I walked across the warm quarterdeck to the far side and cautiously crossed to the next trireme. I could have gone down one gangplank and up another, but I had wasted enough time. Each trireme had an outrigger running its length, to support the upper bank of oars; I climbed out and jumped across from one oarbox to the next. I did it with trepidation, nervous that I would slip and fall into the dock.
The second trireme was empty too. I searched it quickly then made my way with increasing discomfort across its deck, then jumped over to the third vessel. Being alone on these enormous empty ships was starting to unnerve me. Each time I crossed to a new one, explaining my presence became a more difficult option. Boarding one warship without permission was probably treason. Boarding three would be three times as bad.
From habit now, I walked right across the last trireme and looked over the far side. There I saw another ship, lower in the water and so previously invisible. It was a monoreme liburnian, a classic light galley.
For some reason a gangplank ran down from this trireme's quarter deck to the liburnian. Had triremes carried a cargo, I might have thought the liburnian was raiding it. When moored parallel to the quay, with the smaller vessel further out in the harbour, it would be customary to allow access to land with a link – though any commercial ship's captain would think twice about using a navy warship as a bridge. But this had no obvious explanation. Still, the lower ship also looked deserted. I took the handy gangplank and went down. Almost at once I heard somebody coming. There was no way back to the dock without meeting the arrivals face to face. I braced myself to tell a good story.
They shot into view on the quay, coming fast aboard. In battered seaboots and colourful trousers, these bare-armed, wild-haired sailors smacked of the Eastern seas. There were just two of them, but one was being hauled along, stumbling and helpless. A great, very recent bruise disfigured his swarthy face, and an ear was swollen to twice its normal size. He was being helped aboard by a determined seaman with great gold brooches on his shoulders, who must be as strong as a small ox, judging by the easy way he half carried his concussed crony. He saw me on their ship.
'What happened to your friend?' I played it cool.
'He walked into an oar.' I felt a chill.
One of the Fourth Cohort, Parvus, had struck a thief with an oar, during the fracas at the river. We glared at each other. The man in charge was dark, domineering and displeased. His fierce gaze suggested he was ready for a fight.
'What are you doing here?'
'Making some routine enquiries. The name's Falco.'
'Cotys.'
'And?'
'Arion.' The wounded man had stiffened up; now the pair moved apart, covering my escape route.
'Where are you from, Cotys?'
'Dyrrhachium.' Where in Hades was that? Not on my personal trade route I guessed wildly.
'Would that be Illyna?' Then as Cotys nodded, I rushed his wounded crewman. I had reckoned Arion was the easy target because of his wounds. Wrong. Arion laid into me in an offhand way. Disposing of trouble was routine; he wanted it over quickly, and if I died on him he didn't care. I broke free, barging Arion into Cotys to delay them, and legged it for the shoreward gangplank.
Someone whistled, summoning reinforcements. I didn't stop to worry about the crew coming up on deck; others had arrived on the quay, blocking my escape. Then a huge blow between my shoulders felled me. I crashed to the deck and felt my back wrench painfully. I was dragged upright. Many hands threw me between them.
After some playful Falco-tossing they hurled me half senseless back on the deck. Around me began more action than I liked. This vessel's crew were masters of the rapid getaway. The ship had close to fifty oars, single banked each side; from nowhere rowers had appeared to man them. Smaller and chunkier in build than the elegant warships, it could have been moored there beside the triremes for days, weeks even, but it was leaving now. Energetic activity had the liburnian edging out into the harbour without benefit of a tugboat. All was not lost, or so I thought briefly. As we pulled out beyond the trireme, I suddenly saw above me the white-haired head of Caninus.
He looked down over the trireme rail curiously. I struggled upright and yelled for help. Caninus merely raised a languid arm.
Maybe he was waving farewell to me, but it seemed a signal to Cotys.
Any hopes of rescue by the navy faded abruptly. I had one chance to help myself, while the sailors still busied themselves with leaving. They had not even searched me. As the ship approached the harbour exit and the lighthouse, I whipped out my sword and held it to a seaman's throat. But nobody noticed me. My frantic cries to the officials at the lighthouse were lost. At that time of day, the port officials high above had too many vessels in sight.
