by John Stack
Belus smiled in the twilight as he watched the full moon rise over the bow of the pirate galley. The moon looked unusually large in perspective and he savoured the sight that marked the end of his time on the pirate galley. Belus looked away and turned towards the darkening sea, blinking his eyes to clear them of the residual image of the moon as he once more marshalled his thoughts, sifting the information he had gathered since he had last seen his commander.
The crux of his report involved security and the perceived opportunity to take the Romans by surprise. On this point he was now sure, the evidence overwhelming and he smiled without thinking as he imagined the reaction of Hamilcar to the news. The smile dissipated quickly as Belus was reminded of the primary source of this vital information, the Roman captain still recovering below decks. Too many times over the previous days, when Belus had gone to check on the Roman, he had found himself examining his decision to spare him. More than once his conviction had faltered, even when faced with the sight of the Roman’s broken body. Rome was the enemy, the aggressor who had precipitated the conflict on Sicily until the only option left to Carthage was total war. The sons of Rome therefore deserved no mercy, whether trader or soldier, for victory could not be achieved through halfmeasures. And yet, more often than not, Belus knew he was right to spare the captain. He firmly believed the Romans were no better than wolves, creatures totally without honour that corrupted all they touched. If Carthage was to prevail and remain unsullied by the conflict, Belus knew her sons needed to remain honourable. The Roman captain had been a worthy adversary and Belus would treat him as such. Once the impending campaign was underway, he would release him back to his people.
The stench of unwashed skin and clothes shattered Belus’s thoughts and he turned to find a crewman standing beside him.
‘Captain wants to see you,’ he said, his mouth a mess of broken and rotting teeth, his breath putrid.
Belus nodded and stepped passed the pirate, his eyes searching the deck until he spotted Narmer on the aft. He strode towards him, conscious of the intense stare of the pirate captain as he approached.
‘A full moon, Carthaginian,’ Narmer said, stepping forward.
‘Then we set course for Tyndaris,’ Belus replied, wishing to keep the conversation as brief as possible.
‘We’ll be there by noon tomorrow,’ Narmer replied.
‘No sooner?’ Belus asked. By his reckoning Tyndaris was no more than twenty miles as the crow flies.
Narmer nodded over his shoulder to the darkening horizon. Belus followed his indication and noticed the darker smear of storm clouds.
‘There’s a storm rolling south,’ Narmer remarked. ‘We will have to stay in shallow waters and hug the coastline.’
Belus nodded. The bireme had a very shallow draft, ill suited for heavy seas, and the galley was now in open waters west of the Bruttian peninsula. They would have to sail eastwards to the Italian mainland, into the lee of the peninsula, and then south along the coast. It was unavoidable but it added considerable time to their passage and Belus allowed his irritation to show on his face.
‘Trust me, Carthaginian,’ Narmer sneered, seeing Belus’s expression. ‘I am as anxious as you to reach Tyndaris and have you, and that Roman you spared, off my ship.’
Belus stared stonily at the pirate, not deigning to reply.
Narmer stepped towards Belus, leaning forward threateningly, determined to press home his opinion. ‘And remember this,’ he spat. ‘If my gold isn’t there waiting for me, you’ll die on this galley, but not before my crew string you from the mainmast.’
Belus continued to stare icily into the captain’s eyes, silently marking every contour of the pirate’s face before turning abruptly to leave the aft-deck.
‘Another wasted day?’ Septimus said with mock derision as he came up to the aft-deck.
‘Not one sighting,’ Atticus replied with frustration.
‘Maybe the other galleys have had more success,’ Septimus said, sharing his friend’s disappointment although he knew Atticus’s hatred for pirates ran deeper than his own, second nature for a man who had spent his life at sea.
‘We’ll know tomorrow,’ Atticus replied, referring to the prearranged assembly of the squad in the fishing village of Falcone that was scheduled for the next day.
