Tyrant: King of the Bosporus Page 2

  Falcon was a small, old-style trireme, built light and fast the Athenian way. He had good points and bad points, but Satyrus loved him fiercely – all the more as he suspected he was about to lose the ship.

  Falcon turned to port and ‘folded his wings’, all the oars coming inboard together to the call of Neiron, the oar master amidships, so that he slowed into a long curve. Diokles’ broad face was a study in concentration, a hard frown creasing the corners of his mouth as he leaned on his oars.

  Lotus closed on the reciprocal course. The two ships had been side by side, each leading a column of ten warships eastward along the north coast of the Euxine. They didn’t have far to close, and the rowers on both ships pulled their oars in well before their blades might foul, and the helmsmen steered small, guiding the hulls together as they coasted along.

  Leon stepped up on the rail, holding one of the white-linen shrouds that held the mast. He leaned out, and just before the sides of the ships touched, he leaped – easily crossing the distance between ships, his left foot on the Falcon’s rail, his right foot stepping down on to the deck of Satyrus’s ship just forward of where the bulwark rose in the sharp curve of the stem.

  ‘We’ll have to fight through them,’ Leon said, as soon as he was aboard. He nodded to the statue of Poseidon on the mast. ‘No other choice, I’m afraid – unless you want to beach and burn the ships. And I don’t think we’ll survive that.’

  ‘Twenty ships should have been enough,’ Satyrus said.

  ‘Somebody gave Eumeles plenty of warning,’ Leon said. ‘Listen up, lad. I’m going to put my ships in line and you’ll form line behind me. My ships will bite into his line and you punch straight through. Don’t stop to fight. Just keep going.’

  Leon’s plan was practical – if the goal was to save Satyrus’s life. Eumeles would execute him without a thought – or worse.

  ‘Don’t be a fool, boy!’ Leon said. ‘If I fall, you avenge me another time.’ His dark skin glowed with vitality, and it didn’t seem possible that Leon could speak so blithely of his own death. ‘If Eumeles captures me, he’ll ransom me. I’m worth too much to kill. You – you’d be dead by nightfall. Don’t be a fool. Do as I order.’

  Abraham nodded soberly. ‘He is correct, Satyrus. You can try again next year. Dead, we have all lost our wagers, eh?’

  Satyrus bowed his head. ‘Very well. We will form the second line and go straight through.’

  Leon put his arms around his adoptive nephew, and they hugged, their armour grinding and preventing the embrace from carrying any real warmth. ‘See you in Alexandria,’ he said.

  ‘In Olbia!’ Satyrus said, his voice full of tears.

  The Alexandrians formed their two lines as they advanced. They had practised formations all the way out from Rhodos, three weeks of sailing and rowing, and their rowers were in top shape. Leon’s ships in the first line were as good as Rhodians – highly trained, with professional helmsmen and standing officers who had been at sea their whole lives – indeed, many of them were Rhodians, because Leon paid the best wages in the east.

  Satyrus had the mercenaries. They weren’t bad – again, they were professional seamen. Few of them had the quality of ships that Leon had, although Daedalus of Halicarnassus had a mighty penteres, a ‘five-er’ that stood a man’s height further out of the water than a trireme and mounted a pair of heavy scorpions. The Glory of Demeter was in the centre of the second line.

  None of Leon’s captains needed special orders. They could all see the direction of the wind and the might of the opposing armament. The choices were narrow and they were professionals.

  Satyrus was on the right of the line, and the next ship over was a former Alexandrian naval vessel, hastily built and hastily sold after last year’s campaign, called Fennel Stalk, with his flamboyant friend Dionysius in command. ‘Bit off more than we can chew, eh?’ he called across the water.

  ‘Break through, get your sail up and head for home,’ Satyrus called back.

  The enemy fleet was just a couple of stades ahead, the eyes painted above the beaks of their rams clear in the golden light. Despite everything, the fact that Leon’s ships were coming straight at them seemed to have thrown them into confusion.

  ‘Ten more ships,’ Satyrus said.

  Diokles nodded, but Abraham shook his head. ‘What?’

  ‘He means that they look so bad that if we had ten more ships we could take them – or make a fight of it.’ Diokles spat over the side, apparently unconcerned by the odds.

  Satyrus ran down the centre catwalk. ‘Kalos! Deck master, there! Any man who has a helmet needs to get it on. Oar master, relieve the benches in shifts.’ If they actually broke the enemy line, their whole length would be vulnerable to enemy archers. He went back and put a hand on the steering oars. ‘That means you, Diokles. Armour up.’

  ‘You have the helm,’ Diokles said.

  ‘I have the helm,’ Satyrus replied, and the dark-haired man ran off down the deck.

  The Alexandrians were closing under a steady stroke, saving energy. The enemy columns – all six of them – were still deploying. The two centre columns had fallen afoul of each other and were delaying the formation, but the consequence was that as the centre fell behind, the flanks reached well out on either side – the worst thing that could happen to the smaller fleet, whether by intention or by accident.

