by Peter Darman
‘The gods smile on us,’ I said to Domitus, ‘go!’
He and his three women sauntered along the wharf, past the first vessel, and halted at The Cretan. I watched pensively as Domitus tried to worm his way on to the vessel, but was distracted by arguments and then fighting that broke out behind us. It was just the cover we needed.
‘Acco,’ I said, ‘change of plan. You kill the guards at the first ship and I will deal with the ones that Domitus is speaking to. Cleon, you and your men kill the ones at the other vessel. Move!’
I ran forward as the commotion behind us worsened, with fists flying and more amphora being shattered. Acco bounded in front of me and raised his swords, plunging one into the chest of a surprised marine and then brushing aside the pilum of the other guard before opening his throat with a side swing of his other sword. Surena shot the two marines speaking to Domitus before they had chance to react to the unfolding drama, his arrows hitting both in the chest. Cleon and his men raced past us as I bounded up the gangplank and jumped on deck. To find it empty. Domitus and the women followed.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ he fumed at me.
‘Change of plan.’
I went over to the cabin and banged on the door.
‘Athineos.’
‘In here,’ came the reply from inside.
I slid back the bolt on the door and opened it. A fuming Athineos burst out and was going to attack me, probably thinking that I was a Roman. His anger turned to confusion when he saw us standing on his deck.
‘How in the name of Zeus did you manage to escape?’
I grinned. ‘It’s a long story and one I would be delighted to tell you. But right now we need to get out of Ephesus.’
He looked around. ‘Where are the guards?’
‘Dead,’ replied Domitus, ‘as will we be if we don’t get moving.’
Athineos pointed at the locked hatches on the deck. ‘My crew are in there.’
I ordered them to be opened. Drenis recoiled from the stench of rancid sweat as the hatches were opened and tired, dehydrated sailors were helped on deck. They were desperate for water and Domitus had to restrain them from knocking over the barrels filled with it near the cabin as they feverishly sated their thirsts. The ten-man crews were liberated from the other boats but half of them were in such a weakened state that they had to be assisted aboard The Cretan.
‘Those bastard Romans had them flogged,’ Athineos informed me. ‘I told them that they had had nothing to do with bringing you here but they wouldn’t listen. We were to be fed to the animals in the arena. Can you believe it, eaten by the very lions I had transported from Syria?’
‘They are dead, Athineos. But more importantly we need to get out of this harbour,’ I said as he began to pace up and down the deck, swearing vengeance on the Romans.
‘How I would like to get my hands on that pretty boy tribune,’ he seethed.
‘You might get your wish,’ said Domitus at the top of the gangplank and pointing towards the docks where a force of marines was mustering, led by an individual with a scarlet cloak and a magnificent red crest atop his helmet.
‘How many?’ I shouted to Domitus.
He screwed up his nose. ‘Thirty or forty, and probably more on the way.’
‘What about my other boats?’ said an anguished Athineos.
‘We must leave them behind,’ I said. ‘You have to get this boat under way.’
He had around fifteen sailors who were up to the task of casting off, unfurling the sails and rowing the small boats alongside that would pull The Cretan out of the harbour, which was bereft of any wind. He bellowed and cursed at his men as I ran to the gangplank to stand beside Domitus.
At the dockside end of the wharf marines were locking shields, ten across, while our esteemed tribune friend walked up and down the line, dressing the ranks and glancing at the three boats.
‘They appear to be in no hurry,’ I observed as Gallia and Surena, bows in hand, came to my side.
‘They are waiting for slingers or archers, most likely,’ mused Domitus. ‘They will know we have our own archers and are taking no chances.’
Sailors were scrambling up the rigging to get to the sail that was furled under the topsail. Others were going over the side to man the two rowboats that would pull us out of the harbour.
‘Archers,’ announced Domitus as half a dozen bowmen trotted to the rear of the marines.
