“But several units at Agrigento are Syracuse infantry and artillery,” another Centurion pointed out.
“That is unfortunate,” the Admiral acknowledged. “We will make sacrifices to the gods on the Altar of Hieron for them.”
Each of the ship’s officers was backed up by their three Principales. Yet, all they had accomplished since landing in Syracuse was for sixteen Legion officers to stand in a semi-circle being ineffectual.
“Admiral. Can I point out something you seem to have missed?” Alerio questioned.
Dilato Invitus and Eosi Stratus, the ship’s senior Centurion and the First Principale spun on the Third deck officer.
“Sisera. If you haven’t noticed,” Invitus stated. “I have yet to say anything. Because I have nothing to add to the conversation. I suggest you do the same.”
“Not add to the conversation or not say anything?” Alerio said with a glare. Focusing on the Admiral, he asked. “When the two Consuls march their starving Legions back. What will you tell King Hiero?”
“I don’t understand,” the Admiral confessed.
“And neither do I,” Invitus challenged. “I’m sure the Admiral has had enough of your inane questions.”
“As you wish sir,” Alerio agreed. “No more questions. Admiral, our breachers will cut through your walls and defenses like a knife through cheese. Our hungry Legionaries will feast and empty every storage building in Syracuse. The Republic will annex your city and all of her lands. Senator Otacilius Crassus hammered out the original treaty. He will be unhappy but will not veto the actions against an enemy that starved the Legions of Rome.”
“That is extreme,” Invitus scolded. “I think you should…”
The Centurion from Epiales’ Veil placed a hand on Invitus’ shoulder.
“Let’s see what the Admiral has to say about the future,” the other trireme’s Centurion suggested.
“I’m not familiar,” the Admiral questioned. “with the god you have named your warship after,”
“Epiales is the God of nightmares,” the ship’s officer reported.
The Syracusan Admiral swallowed hard, lowered his eyes for a moment before raising them.
“The transports row out at dawn,” he instructed. “If that meets your approval.”
***
Scrub trees sprouted from the brown dirt that ran right to the water’s edge. Unavoidably, the soil absorbed the light rain making the dirt sticky underfoot. Adding to the misery of being filthy, the sky was overcast threatening more rain.
Last night, the first wave of oarsmen over the sides churned the ground to mud. From then on, the brown clung to legs, bed rolls, clothing, and any flat surface. The crews and officers should have been in rotten moods. But they weren’t.
The four warship Centurions and four transport Captain’s debated whether to spend the day at Ciotta. They had fresh water from a stream and their vessels were sheltered from the sea and the weather. But the fishing village and the low shoreline were only eighteen miles from their destination. That accounted for the elevated mood and the discussion about launching and rowing out in the rain.
“In the worst case, we can be at Maddalusa by midday,” one of the Centurions offered.
“We’re three days out from Syracuse with no sighting of a Qart Hadasht quinquereme,” the Centurion for Epiales’ Veil explained. “I’d bet the Empire ships won’t be sailing in this.”
“The worst case is,” Invitus corrected. “we don’t find an Empire warship and all of this will be for nothing. For what good is a ship-of-war if not to match bronze against bronze?”
“They have at least five feet more of ram beam and weigh more with more oarsmen,” another of the trireme officers informed the commander of Furor’s Face. “A quinquereme can hold off a trireme while emptying barrels of arrows into your oarsmen and sailors.”
Invitus blustered and seemed to want to argue but he held his comments.
“Our mission, despite what the Republic officer claims,” a merchant Captain said. “is to deliver food for the men laying siege to Agrigento. If we can accomplish that without being sunk or captured, I’d consider that a successful journey.”
“Can we get a consensus on the weather?” another Captain inquired. “Clearing or more rain?”
The eight ship commanders inspected the sky. After soaking their faces, they glanced around at each other and shrugged.
“I, for one, think we should remain here,” Invitus declared. “Let us wait for better weather and a better chance to sink an Empire warship.”