Sailors threw themselves upon me, ignoring the danger to their colleague. Their reaction was automatic. These men were used to acting fast. They didn't bother to disarm me; I was dragged to the rail and thrown straight over it.
Like the warships, this liburnian had outriggers. These structures extending out from the hull are standard on warships with banked oars, but normally unnecessary on monoremes. But if they expect combat, as, say, a pirate ship might, outriggers protect their oars from being raked and smashed by an enemy. At least it saved me from the drink. I fell into the outrigger but as I grabbed its upper rail, I lost my grip on my sword. It slipped through the gap next to the hull, and fell into the sea. As I myself risked slipping between the brackets that supported the oarbox rails, the Illyrians decided to pull me back aboard before I could do damage. Knives were drawn; clinging to the fragile wood work, I didn't fancy being sliced.
As hands reached out, I let myself be pulled back in. I scrambled from the outrigger to the deckrail, then dropped back on board. They would not kill me in full view of land. This time they roped me to the mast to keep me out of trouble. I calmed down. As my heartbeat steadied, I assessed the situation. It seemed clear from the way this ship was loaded and crewed that Cotys was planning a lengthy cruise.
'Where are you sailing to?' I croaked at a passing sailor. His face split into a vicious grin.
'We're going home, Falco!' Hades. These bastards were carrying me off to Illyria.
Nobody on shore could have spotted my plight. Hopes of pursuit and rescue soon faded. The liburnian galley was another craft I knew from a past adventure. Camillus Justinus and I had once commanded such a ship down a river in Germania Libera. A lad with well-placed friends, Justinus. One of his friends was a beautiful priestess in a German forest, the lost love he never talked about to his wife, Claudia. The priestess happened to have possession of a liburnian galley [which made her more useful than any lost loves of mine!] and she had let us borrow it. This liburnian from Dyrrhachium had the classic lightness of her class, and she produced a good turn of speed. She was half decked, and with my limited experience I could tell she was sailing low in the water as if fully laden; who knew what illicit cargo lurked beneath the deck, though I made some guesses. They are nippy vessels, large enough to feel secure, but excellent for reconnaissance, river navigation – or piracy.
On the high seas a liburnian can spurt out of nowhere, overhaul a heavily laden merchantman, and grapple to it before defensive action can be taken. Soon we had sailed out of the harbour, passed the Tiber mouth, and turned south along the coast. It was a wonderful time for sailing, as afternoon sunlight sparkled on the blue waves below a cloudless summer sky. The gracious villas of the rich looked like toy houses all along the shore.
Once we were under way, I was released from the mast and brought forward to be sport for Cotys. He swaggered up, eyes bright with anticipation. His men stripped me of my cloak, sneering; it was a simple, functional garment which I wore for camouflage, not fashion. Judging by their exotic gear, they would all have preferred to capture playboys in fancy silks. Cotys was ready to conduct the ritual humiliation.
'So, what have we here? Your name again?'
'Falco.'
'Slave or citiz
en?'
'Freeborn.' There was a chorus of jeers. I was hardly free now.
'Oho, are you a man of three names?' Increasingly, I wanted to extract this joker's insides with the bilge pump.
'I am Marcus Didius Falco.'
'Marcus Didius Falco, son of?' Cotys was ragging as enthusiastic ally as if he had done it many times before.
'Son of Marcus,' I answered patiently.
'So, Marcus Didius Falco, son of Marcus…'
The ritual phrases had a threatening ring. This was the rubric someone would carve upon my tombstone one day, if anybody ever found my corpse.
'What's your tribe?' I had had enough.
'I really can't remember.' I did know that pirates made a habit of hurling anti-Roman insults at their captives. Pirate insults feigned admiration of our social system, then led spitefully to drownings.
'Well, Marcus, son of Marcus, of the tribe you can't remember, tell me, why were you spying on my ship?'
'I came aboard following two sailors with a chest I thought I recognised.'
