by John Stack
Calix watched the Roman galleys turn as they realized they could not cut him off, their bows slowly coming about to a convergent point a half-mile ahead of the Ares. The nearest galley was less than one hundred and fifty yards off his starboard forequarter and Calix recognized it as the quinquereme Hamilcar had identified, the Greek prefect’s boat. The beginnings of a smile creased his mouth as he relished the chase to come, but it quickly evaporated as he noticed an anomaly: the slender shaft of an additional mast, hidden until now by distance and the sailing skills of an unseen opponent. He was about to shout out a warning to his crew when the Roman galley shot out from hiding. It was a trireme, a small, sleek ship, and it sped neatly from beneath the shadow of the quinquereme.
Calix lost vital seconds as he stared at the trireme, completely thrown by its sudden appearance. It was a smaller, slower boat than the Ares, and should logically be no threat, but the Romans had obviously devised some plan with the trireme as its crux. His helmsman shouted for further orders, apprehension in his voice.
Calix spun around. ‘Two points to port,’ he ordered. ‘Keep us out of range of that trireme.’
The helmsman nodded and the Ares leaned into the turn. Calix looked to the approaching Roman ships again, his confidence shaken. He tried again to understand the Romans’ plan when a realization struck him. The trireme had been hiding behind the prefect’s quinquereme. He was the master of this plan, and Calix looked to the trireme again, suspecting that Perennis was the commander.
His fists clenched instinctively, the realization steeling his nerves once more. His contract with the Carthaginians made the Romans the enemy, but now two sons of Greece would lead the fray for each side, and Calix knew his every skill would be tested.
The drum hammered out the rhythm of attack speed, but to Atticus the Virtus seemed to move at a faster pace, its nimble hull turning neatly at every touch of Gaius’s hand on the tiller. The Orcus was swinging around behind him, its turn wider and slower, but its attack speed was a knot faster and it shadowed the Virtus, bearing down upon her.
The Rhodian was less than one hundred yards away off the port forequarter of the Virtus, aiming to sweep past the bow of the Copia, which was approaching rapidly on its port side. It would be a tight run but Atticus could see the Rhodian had chosen his angle perfectly, allowing himself sufficient sea room to adjust his course and still break through.
‘Signal the Fulgora and Honos,’ Atticus ordered, referring to the two quinqueremes on the outer extremes of the chase. ‘Tell them to break off and block the channel the Rhodian just used.’
The quinqueremes broke away in succession, leaving only three Roman galleys in the chase.
The Rhodian’s galley passed the Copia, her course changing slightly again as she lined up for an invisible channel in the inner shoals. Gaius brought the Virtus into her wake but the trireme was already falling behind the larger, faster galley, the gap increasing beyond a hundred yards. Atticus waited patiently, the Copia sweeping past his left flank to continue the chase, while over his right shoulder he could hear the drum beat of the Orcus from inside its hull at it too began to overtake the Virtus, the spearhead formation of the three Roman galleys becoming inverted as the trireme tip was overtaken.
Every galley was moving at attack speed, looking to conserve their energy, waiting for the right moment to commit to a ramming-speed attack run or, in the Rhodian’s case, an escape run, each captain knowing that the strength of their rowing crew was finite and there was no room for error in the enclosed lagoon. Atticus knew from their previous encounter that the Rhodian believed he had the advantage of both speed and manoeuvrability over the quinqueremes, but the Virtus had brought one other factor into play, one where Atticus alone had the advantage: stamina.
‘Ramming speed,’ he shouted, and the Virtus surged forward, her ram rearing out of the waters at the first pull of the oars at thirteen knots.
She quickly began to retake the lead from the quinqueremes, re-establishing the spearhead until she was sailing neatly in the wake of the Rhodian, the Orcus and Copia falling away, following orders to conserve their strength until the battle was joined.
The shoals were still half a mile away, the Rhodian less than a hundred yards ahead, and the Virtus was committed.
‘Ramming speed,’ Calix shouted, his eyes locked on the approaching trireme. ‘Archers to the aft-deck.’
