To give him his due, Felix worked hard. But, by the evening, the old senator was very tired. He had had more than enough. There were eight complaints still unheard. Felix announced that he must sail the following day; his duty to the Res Publica demanded it. The remaining cases must be taken to the governor of the province of Bithynia et Pontus, Vellius Macrinus, currently thought to be holding assizes in the city of Prusa. That many of those involved were poor men, poorer still after their disaster, and Prusa probably was over two hundred miles away, did not seem to occur to him.
The following morning, bright and early, the Armata pulled out of Amastris. At first there was a north-westerly breeze, but it was fitful; several times it disappeared and the oars had to be run out; as many times again, it returned and the oars were drawn inboard. Leaning on the starboard rail, Ballista commented to Bruteddius on the forbidding-looking coast. Big, wooded mountains; the trees ran down to the rocks, and the rocks jutted out into the sea. Stark precipices reared up from the water. There were coves, but most were rock bound, open to the weather; each more of a trap than a haven.
‘Not good,’ Bruteddius agreed. ‘I wanted to get to Sinope today. The noble senator, however, seems to have rediscovered his pleasure in religion. He demands we spend the night at Ionopolis. I am told by the locals the mooring there is not secure. If another storm gets up…’
‘I will talk to him,’ Ballista said.
Felix, seated in comfort, was listening to one of his staff, a winsome youth, reading the Argonautica of Apollonius. Ballista waited for him to finish the passage. Then, choosing his words with care, he spoke in Greek. ‘ Kyrios, this early in the sailing season the weather is unsettled. Ionopolis is just a grandiose name given to the obscure Paphlagonian town of Abonouteichos. We would have to ride at anchor. There is nothing to see except the temple built by the charlatan Alexander of Abonouteichos. Long ago, Lucian exposed the god Glycon as a fraud: a tame snake with a moulded human head, deceitful voices whispered through the windpipes of cranes, sham oracles created by greedy men. The consul Rutilianus became a laughing stock when he was taken in by it.’
Felix turned a cold, baleful face on Ballista. ‘Publius Mummius Sisenna Rutilianus was my kinsman. In matters of religion, allow me to believe a Roman of high rank and unblemished character over a malicious scribbler like Lucian of Samosata.’ He pronounced the latter with extreme distaste. ‘Lucian, part Graeculus, part Syrian, all malevolent.’
Ballista nodded. ‘Of course, Kyrios.’ There was nothing else to say.
Despite the desolate coast, Ionopolis was reached without mishap. The elderly consular and his entourage went ashore. Ballista and the others stayed with the ship. Bruteddius allowed the crew no shore leave; two thirds camped on the beach, the rest remained aboard. Thankfully, the night was placid.
At first light, Felix climbed the boarding ladder, smiling, gracious, obviously buoyed up by an auspicious response from the oracle. Bruteddius assured the consular that everything was ready. Felix made the libations, asked for the favour of the gods. Ballista was irritated, but unsurprised to hear Glycon among the deities. What has the snake god promised you, old man? he thought. A century ago your kinsman believed, so now you do; to you that passes for piety.
There was no wind. The sea was dead calm, leaden. Even the eastward current seemed to have deserted them. The sun was a pale disc behind the haze. Intermittent patches of vapour curled on the surface of the water. The oarsmen would have a hard day of it.
Ballista sensed the unease of Bruteddius; something deeper than just scratching at his beard. The veteran trierarch had ordered that one of the three levels of rowers should rest at all times. He had taken the Armata well out into the deserted sea. A glance at the coastline showed why. Iron-bound promontory after iron-bound promontory; between each, open, rock-strewn coves.
Bruteddius had taken on another local pilot. There was but one safe anchorage in the sixty or seventy miles between Abonouteichos and Lepte Point. As it was pointed out, Bruteddius relaxed a little. As the Armata left it astern, he went back to worrying at his beard.
Across a grey sea, under an increasingly grey sky, the trireme laboured on, the men singing doleful songs to keep time. At the foot of the cliffs, jagged black-green rocks, frosted white on top with bird droppings. Above the precipices, rugged foothills, jagging up to wild mountains just visible through the mist. Only the occasional column of smoke, rising straight in the still air, showed the country was not deserted.