'My cabin monkeys, bringing my sea-chest aboard.' The response was instant. Cotys was lying. His voice dropped; it acquired more menace. The surrounding crew were enjoying themselves hugely.
'What did you want with my sea-chest, Marcus?'
'I thought it contained the ransom for a man I am trying to trace. I wanted to discuss the situation with the people who say they are holding him.'
'What man is this?' Cotys scoffed, as if it were news to him. Informers hope to take the lead in questioning, but when your job entails invading places where you are unwelcome, you soon learn to let interrogations proceed the other way round.
'His name is Diocles.'
'Is he a spy too?'
'He is just a scribe. Do you have him?' I asked quietly. I had absolutely no hope that Diocles was aboard this ship, though he might have been here once.
'We do not.' The declaration gave Cotys great satisfaction.
'Do you know who does?'
'Does anyone have him?'
'If you are asking that question, do you know that he is dead?'
'I know nothing about him, Falco.'
'You knew enough to send his friends a ransom note.'
'Not me.' Cotys grinned. The way he spoke made me believe him this time.
'Ah! So you knew somebody else had sent the note? You then ambushed the money, stole it from under their noses.'
'Would I do that?'
'I think you're clever enough.' He was certainly clever enough to know I was issuing compliments to soften him up. As he chortled at the flattery, I asked quickly, 'so who sent the ransom note, Cotys?' He shrugged.
'I have no idea.' He knew, all right. This man would steal from anyone, but he would want to be certain whose loot he was hijacking.
'Oh come! If you are going home to Illyria, what do you have to lose in telling me?' If he was going home, his partnership with the Cilicians must have broken up. So they could have issued the ransom note and Cotys treacherously took advantage.
'I'm not official; my mission is a private one,' I cajoled. 'All I want is to find Diocles and rescue the poor sap. So, do the Cilicians have him?'
'You must ask them.'
'I hope I have the chance!' I grinned, acknowledging that this depended on what Cotys did to me. He grinned back. I was not reassured. Hairs rose on the back of my neck.
'Why have you brought me on your ship?'
'Someone is worried!' Cotys informed his leering crew.
'Relax, Falco!' he then sneered. 'We are just dipping the oars in the ocean on this fine afternoon, while we test out some mended leaks. It's a long journey back to our home country, but we have a funeral to attend before we sail. So we'll take you safely back to Portus, never fear. There was no need for your swordplay and screaming for help.'
I was careful not to ask whose funeral it was. Their countryman, Theopompus. I had no faith in this promise of a safe return to land. If the crew once decided I had been watching them too closely, I was definitely done for.
I lost priority. Cotys turned away, to discuss some ship's business with a big, competent-looking man who seemed to be his sailing master. They checked over the side at intervals. A sailor asked Cotys something and glanced at me wickedly; further mischief was being planned. The sailor, a runt with a broken nose who looked as if he spent both voyages and shore leave fighting with all comers, disappeared down a half-ladder that led to the storage hold.
A few minutes later, the same sailor ran up on deck, carrying a swathe of white material. Inwardly, I groaned. Cotys snapped back into taunting mode.
'Look, a toga! Marcus, son of Marcus must wear his proper toga, lads!' They hauled me to the middle of the deck. Forcing me to hold my arms out, they wrapped me tightly in the white cloth. It may have been a bedsheet; it felt like a shroud. They spun me around and around, as if hoping I would grow dizzy.
'That's better. Now he looks the part.' Cotys had grown hoarse with yelling derision. He came closer, his stubbly chin barely an inch from mine.
'You're nervous again, Falco.' It was a low growl. 'I wonder, do you know this game my lads want to play?'
'Oh I think I do, Cotys.'
'I bet that's right. You look like a man who knows a lot.
This was a warning that Cotys was aware how clued up I was on his criminal role. A bumboat boy ran up and placed a wreath on my head, amidst delighted whoops from the others. The chaplet was several days old, a relic of some party, its fragile leaves now desiccated and scratchy.
'A crown for a hero, hail, Falco! Acknowledge our homage, acknowledge.' I forced myself to salute them.
