by Peter Tonkin
As they arrived in position, Artemidorus found that his vision was limited by the cheek-flaps and peak of his helmet. And by the fact that he was standing so close to the still upright corvus. But he could see around the wooden wall to where Arke’s side was slowly swinging into position. He understood what User was planning – to go alongside the smaller vessel opposite to Glaros. No sooner had the spy understood User’s plan than Triton’s captain was putting it into action. ‘Oars in!’ came the bellowed order.
With a thunderous rumble the oarsmen obeyed.
‘Hard over!’
Triton swung to her left, slammed into Arke, shuddered along her length, slowing as she did so. Grappling hooks flew. The bemused sailors in the trapped vessel didn’t know which way to turn. Halys’ men were pouring over Glaros’ side and onto Arke’s deck. Howling like demons and swinging swords, clubs and axes. Artemidorus eased the shield on his left arm, pulled out his gladius and felt the others doing the same. ‘Whatever happens,’ he shouted, ‘Don’t fall overboard.’
Then he sent a swift, silent prayer to Achilleus. The noise of battle from Arke was almost overwhelming. Not to mention the earthquake rumbling as Triton ground to a stop along her length.
‘Corvus!’ came that enormous bellow from the fighting tower.
The boarding bridge slammed down. The huge spike at its far end stabbed right through Arke’s decking, anchoring the two hulls together even more surely than the ropes and grappling irons. As the wooden wall transformed to a bridge between the vessels, so the melee on the messenger ship was revealed: legionaries in red; marines and oarsmen in blue, Cilician pirates in no sort of uniform at all, all hacking and stabbing, screaming, bleeding and dying. The Romans in helmets and mail shirts, with swords and shields vainly trying to fight in the Roman way – in regular lines and close-order units but having neither the chance nor the space to do so. Being broken up and forced into individual duels – often with two Cilician opponents at once. It was not going well. The whole deck seemed to be awash with Halys’ pirates and the blood of Arke’s crew.
‘Charge!’ yelled Artemidorus, and he broke into a run.
iii
Artemidorus leapt onto the wide wooden bridge that the corvus had become and charged across it towards Arke. It was only a matter of a few steps, but the unco-ordinated movements of the two vessels made the boards heave and see-saw beneath him. The hob-nails on his caligae boots skidded, scoring the wood. He became intensely aware that there were no safety rails on either side of the restless bridge and the armour on his body was heavy, laced in place with leather and would be impossible to escape from if he went into the water. Being a skilful swimmer would be of no use whatsoever if he went into the sea.
He put all such thoughts out of his head as he leapt onto Arke’s deck, straight into a scrum of blue-dressed marines. ‘It’s all right, lads,’ he yelled. ‘We’re here to help!’ He gulped in a deep breath and bellowed the Spartan war-cry ‘ALALA!’
Artemidorus and his contubernium simply cut across the narrow deck, pushing aside confused blue-dressed marines but meeting no real resistance until they faced Halys’ Cilicians at the far side of the deck. This section of the ship was truly a battle-front. He had no time to be surprised by the revelation that Quintus’ suspicions were so well-founded. Halys seemed to be intent on taking this ship and whatever she was carrying, because he had no sooner arrived at the point where Glaros was secured to Arke than he found himself face to face with a Cilician sailor.
With his face a mask of blood-lust, the Cilician swung a great curved sword at Artemidorus’ head. The centurion ducked – but lost some of his gaudy horsehair crest. He raised his shield with all his might so that the metal rim at the top smashed into the pirate’s elbow. The man gave a howl of pain but kept hold of his sword. Artemidorus stabbed, sliding his gladius blade past the side of his shield only to find the pirate was wearing a mail vest beneath his loose green tunic. The point of his sword scraped across it without doing any damage at all.