He spun around and looked to the shoals ahead. The deck of the Ares shifted beneath him, a minor course adjustment as the helmsman brought the bow of the quadrireme to bear on the mouth of the channel, still a half-mile away.
He looked to the trireme again, the gap between the boats becoming steady and then increasing as the quadrireme’s greater speed came to bear once more. The Ares would reach the channel first, but what then, Calix thought? The trireme would follow, its shallow draught allowing it access. Would it maintain a higher speed, risking all to catch the quadrireme as it slowed through the channel? Would it follow the Ares into the inner harbour? Calix could not be sure, his mind trying to place himself on the aft-deck of the Roman galley, to see as Perennis saw, to plan as he would. His conclusions all reached the same point. He must not allow the trireme to catch up and somehow cripple his ship.
‘Helmsman,’ he shouted. ‘Come about six points to port. Take us through the left channel.’
‘But Captain,’ the helmsman replied, ‘that’s over a mile away. The rowers-’
‘Do it now!’ Calix shouted, his eyes locked on the trireme. ‘There’s only one way to stop that trireme: we must bleed its rowers white.’
The Ares heeled over into the turn, the helmsman straining through the effort of turning the rudder at ramming speed. The Roman galleys matched the course change, the trireme’s sleeker lines allowing it to respond faster, and within two ship lengths the formation of the chase was re-established, although the quinqueremes, continuing at attack speed, were falling further away from the smaller lead ship.
Calix could hear the slow creak of drawn bows to his side and a flight of arrows whooshed away from the aft-deck to the pursuing trireme. He watched the arrows fall, a sporadic hail of death, but as the archers prepared to loose again, Calix suddenly became aware of a silence behind him. He turned and strode to the aft-hatch on the main deck that led to the rowers. They had been rowing at ramming speed for three minutes. Six, maybe seven minutes was their absolute maximum, and Calix glanced back over his shoulder to the trireme. Perennis was subject to the same restrictions and the gap was still increasing. Calix still held the advantage, but as he looked down to the rowers he felt the seeds of doubt taking root within him.
They were sweating stoically at their oars, their faces twisted in grotesque masks of exertion, their laboured breathing like that of a blown elephant. They were strong men, not easily given to exhaustion, but it was the lack of a customary sound that had drawn Calix’s attention — for the rowers had stopped singing.
Atticus took one last look at the stern of the quadrireme before ducking his head below deck. The rowing deck seemed in chaos, the central walkway crowded with the fallen, while fresh rowers ran to take abandoned oars in hand. They had passed the five-minute mark and still the drum hammered out eighty beats a minute, a gruelling, punishing pace that only the strongest could maintain. Atticus counted at least two dozen men near him who had not yet fallen. Rarely had he seen such determination, like indomitable legionaries in the face of an enemy charge, the rowers’ backs straight through each pull of the oars, their very freedom at stake. They laboured with a savage-like trance on their faces, betraying the deep-seated hatred for the very task into which they poured every ounce of their strength.
Another man fell, then another, and another, their cries pitiful in the hollowed-out carapace of the trireme, the screams of men broken on the yoke, their will driving them beyond the endurance of their bodies until muscles cramped in excruciating pain and they fell, their twisted, near lifeless bodies thrust aside by relief rowers whose
strength roused the men around them to greater exertion, the air filled with voices calling out in half a dozen languages in encouragement and anger, in frustration and pain as another man fell, and another, and another.
The drum master roared at the top of his lungs, shouting out the beat even as his hammer fell, viciously calling on the rowers to bend their backs through the slide, to take the strain of the catch and pull through the draw, telling them the enemy was at hand, the fight almost upon them, the end but minutes away, and the rowers responded to his words with renewed determination.
Atticus went back on deck, his nerve steeled to a fine point by the rowers’ display of raw courage. He strode back to the aft-deck, ignoring the arrows that slammed into the timbers around him and the sporadic cries of crewmen struck by the pitiless missiles. He turned and stared along the length of the Virtus to the quadrireme ahead.
