At his room along the darkened corridor, he hastily inserted the key into the lock, opened the door and cautiously poked his head into the room but as he looked around he could see no one. Pausing to listen, he could hear nothing. That was good. The commotion seemed not to have woken anyone, but Licinius must have a plan. Was he biding his time? Was he planning to kill them all in the courtyard? But he must have been relying on Julia striking first, and that hadn’t worked, so maybe they still had time, but he had to hurry. Casting a quick glance around the room, he saw that his few belongings were still where he’d left them, untouched, but as he moved into the room and stooped to look under the bed, he saw that the iron strong box had vanished. They must have stolen it whilst he was at the banquet, but without the key that hung around his neck, it would take them a long time to open it. Hastily discarding his toga, he dressed himself in his tunic and riding cloak, checked on Corbulo’s old sword and strapped it to his belt. Then, snatching his few remaining belongings, he slipped out of the door. In the corridor he was heartened to see his companions waiting for him. They looked alarmed but alert and had their weapons drawn.
“What the fuck is going on Sir?” Skula hissed as he turned to gaze at Fergus in confusion. “Flavius says he killed those two men over there. But they are the ambassador’s men.”
“We have outstayed our welcome,” Fergus whispered, as he started down the corridor. At the stairs leading down into the courtyard, he paused to cautiously study the dark courtyard beyond. All seemed quiet and peaceful and he could see no one about. In the gloom he could hear the soft whinny of the horses in their stables. Turning quickly towards the entrance gate, he could see that it was open and unguarded just like when he’d walked through it only a few minutes before. Maybe Licinius was still at the banquet. Maybe he had left the dirty work to his wife and his men? Maybe he didn’t have the balls to take on nine armed and experienced fighters.
“We take our horses and we go,” Fergus hissed, as he turned to look at his companions crouching behind him. “We don’t stop for anything until we are out of the city. Kill anyone who gets in our way.”
“But where are we going Sir?” Arlyn whispered loudly. “And where is the box with the gold. I see you don’t have it.”
“We ride for the Hyrcanian coast,” Fergus replied in a quiet voice. “To the delta where the Cyrus flows into the ocean to be precise. I will explain later. And as for the gold. Well there is no gold. Hadrian lied to us. But he still wants us to rescue Adalwolf and that is what we are going to do.”
“There is no fucking gold! That box was empty all this time,” one of the Italian brothers exclaimed in astonishment. “That’s not funny. That’s a fucking joke.”
“So, this is now a rescue mission,” Skula muttered, as a little smile appeared on his lips. “I like it. They snatch Adalwolf. We snatch him back. Fuck you Sanatruces and goodbye. I like it a lot. Let’s do this.”
“Let’s go,” Fergus hissed as he rose and hastily started down the stairs and into the darkness.
As he hastened across the dark courtyard towards the stables, Fergus strained to listen, but he could hear nothing unusual. There was no one about. Quickly and as silently as possible his companions found their horses and saddles and began preparing the beasts for the ride. As he finished securing his saddle, Fergus heaved himself up onto his horse and hastily turned to see wherever his men were ready. Seeing they were, he raised his fist above his head and urged his horse out into the courtyard. The darkness remained quiet and peaceful as he, followed by his companions, fled through the open gates and into the night. But as Fergus twisted round to gaze back at the embassy, he saw a solitary man, clad in a white toga and clutching a burning torch, watching them from a balcony.
Chapter Twenty-Three – On the Hyrcanian Ocean
The Albanian village was small and nothing more than a collection of primitive stone huts and shelters with reed covered roofs. It was morning and across the vast, flat, featureless marshes, where the Cyrus flowed into the Hyrcanian Ocean, all was silent except for the solitary cry of a circling bird and the gentle whine of the wind. In the sky a blanket of dull grey clouds obscured the sun and a faint, rotten-egg smell cloaked the delta. On the muddy ground, Fergus dismounted from his horse and turned to glance at the fishing boats, that lay at anchor in the narrow tributary stream, half hidden by the tall green water reeds. A few locals, clad in drab woollen clothes, were sitting beside the shore line mending a fishing net. They were watching him with guarded, suspicious eyes. Carefully Fergus lowered the hood of his cloak from over his head. Five days had passed since they’d fled from Gabala but there had been no sign of pursuit. Licinius seemed not to have had the heart to go after them. Along the narrow path that led away through the marshes, his companions slowly followed his example and dismounted.
