Destroyer of Cities t-5 Page 18

  ‘Good morning, Grandfather,’ he said, and got a laugh from all the men.

  Rowers had to be nervous, going into action, especially down here on the bottom benches, where the first they’d know of defeat was the water running in to cover their faces. They rowed right at the water line — down in the farts, as the old-timers liked to say. They received the lowest pay, on most ships — although like the Rhodians, Leon and Satyrus paid their thranites the same as the other oarsmen. A ram that penetrated the hull would kill the thranites instantly, and more would drown, whether the ship survived or not. The other rowing decks were not so dangerous. Many captains used slaves in the lowest rowing deck.

  ‘We’re in the middle of the line, near the King of Aegypt,’ Satyrus shouted into the gloom. ‘We’ll go forward for a while, and then we’ll back water. That’s the most important manoeuvre in the whole battle — and not a reason for any man down here to worry. We’re fighting the Athenian way. For those of you younger than Kronos, here, that means we try to hit and run.’ He nodded at the silence. He always found it better to tell his men — on land or sea — what to expect. ‘Remember that all of our lives are bound together. I won’t abandon you. You, in turn — keep rowing. If your hearts are good, we’ll drink together on the beach and count more silver in our caps. Understood?’

  He gave the same speech on the second deck and the top rowing deck, too. It was just as spontaneous each time — he’d had good tutors — and every time he got a growl of approval from his rowers.

  On the main deck, he found Anaxagoras playing an odd lyre for the top-deck rowers. It was a heavy instrument, the base made of wood but covered like a drum or tambour in sheepskin, so that the notes resounded. It had a harsh, military sound, and the Athenian was playing the hymn to Nike over and over, and men were singing.

  ‘Hail, Orpheus!’ Satyrus said.

  Anaxagoras smiled and kept playing.

  As Satyrus stopped to listen, Stesagoras came aft from the bow. ‘Lord?’ He seemed unusually hesitant.

  ‘Speak your mind,’ Satyrus said.

  Stesagoras fingered his beard. ‘Neither Neiron nor I think much of the weather, lord. And. . I do not seek to anger you, but we’re in the centre. If all does not go well — We’re lost.’

  Satyrus managed a smile. ‘Tell me news, Sailing Master.’

  Stesagoras sighed. ‘I’d like to run heavy ropes to the foremast head. Big ropes — like anchor cables.’

  Satyrus stepped away from the lyre player and looked up. ‘Why?’ he asked.

  Stesagoras looked around for support. ‘I think — that is, Neiron and I both think — it’ll keep the mast stable if we have to ram. Or if we are rammed. Even if we have the sail up.’

  ‘Aha!’ Satyrus could see it. ‘Especially if two of the ropes run right aft along the sides. You’ll have to be careful to keep clear of the engines. But yes — and another stay made fast forward to the ram. Make it so, Stesagoras.’ He was still looking up. ‘And while you are at it — sling a basket from the masthead, like the Rhodians do. With the new cables, the mast will surely support the weight. And put an archer or two in the basket.’

  Stesagoras smiled. ‘There’s a thought.’

  ‘Who knows?’ Satyrus asked the gods. ‘A lookout might tell us something good.’

  Another hour, and still the Antigonids’ second line was struggling to form. Stesagoras had had the foremast down on deck, laid down the middle of the top deck, and the whole of the deck crew had been employed pounding iron staples into the crown of the mast and then running cables round and round. The fire pot was brought out — carefully — and a pair of bronze loggerheads heated red hot, to put hot pitch over the newly roped masthead.

  Anaxagoras played for them — songs of horse races and symposia, until they were ready to raise the mast, and then he played an old Spartan marching song with a heavy beat and the mast went up as if Apollo himself had lifted the new cap between his great fingers.

  ‘That’d be why Orpheus was so popular with the Argonauts,’ Neiron growled.

  Satyrus had seldom seen any unit — on land or sea — with so little in the way of jitters before a fight. He himself got nerves that came in waves — he’d be deep in the process of pulling a rope, or helping lace heavy leather to the basket so that the two archers there had some protection from their rivals — and then he’d look over the side and his heart would beat faster and his mouth would go dry.

