Chapter Four
The mummy of Alexander the Great lay, on public display, in a looming square marble tomb at the intersection of Alexandria’s two main streets. The tomb was closed now, silent in the gathering twilight. The streets that, only an hour before, had been filled with noisy holiday throngs, were now all but empty, so that those few who remained— street vendors and an occasional prostitute—could hear from a long way off the rumble of approaching hoofbeats, and had plenty of time to step back against the walls of the tomb, out of harm’s way.
Because of the straightness and breadth of the streets, they could also see, some distance away, the galloping horses and their cloaked riders, a bare-headed, powerfully-built centurion followed by his second-in-command and scribe and, a little further back, eight Roman soldiers in full armor wearing the black tunics and cloaks of Nero’s dreaded Praetorian Guard.
The prostitutes shouted obscene invitations at the riders as they thundered past, but not one soldier so much as turned an eye in their direction.
Instead, the column wheeled and set off down the intersecting street, the street that led to the harbor, while the prostitutes dashed into the center of the roadway and shrieked insults at the Praetorians’ retreating backs.
A moment later the soldiers streamed into the wide dry square in front of the huge Greek-style temple of Antony and, passing between the two towering hieroglyph-studded obelisks that stood in the center of the square, reined up on the quay, near the water’s edge.
Mannus stared in dismay at the maze of masts, yardarms and rigging that stretched out before him, moving and rocking in the faint breeze that came in off the Mediterranean; “There are hundreds, maybe thousands, of ships at anchor here. How will we know which one belongs to Serapion?”
Hesperian called over to him, “Don’t forget, the port is sealed until tomorrow. Serapion, if he puts to sea tonight, will be the only ship that does, and he must put to sea tonight if he hopes to escape at all. Without the cover of darkness he wouldn’t stand a chance of evading us.” The centurion thumped his heels into the ribs of his horse and set off at a canter toward the dimly-seen, pierced travertine blocks further down the quays where his own ship was moored.
Valuable time was lost rousting out the crew of rowers from a dockside inn—some of them were drunk, and two or three were nowhere to be found—so that the last glimmer of day had faded before Hesperian and his men were able to clamber on board and cast off their long slender fighting bireme with its heavy iron bull’s-head ram.
The stars supplied the only light; the moon had not yet risen and the lights of the lamps and torches of the city did little more than cast flickering reflections on the smooth waters of the harbor. The great light in the Alexandrian lighthouse would not be lit until tomorrow, and Mannus realized that there was a real danger that Serapion’s ship could slip by them in the gloom. He could hardly see his own hand, let alone the ships at anchor around them; once or twice, in spite of their slow speed and careful steering, they bumped into some nearly invisible craft, but without damage to any vessel.
When they had cleared the mooring area and were in open water, Mannus turned to Hesperian, whom he could now see fairly well, since his eyes had adjusted to the dark, and said: “By the gods, sir, we’ll never find him if we don’t get a little more light somehow.”
In a low voice Hesperian replied, “When the eye fails, we use the ear. Row and wait, row and wait. Sooner or later we’ll hear him.”
They glided on, past cluster after cluster of silent anchored ships, but there was no telltale sound, not a whisper, to reveal the location of Serapion.
* * * *
Serapion’s ship was built more for combat than for speed, and it was heavier though not much larger than Hesperian’s. The massive gilt-iron hawk’s-head ram on the prow was sturdily braced by thick belts, or wales, that ran from the ram all the way back to the tail-feather-like wooden aplustre that rose from the stem, so that the ram, with the whole length of the keel behind it, and stayed on each side by the heavy wales, had a rock-like solidity quite out of proportion to that of the other parts of the galley. Both wales and keel were considerably heavier than was customary for a fighting bireme.
He had designed the ship himself, and trained its crew, so that it was as much a part of him as his own body.
He had named it Ra-Harakhti, after the sun god Ra, in an incarnation as a bird of prey.
