“That’s a couple of hours sooner than we planned on. Over.”
“Yeah. Either the outer picket ships missed them or they’re moving faster than we’d assumed. And the visibility’s not great. Over.”
“Roger that. I’ll spread the word. Out for a while.”
Warner released the button, then cupped his hands and shouted up the mast.
“Major Mason says sails on the horizon. Dead north from the tower. That’ll be north-northeast of us. Off to the left. Course, the islands may still be in the way from here.”
“Aye, aye,” Manners called down. “But I don’t see a damn thing.”
“Keep an eye out. I’m going aft to tell Captain Pilinius.”
Warner kept both hands on the safety line that stretched from the mast to the steering oars as he made his way aft. He thought clinging to it made him look like a lubber, but he’d noticed that most of the Roman sailors did the same thing. All of them held the safety line with at least one hand, anyway, and no wonder. Going overboard here would likely be the end.
Looks be damned. He walked himself aft, holding the line in both hands until he got to the quarterdeck ladder. There were safety lines on it, too. He pulled himself up.
“Hail, Praefectus Pilinius!”
“Hail, Praefectus Warner,” the captain replied, and Warner tapped the radio.
“Those in the bell tower have seen ships to the north. More than ten, possibly many more than that. We see none from the masthead yet—”
The Nikeisian pilot spoke sharply. Publius answered, and they both spoke rapidly, too quickly for Warner to follow. Then the pilot raised one hand and pointed. They turned to follow his pointing finger as a red ball went up the top flagstaff of the bell tower. When it reached the top, it broke out in an enormous double-tailed red streamer and the pilot shouted.
“Enemy in sight,” Captain Pilinius said.
* * *
“Don’t like it that the water’s so deep already,” Art Mason said quietly over the radio to Sergeant Major Bisso. “Over.”
“Me neither,” Bisso replied. “We’re gonna have to fight right here in the city in the end, whatever else happens. Over.”
“Always knew we would,” Mason said. “Trick is to do as little of that as we can get away with. And at least the radios give us a lot more flex to fix things when the shit hits the fan. Wish we’d had these earlier! Over.”
“Me, too.” Bisso replied. “Only wish I didn’t think we’re gonna need ’em. Over.”
“You got that right, Harry. You got that right. Out.”
* * *
Warner crossed the quarterdeck carefully towards Fleetmaster Junius and Martins. The Colonel had told him to keep as close an eye on Martins as the Romans.
The lieutenant was taking a sighting with his compass, and then drew a line with his pencil on a map. Actually, it’s a chart, Warner corrected himself. It has sounding marks on it.
Martins looked up again, then looked at the bell tower with his binoculars and consulted a chart in his “memoire.” Then he manipulated the calipers in his left hand and drew a range arc.
Must be measuring the angle between the ground and the tower with the reticule in the binos to determine range.
The Brit did the same thing with a couple of other features while Junius watched with great interest.
“Should we be doing that?” Warner asked in English.
“I’d like us to be able to return,” Martins replied, still focused on his work.
“Yeah, but we can still see the tower, and we have the pilot. I imagine the Nikeisians and Romans have been finding their way back for quite a while now. Besides, I’m not sure the Colonel will be happy you’re showing the Romans another advanced technique.”
“I understand that,” Martins said, “but the tower and the pilot may not always be there, and we have no GPS.”
“GPS?”
“Sorry. Satellite navigation system put up after you left Earth.” Martins’ voice was quiet enough Warner had trouble hearing it through the sound of wind and wave as the younger man thought for a moment. “It’s been a while since I’ve done this, so I’m out of practice. I can’t speak to the accuracy of my work. I’d need a proper alidade and a sextant for that. Better than nothing, though.”
“Praefecti?” Junius asked. His tone was polite but made it clear that he considered their use of English a bit rude. He’d addressed both of them with the same rank, Warner noticed, but with deference towards Martins.