“If he says stay,” the Centurion for Epiales’ Veil advised. “Then I vote we launch.”
They invoked the Goddess Tempestas and pleaded with her to remain calm and distance herself from the coast of Sicilia. Then someone produced an anemic chicken and they sacrificed it to the storm goddess.
“Not much of an offering,” a Captain suggested.
“Best we have on short notice,” another replied as the group separated to prepare their crews. “Besides, we only need her to hold back for half a day.”
Tempestas must have appreciated the gesture because she drifted away from the southwest coast of the island. But the ship’s officers neglected to call on the Greek God Boreas and sacrifice to him. As the gods are want to do, Boreas took offense at the absentmindedness of humans and rushed in from the north to show his displeasure.
Act 8
Chapter 33 - Eyes of the Archer
After launching from the muddy beach at Ciotta, the eight ships reached their assigned distance from shore and their spacing from the other ships. In formation, they rowed northward along the coasts.
The convoy placed the transports within line-of-sight of the shoreline. This allowed the warships to row farther off shore and use the cargo vessels as visual markers. Epiales’ Veil rowed lead, tracking far off the port side of the first transport. Following the line of warships back, Furor’s Face occupied the third slot with the final trireme lagging to the rear of the last merchantman.
Two things made the formation function. The placement of the merchant vessels prevented any Empire warships from attacking the convoy from the landward side. Being too close to shore and near water too shallow for an attack run, the escorts only needed to guard the port side. The second feature assuring good order was the interconnected views between ships. From stern to bow, crewmen on each Syracuse ship could see the transport ahead and the one behind. Although the triremes were too far apart for a solid visual on the other warships, each escort had a sideways view of at least one merchant vessel.
They rowed until traveling a fair distance. Independent of one another, the ship commanders sent crewmen to the masts. As the sails went up, the clouds lowered. The rain held off but the clouds continued to drop. The fog touched the top of the sea and the convoy sailed right into Boreas’ curse.
***
Poor visibility closed in, isolating the ships.
“Sisera. Report,” the Second Principale demanded from down on the rowers walk.
Alerio, until a heartbeat ago, had a view of two transports. Both were off to the right with one ahead and one behind the trireme. Then the god of fog came to visit.
“No view of either merchantman,” he answered.
The response echoed back until it reached the steering platform. Alerio paused from peering into the fog to glancing down the length of the upper decks at the Centurion and the First Principale. Both men and the two rear oarsmen were faint outlines of gray ghosts. He caught sight of a group heading for the mast. Troubled by what he saw, Alerio called five sailors to the foredeck.
“I want five points of view,” he directed. “Two to port and two on the starboard side facing forward. And one looking around the keel straight at our path.”
The five men shifted to the assigned positions. Alerio scanned the fog bank one more time. Not seeing anything except the wall of clouds, he turned and, sprinted towards the steering deck.
***
�
��Centurion. Don’t drop the sail,” Alerio cautioned. “We’ll slow down and we might lose the convoy.”
“If we don’t slow down,” First Principale Stratus countered. “We might sail off to the west and lose the land.”
“Afraid of getting lost at sea, Stratus?” Alerio inquired. Then to Invitus, he explained. “The convoy will remain at the current pace. The fog will lift and we need to be there. Agrigento is contested. Not just the land but this area of the Mediterranean Sea, as well. I beg you, leave the sail up.”
The ship’s senior officer placed two fingers on his cheek. Then, the fingertips snaked up and rubbed the lid of the missing eye.
“Alright. First Principale, cancel the order to roll the sails,” Invitus instructed. “We’ll keep them for now. Sisera, return to your position.”
“I’m on the way, Centurion,” he said.
Alerio hopped off the steering platform. Four steps onto the upper deck, two of the sailors on watch at the bow cupped their hands over their mouths and screamed.
“Wreckage, starboard side,” they announced.