Now, as the Ra-Harakhti drifted slowly away from the quay, Serapion, bare-headed but clad in a heavy purple cape, stood on the afterdeck with Demetrius and Hathor and, in the faint light that still reached them from the torches and lamps of central Alexandria, commanded his galley slaves by hand signals, and though they could hardly see him they responded as if they could read his thoughts. The great square sail amidships had not been spread; there was too little wind and the ship was more agile under oar.
The three dwarfs crouched nearby against the gunwales. One of them whispered something, and the other two giggled; Serapion silenced them with an angry throat-cutting gesture.
Hesperian, he thought, will be listening.
A little earlier, in the last dim light of day, he had been crouching below-decks when he’d heard hoofbeats and peered out through the oar-port to see the centurion and his men gallop by on the quay, so close he could see the bandage on Hesperian’s head. He had watched and done nothing, just continued on, quietly waiting for the cover of darkness.
And now the darkness had come!
As they drifted clear of the other ships on oar strokes so gentle one might have thought the oars were swinging free and unattended in their locks, the faint breeze grew a little stronger and took a definite direction. It was coming from landward, carrying them away from shore and the Romans.
Serapion thought, You’re still with me, Serapis.
Grinning with silent exultation, he threw his arm roughly around his sister Hathor’s shoulders and gave her a clumsy kiss on the cheek. To his surprise she did not melt against him, as she had done so many times before, but grew stiff and resisting.
Perhaps, he thought, this is not the moment for such thinking.
He leaned close to old Demetrius and saw a strained expression, as if the man was seasick. He murmured, “Come, come. We’ve faced worse than this before.” He gave Demetrius a playful punch in the arm, then added, “Why don’t you climb up into the forward watchtower and keep an eye out for the Romans?”
Demetrius seemed to understand he was being “kept busy,” but he reluctantly obeyed. (If the Romans had been as close as a ship’s-length away, he couldn’t have seen them.)
It was too dark for hand-signals now: Serapion removed his sandals—even the faint slap and scrape of a sandal-sole on the deck would have been too loud—and padded barefoot back and forth the length of the ship, kneeling occasionally to whisper to one of his rowers, even to convey his meaning by reaching down through the openings in the deck that ran along the sides amidships and touching one of his men on the shoulder.
The rowing grew stronger, though the oars still rose and fell with almost total silence. The only sound was the hiss of the wake and the drip from the oars as they swung back for a stroke, and these sounds were so faint Serapion could hear the sound of his own breathing over them.
Even in the dark Serapion knew this harbor… he could not count the number of times he’d sailed in and out of it, under every imaginable condition of weather and light. With the aid of the stars and the distant lamps of the city, he could calculate his position as easily as if it had been broad daylight.
Now, for instance, he knew that he was nearing the tip of Pharos Island, a long narrow ridge of almost bare limestone that broke the force of the Mediterranean waves and provided a natural shelter for Alexandria’s harbor. There were reefs there, just beyond the island’s tip, but Serapion knew where they were.
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And now, exactly when he expected, the glass-smooth harbor waters gave way to gentle ocean swells, and he knew he had entered a narrow, sandbar-lined channel called “The Entrance of the Bull.”
At the forwardmost point on the ship, the mighty hawk’s-head ram rose and fell with a steady hiss and splash, hiss and splash, as he thought, Hesperian does not know these waters. He will have to move slowly… or run aground on the sandbars.
And now the Entrance of the Bull was behind him and he was beyond Pharos Island, pitching and rolling in the open sea. He kept his balance easily on the heaving afterdeck, standing between the two Nubian giants who manned his steering oars, and stared back over the faintly glowing wake behind the ship. There was the famous lighthouse. He could hear the surf booming on the rocks at its base, but could see it only as a towering blackness where no stars could be seen.
The wind shifted and grew stronger; it was blowing steadily out of the southwest. When he raised his sail he’d have the wind behind him as he headed east toward Judea… Judea where, in the confusion of the war, he’d be able to make his way along the camel routes to safety in the Parthian Empire.