“I beg your pardon, Fleetmaster,” Martins replied in Latin. “I was explaining to Praefectus Warner what I was doing. I suspect he’ll soon be able to build even better tools than I currently possess to make it possible for all of our allies’ ships to sail well outside sight of land.”
“We already do that,” Junius replied, and smiled slightly at Martins’ expression. “We do try to stay in sight of land in waters we don’t know, but that’s why any experienced captain keeps his sailing journal.”
“Sailing journal?” Martins repeated.
“The record of currents and winds.” Junius gave a Roman-style shrug. “An experienced captain, sailing in waters he knows, should make landfall within fifteen miles”—those would be Roman miles, Warner thought, so a tad under sixteen and a half statute miles . . . not that it mattered—“of his destination even if he’s sailed the entire way out of sight of land.”
“Really?” Martins seemed a bit taken aback, and Junius smiled at him.
“I’m sure your star magic will be very useful in finding our way back this time, Praefectus,” he said in an encouraging tone. “After all, wind and wave are far more confused today.”
What was that in the planning session about “galleys don’t normally sail beyond sight of land?” Warner thought, suppressing what he knew was a rather unworthy temptation to ask the question aloud. And damned if Junius didn’t enjoy that! Gotta be sweet when somebody from Tran gets to one-up a star lord!
“Funny you didn’t mention you spoke Latin to the Colonel,” he said out loud, this time again in English.
“I remember telling my tutor Latin was a dead language,” Martins replied in Latin. “It seems I was in error. Good thing we both learned Latin in secondary school.”
Smart ass, Larry thought. I’ve been here since before you were able to shave, kid.
He suppressed the temptation to say that out loud, too, and grabbed the quarterdeck rail, instead. Ferox’s motion was sharper as they neared the breakwater. The bow rose harder and faster, then fell back with a sharpness he felt in his legs and spine, and he fought to suppress his stomach’s rising queasiness.
He looked away from the waves, concentrating on the bundles at the short ladder up onto the forecastle. At least two lines lashed the Carl Gustav in its weatherproofing to the back of the ladder. Next to it, under the break of the forecastle, a waterproof box contained the recoilless’ shells. As long as the ship was afloat it should be all right, he thought. McQuaid, Frick, and the others “volunteered” for the mission were another matter. They didn’t look so good.
“Guys, make sure your safety lines are fast!” he shouted in English, then looked around for the other containers. One held the Molotov cocktails, another firebombs, and both were secured as thoroughly as the recoilless and its ammunition.
Good, he thought to himself. Not enough of those. Don’t want to lose any of them.
* * *
Rick was out of breath by the time he got to the bell tower’s observation landing. The stairs stopped there. If he wanted to go higher, he’d have to climb ladders, and he wasn’t tempted. If he couldn’t see it from here, he wasn’t going to see it. Besides, the base radio had been emplaced here, with its antenna farther up, atop the tower and connected to the set by coaxial cable. One of Saxon’s bicycle generators had been set up beside it, just in case.
He stepped off the landing towards Art Mason.
“How close are they?” he asked in English, and Mason turned qu
ickly.
“Didn’t hear you coming, Colonel. Nearest enemy’s maybe sixteen, seventeen miles out. All that wind and spray isn’t helping visibility, but there’s lots of sails, Sir. Best I can estimate, there’s at least eighty or ninety of them, so far. Maybe more; it’s all mixed up out there, and they’re not all together. Their fleet’s strung out for miles. Bunch of ten or a dozen about a mile ahead of the main body, and it looks like some of ’em are still coming over the horizon. Figure they’ll be here in three, maybe four hours. Seas are high, wind’s high.” He shook his head. “They’ll be coming straight in, I think. No way for them to maneuver. It’s going to be a rush.”
“Pretty much like we expected,” Rick said.
“Worse, Colonel.” Mason shook his head again. “Sir, Mr. Warner says the water’s a lot deeper out there than anyone expected.”
“But they know the seas rise—” Rick frowned.