“Barukh, Flavius, with me,” Fergus said quickly, as he gestured for them to join him. Hastening towards him was a small group of village elders, led by a tall man with a fantastic long white beard.
“Let’s hope they speak a little Greek,” Flavius growled, gazing at the approaching villagers as he shifted his belt into a more comfortable position. “Or else its back to sign language.”
Fergus said nothing as the villagers, studying him cautiously, came to a halt. They did not seem afraid or hostile and, from their posture he guessed that they had encountered foreigners before. But their clothes and homes looked primitive and poor. Wrenching his eyes away from the villagers, Fergus glanced at Barukh. The young Jewish gladiator looked unconcerned.
“We are about to find out if what the Jewish elders in Gabala told you is true,” Fergus said quietly.
“I believe they told me the truth,” Barukh replied confidently. “The man we need to speak to is called Vusal. He is the fixer. He can get us what we want. In Gabala they said he has a long white beard. So maybe that is him over there. He not only arranges ships for the traders to cross the Hyrcanian, but also physical labour for the trade caravans. Probably the young men from these coastal villages,” Barukh said calmly, as he turned to look around the village. “The Jews in Gabala say Vusal is trustworthy, and I know the price he charges the merchants. There is no chance that he is going to rip us off.”
“So, fishing is not the only way they make their living around here,” Flavius growled.
“Good,” Fergus said, as he turned to the tall, white bearded village elder. “Well done. We seem to have found the right place then. But I doubt that these fishermen have ever done what I have in mind.”
For a moment Fergus sized up the village elders. Barukh had carried out the instructions he’d given him in Gabala, and had sought out the Jewish brokers in the city, who had told him about Vusal. And on the ride from Gabala to the shores of the Hyrcanian Ocean, a hundred and forty-mile journey to the south-east, he had finally explained what they were going to do. It was a simple plan. But it all hinged on them being able to find a suitable ship.
“Vusal,” Fergus called out, as he pointed at the tall bearded elder. “You are Vusal. Vusal?”
“I am Vusal,” the man replied in broken Greek, with a grin that revealed a mouth filled with rotting teeth. “You need a ship?”
“A ship and two experienced men who know how to sail her,” Fergus replied. “In exchange we shall give you our horses.”
Across from him, Vusal turned sharply to look at the horses. For a moment he said nothing as he examined the beasts. Then muttering something to one of the elders, he turned his attention back to Fergus and frowned.
“Where do you want to go my friend?” Vusal exclaimed.
Fergus grinned and pointed his finger towards the east. “To India,” he replied. “Where else?”
***
The Albanian fishing boat was nothing compared to the Roman naval galleys, merchant vessels or Liburna’s that Fergus was used to. It was a small primitive ship with a single mast and a couple of rowing benches. A pile of old fishing nets lay towards the prow and the hull lo
oked worn and old. The cargo hold smelled of fish and rotting wood and was not very large, but it would do. The owner of the boat, a swarthy looking man of around forty with a moustache, together with his son, a youth of around eighteen, stood watching Fergus in silence. As Fergus finished his inspection he jumped down into the shallow water and waded ashore. His companions were clustered together on the muddy riverbank, watching him sceptically.
“All right, grab your stuff and let’s go aboard,” Fergus called out. “We’re leaving.”
In response his companions hoisted their personal belongings up onto their shoulders and started to wade out into the river, towards the fishing boat, all except Saadi who remained stubbornly standing on the shore, her arms folded across her chest. She looked deeply unhappy as she gazed at the fishing vessel.
“Saadi, let’s go,” Fergus called out as he beckoned to her.
But Saadi shook her head in stubborn defiance. “I am not going on that ship,” she replied. “Look at the state it’s in. It’s going to sink.”