  But the music would carry him out of it, either because of the natural tendency to sing along, or because the man’s playing was so good.

  ‘He’s god-sent,’ Satyrus said.

  Neiron nodded. ‘I agree,’ he said. ‘And how often do I say that?’

  They shared a laugh while the mast went up, and then the new ropes were pulled taut by forty sailors and all the marines, taut as bowstrings, and lashed to the heavy posts that held the fighting rail. It looked ugly as dung on a dancer, but the mast appeared as solid as if it had been planted like a seed, and the leather and tar-coated basket rose on pulleys into the masthead without the heavy oak pole giving so much as a creak.

  ‘Your lyre is the best new weapon on this ship,’ Satyrus was just saying to Anaxagoras, and the man was beaming in response, when the masthead called.

  ‘Lord Satyrus!’ called the men in the basket. Even thirty feet above the deck, you could see that they were excited.

  ‘You’re safe enough, lads,’ Satyrus called. In fact, their basket swayed with every movement of the ship, but they were volunteers and had each been promised a ten-drachma reward.

  ‘Enemy’s all formed up!’ the lead archer called down. ‘And — there’s a big squadron rowing away.’

  ‘You should get into your armour,’ Charmides said at his shoulder. ‘Lord — the king is signalling the advance.’

  Satyrus stood for a second, paralysed — but surely the advance would be slow, and followed by backing water and retreat. Lots of time to get into his armour. ‘Put young Orpheus in armour, lad,’ he said, pointing to Anaxagoras. ‘I don’t want him going to this dance naked — he may find that his partner’s not as cooperative.’ Then Satyrus leaped for the stays that held the mast and started to climb, hand over hand, praising Poseidon that there’d been insufficient pitch to coat the new standing rigging and he wasn’t smearing himself black.

  He climbed to where he could hold the lashings of the mast and brace a foot on the archer’s basket, which made it rock a little.

  ‘Leto Mother of the Archer,’ Satyrus muttered.

  The apparent confusion of the Antigonid front line was a sham. Now he could see over the first line. In the second line, the gigantic turtle-ship held the very centre — his impression was that it was larger than an eighter — perhaps even a tenner, though he’d never heard of such a thing. But it was not the giant war machine that drew his attention, but a squadron — fifteen ships — rowing away from Plistias’ second line, headed north and west toward Menelaeus. They were all big ships. He counted fifteen — fifteen quadremes and penteres, all in a crisp line abreast.

  Menelaeus had sixty ships, but they were all smaller ships, in the old Athenian style, undecked triremes and such. He was just forming — late to the dance, as Neiron would say.

  ‘Good eyes, gentlemen,’ Satyrus said. ‘Listen — when we close, you two shoot down into the enemy command deck. Nowhere else. Don’t waste a shaft on sailors. Marines and officers.’

  ‘Wasn’t born yesterday, lord,’ the senior archer replied. ‘You could send up some more arrows, if you’d a mind, sir.’

  Satyrus wrapped his legs around the stay and slid — carefully — down the heavy rope, sparing a hand to keep his chiton off the rope where the fine stuff would be ripped to shreds. As soon as his feet hit the rail, he ran aft.

  ‘Another two hundred arrows to the top,’ he ordered Apollodorus. ‘Then attend me on the command deck.’

  ‘Yes, lord,’ Apollodorus saluted.

  ‘He’s thinned his centre and sent
his best, heaviest ships against Menelaeus,’ Satyrus said to Neiron, who had Thrasos at the oars. ‘What does that mean, old councillor?’

  Neiron rubbed his beard.

  ‘Enemy is advancing!’ came the call from the masthead.

  ‘That basket is the best new idea I’ve seen in ten years,’ Neiron said. ‘Rhodians think of everything.’

  Satyrus turned to Charmides. ‘Find the sailor with the biggest lungs and have him pass the word from our masthead to the ships of the centre — so the king gets the word. Enemy is advancing.’

  ‘Foam under their bows!’ from the masthead.

  ‘What’s that mean?’ Anaxagoras asked.

  ‘It means they’ve already gone to ramming speed.’ Neiron clapped his hands. ‘I’ll take the conn. Give me the oars.’