“Yes, Sir. Maybe it’s the storm. Or maybe some know it and some don’t. Clavell says this is the damnedest place for keeping secrets. I don’t know, Colonel, but I don’t think the outer harbor defenses are worth a damn. A lot of the mud flats have disappeared. I think they’ll just come straight in. It don’t even look like they have any choice in the matter. I doubt they could get back home in these seas. I think they have to attack, and hope they’re lucky getting past the shoals.”
Rick nodded.
“Which means they don’t have any choice but to use their best tactic. Rush us hell for leather. Maybe this Cannae wasn’t such a bad idea.”
Assuming the Romans can maneuver better than the pirates can, anyway, he thought while projecting as much confidence as he could.
“Well, if the pirates don’t kill us, maybe the storm can, Sir.”
“That’s a cheery thought,” Rick replied. “Pass the word for Admiral Stigliano to get the northern squadron ready. And check with Walbrook. Make sure he’s ready to move with the mortars.”
“Yes, Sir.”
As Mason began passing orders, Rick picked up his binoculars and looked through them at the Nikeisian squadron anchored in the inner lagoon near the northern channel. Lying to anchor had allowed the crews to stay rested and fresh, which would give them an edge over the pirates. As he watched, Admiral Piero Stigliano received his signal and there was a flurry of activity on the fifteen assigned ships as they prepared to get underway.
Rick shifted his gaze north to the outer lagoon. At first he was disoriented and uncertain what he was looking at, because features he’d expected to see were no longer visible. Many of the low-lying islands that made up the barrier for the outer lagoon were now awash; the mud flats that made up the rest were nowhere to be seen, although angry white water churned across them.
And the rising tide still had a long way to go . . .
“Looks like Stigliano’s going to have to fight in what’s left of the outer lagoon,” Mason said as he looked in the same direction with his own binoculars. “The seas have really risen.”
“I had the same thought,” Rick replied. “And if there’s this much storm surge now, we’re really in for it when it hits.”
“Don’t like the look of the sky to the north, either,” Mason said, and Rick nodded grimly. Visibility was deteriorating as the wind continued to rise. Whitecaps were everywhere, with foam beginning to blow in long streaks, and the clouds rolling in on the wind were dark, angry looking, and moving fast.
“I don’t care for it much myself,” he said.
“I don’t think we should’ve sent the team with the Roman squadron,” Mason said. “I don’t see how Frick’s going to hit anything with the Carl Gustav from a pitching ship in those seas, and the team with him’s going to be wasting ammo if they use their rifles. Especially if it gets worse.”
“You’re right, but think. It could’ve been worse. We could have gone with that battlecruiser idea.”
“Do you want to recall the squadron?”
Rick chewed on his inner lip for a moment, then shook his head.
“No, we have to figure Pilinius and the others know what they’re doing. Leave it up to Junius.”
I sure as hell hope they know what they’re doing, anyway! Besides, what do I do if they ignore a recall order? Publius obviously wants a naval victory. I have to wonder how much he’s willing to risk betting on the weather to get it, but that’s clearly what he wants. And since they’re his ships, it’s entirely possible they’d do what he wants instead of what I want. What’s that old saying about never giving an order you know won’t be obeyed?
They heard the sound of hobnailed boots on the steps behind them and turned.
“Hail, Friend of Caesar,” Tribune Caius Julius said from the stairs as he came up to join them.
“Hail, friend, Tribune of Rome,” Rick replied in his rough Latin as he smiled. Can’t get away from you guys. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Publius asked that I assist you in any way I can.”
I bet he did.