Light as a dancer he glided along the deck openings; a touch here, a muffled word there… that was all that was needed to command his slaves to ship the oars and begin slowly and carefully raising the mainsail. He was chuckling softy with exhilaration when he returned to Hathor on the afterdeck.
“Feel that wind?” he whispered to her.
She nodded, and though he could not see her face clearly enough to make out her expression, he sensed a coldness in her that he’d never known before.
Still speaking softly, he said, “All the gods are with me tonight, even Father Neptune.”
Hathor murmured, “And if Hesperian catches up with you?”
“So much the better! Anyone who stands in my way… I cut them down!” He whipped out his short sword and made a few practice thrusts.
“Even me?”
“Even you,” he answered teasingly.
He reached out and grabbed her arm, but she angrily pulled away from him and ran toward the foredeck.
“Come back!” he shouted after her.
* * * *
“Did you hear that?” whispered Mannus. “Serapion.”
“I heard,” said Hesperian quietly. Serapion’s shout had been faint, but clearly audible above the rush of the wind and the breathing roar of the distant surf.
The centurion had already shipped oars and raised his great square mainsail, so on board his ship not even the sound of rowing broke the silence; even his little steering sail, jutting out in front of the ship, held fall, not flapping. There was the slapping splash of the bulls-head ram cutting through the wavetops, nothing more.
“Amazing,” whispered Mannus with awe. “How did you know which way he’d go?”
“There’s an old proverb, Mannus. ‘A fleeing man always sails with the wind.’”
A moment later the moon began appearing on the horizon, only a sliver at first. Wordlessly Hesperian pointed, and the pale light revealed that his lips were curled in a satisfied smile.
Serapion’s sail, still quite distant, could be plainly seen silhouetted against the moon.
The others saw it too, and Mannus heard a rustle behind him as the eight Praetorians checked their weapons.
For a while Mannus lost sight of the other ship, then, as the moon rose higher and became a full round globe ahead of them, he caught sight of the sail again, closer.
“We’re gaining, sir,” he told Hesperian.
Daphnis remarked, “We must be lighter and shallower-drafted than he is, praise the gods.”
“It’s an advantage in the chase,” said Hesperian, worried. “But if we get into a ramming duel, that extra weight may win the battle for Serapion.”
“Do you suppose he’s seen us yet?” asked Mannus.
“No. When he sees us, he won’t take long to realize it’s useless to try and outrun us. Then, if he’s half the captain we’ve been told he is, he’ll reef his sails, come about, and fight.”
Several minutes passed, then Mannus broke the silence. “Look there! He’s seen us all right He’s not only reefing the sails, he’s dropping them to the deck and—by the gods—he’s knocked over his own mainmast!”
“Clever,” Hesperian muttered. “He’s not taking any chances on us ripping away his rigging so he’d be slowed down after the battle. He’s thinking ahead, I’ll say that for him.”
Curtly Hesperian ordered his own sails reefed, then commanded his rowers to get back on their oars. A few minutes later Mannus could make out figures on the deck of the other ship, which had, by this time, come about to face them and stood, rising and falling on the swells, waiting. Hesperian signaled a stop.
Serapion’s voice rang out over the black waters. “Hey, Roman!”
“Yes?” bellowed Hesperian in answer.
“The goddess Fortuna has intervened with me on your behalf.” Serapion broke off to laugh recklessly. “You have a friend on my ship. My little sister is pleading with me to let you live. You know I can’t say ‘No’ to that bitch, so stand dear and let me go. You’ll have another chance at me some other day.”
Hesperian cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Surrender, Serapion! For your sister’s sake, surrender!”
“Not on your life, Roman! Look at my ship, then look at yours, and think, man, think. No one will call you brave if you throw your life away for nothing!”
