During the engagement, the second vessel had quietly drawn closer. As the galley’s ram hit home, the gray-sailed ship immediately drew along the galley’s port beam. The crunch of shattered oars filled the air as a fusillade of arrows and grappling hooks rained down on the deck. Within seconds, the two ships were drawn and lashed together as a mass of sword-wielding barbarians flooded over the side.
The first wave of attackers barely touched the deck when they were impaled by a barrage of razor-sharp spears. The Roman slingers were lethally accurate, and a dozen invaders fell dead in their tracks. But the invasion barely slowed, as a dozen more barbarians took their place. Plautius held his men back until the horde swarmed the deck, then rose and charged. The clang of sword on sword rang over the dying shouts of agony as the slaughter ensued. The Roman legionaries, better trained and disciplined, easily repelled the initial attacks. The barbarians were used to attacking lightly armed merchants, not well-armed soldiers, and they faltered at the stiff resistance. Beating back the boarding party, Plautius rallied half his men to press the attack and personally led the way as the Romans pursued the barbarians onto their own ship.
The barbarians quickly broke ranks, but then regrouped at the realization that they vastly outnumbered the legionaries. Attacking in groups of three and four, they would target a single Roman and overrun his position. Plautius lost six men before quickly organizing his troops into a fighting square.
On the stern deck of the galley, Vitellus watched as the Roman centurion cut a man in two with his sword, mowing through the barbarians like a scythe. The captain had gamely turned the galley inshore during the fight, with its pursuer lashed alongside. But the pirate ship dropped a stone anchor, which eventually found bottom and ground both ships to a halt.
Meanwhile, the blue-sailed vessel had curled around and attempted to rejoin the fight. With flooding from its damaged hull slowing its pace, it aimed clumsily for the galley’s exposed starboard flank. Duplicating the move of its sister ship, the vessel slipped alongside, and its crew quickly flung grapples.
“Oarsmen to arms! Report to the deck!” Vitellus shouted.
Belowdecks, the exhausted oarsmen rallied to the cry. Trained as soldiers first, the oarsmen and every other sailor aboard were expected to defend the ship. Arcelian followed his brethren in line as they gulped down a splash of cold water from a clay pot, then rushed to the deck with a sword in hand.
“Keep your head down,” he said to the celeusta, who had passed out the arms and now followed at the end of the line.
“I prefer to look the barbarian in the eye when I kill him,” the drummer replied with his trademark grin.
The oarsmen joined the fight none too soon as the second wave of pirates began storming the starboard rail. The galley’s crew quickly engaged the attackers in a mass of steel and flesh.
As Arcelian stepped onto the main deck, he was aghast at the carnage. Dead bodies and severed limbs were scattered everywhere amid growing pools of blood. Untested in battle, he unwittingly froze for a moment, until an officer ran by and yelled at him, “Sever the grappling lines!”
Spotting a taut rope stretching off the galley’s bow, he sprang forward and sliced the line free with his sword. He watched as the cut line whipped back toward the blue-sailed ship, whose deck stood several feet below his own. He then peered down the galley’s rail and noticed a half dozen more grapple lines affixed to the pirate ship.
“Cut the lines!” he shouted. “Shove the barbarian clear.”
The words fell on deaf ears, as he realized that nearly every crewman aboard was engaged with the barbarians in a fight for life. Only at the stern of the galley did he observe with encouragement that the celeusta had joined the effort, attacking a grapple line with a small hatchet. But time was short. Aboard the slowly sinking pirate vessel, the barbarians began making a determined effort to board en masse, realizing their ship had little time left afloat.
Arcelian stepped over a dying shipmate to reach the next grapple and quickly raised his sword. Before the blade came down, he heard a whistling through the air, and then a razor-tipped arrow bit into the deck an inch from his foot. Ignoring it, he swung the blade through the rope, then dove beneath the rail as another arrow darted overhead. Peering over the edge, he spotted his assailant, a Cilician archer wedged at the top of the pirate ship’s mast. The archer had already turned his attention away from the oarsman and was aiming his next arrow astern. Arcelian looked on in horror as he realized that the archer was aiming at the celeusta, who was about to cut a third grapple line.