  ‘Leon’s signalling,’ Abraham called. He had his helmet on, and his voice had a strange resonance.

  Satyrus had his own helmet in his hand, but he swung up on a shroud to watch the bright bronze shield flash aboard Golden Lotus.

  ‘Arrowhead,’ he said. But the flashes went on, and on.

  ‘By the hidden name!’ Abraham muttered.

  Diokles came back, buckling his scale breastplate. ‘Of course, wearing this fucker, I drown if I go over the side.’ He looked up. ‘Poseidon’s watery dick, that’s a long signal.’

  Satyrus saw that it was in repeat and jumped down from the rail.

  ‘Arrowhead – we’re to be the point of the second line. He’s not going to engage the centre – he’s going to go for the southern edge of the line. At least, I think that’s what he means. Prepare to turn to starboard!’ Satyrus called the last in a command voice.

  Diokles got his last buckle done. He tugged the scale shirt down on his hips so that the pteruges sat right, and then put his hands on the steering oars. ‘Got him!’ he said.

  Satyrus shook his head. ‘After the turn,’ he said. ‘Find me my greaves, will you?’

  Diokles ducked his head and started to root through the leather bags stuffed under the helmsman’s bench.

  Satyrus watched the shield. There. The command ship gave a single flash and all down the line, ships turned to starboard, so that the two lines of ten ships heading east were once again two columns of ten ships heading due south.

  The shield flashed again, repeating the next order. In the column next to them, Theron’s Labours of Herakles was slow to turn and almost fouled the Glory of Demeter. The two ships brushed past each other, oar-tips entangled, but momentum saved them and Theron’s rowers had the stroke back.

  Abraham shook his head. ‘I can’t watch!’ he said. ‘This is not like fighting elephants!’ Abraham had proved his courage at Gaza the year before, capturing Demetrios the Golden’s elephants and winning a place on the list of Alexandria’s heroes.

  The shield flashed on, now repeating the order. Then the flashes stopped.

  ‘Any time,’ Diokles said.

  ‘Take the helm,’ Satyrus said.

  ‘I have it,’ Diokles said, suiting action to word.

  ‘You have it!’ Satyrus said, and ran for the command spot amidships. ‘Watch for the signal! Neiron, the next signal will require us to slow.’

  ‘Aye aye!’ Neiron, the oar master, was Cardian – a prisoner of war who’d chosen to remain with his captors. He seldom wore hat or helmet, and had the habit of rubbing the back of his head. He did so now.

 
; The bronze shield gave a single flash.

  ‘Got it!’ Neiron called. ‘All banks! Cease rowing!’

  Behind them, Fennel Stalk made a quarter-turn out of line to the north and the ship behind Fennel made a quarter-turn south, so that in a few heartbeats they were ranging almost alongside, just a few oar-lengths behind. The next two ships came up on their flanks, so that Satyrus’s second line was shaped like a wedge.

  Whatever the odds, it was well carried out, and despite some spacing issues created by the size of the Glory of Demeter, they were formed in a wedge before the enemy could react. Ahead, Leon’s better-trained column had angled in to cover them and then formed a wedge themselves, so that Golden Lotus was the centre of the first line and Black Falcon was the centre of the second wedge, all rowing east against the flank of the enemy line.

  The enemy ships were caught broadside-on, strung out over a stade of quiet sea in the morning light. Moments before, they had been the horns of a giant envelopment, hunters of the doomed prey. Suddenly they were the target, and the opposite horn was six stades away – hopelessly far to take part in the sort of diekplous head-to-head engagement that the Alexandrians were forcing.

  Diokles grinned. ‘That was something worth seeing,’ he announced.

  A stade to go, and the enemy ships were turning to face them. The enemy centre, now more than two stades off to the east, was still tangled.

  Another signal from the Lotus and the first line picked up speed. Fennel took up the stroke in the second line, advancing at battle speed until his helmsman realized his error. The second line was there to take advantage of the chaos caused by the first. They continued to move at cruising speed, and Fennel coasted back to his spot.

  ‘Don’t board unless we’re sinking,’ Satyrus said to Abraham. ‘Understand?’

  Abraham gave his sarcastic smile. ‘All too well, brother.’

  They embraced briefly, and then Abraham buckled the cheekpieces on his high-ridged Thracian helmet and ran down the catwalk to the marines that he commanded.

  Satyrus had time to gulp a few lungfuls of air and to feel the flutter in his chest and the cringing in his bowels – the fear that never seemed to change for him when danger came. He spat over the side and prayed to Herakles, his ancestor and patron, for courage.

  Half a stade ahead, Golden Lotus seemed to dance, a swift quarter-turn and then back to his course, his oars suddenly in. Lotus was the point of the wedge, the first ship to hit the enemy line, and he was ramming an enemy trireme head to head, the most dangerous manoeuvre in war at sea and the most likely to cripple the attacking ship.