“Stop fucking around and get aboard,” Fergus snapped angrily. “It is not going to sink.”
“It is going to sink. I hate the sea and I cannot swim,” Saadi cried.
Fergus groaned and quickly ran his hand through his hair in frustration. He was just about to yell at her again when, Skula suddenly came wading past him. The bald Alan tribesman headed straight towards Saadi.
“I won’t let you drown Saadi. Come on. It won’t be so bad.” Skula called out and there was something in his voice that seemed to reassure her, for after a moment’s hesitation, Saadi’s shoulders drooped and reluctantly she started to wade out into the river towards Skula.
“Well it must have been the tone of my voice,” Fergus muttered to himself in a sarcastic voice as he looked away and shook his head in bewilderment.
***
Fergus stood at the prow of the small fishing vessel, as it slowly nosed its way down the narrow, reed infested channel. The splash of the oars in the water, the creak and groan of the ship’s timbers and the gentle moan of the wind, were the only noises. Around him, the flat marsh lands of the river delta stretched away to the horizon, a vast morass of tangled reed beds, water channels and mud flats. But there was still no sign of the sea. High above in the grey cloudy sky birds were circling. Turning to gaze back down the way they’d come, Fergus could see that the fishing village had already disappeared, hidden from view by the tall reeds. The Albanian skipper and his son were standing at the back of the boat clutching the steering bar. They made a stoic, unexcitable team, their dour gaze fixed on the channel up ahead. Early on Fergus had learned that both father and son only spoke their own local language. Communication was going to be difficult, but it couldn’t be helped. And in the middle of the boat, on either side of the cargo hold, his companions were manning the oars. Turning to look ahead, Fergus sighed. He was committed now. He had to keep believing in the plan to rescue Adalwolf, even though a multitude of things could go wrong. He had to keep going and be seen to know what he was doing. That was leadership. His companions were relying on him to get this right and not lead them to their death.
At last, after an hour or so, the channel up ahead started to widen, and Fergus caught his first glimpse of the Hyrcanian Ocean. The grey, dreary expanse of water stretched away eastwards and the waves lapped along the shoreline. Eagerly he gazed out to sea, as the gentle swell caught hold of the boat. Not many Romans could boast to have sailed on the Hyrcanian Ocean. It was a semi-legendary place. He’d come to the very edge of the known world according to Hadrian’s Greek advisers. Pressing them on their knowledge, the Greek advisers had conceded that they believed that the northern reaches of the Hyrcanian might connect to the outer ocean that encircled all land. But it was just a theory for no one had successfully managed to go there and return. Steadily the small boat began to push away from the land, heading eastwards and out into the open water. At the back of the fishing boat the Albanian skipper suddenly called out in his native language and his son quickly moved forwards and began to raise the ship’s sail. Fergus watched the small sail go up, and as it did his companions stopped rowing and pulled in their oars. Catching his eye, Flavius got to his feet and, steadying himself against the hull, he made his way towards the bow.
“Savour this moment,” Fergus said as the big German came to stand beside him. “We are on the Hyrcanian Ocean. Not many will be able to boast about that.”
“It doesn’t look any different to the other seas upon which I have sailed,” Flavius replied, as he gazed out across the gentle swell. Quickly he turned to Fergus. “But aren’t we going the wrong way Sir? Our course is surely not to the east.”
Fergus glanced quickly at his deputy. “You are right,” he replied in a quiet voice. “But these are border lands. There may be spies watching us from the shore. I want to make sure that no one suspects our real intentions. Vusal and those villagers,” Fergus sighed. “They seem motivated by profit. If they knew what we were planning, what would prevent them from informing Sanatruces and being paid for their service? No. We will sail due east, until we are out of sight from land, as if we were heading for the established Indian trade routes. Then we shall turn north towards Derbent, but only when we can no longer see the coast.”
For a long moment Flavius said nothing, as he seemed to be thinking it through.
“You are a crafty and suspicious man,” Flavius exclaimed at last. “But one thing is certain. Adalwolf is going to owe us big time after this.”