Septimus nodded, sensing Atticus’s conviction that no other crew had encountered the pirate galley. He looked beyond the captain to the setting sun and watched as the last of the day’s sunlight skipped across the wave tops. Septimus had spent most of the day in training with his demi-maniple, a welcome distraction from the seemingly endless trek across open water and even now, within a minute of watching the horizon, he became annoyed by the monotonous seascape.
‘Captain!’
Septimus turned at the call, recognising Gaius’s voice and he watched as Atticus walked towards the tiller and man who had called him. As Atticus approached Gaius nodded to a point high in the sky over the port rail, using only his head to indicate, his hands never leaving the tiller. Septimus turned and followed the line of sight of the captain, immediately seeing a loose flock of seagulls flying across the line of the Aquila’s course. He wondered at their significance and he turned again to see Atticus and Gaius in conversation, both of them occasionally looking to the northern horizon.
‘What’s wrong?’ Septimus asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.
‘The seagulls,’ Atticus replied, pointing again to the dwindling profiles of the flock. ‘They’re heading inland.’
‘So?’ Septimus asked.
‘It’s a sign that bad weather’s approaching.’
Septimus smiled at superstitious sailors but as he looked to the north he saw the unmistakeable stain of dark clouds crowding the horizon, their height seeming to increase with every second.
‘Come about east,’ Atticus ordered.
‘We’re going to run from it?’ Septimus asked, surprised. ‘Surely this galley can weather an autumn storm.’
‘Not with that thing on board altering the trim of the hull,’ Gaius said, indicating the corvus boarding ramp on the foredeck. ‘We encounter heavy weather with that thing attached to the deck and we’ll capsize before we have time to make our peace with Poseidon.’
Septimus looked doubtful. The corvus looked ungainly on the foredeck but it was dwarfed by the mainmast and he found it hard to believe it posed some kind of threat as to how the galley would fare in rough seas.
Atticus noticed the centurion’s expression, ‘I trust Gaius’s judgement on this,’ he said. ‘Galleys are very finely balanced and remember the corvus was installed on all galleys before Mylae. That was early spring so no galley has had to sail through a storm with a corvus weighing down its bow.’
Septimus accepted the argument although he remained sceptical. He knew nothing of sailing and had always deferred to the experience and knowledge of Atticus and his men but in this case he couldn’t help but feel that they were being over-cautious.
Narmer stood on the aft-deck of his galley, his hand resting easily on the weathered arm of the tiller, his eyes focused on the waters ahead and the brooding dark shoreline to his starboard. The helmsman lay asleep on the deck behind him, curled up against the aft-rail with a canvas tarp over his head, meagre protection against the rain which had begun over an hour before. The bireme had just sailed into the lee of the Bruttian peninsula which protected her from the rising swell and although the helmsman knew the coastline well, Narmer was sure none knew it better than he. As the bireme moved slowly through the shallows, Narmer’s thoughts began to drift. He would be glad to reach Tyndaris on the morrow and finally rid himself of the Carthaginian shackles that had held his galley fast over the previous six weeks.
Narmer’s galley had taken eight Roman ships during that time, rich pickings that he had been satisfied to sink in exchange for the fifteen hundred drachmae the Carthaginians had promised him. The waters around the north-eastern tip of Sicily were becoming too dange
rous however, and Narmer had already decided that his next hunting ground would be the northern coast of Africa. The pickings would not be as rich there but neither would the risk of capture be as high and Narmer recalled with unease how close to detection his ship had come over the previous weeks. His ability to avoid the Roman war-galleys was based on detecting them before they spotted his ship. In daylight this was possible because of the extremely low profile of his bireme while at night he sailed without running lights, something the regimented Roman navy galleys would never do and so they were easily seen and avoided. Even with these precautions however, Narmer knew luck was always a factor in remaining undetected and so he looked forward to the time when Tyndaris and Sicily would be lost in the wake of his galley.
‘Land, bearing two-points to port!’