  Thrasos nodded, braced and Neiron put his hands on the oars. ‘You have the oars.’

  ‘I have the oars.’ Neiron ducked under the big Kelt’s arms and was in the helmsman’s place.

  Close by Satyrus’ ear, a mighty voice roared, ‘Enemy at ramming speed,’ at Hermeaus’ Poseidon, the next ship beachward from the Arete.

  Satyrus suddenly realised that the two fleets were closing at the combined speed of a pair of galloping horses and that he was unarmed and unarmoured.

  ‘Charmides!’ he called.

  The young man was at his elbow, arms full of bronze and iron.

  ‘Arm me!’ he said, his eyes still on the enemy line — what he could see of it. His own foresail blocked his view forward.

  ‘Foresail down,’ Neiron called, reading his thoughts. ‘But brailed up, ready for raising.’

  Sailors ran barefoot along the deck — the greatest advantage of the new full decking was the speed with which sailors could react to any part of the deck without climbing over rowers.

  Satyrus got his corselet around his waist, and Charmides tied the waist laces, then the chest ties.

  ‘We’re going to ram,’ Satyrus said to Neiron. ‘Too late to back water.’

  Neiron watched as the foresail came down in a rush, and suddenly they could see the centre of Plistias’ line, a stade away, coming on like a cavalry charge.

  Ptolemy and Amyntas must have thought the same, because the king’s ship sped up to full ramming speed.

  Charmides got the top laces done up under Satyrus’ armpit, and Satyrus reached back for the yoke of the cuirass. ‘Get my greaves on!’ he said. He began to fumble with the ties of the breastplate. ‘Herakles, Lord and Ancestor, stand by me.’

  Close — very close. He felt the surge as Arete went to full speed. The ship might be heavy, but his men were in top form: well fed, well trained and confident.

  Apollodorus was tying the pauldrons to his waist ties. ‘You keep commanding,’ he said quietly. ‘We’ll keep you alive.’

  ‘Are the machines loaded?’ Satyrus asked.

  ‘How stupid do I look, lord?’ Apollodorus asked. ‘Heh — don’t answer that.’

  Satyrus felt the greaves snapping onto his legs. Someone was buckling the silver buckles behind his knees and his ankles.

  ‘Arm plates?’ Apollodorus asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Satyrus didn’t turn his head. ‘Neiron — take the nearside one, the vessel closest to Poseidon.’

  ‘Aye, lord.’ Neiron flicked the oars. ‘Thrasos, here — I need your arms. You with the lungs — tell Poseidon I’m taking the wide-arse with the green awning.’

  The big sailor put his hands to cup his mouth. ‘Arete intends to ram the green awning!’ he roared.

  ‘Acknowledged,’ the man said to Neiron. ‘The helmsman waved.’

  ‘We won’t fuck that up, then.’ Neiron looked over at Satyrus. ‘I think we’re in trouble,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Punch through their centre and see where we are,’ Satyrus said. ‘I mean it, Neiron — diekplous and through into the second line.’

  Neiron nodded, all business.

  Satyrus felt the familiar weight of his harness, bent his arms, crouched.

  Behind him, Neiron and Thrasos together leaned against the steering oars.

  The men in the masthead shot their arrows.

  Apollodorus looked at Satyrus. Satyrus nodded.

  ‘Engines! Fire at will!’ he called.

  Only the bow engines had clear shots, and they went off together. The deep, ringing thrump of a bolt striking their fore hull showed that their opponents had heavy engines, too.

  Half a stade.

  Satyrus turned to Charmides. ‘No second chance now. Every armoured man to go with the marines. Apollodorus — if we board, do it like lightning, get the thing done and back aboard.’

  ‘Aye, lord.’

  Satyrus ran forward, the straps on his greaves a little too tight and cutting at his ankles. Too late now.

  Too late for a lot of things.

  ‘Marines! Brace!’ shouted Apollodorus, and the forward engines fired again, together, racing to be first.

  To port, the king’s ship was a ram’s length ahead, aimed at the largest ship in the enemy first line — an octeres that was, timber for timber, virtually identical to the king’s. They struck, bow to bow, in an explosion of timber, a storm of splinters and a hail of arrows. Then Satyrus put his own head down, caught his cheekpieces and pulled them together and fastened the toggle at his throat.