They were around fifty or sixty paces away, men in bronze helmets and some sort of armour over their white tunics. They were armed with Cretan cydonian bows made from bone, wood and animal sinew, capable of shooting arrows up to a range of one hundred paces. They were not recurve models like our own bows but were deadly enough.
‘How many arrows do you have left?’ I asked Gallia and Surena.
‘Ten, lord.’
‘A dozen.’
I slipped my own quiver off my back and counted the missiles. Eight.
‘Athineos,’ I called, ‘do you have any arrows on board?’
‘None,’ he answered.
‘We need more ammunition,’ I said. ‘We will take it from the enemy.’
Surena whooped with joy but Domitus was most unhappy.
‘Having reached this boat it would be the height of idiocy to leave it.’
‘We need to buy Athineos and his crew more time,’ I said.
The last thing the enemy would be expecting was an attack, or so I hoped. So that is what I intended to spring. I called Cleon over and told him that I was going to assault the Romans so the crew could unfurl the sails and tow us out of the harbour. He immediately volunteered himself and his men, as did Acco, whose bandage was now soaked in blood around his wound. Burebista also volunteered his services, which meant there were seventeen men armed with shields and swords and three archers: myself, Gallia and Surena. Long odds but we had the element of surprise. I told Alcaeus to get Hippo and Anca into the safety of the cabin and Athineos to cast off as soon as he was ready.
‘We will get back on board,’ I told him.
He shook his head. ‘You are mad, you know that?’
I grinned at him. ‘The gods like mad people, my friend.’
There was a scream followed by a thud as one of the crew crashed to the deck, an arrow in his back. The Cretan archers were using their bows to kill the crew and stop us leaving. We ran down the gangplanks and headed for the marines. The three of us with bows halted on the wharf and began releasing arrows at the line of marines, stopping when our comrades ran past us and charged forward. We followed, pausing to shoot arrows through the gaps between our friends and allies. The Roman marines, taking casualties and totally surprised by our actions, momentarily lost their cohesion and their formation, just as Domitus led our makeshift force into their ranks. The marines and archers got hopelessly entangled as the Roman line fragmented. Acco was fighting like a man possessed by a demon, his two swords slashing left and right under and above shields to create a path of dead marines. I emptied my quiver shooting three archers who were exposed as the marines were cut down and cursed my luck when I had a clear shot of Marcus Aristius but no arrows with which to take it.
In the unfolding mêlée Domitus, Drenis and Arminius had an advantage over individual marines and within minutes all three had cut down at least two Romans each, while Acco had killed five or six on his own. Burebista’s skills, honed in the arena, were just as deadly and soon nearly half the marines were either dead or dying. Cleon’s men, not as skilled in the use of arms as the rest of us, suffered accordingly, five being killed in quick succession. But at least their leader accounted for three of the enemy as he fell back, Marcus Aristius screaming at them to hold their position, to no avail.
I slung my bow on my back, drew my sword and ran forward to assist Domitus as he grappled with a marine. I ducked to the right and rammed my spatha into the Roman’s side, just behind the shield that was tucked tight into his left side. He yelped and fell as Domitus drove his gladius throu
gh his throat. I kept moving and crouched beside a dead archer, wresting the two quivers plus straps from his corpse. I slung them over my shoulder and went to another Cretan and relieved him of his arrows too. Surena and Gallia were doing the same when I heard a shout.
‘Romans!’
I looked up to see another detachment of marines and archers running along the dockside, dockers and sailors who had been watching the scene scattering before them. I glanced behind to see The Cretan pulling away from the wharf.
‘Fall back,’ I shouted as an arrow hit one of Cleon’s Greeks, pitching him forward over the side of the wharf and into the water.
Gallia stood up while Drenis, Domitus and Arminius locked their shields together and began to edge back as Marcus Aristius screamed at the newly arrived archers to shoot at us. Burebista ran over to me.
‘Time to go, lord.’
