A murmur of tired voices from the oarsmen; the stroke became ragged, desultory. ‘Silence!’ Bruteddius’s voice was pitched to carry, but not far. ‘Not safe yet, pueri, just a little more. Easy pressure.’
The Armata ghosted through an opaque world. The creak and splash of the oars, the soft gurgle of water. The fog pearled on everything: deck, oars, rails. It dripped from the crew’s beards.
Ballista watched Bruteddius staring over the stern into the fog. All the officers, everyone watched Bruteddius. Nothing visible, no sound of pursuit. Neither meant anything.
Bruteddius softly called for the purser. ‘Pentekontarchos, break out the food and water.’ The officer padded away, the mist swirling behind him. ‘Where is the naupegos?’
‘Here, Dominus,’ said the shipwright.
‘Bring up the thin papyrus rope and all the tallow.’ Bruteddius did not glance at the man, never looked inboard.
‘Dominus.’
Under the eye of the pentekontarchos, the rear watch of the deck crew was piling wrapped bundles and amphorae on the quarterdeck.
Bruteddius turned to survey his ship. ‘Thalamians, cease rowing, oars inboard.’ Gratefully, the rowers on the lowest level obeyed. ‘Pentekontarchos, feed the thalamians first.’ Bruteddius turned back to the wall of fog beyond the sternpost.
Bread, both soggy and slightly stale, a lump of cheese, a raw onion, and a long drink of heavily watered wine; not having eaten since dawn, the thalamians wolfed it down. It was gone in seconds.
‘Zygians, cease rowing, oars inboard.’ The procedure was repeated with the middle level, leaving the top level, the elite thranites, rowing the boat on their own.
The naupegos announced the things were to hand.
‘Good, shipwright,’ Bruteddius said. ‘Zygians and thalmians, strip.’
Ballista and the other passengers watched, bemused, as the two lower levels of rowers stripped off their things with no question or complaint. The hundred or so men sat naked or in undergarments, most shivering with cold and exhaustion. Bruteddius glanced over his shoulder and smiled. ‘Good, pueri. Now muffle your oars with your tunics; tie them tight with bits of rope. Grease the oarports.’
The cloying smell of rancid mutton fat wafted as the men began to rub the tallow into the leather sleeves which kept the water out of the oarports. It mingled with the stench from the bilges: stale water and sweat, human waste. No oarsman had left his bench for hours. They had had to relieve themselves where they sat. It had not been good for the men on the lower levels. They reeked of piss and shit. Ballista felt sick in the choking miasma.
‘Thalamians, oars out. Gentle pressure. Row. Thranites, oars inboard; eat, then do the other things.’
‘What do we do?’ Ballista addressed the question to Bruteddius’s back.
The trierarch tipped his head to one side, took his time answering. When he did, he did not look round. ‘We could continue on our present course: three hundred miles of sea room to the Island of Achilles or the mouths of the Danube. It has the advantage that the Goths will not think we will do that. It has the disadvantage that, unless an easterly wind gets up, we would never get there. We have no more food, only enough water to last until the morning.’
Bruteddius paused, tipped his head to the other side. ‘We could head north: a long day’s row to the Crimea. But what sort of reception would we get?’
‘Come.’ Felix broke in. ‘It is not the heroic age. They do not sacrifice strangers there any more. The king of the Crimean Bosphorus is a loyal client of Rome.’
‘The Goths got the liburnian somewhere,’ said Bruteddius thoughtfully.
Before Felix could reply, Ballista spoke. ‘When the Borani first raided into the Black Sea, the time Successianus defended Pityus, they forced the cities of the north-west and the king … some of the subjects of the king of the Crimean Bosphorus to provide them with ships.’
‘Or we could run south,’ Bruteddius continued. ‘We might run into the two Goths who were off to larboard. If we got there, would we be safe? The nearest detachment of auxiliaries is in Heraclea, and precious few of them. It depends how badly the Goths want us.’