At the edge of his fiercely-focused vision, he saw the man on his opponent’s left stagger back with his face cleft in two. Quintus had arrived. He pushed forward with his shield, using all his strength and body-weight enhanced by the weight of Quintus behind one shoulder and Puella behind the other. Trapped against Arke’s deck-rail, the pirate strove to swing his sword again only to discover there wasn’t enough room to use such a large weapon effectively. This time, when Artemidorus stabbed, his gladius went low – under the bottom of the mail shirt and into the pirate’s guts. The man howled, but refused to give up. Artemidorus jerked his blade fiercely from side to side and hot liquid cascaded over his knees, shins and feet. The spilt offal stench rose up, familiar from a hundred sacrifices where the haruspex’ knife opened the belly of some animal, searching for its prophetic liver. Even with his life-blood pouring out of him, the pirate fought on. Taking the great sword in both hands and chopping down with what was left of his might. Artemidorus caught the blade on the top of his shield. The edge sliced a good hand’s breadth into the armoured wood. Artemidorus twisted his whole torso, tearing the wedged sword out of the man’s hands. As he did so, the man’s face went blank. His eyes rolled up. His last breath released his spirit to puff into Artemidorus’ face. But the corpse remained erect, wedged against the deck-rails by the weight of Artemidorus and his legionaries. Then, abruptly, the rail behind the dead man broke – and it was not the only section to do so, Artemidorus reckoned grimly. The power of Glaros’ movements transmitted through the grappling hooks and taut ropes was fatally enhanced by the weight of men pushing against it. The ships stirred again. The corpse slipped into the gap and vanished, along with a section of the rail. The space closed again at once, trapping the dead Cilician. There was a sound like a sack of dry twigs being crushed.
The centurion stepped back from the gap as what was left of Arke’s deck-rail moved hard up against Glaros’ slightly higher one, still bound together by many of the grappling hooks that Glaros’ archers had protected so efficiently. Archers who might well be taking aim at his contubernium now.
That chilling thought had hardly occurred to Artemidorus when a flight of arrows passed low over his head to thump into Glaros’ deck. And he remembered the archers User had sent up to the fighting tower. Now it was the pirate bowmen’s turn to scream and seek shelter from the steel-tipped storm. The pressure behind him eased and he was able to step back. There was a heartbeat of calm.
‘What are they waiting for? Why don’t they retreat?’ gasped Quintus. ‘They must be outnumbered two-to one!’
‘There’s something else going on,’ said Artemidorus. ‘There must be!’
*
Artemidorus sheathed his sword for a moment, turned his shield side-on and wrestled the pirate’s huge blade free. It was almost as big as Hunefer’s. The thought of the massive Egyptian prompted him to glance around. Lucius, Hunefer and the contubernium all seemed safe for the time-being. The deck was littered with corpses. But small though she seemed compared with the ships on either side of her, Arke was still the better part of one hundred feet in length and it was impossible to take in her entire deck with one swift glance.
‘I hope to Hades User’s not involved in whatever it is or we’re all dead men,’ said Quintus, as Artemidorus’ attention returned to him.
Then time for talking was over as another wave of pirates came screaming over Glaros’ deck-rail, preceded by a shower of arrows. There was just enough warning to get their shields up, so the shafts thumped into these rather than into the legionaries’ flesh. Artemidorus’ focus closed down again as he faced a pair of pirates, his battle plan now complicated by the need to stay well clear of the deadly gap in Arke’s deck rail. As he prepared to fight, he realised he was still holding the dead Cilician’s huge curved sword instead of his trusty gladius. The first pirate of the pair charged straight at him like a Germainan berserker, sword in one hand, dagger in the other. No shield. Armour – if he was wearing a
ny – hidden by his yellow tunic. Artemidorus hurled the unwieldy sword into the man’s face with all the strength he possessed. The pirate instinctively tried to knock it aside with his sword arm. The weighty blade lopped his hand off and buried itself in his forehead, splitting his helmet and the skull behind it. He went down flat on his back as though he had been hit in the face by a ballista bolt.