But as he held up his shield to protect us I saw that Gallia was exposed. Marcus Aristius noticed it too.
‘Kill that bitch,’ he screamed.
Acco saw the danger too and ran over to her, grabbing her and turning his back to the enemy to make himself a human shield. Four arrows slammed into his back and he emitted a pitiful groan. I nocked an arrow and shot it, then a second, third and fourth, all finding their mark and forcing the Roman reinforcements to fall back, much to the disgust of the tribune. Surena also killed three of the Cretans, who retreated some more. I ran over to Gallia who was holding Acco in her arms.
‘I’m done, princess,’ he said quietly. His eyes turned to me.
‘Get her out of here, that’s an order, Parthian.’
He smiled at my wife and then grabbed the torc around his neck. He removed it and passed it to her.
‘Go, princess, may Toutas be with you.’
She kissed him on the forehead and I pulled her back as Acco nodded and rose unsteadily to his feet. His back was painted red from the arrow wounds, his swords decorated with enemy blood. And as we ran back to the ship he was determined to spill more enemy blood as the marines raced forward. I was the last to leave the wharf as I heard a loud shout and turned to see Acco charge into the enemy, his swords glistening in the afternoon sun before he died a warrior’s death. I turned and jumped aboard The Cretan as arrows hissed through the air, striking the hull and piercing the mainsail.
Drenis, Arminius and Domitus stood on the deck and cheered as the sailors in the two rowboats frantically pulled on their oars and Athineos steered his vessel away from the wharf and towards the open sea. Around us other merchant vessels were being towed to their berthing positions, their crews oblivious to the bloody drama that had just taken place. I dumped the quivers on the deck and went to stand beside Athineos while The Cretan moved silently through the water. He was in a sombre mood.
‘That’s me finished as a captain. Thirty years I have been sailing the Mediterranean and Aegean, hauling cargoes and making my fortune. All gone in the blink of an eye.’
‘I am sorry.’
He brought up phlegm from his chest and spat it overboard.
‘Don’t blame yourself, young king. I got too cocky, too greedy. Plutus dangled the lure of wealth before me like a fisherman dangles a hook baited with a worm and I took it.’
‘Plutus?’
He chuckled to himself. ‘The God of Wealth. Now I have just this ship instead of two more and the Romans will declare me an outlaw and put a price on my head.’
‘What will you do, Athineos?’
He did not reply, just shook his head forlornly and stared vacantly ahead at the gap between the two breakwaters where we were headed. I looked back at the diminishing wharf to see marines and a figure with a red-crested helmet standing between the two vessels of Athineos that we had left behind. I saw Marcus Aristius turn and walk back towards the docks and I suddenly remembered Julia’s words.
‘Seek the lions at the island of Lemnos.’
‘We have to go to Lemnos, Athineos.’
‘Mmm?’
‘Lemnos, we have to go to Lemnos.’
He kept an eye on the ship’s course. ‘Lemnos, why? It’s north of Ephesus and there’s nothing there except more Romans.’
‘I was told to seek the lions of Lemnos.’
He laughed. ‘Lions? There are no lions on Lemnos but there are plenty of Romans. We must get back to Syria.’
‘I will pay you whatever you desire, Athineos, just get us to Lemnos. You know the way?’
He said nothing for a few seconds as he weighed up my offer. He nodded. ‘I know the way.’
Cleon was going among his four remaining men, laying hands on their shoulders and trying to raise their morale. How different things must have seemed to him just a few hours before when the whole of Ephesus had been gripped by madness, which he had hoped to take advantage of. Now he was but another criminal fleeing from Roman justice. But at least he had his beloved with him. I saw the figure of Hippo leave the cabin and run to him, the two embracing as the other Greeks flopped down on the deck to rest.
Athineos nodded at her. ‘That’s the high priestess from the temple. I remember seeing her when I visited the place.’
‘You are correct.’
He was not happy. ‘Her god will be angry that her high priestess has deserted Her and will curse us. You should send her back.’