Again, Bruteddius paused. Ballista leant on the stern rail next to him. The trierarch’s face was very still, but his eyes did not stop moving, probing the impenetrable fog. ‘We could stay here, sit quiet,’ Bruteddius continued. ‘Hope that either the Goths pass us in the fog or give up when they see it. The men are exhausted. They could rest. But, if the Goths came on us, with no way on the boat, we would be a sitting target.’
This time Bruteddius was silent for longer.
‘And our final option? Ballista asked.
‘Our final option is to turn back, try to run silently through them in the fog and the night, get to a safe harbour in Sinope, or even all the way to Trapezus. Best to try and take on water and food somewhere along the coast and then press on to Trapezus. There are troops there.’
‘And that is what we will do?’ said Ballista.
‘That is what we will do,’ said Bruteddius.
Half an hour, and the Armata was facing east again. During this time, the thranites had rested, but now they had to return to their work. The top level consisted of the chosen men, the best oarsmen in the boat. Hard men, nut brown; it was said they could row from dawn to dawn with just a sip or two of water. Now that claim would be put to the test. Their hard, callused hands played out the long, smooth shafts of fir. One rank of blades would make less noise. The thranites would row with more control, more quietly than the zygians or thalamians. It had to be them. They took pride in it. A soft word from the rowing master and they began. Slowly, the Armata got under way.
It was near sunset. Somewhere behind, the sun was going down. Only a faint lightness in the billowing clouds of fog, a strange hint of refracted colour, indicated the west.
The great galley slid forward. No pipes, no songs; the thranites kept time instinctively, watching the backs of the men in front. Catch, pull, twist and lift. A slight swell had got up from aft, gently lifting the stern, running under the keel. Nothing to trouble the thranites. The wings of oars rose and fell with the quietest of splashes. The ram nosed through the water with a restrained, sibilant hiss.
Ballista stood in the stern with Bruteddius. The trierarch, legs splayed, rocked as one with the movement of his boat. His eyes were never still. They flicked from the thranites to the prow, where the bow officer was leaning far forward, watching, listening.
The fog was thick, tangible. Yet every so often, a space cleared, like a glade in a forest. The boat pushed through, back into the gloom.
Bauto brought Ballista a small cup of unmixed wine. The Frisian was meant to be Calgacus’s servant, but he and Wulfstan tended to Ballista and the old Caledonian indiscriminately. They were good boys.
As he sipped the alcohol, Ballista looked down the length of the long, narrow craft. Below the thranites, the other rowers were asleep on their benches, a hundred or so men huddled in strange attitudes. Beyond exhaustion, they lay, limbs overlapping, like animals in a malodorous den.
A seagull swooped from nowhere, its cry harsh and shocking. Bauto jumped. Ballista put a hand on his shoulder, smiled a reassurance he did not feel. The bird was gone.
The Armata slipped wraithlike through the coils of clinging vapour. Ballista’s eyes itched with tiredness. Time had lost all meaning. It was darker. The rhythm of the thranites was hypnotic. They could have been rowing for hours.
The brazen note of a horn rang out. Horrible in its immediacy, it came from somewhere not far off the larboard bow. Everyone froze. Even the thranites faltered. A sharp, urgent whisper from the rowing master amidships, and the rhythm was resumed.
Another horn answered, then another, both off to starboard. Behind Ballista, a man sniffed loudly. He swung round to cuff him to silence. It was Felix. Ballista did nothing.
More horns, seemingly all around. Allfather, they were in the middle of the enemy. Ballista looked at the other
s on the quarterdeck. Everyone was unnaturally still. Maximus’s eyes were shut; he was listening. Bruteddius glanced back; a tight smile. The boat glided on.
A disembodied voice floated through the fog. Ballista held his breath. The creak and splash of the oars was hideously strident. The voice came again; muffled, a little off to the left.
‘Cease rowing.’ Only the nearest oarsmen could hear Bruteddius. Those further away followed their lead. The boat’s mo- mentum carried her on.
Another voice, much nearer, to the right. It was German; a question, the words indistinct.
Ballista’s breathing was shallow, panting. He was gripping the sternpost tight, sweating. Around him, the faces of the others were sheened with moisture. Their heads turned this way and that, peering at things they could not see.