“Celeusta!” the oarsman screamed.
The warning came too late. An arrow ripped into the little man’s chest, burying itself nearly to the quiver. The drummer gasped, then dropped to his knees, as a flow of blood turned his chest red. In a final act of allegiance, he slammed the hatchet through the grapple line, then fell over dead.
The barbarian ship began settling lower in the water, inciting a final rush to the galley. Just two grapple lines remained binding the ships together, a point lost on all of the pirates save the archer. Still perched in the mast, he took aim and fired again at Arcelian, sending an arrow whizzing over his head.
Arcelian saw that the remaining grapple lines were amidships, although the two vessels were touching at the stern and the fighting had drifted aft. The oarsman dropped to all fours and scurried beneath the rail to the first line. A dying barbarian lay nearby, his midsection a jagged mass of exposed flesh. The strong oarsman approached and nimbly hoisted the man over his shoulder, then turned and stepped to the grapple line. Immediately there came a thwack, and an arrow drove hard into the barbarian’s back. With his free hand, Arcelian swung the sword and sliced the line in two as a second arrow burrowed into his human shield. The oarsman collapsed to the deck, rolling the now dead barbarian off his shoulder while catching his breath.
Nearly spent from his ordeal, Arcelian surveyed the final grapple, which had clawed into a yardarm a dozen feet above his head. Peeking over the rail, he spotted the enemy archer, who had finally abandoned his perch on the mast and was descending toward the deck. Seizing the opportunity, Arcelian jumped up and ran down his own deck, climbing onto the rail where the grapple line sloped down. Catching his balance, he started to swing the sword, but momentum beat him to the punch.
The force of the two divergent ships on the single line was too powerful to bear, and the iron grapple lost its grip on the masthead. The rope’s high tension flung the grapple like a projectile, spinning it in a low arc toward the water. The sharpened barbs whizzed past Arcelian, barely sparing him a bloody demise. But the rope looped around his thigh and jerked him off the rail, throwing him into the water just ahead of the pirate vessel’s bow.
Unable to swim, Arcelian splashed wildly, trying to keep his head above water. Flailing about, he felt something hard in the water and latched onto it with both hands. A chunk of wooden railing from the pirate ship knocked loose during the earlier collision, the flotsam was just large enough to keep him afloat. The blue-sailed pirate ship suddenly loomed over him, and he kicked frantically to escape its path. He was carried farther away from the galley in the process, catching a current that was just too much to overcome in his weakened state. Kicking weakly to hold his position, he watched wide-eyed as the pirate ship caught a gust of wind and accelerated toward the shore, its deck riding low above the water.
While Arcelian had freed the starboard grapples from the Roman ship, Vitellus and a junior officer had cleared the port-side lines, save for a remaining grapple near the stern. Leaning against the tiller with an arrow protruding from his shoulder, the captain yelled over to the centurion on the adjacent ship.
“Plautius, return to the vessel,” he said in a weakened voice. “We are cast free.”
The centurion and his legionaries were still battling fiercely on the opposite vessel, though their fighting numbers had diminished. Plautius pulled his bloodied sword from the neck of a barbarian and gave a quick glance
toward the galley.
“Proceed with the cargo. I shall detain the barbarians,” he yelled, plunging his sword into another attacker. There were but three legionaries left standing with him, and Vitellus could see that their remaining breaths would be few.
“Your bravery shall be recorded,” the captain yelled, cutting the last line. “Farewell, Centurion.”
Free of the anchored attack ship, the galley leaped forward as its lone sail filled with the breeze. His gubernator long dead, Vitellus muscled the steering oar landward, feeling the grip turn slick with his own blood. An odd silence crept over the deck, prompting him to stagger to the forward rail and peer down. The sight below stunned him.
Littered across the deck was a mass of dead and dismembered bodies, Roman and barbarian intermixed, in a wash of red. A nearly equal number of attackers and crewmen had engaged one another, fighting to a mortal standstill. It was a scene of carnage like no other he had ever witnessed.
Shaken by the sight and faint from loss of blood, he stared at the heavens.
“Protect thee for thy Emperor,” he gasped.