'You are fortunate.' Cotys aimed his final dart. 'You have fallen among men of honour. We know of your privileges as a Roman citizen. Appeal to the Emperor. Is that right, Marcus, son of Marcus?' I nodded wearily. There was mock applause as I was pushed and pulled towards the liburnian's guardrail. Knowing what was coming, I tried to resist. It was useless.
'Don't think badly of us, Falco,' Cotys instructed. This man just loved playacting for his disreputable crew.
'Far be it from us to hold a Roman prisoner.' He gestured to the head of a rope ladder which one of his men had just hung overboard at the rear of the ship. I had heard of this trick. I knew the rest.
'You are free to go, Falco. There is your road home, take it.' I looked overboard. The ladder ended two feet from the water. It was swinging about madly. Slowly, I climbed up on to the guardrail and prepared to descend. A burst of laughter greeted my reluctant move. Clinging to a rope, I remained upright on the rail. The wooden top was wet and slippery. The fine goatshair rope I had gripped cut into my hand. As the ship surged forwards, every wave threatened to upend me. Once I started down the ladder, my fate was certain. I would be flung off it, either by accident or with assistance from the crew. Far out in the open ocean, where the famous Tyrrhenian currents raced, even a good swimmer would stand little chance. And I could not swim at all.
Seamen began to flick at me with ropes. At least the mock toga in which they had wrapped me protected me from the lashing. I climbed on to the ladder.
'That's right, down you go!' Cotys grinned. Feeling for the sagging rungs, I lowered myself glumly. I could see a couple of fishing smacks, a long way from us. The shore looked far off too. We were in one of the Mediterranean's busiest shipping lanes – on the only afternoon that the route into Portus appeared to be empty.
Above, I heard the rowers return to their stations; they were given a new order. The ship took up its course again. I was so close to the oars that as they dipped and rose they splashed me. Something was done to the mainsail.
I clung on desperately as we turned out to sea on a long tack against the current, leaving the coast even further behind us, then I swung madly as we manoeuvred again. The rowers were working hard. Every time the steering rudder swung around to change direction, the ladder bucked outwards or bounced me against the hull; each time it was harder to avoid being
thrown off.
I managed to shed the mock toga. I pulled off the battered wreath and dropped it. A seaman, watching me from the rail above, cackled with laughter. I might still be a fool in the eyes of the crew, but I felt better. I was alive. So long as I clung on, there was still a chance for me. Still, I was helpless on a rope ladder, inches from the rising oars, on a ship sailed by professional kidnappers who knew I had uncovered their trade. Returning me to land was a lost promise. I knew too much about their activities and I had nothing to bargain with. They might be ignoring me at present, but I was nowhere near safe. I was still reviewing and discarding action plans when a new disaster struck. Above me on deck the crew were busy. The sailing master was still passing to and fro inspecting the hull; occasionally I saw his head as he looked over. Cotys had disappeared.
Cotys must have gone to investigate the stolen money chest. I heard a roar, a yell of utter fury. Commotion broke out on deck. The rowers ceased their efforts and must have left their seats; the oars hung idle. The ship staggered and lost her momentum.
'This is a box of rocks!' Now Cotys leaned over the rail above me, shouting.
In one hand I glimpsed big gold coins. In the other were pebbles, which he hurled at me. I ducked. One or two stung me. Seamen were crowding the rail; there must have been over forty in the crew that afternoon and most of them had left their posts to harangue me.
'You did this! You cheated me.'
'I had nothing to do with it.'
No use. Cotys wanted a culprit. 'Anacrites!' I bawled at Cotys. This was typical of the Chief Spy and his staff, even when he was away, Anacrites' cashiers had automatically worked a fiddle. Knowingly or not, Holconius and Mutatus had become party to a classic scam. The ransom chest must have had coins in the top layer to look good, but it was mainly loaded with stones. This scam usually failed; criminals know to check a payoff thoroughly. But if one group of pirates is stealing from another in a hurry, they might omit this precaution.
'Cotys, the money was issued by the Chief Spy's office. He always plays dirty.'
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