In the heavy fullness of time, the shoreline turned north. The Armata turned to follow. The high cliffs dropped away. Through the gathering mist, gentle meadows could be seen rolling down to the sea, on them tiny white dots, most likely sheep grazing, seemingly unattended. Ballista thought it might put some men in mind of pastoral poetry or Greek novels. He had never really cared for either. Demetrius would have enjoyed the view; probably Hippothous did.
‘Lepte Point.’ Bruteddius pointed. The headland ended in a low jumble of grey rocks. The water pushed and sucked sluggishly at them. Bruteddius kept the Armata well out. When he thought it completely safe, he brought her head around.
‘Ship in sight,’ the bow officer called out. Ballista, Maximus in tow, walked forward with Bruteddius. The three peered through the shifting obscurity. The bow officer pointed. ‘A warship, a liburnian by the size of her. Must be from Trapezus, one of the Classis Pontica.’
It was hard to judge distance in the mist. Maybe a mile away to the south-east was a dark shape. The outline of a high prow and forward-sweeping sternpost indicated a Mediterranean-style war galley. Smaller than the Armata, she appeared motionless, seemingly sitting on her oars in the shipping lane just around Lepte Point.
‘She is not alone.’ Maximus had always had keen eyes. ‘Beyond her.’
Ballista strained to penetrate the murk. Another dark shape, a second, then a third. ‘How many do you see?’
‘Six – there could be a seventh.’
Ballista could make out four now. The two he could see best had a prow at either end. ‘Bruteddius, turn us around, and get us away from here.’
‘Gothic longboats?’ The trierarch was tugging his beard.
‘Gothic longboats.’
Bruteddius shrugged. ‘That explains the empty sea and the beacons.’
‘We will fight them.’ No one had noticed Felix arrive on the fo’c’s’le. ‘We will go to the aid of the liburnian. It is unfitting we should run.’
‘They have seen us,’ said the bow officer. ‘They are getting under way.’
Ballista addressed Felix. ‘It is too late for the liburnian. She is with them.’
‘Unstep the masts; main and bowsprit.’ Bruteddius’s voice carried throughout the ship. The crew moved promptly at their trierarch’s command.
‘This is a trireme,’ said Felix. ‘We can fight them all.’
‘No,’ said Ballista bluntly. ‘Our marines and artillery were left in Byzantium. None of our rowers are armed; all of their men will be.’
‘We will manoeuvre, use the ram.’ There was no doubting the old senator’s martial spirit.
‘They would grapple us.’ Ballista shook his head. ‘Seven or eight ships – they would be on us like a pack of hounds.’
Both masts were down. The gaggle of passengers was impeding them from being securely lashed to the deck, getting tangled in the coils of the back and forestays. ‘All civilians sit down,’ bellowed Bruteddius. ‘Well spread out and not in the way.’
The trierarch led the men of rank back to the stern. Maximus had vanished.
‘All rowers to benches. Prepare for fast turn to left. On the command, starboard oars full pressure; larboard side, back her down hard; steering-oars, hard over.’
A chair was produced for Felix. He waved it away.
‘Now!’ The rowing master and the bow officer repeated the call.
The great galley surged forward and heeled. Her starboard lowest-level oarports almost under water, her ear dipping to
wards the sea, she circumscribed a tight circle. In a matter of moments, Bruteddius had her levelled off and racing back to the west.
Ballista looked over the stern. The Goths had gained appreciably. Now he could see five longboats behind the liburnian. As he watched, the blast of a horn echoed across. It was answered by seven or eight more.
Bruteddius spat over the side. ‘We have a start, and we have the legs on them. It has already been a longish row, but the boys have rested in turn. Anyway, fear gives a man stamina.’
No sooner were the words out than another horn rang out. It came from somewhere ahead and to the left. Another blast followed.
‘We were being followed,’ said Ballista.
‘Helmsman, take us out to the north-west, out into the deep sea.’ Clearly, Bruteddius was not given to panic. ‘Clear for action. Spare oars to all levels. Spread sand on the deck. Complete silence. Only officers to speak.’