Swaying back to the stern, he wrapped his tired arms around the tiller and adjusted its angle. Cries for help echoed up from men afloat in the water, but the captain’s ears fell deaf as the ship sailed by. With his eyes staring vacantly at the land ahead, he gripped the tiller with his last bit of energy and fought for the final moments of his life.
DRIFTING IN THE CHOPPY WATERS, Arcelian looked up in surprise to see the Roman ship sailing clear, suddenly bearing down on his own position. Crying for help, he watched in anguish as the galley slipped past him, ignoring him in complete silence. A moment later, he caught a profile of the ship as it turned and he saw with horror that not a single soul stood upon her main deck. Only the lone figure of Captain Vitellus was visible, slumped over the tiller on the raised stern. Then the ship’s sails rustled in the wind, and the wooden galley darted toward shore, soon disappearing completely from sight.
JUNE 1916 PORTSMOUTH, ENGLAND
THE NAVAL DOCK WAS ABUZZ WITH ACTIVITY, DESPITE the dampening effects of a cold drizzle. Royal Navy stevedores busily worked beneath a steam-powered derrick, hoisting huge amounts of food, supplies, and munitions aboard the gray leviathan moored at the dock. On board, the crates were neatly stowed in the ship’s forward hold, while a throng of sailors in heavy woolen pea-coats readied the ship for sea.
The HMS Hampshire still maintained a spit-and-polish finish, despite more than a decade at sea and its recent action at the Battle of Jutland. A Devonshire class armored cruiser of ten thousand tons, she was one of the largest ships in the British Navy. Armed with a dozen large deck guns, she was also one of the deadliest.
In an empty storehouse a quarter mile down the quay, a blond-haired man stood by an open siding and studied the ship’s loading through a pair of brass binoculars. He held the binoculars to his eyes for nearly twenty minutes until a green Rolls-Royce appeared, crossing the dock and pulling up in front of the main gangway. He watched intently as a band of Army officers in khaki uniforms quickly materialized, surrounding the car and then assisting the vehicle’s occupants up the gangway. From their dress, he judged the two arrivals as a politician and a high-ranking military officer. He caught a quick glimpse of the officer’s face, smiling to himself as he noted that the man wore a heavy mustache.
“Time to make our delivery, Dolly,” he said aloud.
He stepped into the shadows, where a weather-beaten cart was hitched to a saddled horse. Stuffing the binoculars under the seat, he climbed aboard and slapped the reins. Dolly, an aged dappled gray mare, lifted her head in annoyance, then shuffled forward, pulling the cart out into the rain.
The dockhands paid scant attention to the man when he pulled his cart up alongside the ship a few minutes later. Dressed in a faded woolen coat and soiled trousers, a flat cap pulled low over his brow, he resembled dozens of other local paupers who survived by the odd job here and there. In this instance, it was an acted role, embellished by a failure to shave and a liberal dousing of cheap scotch on his clothes. When it was deemed time to perform, he made his presence known by advancing Dolly to the base of the gangway, effectively blocking its use.
“Get that nag out of the way,” cursed a red-faced lieutenant overseeing the loading.
“Aye got a d’livry for the ’Ampshire,” the man growled in a Cockney accent.
“Let me see your papers,” the lieutenant demanded.
The deliveryman reached inside his jacket and handed the officer a crumpled page of watermarked stationery. The lieutenant frowned as he read it, then slowly shook his head.
“This is not a proper bill of lading,” he said, quietly eyeing the deliveryman.
“It’s wot the general gave me. That and a fiver,” the man replied with a wink.
The lieutenant walked around and surveyed the crate, which was roughly the size of a coffin. On the top was an address stenciled in black paint:
PROPERTY OF THE ROYAL NAVY
TO THE ATTENTION OF SIR LEIGH HUNT
SPECIAL ENVOY TO THE RUSSIAN EMPIRE
C/O CONSULATE OF GREAT BRITAIN
PETROGRAD, RUSSIA
“Humph,” the officer muttered, eyeing the paperwork again. “Well, it is signed by the general. Very well,” he said, passing the paper back. “You, there,” he barked, turning to a nearby stevedore. “Help get that crate aboard. Then get this wagon out of here.”