Atticus followed the line indicated by Corin the lookout, wiping the rain from his face and eyes as he peered through the semi-darkness formed by the struggle of the moon to be seen through the heavy but broken cloud. The northwesterly wind was picking up with each passing minute but Atticus judged the land ahead to be no more than two miles away.
‘Recognise it?’ Lucius asked.
Atticus studied it again, trying to discern some detail in the ethereal half-light, knowing that the older man was testing his knowledge. He smiled and shook his head.
‘It’s the Bruttian peninsula,’ Lucius said and he pointed out the landmarks that had allowed him to recognise the Cape.
Without command Gaius steered the Aquila two points to starboard, the line of her hull pointing directly off the southerly tip of the peninsula.
‘Recommend battle speed until we reach the lee, Captain.’ Gaius said. ‘The storm is coming up fast.’
Atticus agreed and sent the order below for battle speed, sensing the changed momentum as the Aquila took on the extra two knots of speed.
Twenty minutes later the Aquila sailed into calmer waters in the lee of the peninsula. Atticus ordered standard speed and sent lookouts to the starboard rail with orders to watch the line of breakers on the shoreline less than half a mile away. The coastline here ran south-south-west, reaching out ahead of the Aquila but Atticus could see that Gaius was adjusting the course of the galley to match, keeping her line parallel to the shadowy shoreline.
‘Ship ahead!’
Atticus moved quickly to the side-rail and looked out over the seascape before the Aquila. The wind was lighter here behind the Cape but it was buffeted by the land and the rain was now falling in long narrow sheets, at once obscuring and then revealing the waters ahead in quick succession. The cloud cover was also increasing and the moon’s light was becoming more sporadic and feeble. Atticus could see nothing ahead and he turned his face up to the masthead lookout.
‘Confirm!’ he shouted and for a brief second he saw the moonlight reflect off Corin’s face as he turned to acknowledge the order. Corin remained silent and within a couple of minutes Atticus was ready to put the sighting down to a trick of the light and the young crewman’s inexperience.
‘There!’ a shout came suddenly. ‘Two miles, dead ahead. A galley!’
Again Atticus looked to the waters ahead and again he was frustrated by the combination of elements that obscured his view. He turned to Lucius who was also scanning the waters ahead and he raised his eyebrows in question.
‘I don’t see it, Captain,’ he replied but he kept his gaze fixed on the specified point nonetheless.
Atticus looked up to the masthead again.
‘Corin!’ he ordered. ‘Report to the aft-deck.’
The young man scrambled down from the fifty foot height with ease, hitting the deck on a solid footing before running to the aft.
‘What did you see?’ Atticus asked.
‘A galley, Captain,’ Corin replied. ‘A small one, possibly a bireme. Bearing directly ahead and sailing on a parallel course.’
‘You’re sure?’ Atticus asked, suddenly not as willing to dismiss the sighting as he had been a moment before. ‘We can’t see it from here.’
‘She’s sailing without running lights,’ Corin replied.
Atticus understood immediately. Looking from the deck the ship ahead was silhouetted against the dark night sky and was therefore invisible. From Corin’s viewpoint however, the ship would also be silhouetted against the intermittent moonlight on the water.
‘A galley sailing without running lights can only mean one thing,’ Atticus said, thinking out loud. ‘She’s trying to avoid detection.’
‘The pirate galley?’ Lucius ventured.
Atticus nodded, ‘It could be,’ he said. He turned to Corin and placed his hand on the young lad’s shoulder.
‘Get aloft and let us know if you see her change course.’ Atticus ordered. Corin nodded and made to leave but Atticus stopped him, ‘and Corin,’ he said, ‘well done.’ Corin smiled and spun on his heel, retracing his steps and scurrying back up the running rigging to the masthead.
‘Lucius,’ Atticus said, turning to his second in command. ‘Douse the running lights and pass the order to the crew. No exposed flame on deck.’
