In the process, a pocket of Romans, fighting madly near the foremast, had been cut off and surrounded. The pirates were now split between those attacking the pocket of Romans and those fighting their way onto the Roman flagship.
By the time I got up, Paulla’s red dots had claimed the poopdeck and cut down the pirate colors. Some thirty pirates were advancing on us, leaving some twenty more to press against the Roman pocket. My yellow dots formed a wall of spears across the main deck, and the pirates were beginning to attack them with long pikes.
“Well done!” I cried to Paulla. “But we have to advance! Put the red spears with my yellow ones and hold this end of the ship!”
She nodded and grabbed a short sword.
“Stay safe, by Hercules!” I cried. Then I turned to Homer. “Pick your ten bravest, Homer, and follow me. Make sure they have swords. We have to rescue those Romans by the mast!”
“But how can we get past those pikes?” he asked.
“We’ll go beneath them!”
In no time he had pulled ten young fellows back from the line of spe
ars. They followed after me down the ladder again and I searched in the near-darkness of the corridor for the same hatchway that had allowed us to escape. I knew there was an empty oar deck down there, and it ran the length of the ship.
Dropping one by one down the steep stairwell, swords in our hands, we ran along the aisle between the massive drawn-in oars. We had to crouch beneath the deckhead, half-deafened by the echo of the battle above us. I was in the lead. We passed midships and the mainmast, then found another stairwell, going up, at the foremast. From the hatchway above I could hear the clank and screams of combat, as well as a familiar voice.
“To me! Romans to me! For Pompey! For Rome!” it called. There was something simple and unselfconsciously heroic in the intonation.
“Spurinna!” I cried, flinging myself up the stairwell. The others dashed up behind.
We were in the midst of the Roman pocket, surrounded by a ring of pirates. Spurinna was leading ten men in a circle, back to back, and they were slashing with their swords; some of their comrades lay dead or dying at their feet. A crowd of ugly, laughing pirates looked on, grasping pikes. The pirates were being careful, taking their time, and every few seconds a pike would come lunging in to kill another Roman. Spurinna ducked one thrust just as I appeared.
He looked at me with complete and total astonishment.
“No time to explain!” I shouted. “Tell your men not to attack anyone with a red or yellow dot on his forehead! That’s us!”
“Us?” he gasped. Then, to give him credit, he at once gave the order to his men.
“Now let’s break out of here and push them back to the stern!” I cried. “I’ll take the port side. Spurinna, you take the middle. Homer, you take the starboard side. All right?”
“Homer?” Spurinna was more amazed than ever. The Greek publisher had just climbed up the hatchway. He gave a quick bow.
“My dear former master!” called Homer. “I would be glad to recount just how we happen to be on hand, but I’m afraid, well, the battle –”
But at that moment I shouted “Rome and Tragias!” and we charged the pirate pikes.
The pirates were hardly less amazed than Spurinna that twelve swordsmen had appeared, as if by magic, as reinforcements. To be effective with long pikes, you need either superior numbers or extraordinary discipline, and now they had neither. We slashed past the sharp pike tips and then the pirates couldn’t recoil far enough to stab back. They turned and fled aft.
But there Paulla’s spearmen were waiting. The pirates drew up before them, turned back to us, withdrew again. Suddenly it was their turn to be encircled, pressed between Paulla’s men and ours. An awful howl of fear went up. In their midst, towering bravely and trying to encourage them, I saw the Pirate Admiral.
His red beard was askew, and he was bleeding from a cut in his forearm. But the old ferocity was still blazing in his eyes.
I stepped forward. The Pirate Admiral recognized me.
“You see,” I declared. “I spoke the truth. You should have killed us on the spot. Now we’ve tracked you down!”
“By Sabazius!” roared the Pirate Admiral.
“For Tragias!” I shouted.
“For Tragias!” came the cheer from the stern. Paulla was waving her sword, clapping the villagers on the back.
With a roar, we advanced against the beaten enemy. They threw down their weapons and crowded toward the rail. There, some falling, some leaping, the pirate crew tumbled into the sea. Only the Pirate Admiral remained, keeping even the fiercest men of Tragias back with his expert cutlass strokes. At last he stood at bay, encircled by a double ring of spears. He dropped his sword. I took pity on him and accepted his surrender. From behind us came the sounds of Pompey and his crew driving the pirate boarding party in rout from the Roman galley’s bow.
Spurinna, meanwhile, was still in shock. He was shaking Homer’s hand in disbelief. The publisher was quoting a well-chosen verse. When Paulla walked up to him his astonishment reached its peak.
“Aemilia Paulla?” he asked, opening his eyes wide.
“Hello, Aulus,” she answered with a smile. She had a light cut across her leg but was otherwise looking very fine.
“How – how in the name of Hercules did you get here?”
“Oh, well, Marcus and I sailed to Greece, you see,” she began.
I left them to it. Grabbing Homer, I hurried down the hatchway once more, then down a second hatchway to the middle oar deck. There I was met by a very frightened overseer. He took one look at me and fell on his knees with a shrill plea.