Artemidorus tore his gladius out of its sheath and turned to face his second opponent, swinging his shield to stand between them. The pirate crashed into the shield hard enough to drive one or two of the arrow-heads right through. The sharp edge of one of them opened Artemidorus’ forearm. The wound stung like fire and began to bleed copiously, but was nowhere near enough to distract him – let alone stop him. He staggered under his assailant’s weight but then drove forward with the pierced shield. The fact that his opponent had been able to drive the arrows through it warned Artemidorus that he was wearing armour beneath his tunic. So the battle-hardened centurion stooped slightly, slamming the lower edge of his shield down as hard as he could. The metal rim crushed the delicate bones of the pirate’s feet. The man screamed. Artemidorus followed, repeating the move. The pirate’s toes popped like grapes in a wine-press. He dropped his weapons and took hold of Artemidorus’ shield, fists closing on either side of the wound left by the first man’s sword. Vainly, he tried to lift the shield, to stop it crippling him entirely. Artemidorus straightened, still pushing down with his wounded forearm and stabbed over the top straight into the pirate’s throat. A huge gout of blood burst out of the man, filling Artemidorus face and eyes, blinding him completely for a moment. He staggered back, disorientated, praying that he was not he was not heading for the gap in the deck-rail. Felt two huge bodies close on his right shoulder and his left. Praying that these were friends not foes, he wiped his face with the back of his sword-hand, blinking until he could see again. Hercules on one side. Hunefer on the other.
Puella and Quintus were gone.
iv
Suddenly terrified, he looked around. But breathed an immediate sigh of relief – his usual guardians were still close at hand, both engaged in brutal battles of their own. For a heartbeat he scanned the deck, searching for the rest of the contubernium. But there was no time for a proper roll-call. The pirates were falling back now. Retreating onto their own ship but a fighting retreat rather than a rout. Leaving Arke’s deck littered with their dead and dying but taking as many wounded with them as they safely could. As soon as they reached Glaros’ deck they started to chop their vessel free. As the ships’ sides began to move apart, more sections of Arke’s deck-rail fell away. There were screams, howls and splashes as combatants tumbled into the water between the hulls.
Artemidorus looked around the vessel he and his command had just rescued. And he saw that the hatch leading down into the lower decks was open. That surprised him. The hatches would have been opened to allow the armed and armoured oarsmen up onto the deck, but they would have been closed again once everyone was up. An open hatch in a battle was an invitation to disaster. And, now that he thought about it, he noticed that the square of darkness had the largest number of dead pirates piled around it. And pirates rarely if ever, in his experience, were willing to die in vain.
Collecting Puella and Quintus, Ferrata and Lucius as he went, Artemidorus crossed to the gaping hatchway. Another swift check to make sure that the deck nearby was clear of living pirates, he handed his shield to Hunefer who had disdained to use one so far, stepped over the corpses, ducked his head and ran below.
The rowing benches were empty. The oars neatly stowed. Light filtered in through the oar-holes revealing nothing apparently amiss. As he looked, so the last of the stamping footfalls of battle on the deck above him quietened. He glanced up. There was blood running through the spaces between some of the deck-boards. And the great spike of the corvus stabbed down nearby like the dagger of some Titan. Arke gave a lurch and the brightness intensified. Glaros was moving away.
Artemidorus noticed a lamp burning at the top of another companionway leading deeper into the hold. Taking this up, he went on, slowly, sword first. So he came to the vessel’s accommodation areas. He had assumed – without giving the matter any thought – that all the fighting would have been on deck, but apparently not. The central passageway down here contained two dead pirates and, by the look of things one dead Roman. The Roman was lying face-down in a doorway that he had obviously died trying to defend. He had no helmet. The back of his head was a mass of blood-matted hair. Artemidorus stepped over him and entered a surprisingly spacious cabin.
He paused, raising the lamp and looking around in its flickering light. On a bunk – made up with military precision – lay a jumble of papers and documents beside a leather courier’s satchel. Suddenly short of breath, he crossed to these and breathed a sigh of relief as he found a message case with Brutus’ seal and Cassius’ name on it. This was the treasure that his entire plan had sought to bring into his possession – or rather into the possession of his forgers. In the mean-time he packed it all into the satchel and left it on the bed.
Then, his interest piqued, he looked further. At the end of the bunk was a large, iron-bound chest. Lock smashed. Open and rifled. Whatever it had contained was gone. He lowered the lamp for a closer look. Something gleamed at the bottom. He laid his sword on the bunk and reached in o find a gold coin. On one side was Brutus’ face in profile and on the other two daggers. He straightened, looking closely at it as everything fell into place with the elegant precision of a Pythagorean theorem. User had been right. Arke was not just bringing Brutus’ message. She had also been bringing Brutus’ gold to pay Cassius’ troops – quite a lot, judging by the size of the empty box. Halys had guessed it would be there as accurately as User. And, Cilician pirate that he was, he had been unable to resist the temptation.