Rope was strung around the crate, and a shipboard derrick yanked it into the sky, swinging it over the rail and depositing it in the forward hold. The deliveryman gave a mock salute to the lieutenant, then slowly drove the horse off the dock and out of the navy yard. Turning down a nearby dirt road, he ambled past a small port warehouse district that ended at an expanse of open farmland. A mile farther down the road, he turned into an uneven drive and parked the cart beside a dilapidated cottage. An old man with a game leg limped out of a nearby barn.
“Make your delivery?” he asked the driver.
“I did. Thank you for the use of your cart and horse,” the man replied, pulling a ten-pound note out of his wallet and handing it to the farmer.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but that’s more than my horse is worth,” the farmer stammered, holding the note in his hands as if it were a baby.
“And a fine horse it is,” the man replied, giving Dolly a farewell pat on the neck. “Good day,” he said to the farmer, tipping his hat without another word, then walking up the drive.
He turned down the road and hiked a few minutes until detecting the sound of an automobile headed his way. A blue Vauxhall touring sedan rounded a corner, then slowed to a stop beside him. The deliveryman stepped closer as the rear door of the sedan opened and he climbed in. A staid-looking man in the attire of an Anglican priest slid across the backseat to make room. He stared at the deliveryman with a shroud of apprehension masking his dull gray eyes, then reached for a decanter of brandy mounted to the seat back. Pouring a healthy shot into a crystal tumbler, he passed it to the deliveryman, then directed the driver to proceed down the road.
“The crate is aboard?” he asked bluntly.
“Yes, Father,” the deliveryman replied in a sarcastic tone of reverence. “They bought the phony bill of lading and loaded the crate into the forward hold.” There was no longer any trace of a Cockney accent as he spoke. “In seventy-two hours, you can bid farewell to your illustrious general.”
The words seemed to trouble the vicar, though they were what he had anticipated. He silently reached into his overcoat and retrieved an envelope stuffed thick with banknotes.
“As we agreed. Half now, half after the . . . event,” he said, passing over the envelope as his words fell away.
The deliveryman smiled as he eyed the thick stack of currency. “I wonder if the Germans would pay this much to sink a ship and murder a general,” he said. “You wouldn’t happen to be working for the Kaiser, now, would you?”
The minister firmly shoo
k his head. “No, this is a theological matter. Had you been able to locate the document, this would not have been necessary.”
“I searched the manor three times. If it was there, I would have found it.”
“As you have told me.”
“You are certain that it was carried aboard?”
“We’ve learned of a meeting on the general’s schedule with the Father Superior of the Russian Orthodox Church in Petrograd. There can be little doubt as to the purpose. The document must be aboard. It will be destroyed along with him, and so the secret shall die.”
The Vauxhall’s tires touched wet cobblestone as they entered the outskirts of Portsmouth. The driver navigated toward the city center, passing block after block of tall brick row houses. Reaching a main crossroads, he turned into the rear driveway of a nineteenth-century stone church labeled St. Mary’s as the rain began to fall with intensity.
“I’d like you to drop me at the railway station,” the deliveryman said, observing the large motorcar bisect a churchyard cemetery and pull to a stop behind the rectory.
“I was asked to drop off a sermon,” the minister replied. “Won’t take more than a moment. Why don’t you join me?”
The deliveryman suppressed a yawn as he looked out the rain-streaked window. “No, I think I’ll wait here and keep dry.”
“Very well. We’ll return shortly.”
The minister and driver walked away, leaving the deliveryman to count his blood money. As he attempted to tally up the Bank of England notes, he had trouble reading the numbers and realized his vision was blurring. He felt a wave of fatigue sweep over him and quickly tucked the money away and lay down on the seat to rest. Though it seemed like hours, it was only a few minutes later when a mist of cold water struck his face and he pried open his heavy eyelids. The stern face of the minister looked down upon him amid a shower of rain. His brain told him that his body was moving, but there was no feeling in his legs. He focused his blurry eyes enough to see the driver was carrying his legs, while the minister dragged him by the arms. A mute sense of panic rang within his skull, and he willed himself to retrieve a Webley Bulldog pistol from his pocket. But his limbs refused to respond. The brandy, he thought with momentary clarity. It was the brandy.
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