The gap had increased to two hundred yards but the five-minute threshold had been passed. Ramming speed on the Virtus was being maintained by the determination of the strongest and the massive influx of relief rowers. They could not last indefinitely, but Atticus was confident that, without relief, the Rhodian’s crew had to be suffering more.
His plan was simple. Run the quadrireme down. Not to cripple it for the quinqueremes, but to take it himself, the trireme’s shallow draught ensuring there would be no withdrawal this time. The Rhodian had yet to turn and commit to a channel, the quadrireme still running parallel to the inner shoals not one hundred yards away off the starboard beam, but the turn was close, Atticus could sense it, could feel it through the desperation of his rowers, a palpable anguish that he knew must be drawing the heart out of the Rhodian’s own crew.
‘By the gods,’ the helmsman shouted, glancing fearfully over his shoulder. ‘She’s still coming on.’
The Rhodian felt the same panic rise within him and he struggled to push it aside. What had it been: seven, eight minutes? What kind of men were powering the trireme?
‘One hundred and fifty yards,’ one of the archers called beside him, shouting out the range for their next flight.
The gap was falling. The Ares was losing speed, fast; her rowers were past exhaustion, past the limits of will and determination, of pride in their strength, with only the dread fear of capture keeping them pulling, knowing that if they were to fall into Roman hands they would become slaves to the very task they performed as freedmen.
‘Distance to the channel,’ Calix shouted angrily at the helmsman, refocusing his attention. His looked ahead, his gaze darting from the sea to the land.
‘Two hundred yards, Captain,’ he replied.
‘Prepare to make your run,’ Calix said, and he looked to the trireme again. The gap was still falling; a gap he had believed would be four or five hundred yards by now, with the trireme drifting aimlessly in the wake of the Ares, her rowers blown, her strength gone. But still it came on, and Calix let his hand fall to the hilt of his sword as his options fell away to one. He had seen the two Roman quinqueremes take station on the channel through the outer shoals. His route there was blocked, even if his crew had the strength to re-cross the hostile lagoon, which they had not. The channel ahead was his only escape, and there the trireme would catch him, in the narrows of the channel, where the lack of sea room would make evasive manoeuvres impossible.
The sudden clarity of purpose gave Calix new confidence, and he slowly drew his sword, the muscles of his arm welcoming the familiar weight. The chase would end soon, on Perennis’s terms, but in the shallows of the channel it would be a duel between mismatched ships, with the Roman quinqueremes unable to assist. The Ares could yet escape to the inner harbour. But first Calix and his crew would have to draw the blood of the Roman crew and their Greek leader.
‘Aspect change,’ Corin called, pre-empting the turn by a heartbeat as he saw the helmsman put his weight behind the tiller.
The Rhodian’s galley swung hard to starboard, finally reaching the channel.
‘All hands, prepare for boarding,’ Atticus shouted, and the men cheered, eager to get in the fight, the minutes spent under the rain of arrows sharpening their aggression.
Gaius brought the Virtus through the turn, keeping the ram on a line to the rudder of the quadrireme, now only fifty yards ahead. The quadrireme began to slow further, the breaking waves of the shoals enveloping her bow as she entered the channel, and Gaius called for battle speed, keeping his pace above that of the Rhodian’s, not needing to anticipate the turns in the channel in the wake of the quadrireme pathfinder.
Atticus looked over the side to the waters below. Only half the oars of the Virtus were still engaged, the others having been withdrawn, the rowers collapsed upon them. The sea seemed to boil on all sides and Atticus could see the deadly fangs of the shoals piercing the surface of the water not twenty yards from the hull.
‘Best guess,’ he said to Gaius. ‘Get us alongside the aft-deck.’
The helmsman nodded, his eyes never leaving his prey. The chase was over but the mortal stroke had yet to be delivered. It was impossible to guess what sea room was available in the channel and Gaius knew he would have to judge which side to attack from the manoeuvres of the quadrireme. It was a difficult task, but as he saw the prefect hesitate at his side, ready to offer help, he broke eye contact with the quadrireme for the first time.
‘Go,’ he said vehemently. ‘I have her.’