Ballista knew what orders had not been given. This called for some tact. He turned to Felix. ‘ Dominus, I have commanded a trireme in action before. If the trierarch agrees, should I organize what fighting men we have?’
The elderly senator nodded gravely. ‘That would be best. I have never been called to fight at sea. My four bodyguards and myself are at your disposal.’
The chase soon took on its pattern. The Armata, throwing a big bow wave, forged through the dull sea. Directly astern, a little more than half a mile away, mainly visible through the gloom, were the liburnian and eight longboats. Somewhat further back, off south-east, were two more northern warships; these drifted in and out of sight.
Normally, Bruteddius would have been right: the trireme most likely would have outrun her pursuers. But, despite his reassuring words, the oarsmen of the Armata had been rowing, more on than off, for hours, since shortly after dawn. The Goths seemed fresher. At least, they were keeping station, if not actually gaining a trifle.
Bruteddius spoke. ‘The pilot says that, on this course, there is nothing between us and the Island of Achilles off the mouths of the Danube three hundred miles or more. We could edge to the north. The Crimean Bosphorus is no more than a hundred and sixty-odd miles.’ No one stated the obvious: the Goths would run them down long before they reached either.
Maximus reappeared with his weapons and equipment and that of Ballista. With him were Calgacus and Hippothous, already kitted out. As he armed, Ballista ascertained the number of warriors aboard. Four in his familia. Felix’s four bodyguards. The old man insisted on arming too. Rutilus and Castricius added just themselves. Bruteddius, of course, was a long-service centurion. Twelve men, one rather long in the tooth.
Ballista asked for volunteers from the entourages. Twenty answered the call. Ballista rejected six, among them the youths Wulfstan and Bauto. However, he gave each of the boys one of the many knives in his kit. They would not wish to be enslaved again. The eunuch Mastabates was one of those accepted. There were pikes and boarding axes aboard. These and the warriors’ spare weapons were doled out. Twenty-six men in all, less than half trained. Hopeless.
The sun broke through the haze. Everything was suddenly illuminated. Through the tendrils of mist, nine Gothic vessels astern, two more further behind on the larboard quarter. Say a minimum of thirty warriors in each. Over three hundred armed men against fewer than thirty. No sort of odds. Utterly hopeless.
The sun went in again. Grey wisps of vapour rose again. The grim chase went on.
‘I cannot understand why they would chase a warship,’ said Felix. ‘There must be easier, richer pickings. They do not know we have no marines or engines.’
‘They know everything about us.’ Bruteddius spoke quietly.
‘How?’
‘Someone from Abonouteichos told them.’
‘Never.’ Flat disbelief in Felix’s voice.
‘They are Goths, but to some they are just pirates. All latrones, on land or sea, get information from locals.’ Bruteddius sounded resigned.
‘No citizen would do such a thing!’
Ballista gently intervened. ‘The cases you heard at Amastris, Dominus? You condemned two men to the arena for joining in the barbarians’ depredations.’
The chase ground on. The water still sang down the sides of the Armata, but slower now. The oarsmen were tiring fast. Their open-mouthed faces were masks from a tragedy. Their breathing came in sobs. Their sweat dripped on the men below, puddled in the hold. Individuals were starting to miss their stroke. The banks of oars were becoming ragged, like the damaged wings of a bird. The Goths were coming up hand over fist. No more than three hundred yards of clear water separated the sternpost of the Armata from the ram of the liburnian.
Ballista ran through his pre-battle ritual: the dagger, sword, the healing stone. Wordless, he embraced Calgacus and Maximus. He shook hands with Hippothous, Rutilus and Castricius. The latter hugged him close. The sombre, gathering darkness of the day was fitting. Ballista’s main regret was not seeing his sons grow. Maybe in Valhalla, if there was such a thing or something like it.
Bruteddius had stopped tugging at his beard. The old seaman actually laughed.
Dull witted, everyone at the stern stopped gazing at the Goths and looked at Bruteddius. The trierarch called out loud to his rowers. ‘One last effort, boys. Less than half an hour, pueri, and we are safe.’
Bruteddius turned and pointed ahead. There, curving across the Kindly Sea, was a solid bank of fog.