Lucius nodded and left also, leaving Atticus standing alone at the side-rail. He searched the waters ahead but again he saw nothing. He smiled despite this, knowing now that a ship was there somewhere and if it was the pirate galley then dawn’s early light would expose her.
Narmer turned his face up to the rain in an effort to wash the fatigue from his eyes. He and the helmsman had shared the task of keeping the galley on course during the night but even when Narmer had taken a break he had been unable to sleep and he had surreptitiously watched the helmsman to be sure the crewman was alert. The sky was turning a lighter grey in the east, with dawn less than thirty minutes away and as the darkness fled, Narmer once again checked the line of his course in relation to the shoreline. The rain had never stopped but the wind had fallen away and so now, although the galley was no longer in the lee of the Cape, the sea breathed with only a gentle swell.
The gathering light also revealed the huddled figures of his crew spread out over the deck. Narmer was tempted to rouse them but he decided to let them sleep on. With Tyndaris less than six hours away, he could afford to relax the normally brutal discipline he was forced to impose to keep his galley running effectively. Narmer’s eyes slowly drifted upwards and his lenient mood was replaced by a sudden fury. The masthead lookout was asleep, huddled against the mast, a canvas hood draped over his head and face to protect him from the rain.
‘Masthead!’ Narmer roared and his eyes were murderous as he saw the man start with surprise. He looked immediately chastened but the captain kept his gaze upon him, vowing silently that he would flog the man raw when his watch was finished at dawn.
‘Helmsman!’ Narmer shouted again, his anger now spurred on by his exhaustion. The man was immediately by his captain’s side and Narmer handed over control of the galley before he set off along the deck, kicking the crew awake as he did, their curses of annoyance cut short when they noticed the vicious mood of their captain. Within a minute the crew were roused and they began the daily routine that marked their lives at sea.
‘Galley! Dead astern!’
Narmer’s insides turned to water at the shout and he raced to the aft-rail, his mind flooded with foreboding. He saw the oncoming galley before he even reached the rail, her hull a dark arrow on the brightening horizon directly behind his own ship. She was on an intercept course, no more than three miles behind.
‘Any markings?’ Narmer roared as he turned to the masthead, his fury at the lookout knowing no bounds.
There was moments silence as the lookout waited to be sure but Narmer knew there could only be one answer.
‘Roman!’ he shouted, fear evident in his voice, a fear that rippled across the entire deck.
‘Prepare for battle!’ Narmer roared without hesitation. ‘Orders to the rowers, battle speed!’
He looked again to the galley in pursuit. Narmer could see that she was a trireme, at
least four knots faster than his ship but the pirate bireme had one advantage over its bigger rival, manoeuvrability, and Narmer knew how to exploit it. Battle would soon be joined but Narmer was determined that it would be on his terms.
‘She’s accelerated to battle speed!’
Atticus nodded at Lucius’s words, noticing the change himself.
‘Battle speed!’ he ordered and the two hundred slaves below decks responded to the drum master’s beat without visible effort, bringing the Aquila up to seven knots, a battle speed that was a knot faster than the bireme’s.
‘She’s a pirate?’ Septimus asked as he approached Atticus.
The captain nodded. ‘She’s not Carthaginian,’ he replied, ‘and no other galley would have cause to run.’
Septimus nodded and looked back over his shoulder, wiping the rain from his face as he did. His demi-maniple was drawn up in formation on the main deck, Drusus to their front, the optio seemingly oblivious to the rain that pelted off his breast-plate.
‘Then we’re ready,’ Septimus said, and he left the aft-deck once more, his stride determined and focused, his men equally so.
Atticus watched him go and then turned to the helmsman.
‘What do you think?’ he asked
‘She’s quick,’ Gaius said, his intense gaze locked on the target.
‘But not quick enough,’ Atticus replied, no humour in his voice as his mind inventoried every capability of the Aquila and how they could be sequenced to run down her prey.