Atticus nodded and ran from the aft-deck, the crew responding to his flight by gathering in a wave behind him. He drew his sword, a commitment that was echoed by his men and, as he reached the foredeck, he grabbed a discarded hoplon shield.
The crews roared at each other across the gap, battle cries and challenges, while arrows were loosed at near point-blank range, the barbs striking deeply into shield and flesh, fuelling the belligerence of each crew. Atticus stood silent amongst his men, his shield held tightly against his shoulder as he looked to the waters around the stern of the quadrireme, trying to discern the sea room, to give Gaius some advantage.
The two galleys sped through a turn in the channel but, as the quadrireme straightened out, Gaius continued the turn for a second longer, the nimbler hull of the trireme cutting inside the line of the bend. Atticus felt the hull buck beneath him as Gaius called for attack speed, a final push from the exhausted rowers to bring the port bow quarter in line with the starboard aft of the quadrireme.
‘Grappling hooks,’ Atticus shouted without conscious thought, and a line was thrown but instantly parted under the strain of the uneven stroke of the galleys. A dozen more followed, the majority finding purchase, to be attacked by the Rhodian’s crew with axes and swords.
The Romans drew the remaining lines in, heaving them hand over hand until the hulls slammed against each other, the timbers grating, the galleys reluctantly giving way to each other’s pitch. Atticus led the men over the rails with a roar that unleashed their savagery, and they jumped across the treacherous maw of the clashing hulls to slam into the first rank of the defenders, their momentum checked then revived as they gained a foothold on the enemy deck.
Atticus kept his shield at chest height, slashing forward with his sword, his eyes locked on those of the defender before him, the man’s eyes wide with anger, but they suddenly dropped low, signalling the strike of the sword. Atticus dropped his shield to counter the blow before driving his blade to the flank, the defender reacting with incredible speed to parry the strike. He came on again and Atticus reversed his block to push the sword away, exposing the defender’s torso and, risking all, he threw his body off balance to bring his sword to bear, the defender trying to react as he sensed the unexpected strike, his reflexes too slow to avoid the blade. Atticus punched the sword through, twisting the blade as it sank into the defender’s stomach, and he whipped it back to free it, a gush of warm blood and viscera spilling out over his hand. He pushed forward against the dying man with his shield, knocking him underfoot to the deck.
The aft-deck was in chaos but slowly t
he Romans made headway, their numbers twice those of the Rhodian. The helmsman never left the tiller as the battle raged, his eyes ever locked on the shoals and the narrow line of the channel; but, as the battle line advanced beyond him, he fell under the slash of a Roman sword. Released from the control of the rudder, the bow of the Ares skewed sideways, the pressure of the Virtus ’s bow against its stern hastening the turn, and the strake timbers of the bow struck the shoals that clawed out from the edge of the channel.
The battle descended into a ferocious brawl as the Rhodian’s men felt their ship shudder beneath them. They roared in anger and hatred, stopping the Roman advance on the fringes of the main deck. The Romans rebuked the challenge, giving no quarter, and the line of battle steadied as each side fed more men into the fray, the opposing ranks becoming increasingly intertwined as anarchy reigned.
Atticus surged forward in frustration, the din of war filling the air around him, his ears ringing with the sound of his own blood rush, the numbness of his sword arm ignored as he thrust it forward into the groin of a defender, slicing the flesh cleanly, taking no respite as he withdrew his blade to attack again. His chest ached from an old wound, the tightness squeezing the vice of his anger, and he shoved a man back with his shield to expose him to the blade. He looked around him, searching the faces of the defenders for some sign of submission, that they were nearing the end of their resolve, but each face was twisted in courageous defiance.
He spotted a man in the centre of the melee, his sword charged but not engaged, shouting orders to men around him, his shaven head splattered with the blood of the slain and injured, his reddened blade testament to his skill. It was the captain, Atticus realized in a moment of clarity, the Rhodian. He roared a challenge across the fight in gutter Greek, the language of a native, and the Rhodian turned to the voice, seeing the scarred face of his challenger amidst the ranks of the Romans. Perennis, he cursed, and he surged forward through the fights around him to charge the precipitator of his doom.