Alerio changed direction, leaped the split dividing the upper decks, and ran to the right side. Leaning over, he saw wood in the waves.
Broken planks and boards rushed by the Furor’s Face. Then, before the debris fell behind the speeding warship, a large section of broken hull rotated up from the depths. A painted eye on a smashed section of a Legion trireme stared at Alerio from under the surface. He jerked involuntarily.
Inhaling, he prepared to call a report to the steering platform. But his eyes caught the sailors at the mast attaching the sail lines. Thinking of the ship’s morale, he closed his mouth and casually walked back to the steering platform.
“I thought you were ordered to return to your post, Third Principale?” Stratus reprimanded the third deck officer.
“What is it now, Sisera?” Invitus demanded.
Alerio leaned in close to the senior Centurion’s ear.
“The wreck in the water was our lead trireme,” Alerio whispered. “Or what was left of it.”
“What?” Invitus exclaimed while spinning to the stern. He studied the water trying to pick the wreck out of the waves and fog. “I don’t…”
“Not so loud,” Alerio warned. “You’ll frighten the crew.”
“What will frighten the crew?” Stratus asked. Only he said it loudly, as if he was a child left out of a game. “What?”
“We need to go back and look for survivors,” Invitus informed Alerio and the First Principale.
“Survivors?” Stratus inquired.
“No, we don’t. Senior Centurion, we need to stay our course and find the transports,” Alerio advised. “Protecting them is our mission.”
Invitus clenched his teeth and stared at Alerio. His face darkened as if he was about to explode.
“Ship, port side,” the cries came from a number of locations. While the first part of the message boomed clearly from different parts of the ship, the same multitude of voices garbled the second part.
Invitus, Stratus, and Alerio turned towards the front left of the trireme. There was nothing there except fog. Then the three of them caught a glimpse of a moving object out of the corners of their eyes. They spun to face the aft section.
A raised bow reached high above a deck that itself was twelve feet above the sea. Propelled by ninety churning oars on each side, the quinquereme shot out of the fog. It’s speed so great, the ram on the front parted the water and threw wakes in the air. It was a ship killer at full speed seeking another hull to destroy.
Alerio jumped at the two men controlling the rear oars. With his shoulders, he slammed into both men driving them and the oars to the right. In response, the Republic trireme hooked to the port side.
The massive Qart Hadasht warship flew by. The deadly bronze ram missing the stern and rear oars by several feet. With Invitus and Stratus standing transfixed and Alerio on his knees beside the off balanced helmsmen, they gasped as the enemy hull blocked their view of the sea and fog.
***
In any encounter between a ship with three banks of oarsmen and a ship with five, by all that was lorded over by Mars the god of war, the Empire quinquereme should have stopped and unleashed barrages of arrows and bolts at the Republic warship. Except, the near miss and the quick turn placed the bow of the trireme parallel with the bigger ship’s hull.
No one realized the positioning until oars began snapping. Before the Qart Hadasht Captain ordered a change in course, the Furor’s Face cruised down the hull. Snapping the oars of the quinquereme’s port side engine, the trireme forced the bigger ship to limp away. Until they could pull spare oars from storage, the quinquereme was at three quarters power.
“It resembles my little sister when she lost her baby teeth,” Alerio remarked as he climbed to his feet. “That is a fine gap in the center of their oar display.”
“Now is my chance,” Invitus declared. “First Principale, roll…”
Alerio stepped between the first deck officer and the senior ship’s officer.
“Don’t do it, senior Centurion,” Alerio warned. “I realize there is a crippled enemy ship escaping. But let me remind you. Our mission is to feed two starving Legions. I am begging you, stay and protect the transports.”
“Killing that beast will protect the grain ships,” Invitus barked. “I am so sick of your cowardly advice. When we return to Ostia, I want you off my ship.”
“As you…”
“Wreckage, starboard side,” the two sailors on watch at the bow sang out.