Artemidorus’ thoughts were interrupted by a groan. He returned to the doorway. The Roman wasn’t dead after all. Artemidorus crouched, lowering the lamp to the deck and heaving the unconscious soldier onto his back as gently as possible, the wound on his left arm adding yet more blood to the Roman’s legionary tunic. Then he froze.
For Brutus’ courier was Marcus Valerius Messala.
*
‘Messala!’ said Lucius. ‘Did you say he was dead?’
‘Still alive,’ answered Artemidorus, ‘but only just by the look of things. We need to get him to Crinas as soon as possible. Puella, you and Kyros do what you can for him then see about moving him. Ferrata and Hercules, you help. Notus, you collect everything off his bed and bring it with him. Get Furius to help you when he gets here. Hunefer, Quintus, you two and I are going to talk to the captain and whoever is in charge of the marines.’
Artemidorus paused on the deck. Glaros was heading north – slowly, with about half her oars deployed, heading past Cyprus and then home to Cilicia no doubt. The surviving pirates rich beyond their dreams. His gaze came back aboard. Those pirates who had not survived were being stripped, their weapons and armour in one pile, and valuables in another. Then their bodies were being heaved overboard. A task made easier by the state of Arke’s broken deck-rail. Their disposal attracting the local sharks to a noisy, gruesome, frenzied feast.
The three men walked towards the stern, where a small knot of sailors and soldiers were deep in conversation. They stopped and turned as Artemidorus and his blood-soaked companions approached.
One of them stepped forward. ‘I am Valerius Potitus, captain of this vessel,’ he said, cordially. ‘Thank you for saving her.’
Artemidorus introduced himself and his companions. Then he continued, ‘We were happy to be of service, Captain Potitus. I wish we could have done more. Your vessel is damaged and I would guess you will need to re-organise your oarsmen. I see several dead and wounded. It will therefore take you some time to get into Ashkelon. However, speed is of the essence. Tribune Messala seems to have been seriously wounded trying to defend General Brutus’ messages and the gold Brutus wa
s sending to General Cassius. Unsuccessfully, as it turns out. The gold is gone. However, my vessel is not damaged. I have lost no oarsmen, as far as I know. And I have an Athenian physician aboard who will tend Tribune Messala and help him to recover if the gods will it. I therefore suggest we take the Tribune, his messages and his personal effects aboard Triton and get into port.’
He had just finished speaking when Ferrata arrived. ‘We have Messala ready to move as soon as we have permission to do so,’ he said. ‘But I am sorry to say that we can’t find Furius anywhere. He must have been one of the poor bastards who went overboard when the deck-rails started breaking.’
v
They had all been there when Mercury died, remembered Artemidorus. The messenger had been shot in an ambush. He lay choking to death with his head in Puella’s lap. Arrows piercing his face from cheek to cheek through his teeth, gums and tongue; and through his throat from side to side. The experience had been horrible. But Furius’ death seemed somehow worse – simply to vanish like that. His death unobserved. Unsuspected until Ferrata did a headcount. To die in such a terrible way, plunging below the surface, trapped in heavy armour, uselessly worrying at the knots in the leather securing it in place. Tearing nails to the quick on unyielding laces. Knowing it was hopeless. Knowing it was all over – that none of your friends and tent companions even realised. The death he had feared for himself.
‘Well?’ he said, pulling himself back to the present, the syllable seeming to fill the tiny room that Kyros and Notus were working in. He shivered, having sluiced himself in cold sea-water and changed his clothes. The wound on his arm stung from the salt and refused to stop oozing.
‘It’s in Greek and in code,’ answered Notus. ‘But my first thought is that it’s Caesar’s code, a simple transposition. Caesar favoured three places to the right, counting the first letter as all Romans do, so that Alpha became Gamma and so-on. If that proves to be the case then it shouldn’t be too difficult to crack.’