‘The authorities will either crucify her or burn her,’ I said, ‘depending on whether she falls into the hands of the Greek high priest of the temple or the Roman governor of the city.’
‘Better her dying than the rest of us.’
I slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Cheer up, my friend, we have escaped the city, Shamash be praised.’
He pointed ahead. ‘Not yet, we haven’t.’
I looked to where he was indicating to see soldiers on the end of one of the breakwaters, men in bronze helmets wearing white tunics – Cretan archers. And then I spied Roman legionaries manhandling two machines into place – scorpions. The gap between the two breakwaters was around two hundred and fifty yards, wide enough to allow two ships to pass each other easily. But not wide enough to allow The Cretan to dodge the enemy’s missiles.
‘Have a care,’ Athineos shouted, ‘enemy archers.’
‘They will pick off the rowers first,’ I said, ‘leaving us dead in the water.’
Athineos began steering the ship away from the left-hand breakwater where the Romans and archers were positioned, but he had limited room for manoeuvre if he wanted to avoid a collision with the other breakwater.
‘Get those men in the rowboats back to the ship,’ I told him.
Athineos shouted to his second-in-command, a filthy wretch with a lice-infested beard, to get the rowers out of the water as he called to his men on the rigging to get down on deck.
‘Everyone should get below deck,’ he said. ‘I can steer on the other side of the boat so the cabin will be a shield. What are you going to do?’
‘Show these Romans what a Parthian can do with a bow.’
Actually there was only one Parthian – me – the others being a Gaul and a Ma’adan as I lined up with Gallia and Surena near the prow and the rowers returned to the ship clambering up the sides. Everyone was despatched to the hold, including Hippo and Anca from the cabin, because scorpion bolts could go straight through the cabin’s walls. Not that I intended to allow them to shoot.
Domitus, Drenis, Arminius and Cleon held Roman shields at the gunwale, with enough space between them to allow us to shoot our bows from the gaps between them.
‘A choice bit of foresight on your part,’ Domitus said to me, ‘leading that charge to capture more arrows. I suppose you knew they would try to cut us off at the breakwater.’
In truth I did not. ‘Of course, Domitus. That is why I am a king and you are a mere general.’
We had dumped the quivers on the deck behind us and now Gallia and Surena were nocking arrows in their bowstrings.
‘Hit the crews of the scorpions first,’ I said. ‘Those weapons can cause us real
damage. We can withstand their arrows.’
The Cretan was still drifting towards the open sea, though at an agonisingly slow pace now that it was no longer being towed. The scorpion crews were siting their weapons, which were around three hundred paces away. Well within range. They appeared to be more focused on ensuring deadly accuracy rather than a high rate of fire, for which I thanked Shamash. I nocked an arrow, raised my bow and pulled the bowstring back to full draw. Time slowed to almost nothing and I was taken back to my youth, to my first ‘baby bow’ that I was given at the age of eight. I remembered my tutors: frail, white-haired men who made shooting a bow seem like a sport of the immortals.
‘You may be a pampered little prince,’ I had been told, ‘but only constant practice will make you a competent archer. In this you are no different from the poorest farmer.’
They had told my father that I was not an instinctive archer, though I had had no idea at the time what that meant. But they said that I could become a good bowman as long as I trained every day and listened closely to my tutors. And that is what I did. Hours spent honing hand/eye coordination, ensuring no more than four inches of arrow stuck out in front of my bow hand when the bowstring was at full draw. After my hand had been thwacked by a cane held by my instructor the old goat explained why.
‘It produces inconsistent accuracy in the flight of your arrows and also adversely affects trajectory and penetration.’
‘Concentration, that is the key,’ another instructor had informed me during my teenage years. ‘If an archer cannot concentrate on his shooting he will never be able to master the skill.’
Years spent on shooting ranges loosing arrows from the saddle when even riding at speed did not spare me their admonishments.