***
It was afternoon when Fergus caught sight of the two ships. Hastily he cried out a warning to his companions and all eyes turned to gaze at the distant vessels. Several days had passed since they had set sail. To the westward the rocky coast was about half a mile away and beyond, clearly visible, the great mountains and snow-covered peaks of the Caucasus rose from the earth; a looming barrier of soaring rock, forest and snow. The galleys appeared to be at anchor, for as he peered at them, Fergus could see metal chains extending down into the sea. They were large, much larger than their own fishing boat, with banks of oars and, as he strained his eyes he could see figures moving about on the decks. The galleys reminded him of the Greek triremes he’d seen in the harbour at Athens. Quickly Fergus shifted his gaze and turned towards the coast. In the narrow two-mile-wide strip of land that separated the sea from the mountain slopes the walls of a city gleamed in the sunlight.
“Derbent?” Fergus cried using the Caucasian Albanian name, as he turned towards the Albanian skipper and pointed at the city walls. “Derbent?”
“Derbent,” the captain replied hastily with a little confirming nod. If the skipper was a little baffled with what was going on, he and his son hadn’t shown it yet. Their inability to speak Greek or Latin had forced them to keep their silence for these past few days. For a moment Fergus gazed at the settlement. It looked small but its strategic position astride the narrow pass was unmistakable. Then slowly he turned his attention back to the ships, lying at anchor just off the shore.
“Are they Parthian ships?” Fergus asked but the captain didn’t understand.
“Do you think they are the galleys on which Sanatruces is holding Adalwolf,” Arlyn said as he came to stand beside Fergus.
“It could be,” Fergus muttered. Quickly he beckoned for Flavius and Skula to join him. “All right, listen,” Fergus said quietly. “This is the plan. We will drop anchor close to those ships and throw our fishing nets into the sea. We are going to pretend that we are just ordinary fishermen going about our business. That will give us a chance to observe them. Flavius, Skula and I, together with the Albanians, shall remain out on deck. The rest of you will take shelter in the cargo hold. This fishing boat is far too small for such a large crew. It could make those Parthian sailors suspicious.”
“Then what?” Skula growled.
“I need to get a closer look at those galleys,” Fergus replied.
“How?” Skula shot back.
; “I am working on it,” Fergus snapped, with a hint of annoyance. “Now don’t just stand there. Get moving. Get the captain and his son to deploy those fishing nets.”
The skipper looked baffled as he sat on the edge of the boat’s hull and gazed down into the greenish water. The afternoon was wearing on and the boats nets had been cast into the water and a respectable and growing pile of silver scaled fish, filled an open barrel. At the captain’s side, his son was gazing silently at Fergus as he sat with his back leaning against the hull. The youth looked amused, as if he was trying to figure out what was going on. Near to the nets, Skula and Flavius looked bored as they took it in turns to check if they had caught anything. The sun was heading for the western horizon. Around them on the open water, the swell of the sea moved the deck and the creaking of the timbers and the occasional slap of a wave, striking the ship’s side, broke the awkward silence. Fergus however was oblivious to his crew-mates. His eyes were firmly on the two ships, a hundred or so paces away. The galleys had not moved from their position nor had anyone come out to investigate who they were. The ruse seemed to be working.
“We caught some more fish,” Flavius said, as he left his place and came to stand beside Fergus. “So, what’s the plan Sir?”
“They are Parthian ships,” Fergus replied quietly, as he studied the galleys. “Look at the winged lion painted onto the front of that galley and, over there the two horsemen locked in combat. Those are Parthian emblems all right and they are the only ships out here. They must belong to Sanatruces. But on which one is Adalwolf being held? Fancy taking a guess?”
Flavius remained silent as he turned to gaze across the water at the galleys. For a long moment he said nothing.
“Ofcourse it’s just a guess Sir,” the former boxer said at last. “But if I were Sanatruces. I would want to keep such an important hostage close to me. So, I would say that Adalwolf is being held on that galley over there. The one with the pennant flying from its mast. The other boat doesn’t have one.”
Rome and the Conquest of Mesopotamia (Book 8 of the Veteran of Rome Series) Page 22