I realized I still had a sword in my hand. Also I was pretty much covered in blood, though thankfully unwounded. The overseer held up his whip to me in token of surrender.
“Get up!” I barked. “Where’s the Captain? Have you been using this whip on him?”
I grabbed it from his limp hand and lifted it. But just then there came a chorus of shouts from the stern. It was our captured Athenian rowers, chained to the oars, sitting together in a block.
“The Roman, the Roman!” they called. They were grinning with relief and delight.
I ran down to meet them. Homer followed, dragging the overseer behind him.
In the midst of the rowers sat a rather short, hefty figure with a great black beard. He was slumped over his oar, unconscious.
“Captain!” I cried. Then I turned with fury to the overseer. “Where are your keys? Release these men at once!”
He fumbled for the keys, and soon the freed Athenians were carrying the unconscious Captain up to the sunlight once more. Homer and I walked behind, not sure whether to grieve for the Captain’s condition, or to be happy that he was still among the living. I felt more guilty than ever for having left him behind while we escaped.
On deck, there was silence, except for a single commanding voice. It belonged to a tall and handsome man with a narrow chin, wearing the armor of a Roman general. He was addressing the assembly of Roman sailors and men of Tragias. It was emphatically Pompey the Great himself.
“…therefore I extend my thanks,” he announced, “the thanks of the Admiral of the Mediterranean, to these men of Tragias, whose very surprising arrival so much assisted in this victory. From now on, let their island be known as The Noble Island. Further, I can only praise this worthy Greek publisher, who captured the Pirate Admiral in personal combat. And last, but certainly not least, I salute my young protégé, ever in the forefront of the battle, who bravely routed the pirates almost single-handedly – Aulus Lucinus Spurinna.”
There was a round of polite applause, sincere but futile protests from Spurinna (who was pointing at me), and admiration all round at the modesty of such a certifiable young Roman hero. The Chief Magistrate of Tragias went to ask for a lock of his hair.
Paulla ran up. With tears in her eyes, she stroked the Captain’s beard where he lay on deck. Then she turned to me.
“Oh, Marcus,” she said, “is he dead?”
But the Captain stirred. Opening one eye, he even managed a faint smile.
“You came back for me,” he whispered softly. “You came back. Never, never, dear lady, have I seen such a wife, and such a husband, as you two, my dear friends.” Then he passed out, and there was no time to correct him about me and Paulla.
Paulla gave orders for the Captain to be transferred to Pompey’s flagship. No one thought to disobey. Then she stepped toward me and sank into my arms.
“The Captain’s right, you know,” she said. “You are the best, Marcus. I realized that just now, when you disappeared. Who cares about glory, if you’re willing to be loyal to your friends?” She looked up, and suddenly there were tears in her eyes. “That’s real love, isn’t it, just like I told Zeno of Sidon?”
“It’s not the kind you find in novels,” I confessed.
She grinned and brushed her eyes. Suddenly, she kissed me.
“Marcus,” she said, “it’s the kind you find in your heart, when the gods are helping the brave. Now come on, and let’s get ov
er to the flagship. You’re covered in blood, as you might have noticed.”
Four of the pirate galleys were captured at Miletus, including of course the Sword of Cilicia. The rest scattered far and wide, pursued by the victorious Roman fleet. Pompey’s flagship was too badly damaged to join the chase, however. The quinquereme’s ram had left a huge gap in the hull, and it had to limp back to Athens. This suited Pompey well, for he was keen to return to Italy in triumph; but he dismissed Cicero’s note (which was found on the Sword of Cilicia) and the alliance with Cicero never quite worked out. He took the Pirate Admiral with him, in chains.
Covered in glory, the men of Tragias went home, having lost five islanders in the battle; but they had already begun to compose an epic poem on the subject, with me as the principal hero. It is still, I’m sure, the only island of two hundred inhabitants with its own quinquereme floating in the bay. Homer did not go with them, though he promised to visit. He took up residence in Athens and began publishing Spurinna’s memoirs. They were more in demand than ever.
Spurinna remained with the Roman fleet. They promoted him to be first officer of the Rapacious, a rather extraordinary post (it was remarked) for an extraordinary young man. He did shake my hand before he sailed. Somehow, he said, he seemed to have got all the credit I deserved.
“It’s all right,” I told him. “I’m not the hero type.”
As for the Captain, he sailed with us to Athens. There, he was again treated by Atticus’s doctor friend, and his leg mended slowly. Later he wrote to me from Carthage. He had sold the Hesiod to Atticus and bought a new merchant ship instead. His return home was a magnificent event, he declared, and his entire clan voted to put up a life-sized bronze statue of him – which, given the Captain’s hefty physique, must have cost a small fortune.
Paulla and I went back to Rome – by land as much as possible. Her escape and her adventures were the scandal of the year in the City, and she reveled in every minute of it. Her parents, still enraged at her running away from home, forced her to renew her betrothal to me with the most solemn vows imaginable, which displeased her rather less this time around. Nowadays, her idea of a good book is a philosophical dialogue, and she is always trying to get her friends to read them, but I don’t mind.
The Ancient Ocean Blues Page 13