XVIII
The Armata slipped into the clammy embrace of the fog. Instantly, the temperature dropped. The sweat ran cold between the men’s shoulderblades. Their breath plumed. Wraiths of mist slipped inboard past the bow post, snaked down among the benches. A pall of steam rose from the rowers, adding to the gloom. It was getting hard to see from one end of the boat to the other.
A murmur of tired voices from the oarsmen; the stroke became ragged, desultory. ‘Silence!’ Bruteddius’s voice was pitched to carry, but not far. ‘Not safe yet, pueri, just a little more. Easy pressure.’
The Armata ghosted through an opaque world. The creak and splash of the oars, the soft gurgle of water. The fog pearled on everything: deck, oars, rails. It dripped from the crew’s beards.
Ballista watched Bruteddius staring over the stern into the fog. All the officers, everyone watched Bruteddius. Nothing visible, no sound of pursuit. Neither meant anything.
Bruteddius softly called for the purser. ‘ Pentekontarchos, break out the food and water.’ The officer padded away, the mist swirling behind him. ‘Where is the naupegos?’
‘Here, Dominus,’ said the shipwright.
‘Bring up the thin papyrus rope and all the tallow.’ Bruteddius did not glance at the man, never looked inboard.
‘ Dominus.’
Under the eye of the pentekontarchos, the rear watch of the deck crew was piling wrapped bundles and amphorae on the quarterdeck.
Bruteddius turned to survey his ship. ‘ Thalamians, cease rowing, oars inboard.’ Gratefully, the rowers on the lowest level obeyed. ‘ Pentekontarchos, feed the thalamians first.’ Bruteddius turned back to the wall of fog beyond the sternpost.
Bread, both soggy and slightly stale, a lump of cheese, a raw onion, and a long drink of heavily watered wine; not having eaten since dawn, the thalamians wolfed it down. It was gone in seconds.
‘ Zygians, cease rowing, oars inboard.’ The procedure was repeated with the middle level, leaving the top level, the elite thranites, rowing the boat on their own.
The naupegos announced the things were to hand.
‘Good, shipwright,’ Bruteddius said. ‘ Zygians and thalmians, strip.’
Ballista and the other passengers watched, bemused, as the two lower levels of rowers stripped off their things with no question or complaint. The hundred or so men sat naked or in undergarments, most shivering with cold and exhaustion. Bruteddius glanced over his shoulder and smiled. ‘Good, pueri. Now muffle your oars with your tunics; tie them tight with bits of rope. Grease the oarports.’
>
The cloying smell of rancid mutton fat wafted as the men began to rub the tallow into the leather sleeves which kept the water out of the oarports. It mingled with the stench from the bilges: stale water and sweat, human waste. No oarsman had left his bench for hours. They had had to relieve themselves where they sat. It had not been good for the men on the lower levels. They reeked of piss and shit. Ballista felt sick in the choking miasma.
‘ Thalamians, oars out. Gentle pressure. Row. Thranites, oars inboard; eat, then do the other things.’
‘What do we do?’ Ballista addressed the question to Bruteddius’s back.
The trierarch tipped his head to one side, took his time answering. When he did, he did not look round. ‘We could continue on our present course: three hundred miles of sea room to the Island of Achilles or the mouths of the Danube. It has the advantage that the Goths will not think we will do that. It has the disadvantage that, unless an easterly wind gets up, we would never get there. We have no more food, only enough water to last until the morning.’
Bruteddius paused, tipped his head to the other side. ‘We could head north: a long day’s row to the Crimea. But what sort of reception would we get?’
‘Come.’ Felix broke in. ‘It is not the heroic age. They do not sacrifice strangers there any more. The king of the Crimean Bosphorus is a loyal client of Rome.’
‘The Goths got the liburnian somewhere,’ said Bruteddius thoughtfully.
Before Felix could reply, Ballista spoke. ‘When the Borani first raided into the Black Sea, the time Successianus defended Pityus, they forced the cities of the north-west and the king… some of the subjects of the king of the Crimean Bosphorus to provide them with ships.’
‘Or we could run south,’ Bruteddius continued. ‘We might run into the two Goths who were off to larboard. If we got there, would we be safe? The nearest detachment of auxiliaries is in Heraclea, and precious few of them. It depends how badly the Goths want us.’
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