In the light of the full moon the hawk’s-head ram on Serapion’s ship appeared and disappeared rhythmically in the waves. It was painfully obvious that Serapion’s ship was stronger and heavier than Hesperian’s. Hesperian licked his lips but did not answer.
Angry voices drifted over from the other ship, then Serapion added: “Hey, Roman! You wouldn’t believe what a fancy my poor sister has taken to you. Look at it this way. Suppose you win, eh? Suppose you sink us. Do you want it on your conscience that you drowned a girl who was madly in love with you?” Under Serapion’s bantering, teasing tone there was an undertone of bitterness, anguish.
“Set her adrift in a lifeboat,” countered Hesperian. “Whichever one of us lives through this can pick her up after the battle.”
“Never, Roman! Hathor and I…” He faltered. “We’ve always been together!”
Mannus saw an expression of inner conflict on his commanding officer’s face that was almost inhuman, an expression one might imagine on the face of a dumb animal caught in a trap. The cool, calculating gentleman soldier had been replaced by a madman who now screamed out, “So be it, damn you!”
At a gesture from the centurion, the rowers on the Roman ship stood up, leaned back, and pulled on their oars with a great groan of effort. The bireme moved forward, slowly at first, then faster.
The Ra-Harakhti surged forward to meet it.
* * * *
Hathor felt a sharp pain in her wrist. “Serapion,” she cried. “‘You’re hurting me!”
He did not reply or loosen his grip on her wrist, only dragged her roughly after him as he lunged across the deck to crouch with her against the gunwales.
“Ship oars,” he shouted. “Brace for impact!”
There was a clatter of wood on wood as the oars were hastily shipped. She could hear the same sound, like a distant echo, coming from Hesperian’s ship.
They were on the afterdeck, and across from her, against the opposite gunwale, she could see the dwarfs also crouching and hanging on. The two Nubian giants stood erects feet placed wide apart and hands firmly gripping their heavy steering paddles, their powerful naked bodies bathed in moonlight, as if they were too proud to take cover, but even they, at the last moment, dropped into a crouch and braced themselves.
But the expected impact d
id not come.
Instead a shower of arrows, with a sinister swishing sound, came raining down on the unoccupied deck and Hathor, looking up, saw the yardarm of Hesperian’s ship pass overhead.
“Unship oars!” shouted Serapion.
There was a second wooden clatter, together with some excited shouts in languages she could not understand, and a loud splashing as the oars struck the water.
“He veered off,” he told her with satisfaction. “He’s afraid to meet the Ra-Harakhti head on, and if he’s shooting arrows, that means he hasn’t got any heavier weapons—like catapults or balistas—aboard. He didn’t try to board us either, which means he probably has only his eight-man squad of Praetorians able to fight hand to hand, and probably knows or suspects that all my rowers are trained fighting men. What do you say, little sister? Do you want to bet on the fight?”
Hathor was about to answer, but her gaze wandered toward the little watchtower on the foredeck and the words froze in her throat. Demetrius was sprawling, half in and half out of the tower, an arrow through his head, his arm and the upper part of his body dangling down and swinging with every movement of the ship.
Serapion followed her line of sight and went on, almost without a pause, his voice swelling with a kind of ecstasy, “And that Roman, with all his shooting, has managed to inflict only one casualty!” He stood up and shouted to his rowers, “Turn to starboard, you swine! Hard starboard! Get your backs into it!”
The ship turned so sharply the deck tilted steeply. The rowers on the starboard side were rowing backward while the rowers on the port side rowed forward, and the giant Nubians swung their tiller oars over as far as they would go. On either side of the ship the sea turned white with swirling water.
Hathor could not take her eyes off Demetrius’ corpse, but she could hear Serapion muttering, “If he turns faster than we do, we may be in trouble.” He fell silent a moment, then shouted delightedly, “It’s too late! He’s starting his turn too late!” His grip on her wrist grew still tighter.
Dog-Headed Death: A Gaius Hesperian Mystery Page 20