* * *
Rick watched the Nikeisian squadron deploy and felt his stomach knot as they filed slowly through the main channel in a line. The channel ran between two islands—Isola di Lido and Isola di San Lazzaro—which were part of the ring surrounding the inner lagoon, a bit higher than the boundary islands of the outer lagoon, and he shifted his gaze up and to the north to see another line of ships heading south towards what remained of the outer lagoon. The seas outside the lagoon were too high for oars, and angry surf boiled white over the semisubmerged outer islands. There was more and more spray as the waves pounded home, boiling in confused white sheets across the submerged mud flats and the outer breakwater. Despite that, the oncoming galleys, at least half of them great galleys, held a remarkably straight line as they leaned to the wind under double-reefed, tight-bellied lateen sails.
Who are those guys? Rick wondered. They’ve got to be professionals.
“What am I looking at?” he asked Caius Julius, offering him the binoculars. The Tribune peered through them for a moment, then lowered them with a grimace.
“Those are the galleys of the Grand Duchy of Riccigiona.”
“Looks like they’re leading with some of their best troops to soften us up,” Rick said.
“Indeed they are,” Caius Julius agreed.
“Which means they could be the only ones who could hold the formation in the storm. Probably that as much as any deliberate planning, Colonel,” Mason added.
Rick nodded as he recovered his binoculars. Then he put the strap around his neck and watched through them in fascination as the enemy squadron passed over what had been the boundary of the outer lagoon. They pitched wildly in the shallow, turbulent water, but they held their course and, nearly simultaneously, lowered the spars of their lateen sails, secured them for battle, and thrust out their oars once again in the less tumultuous seas of the lagoon.
That took guts, he thought. They must have realized the mud flats were submerged, but until they actually crossed them, they couldn’t be sure by how much. They sure as hell weren’t going to be able to stop if it turned out to be too shallow! These people are good.
He lowered his gaze towards the Nikeisian squadron as that thought ran through them, and his jaw tightened.
A couple of those ships have green crews. If they don’t get out of that column, things aren’t going to go well.
The channel broadened as it approached the wider lagoon, and the Nikeisian squadron began breaking out of the column. The first two ships altered course by forty-five degrees—the first to the left, and the second to the right. The others fanned out behind them, with the ships in trail alternating to follow the two guides. When the last two ships had fallen into place, they all altered course directly north, facing the enemy in a formation like a huge, inverted V, with four of Nikeis’ eight great galleons at the refused apex of the wedge.
They’d gotten into formation just in time, and the forwardmost ships started trading fire with the enemy, using their bow-mounted
ballistas. The Nikeisian missiles fell short and to the left, driven off true by the winds. The Riccigionan squadron had the wind at their backs, but few of the large quarrels hit their targets on either side. Not surprisingly, given the roughness of the seas even within the lagoon. Ships in both squadrons started to retract their oars as they surged towards one another, and their marines exchanged crossbow and javelin fire.
Rick watched the outermost Nikeisian ships at the right end of the line pivot sharply inward towards the nearest enemy ship. Their prow-mounted rams screeched across the enemy ship’s metal-clad bow, then skittered across its wooden sides. The rams had too little angle or momentum to penetrate the hull, but the impact did slow all three of them. Grapnels flew, and the three ships surged together, weapons waving at the point of contact.
More ships slammed together at the other end of the line, but it took the enemies in the center longer to close and the Duchy ships concentrated their fire on the center Nikeisian great galley. Marines fell on its deck, and the Nikeisian rowers were slow in retracting their sweeps in what might have been a sign of inexperience. An enemy galley—one of the faster, more maneuverable galee sottili, swerved at the last moment and sped down the Nikeisian’s side. Oars shattered as its prow sliced through them, the inboard ends of the long sweeps became furious demons, crushing bone and flesh, and the attacker slipped through the gap it had opened in the Nikeisian line. Grapnels flew at it from either side, but too late to catch it, and it sped off down the channel.
Behind it, both squadrons slammed together into a gigantic raft of floating wood, metal, and fighting men. Marines surged across the bulwarks in a deadly melee. Despite how tightly they were locked together, the ships heaved and rolled against one another, timbers screaming as they grated together, and some men lost their footing. The lucky ones fell back onto their own ships. Others fell into the sea or were crushed between the grinding hulls.
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