  The impact wasn’t the greatest he’d ever felt — in fact, while it pitched him into the back wall of the tower, it didn’t throw him off his feet. Above his head, the archer captain chanted orders as his men nocked and loosed and nocked and loosed again. Arete carried a much heavier contingent of archers than most ships: twenty men, most of them Sakje, with fluid recurved bows of horn and sinew and barbed arrows tipped with bronze. The Greeks were Alexandrians or Cretans, with heavy bows that shot long arrows capable of punching right through bronze.

  The return volley from the enemy tower was late, and weak.

  ‘His bow’s crushed!’ came the call from the tower.

  Satyrus, his blood up, ready to repel boarders, felt a sag.

  Neiron made the hand signal for the rowers to reverse benches, and the oar master gave a great cry.

  ‘She’s going to sink!’ called a marine, and then the enemy came at them in a rush — fifty marines, crossing in three places where the bow towers were locked together.

  Satyrus got to the starboard rail before the first enemy marine. Luck — good or ill — left him alone except for Charmides, as the enemy were trying to jump down into the waist behind the tower, where he was, instead of going to meet their peers; a tactic born of desperation.

  Satyrus speared the first man in the helmet — a clean thrust into the very front of the man’s horsehair crest — and his head snapped back, he lost his grip and he was gone over the side.

  ‘Cut the grapples!’ Satyrus roared at Charmides. Charmides ignored him, roared a war cry and threw his spear. It hit the second enemy marine just above the nose and the broad blade collapsed his face — and he took Charmides’ spear over the side with him.

  ‘The grapples!’ Satyrus bellowed, and now he was facing three men — he took a big risk and attacked the middle one, counting on the tendency of all men to want to be sure of their footing before making a lunge. His thrust went in over the man’s shield and just ticked the side of his unarmoured throat, and he went down. Satyrus was too close, now — no choice but to be wild. He roared, dropped his spear, grabbed the right-hand man’s shield in his right hand at the base, and shoved it up under the man’s helmet plates, breaking his jaw.

  The third man rammed his spear into Satyrus’ unprotected back and knocked him flat. The scales held the point, but the pain was intense — like a pankration opponent’s punch to the kidneys. The world went white, then red and Satyrus was dead.

  But in the time it took him to think that he was down and dead, he realised that he was still in control of his limbs and he rolled, got his back against the marine tower and pushed against the deck with his legs. A sword rang off hi
s greave. Charmides threw himself across Satyrus and took the spear thrust from overhead meant for his king, and Satyrus sat heavily, his back against the marine tower, with Charmides’ weight on top of him.

  Apollodorus roared, and the Arete’s marines charged out of their tower. Charmides squirmed.

  An Antigonid marine stood over them, raised his spear and grinned from sheer lust of killing.

  Anaxagoras stabbed him from behind, a brutal, short spear jab, and then spun like a dancer, putting the butt of his spear into the next marine, using the power of his rotating body, and though his shaft snapped the enemy marine went down like a tree before a woodsman. Charmides screamed — there was blood flowing out of him — but Satyrus had no time for that, and he threw the boy off his legs and stumbled to his feet.

  Hand up under arm — sword hilt — draw — lunge!

  Satyrus put his point through an enemy marine’s eye. The man fell back over another marine, also dead.

  ‘Cut the grapples!’ Satyrus croaked.

  Anaxagoras was at the rail, watching his third victim fall away into the sea. He looked up. ‘The boy is right. This is wonderful.’

  Satyrus vomited over the side, and there was blood. ‘See to the boy,’ he said.

  Swords and axes were slashing at the grapples, and the enemy ship was sinking, his bow ripped away in the first contact — bad timbers, shipworm, bad design — it should never have happened, but the Arete’s ram was caught in the sinking ship and Satyrus could hear his own timbers popping.

  ‘Row!’ Philaeus called. ‘For your lives!’

  The last grapple rope parted with a crack like lightning and thunder on a stormy day, and the enemy ship slid — grudgingly — off their ram, and suddenly they were floating free, the oars moving them away.