The voice came again from the right, nearer still: a hail, a man’s name.
Even the helmsman was trembling. No one was sleeping on the lower benches now. All the men kept glancing at Bruteddius. The trierarch was rock still. If the hail was aimed at them, it was over. The boat was losing way.
Off the starboard bow, something darker than the mist, more solid. A hundred feet, no more: the upswept stern of a galley – the liburnian. The Armata was nearly dead in the water.
A Gothic voice returned the call; clean over the Armata, from further away to the left.
The horns started up again, the notes eddying through the fog.
Bruteddius padded to the nearest oarsmen. He spoke so low that Ballista and the others by the helmsman did not hear. Drops of water fell from the oars as the thranites glanced over their shoulders at the men behind, readied themselves. Bruteddius, nodding calmly, gestured to the two rowers on either side closest to him. They looked at each other, began the stroke. The others copied.
The splash as the blades bit the surface, the creak of wood, the slosh of water. Surely the Goths must hear. One stroke, a second. No outcry yet. The many thousand wooden joints sighed as the ship gathered way. Still no alarm. Someone was muttering a prayer. Another hushed him.
Yet more horns, their piercing volume a blessing from the gods. The dark, solid shape to the right faded aft. In moments, the fog blanketed the sounds of the horns. Ballista drew an almost sobbing breath. The Armata sailed on into the opaque, dark night.
XIX
‘Ships astern, three of them.’
Ballista surfaced from a dead sleep, trying to understand.
Maximus was shaking his shoulder. ‘Goths, less than half a mile away.’
Ballista could barely move. He had slept in his mail coat on the hard wooden deck. Maximus offered him a hand. He saw Wulfstan and Bauto helping Calgacus to his feet. Hippothous, shaven head glinting, was already up.
A breeze had got up in the west. It was tearing away the last shreds of the fog. The sun had just risen. In its raking light, the enemy was in clear sight. Long, low vessels, a prow at either end – unmistakably, northern longboats.
How had they got there? Last night, after the too close encounter with the liburnian, the Armata had rowed on for another three hours; the first just the thranites pulling, then they had rested while the other two levels took over. They should have been well clear. It might be a trick of the current. Certainly, inshore, yesterday, it had run strongly to the east. There again, the Goths might have separated, scouring the sea for their prey. Ballista scanned the horizon through 360 degrees: no other ships anywhere.
A hoom sound rolled across from the Gothic ships: their warriors giving voice. Silhouetted by the newborn sun, there was no chance the Armata could have escaped detection. The Goths were putting out their oars, gathering way. Two of them hauled round to set towards the Armata. The other veered away towards the west, going to get the rest of the wolfpack.
Bruteddius and his officers were hazing the crew back to their stations. The oarsmen were moving stiffly, like old, tired men. No one ever wants to spend a night at sea in the cramped and damp discomfort of a war galley. ‘Out oars, prepare to row, medium pressure. Row.’ The rowing master’s pipe squealed. The blades broke the surface: not too ragged, given the circumstances.
Horns blared from the northern boats. No longer deadened by the fog, the notes skimmed far out across the sea, summoning their kinsmen to the chase. Yesterday evening, the horns had masked the sound of the Armata’s escape; today they were likely to bring its doom. This had the makings of another long, bad day.
The Armata was built for speed. Under oars, she could leave almost anything afloat far behind in her wake. But not when her rowers were tired, hungry and thirsty; not when they had not stepped off the boat for more than twenty-four hours; not when they had not eaten since the previous evening.
The oarsmen sat on sodden cushions. They wore soaking tunics – they had unmuffled their blades in the night. The salt had chafed their skin, their calluses were raw, bleeding. Below them, their own waste slopped and stank. Despite it all, the banks of oars, if they did not rise and fall quite as one, did nothing too dissimilar.
Under Bruteddius’s order, the rowing master kept them only at medium or even light pressure. It was designed to preserve what little energy they still possessed. However, it did not make the Goths fall away astern. A little over three hundred yards of undulating green water separated the Armata from the longboats.