Invitus, Stratus, and Alerio sprinted to the right side of the warship. As before, there were boards and planks floating by but, this occurrence was different. They immediately identified the debris in the water as the remains of Epiales’ Veil.
“Well?” Alerio questioned with a blank expression on his face.
Invitus chewed on his lip before admitting, “There’s a second quinquereme out there.”
“The Goddess Tyche smiles on you, senior Centurion,” Alerio offered. “She sends you not one but two enemy ships for your ram.”
“That’s what you call fortune and luck?” Stratus muttered. “Two weapon’s platforms?”
“Let’s get those transports to Maddalusa,” Invitus announced. “First Principale, dip a quarter of our oars. I need speed to run in and find our charges. And then get back onto our defensive track. Don’t you worry, we’ll go hunting later.”
Stratus moaned before strolling to the top of the rower’s walk to deliver the orders.
***
In the fog, the merchant ships had moved closer to shore. Without the protection of the triremes, they were contemplating running to the beach and returning to Syracuse in the morning.
The warship emerged from the fog and a deck officer, using his arm, indicated the merchant ship then signaled a northern direction.
“Grain ship,” Alerio called out from the foredeck.
The words carried across the water and down to the rower’s walk. While the second deck officer and the NCO passed the message back, Alerio continued directing the transport.
“Pick up your pace,” he shouted from the swift warship. “Stay close and push on.”
“We thought we lost you,” the Captain of the transport shouted back.
The trireme glided by the sluggish grain ship.
“Pick up your pace,” Alerio repeated.
The trireme moved ahead, searching for the next grain ship.
They located all four, confirmed that at least one Republic warship remained on station, then moved off to cut a track back and forth alongside the merchant vessels. It quickly became a comfortable relationship. Every so often, the warship appeared out of the fog, letting the grain ships know the Republic was still on guard. The cycle repeated for most of the morning.
Then, Boreas, the god of fog, grew tired of toying with the humans and vanished.
The shoreline became visible as well as the four Syracuse shi
ps. Unfortunately, the single Republic trireme also materialized as the mist faded. This exposed the convoy to a pair of lurking Empire quinqueremes. With targets acquired, the Qart Hadasht warships dipped oars and headed for the grain ships.
***
“Sisera, signal our break,” senior Centurion Invitus’ command filtered up from the rowers walk.
Even as the message reached Third Principale Sisera, the trireme dipped its one hundred and twenty oars and cut a half circle in the waves. Once on a heading towards the first Empire warship, the under manned trireme surged forward.
A glance told Alerio the second quinquereme was moving around the port side. It would avoid the approaching collision and have an open lane to the transports. Furor’s Face could do nothing about the second quinquereme.
If the trireme was an arrow and the ram the arrowhead, then ship’s officer Invitus was a nearsighted archer. He drew the bow and roughly aimed his weapon via orders to the rowers and rear oarsmen. Yet he couldn’t sight in on the sweet spot of his target. For that, he depended on the third deck officer.
The Third Principale’s job had him standing above the point of impact, watching as the forward keel and bronze ram of the massive enemy warship came directly at him. Exposed on the foredeck, he would be the eyes of the archer and the most exposed man on the trireme. For this reason, he carried a shield and wore a helmet against enemy bowmen.
Alerio ground his teeth in frustration. He was an infantryman and had served with a Legion in Agrigento. To have come this far and nearly arriving with the food stuff, only to have the transports sunk, brought a scream to his lips.
Angry and seeking vengeance, Third Principale Sisera spread his feet on the foredeck, squared his shoulders and braced his legs. Then he lowered his hand and allowed the shield to slip from his arm. Next, he ripped off his helmet and dropped it beside the shield. Both restricted his vision and, for this mission, he wanted to be precise.
“Bring it,” he shouted at the quinquereme.
It grew as the distance between the Empire’s ram and the Republic’s ram closed.
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