Bruteddius, as ever, stood near the helm. The swell had increased. Bruteddius moved as one with the motion of his ship. His eyes shifted endlessly; measuring, calculating. Behind his beard, he was haggard. Ballista wondered if he had slept at all.
The purser was summoned. Bruteddius ordered the last reserves of water to be rationed out; each man aboard to get the same meagre measure.
Next, Bruteddius called the shipwright to his side. ‘When the men have drunk, clear the passengers out of the way as far as you can, and step the masts.’ Like all the crew, the naupegos was under military discipline, yet he appeared just a little uncertain. Bruteddius looked hard at him. ‘A storm is getting up in the west.’ He smiled. ‘Either it will save us, or kill us.’
A salute. We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.
The full deck crew, aided by a few of the able-bodied passengers pressed into service, unlashed the mainmast from its horizontal position on the deck and heaved the long, heavy trunk of pine into place to lift. They squared off the endless ropes and tackle, then hauled and hauled: slowly, slowly – with more than one heart-stopping shift and sway – the mast was coaxed upright and its heel slid home into its tabernacle.
‘Rig double stays,’ shouted Bruteddius. He turned to Ballista. ‘The mast can take punishment. I selected her myself: a fine, straight tree, from a good, sunny aspect.’ Then louder, to a wider audience: ‘Sway up the yard.’
Against the squeal of pulleys and the hammering of mallets, Felix spoke. ‘I have stores for myself and my familia in the cabin. They should be distributed to the men.’
The old senator’s offer was accepted most gladly. And so it was that, there in the wastes of the Kindly Sea, the crew, the sweepings of the backstreets of Alexandria, Antioch and Smyrna, many of them brought up on slave bread, were fed by hand all the delicacies the imperium and beyond had to offer. Biscuits, soft and melting, a world apart from ship’s biscuit or the buccellatum of the army, smoked eel from Spain, artichoke hearts in honey vinegar from Sicily, stems of silphium from who knew where, apricot halves in grape syrup … one and all vanished into hungry mouths, delighted rough, untutored pallets.
Shared among two hundred, there was only a mouthful or two each, but it helped. Certainly, it raised spirits. There were smiles, even song – a croaking version of an old favourite about an unusually accomplished girl from Corinth: oh, the things she could do with your prick.
‘I do not understand it at all,’ said Felix almost plaintively. ‘Barbarians, especially northern barbarians, are not noted for their persistence. But these Scythians seemingly would follow us across the Styx.’
‘They know
what we carry.’ Bruteddius said, then roared, ‘Tighten that fucking brace.’
Ballista and Maximus exchanged a look, one of total understanding, complete with a small, knowing smile. As Ballista looked away, he caught the eye of Hippothous. There was a strange light there. Of course, thought Ballista, you too know all about the bloodfeuds; if the Goths are Borani or Tervingi, the gold and silver, all the diplomatic gifts on board, are just bread, not the relish. What could you do? Wherever you go, old enemies will find you.
‘Sponges, have we got any sponges, Pentekontarchos?’
The purser hastened to assure his captain they had plenty.
‘Get the deckhands to wash down the men on the benches as they row. Start at the top level. The pueri will feel better when they are not quite so covered in shit. And get the pump working; try to get some of that filthy water out of the bilges.’
The sun was getting higher, sparkling in the spray. Through it the unsmiling chase ran on. Like some punishment in Hades, ever labouring, never succeeding, the crew of the Armata drove her through the water, but never could escape their pursuers.
Bruteddius went into close conversation with the shipwright and the local pilot. There was much gesticulating, pointing, shaking and nodding of heads. At the end of it, the naupegos went off and returned with men carrying a second set of steering oars. These, with some considerable difficulty and much voluble swearing, were run out through the rear of the outriggers on both sides of the ship at the level of the topmost rowers. The tillers from these came in at right angles to where a second helmsman now took station in front of the first. This done, the naupegos and his men crawled around fitting hanging weather screens to the outside of the ship that were intended to give some measure of shelter to the thranites, who, although they had a deck over their heads, were otherwise exposed on the sides.
The Caspian Gates Page 20