  There was a sound not unlike that of two phalanxes crashing into each other – or like a lightning storm ripping through the woods on the slopes of a mountain – and the engagement was over, the Lotus already getting his oars out and coasting free, the enemy ship half-turned to starboard and showing his flank to the Falcon because the Lotus had ripped his starboard oar gallery and mangled his oarsmen on that side.

  ‘Ramming speed,’ Satyrus said.

  Diokles made a face in the stern. The oar master called the new speed and the ship leaped forward.

  ‘What?’ Satyrus asked.

  ‘We’re supposed to break free, not kill ships,’ Diokles said.

  ‘I’m not afraid to fight,’ Satyrus said.

  Diokles shrugged and said nothing.

  ‘Ready for impact!’ Abraham bellowed from the bow.

  ‘Oars in!’ Neiron called.

  Satyrus braced himself against the stern and Diokles crossed his arms over the steering oars.

  As they crashed together, the ram went in, and there was resistance – and then something gave. Men on the deck crew were thrown flat, despite their best efforts, and Satyrus only just kept his feet.

  ‘Reverse oars! Cross your benches!’ Neiron called.

  Satyrus ran forward. The enemy ship, caught almost broadside-on, was turning turtle, his shallow side crushed amidships, so that he was filling with water. But the upper strakes of his well-built hull were caught on the Falcon’s ram.

  ‘Back water!’ Satyrus called. ‘We’re caught!’

  The oarsmen had to get under their oars and sit on the opposite bench to put their full strength into backing water. It took precious time.

  Falcon’s bow began to sink. The strain on the bow timbers was immense, and there were popping noises all along the hull.

  Neiron stood on his deck by the mast, watching the oarsmen and rubbing his head. ‘Don’t rush ’em, sir,’ he said. ‘We need three good pulls, not a new mess as they panic.’ He flashed Satyrus a smile and then raised his voice. ‘Ready there?’

  A deep roar answered him.

  ‘Backstroke! Give way, all!’ he called, and the oars bit into the water. One stroke and there was a grinding from the bow – a second stroke and every man standing was thrown flat as the ram slipped out of the stricken enemy and the bow rose sharply. The rowers lost the stroke and oars clashed.

  Satyrus fell heavily and Neiron fell on top of him, and it took them long heartbeats to get back to their feet. Neiron began to yell at the rowers, getting them on beat again.

  Satyrus ran for the bow, looking everywhere. To the east, Fennel had swept down the side of a heavy trireme, destroying his starboard oars just as the ship in the first line had done to his port oar bank, so that the ship lay on the water like an insect with all its legs plucked.

  To the west, a Cardian mercenary vessel had sailed right through the enemy’s first line and continued into their half-formed second line, where he was preparing a diekplous oar-rake of his own.

  Dead ahead, Lotus had rammed a second adversary and left him wallowing, oars crushed and the upper oar box literally bleeding red blood where the ram had crushed wood and bodies together.

  Farther east and west, however, the enemy was rallying. They had so many ships that the local disaster didn’t materially affect the odds. The enemy centre was still not organized, but a dozen ships, better rowed or more aggressive, were leaving the centre and racing to relieve the beleaguered flank.

  Satyrus took this in and ran back amidships. ‘Switch your oars,’ he said to the oar master.

  ‘Switch benches for normal rowing!’ the oar master called.

  Satyrus pointed at the second cripple left by the Lotus. ‘I want to put that ship down – but don’t hit it so hard!’ Then he ran aft to Diokles. ‘Straight into the blue trireme!’ he called.

  Diokles narrowed his eyes. ‘Not what your uncle ordered,’ he said.

  ‘Just do it!’ Satyrus said. An arrow hit him in the shoulder, skidded across the scales of his corslet’s left shoulder, dug a furrow across the back of his neck and sank into the planking that was supposed to protect the helmsman. ‘Ares!’ he cursed. He put his hand to his neck and it came away covered in blood.

  Satyrus turned to see where the arrow had come from. A dark-hulled trireme was coming up on his port side, from behind, and the enemy ship’s archers were trying to clear his helm.

  ‘Where in Hades did he come from?’ Satyrus asked. ‘Hard to port!’

  Diokles swung the oars hard. Satyrus turned forward. ‘Port-side oars, all banks, drag your oars!’

  The oar master echoed his command and the Falcon turned like his namesake, his stern pulled clear of the oncoming ram. The oar-raked carcass of Glory of Demeter’s first victim had hidden the enemy ship, and now he shot by Falcon’s stern at ramming speed, already turning to find new prey. Forward, Abraham’s marines shot a shower of arrows into the enemy ship’s command deck and then he was gone.

  Falcon’s evasive manoeuvre had carried him out of her place in the formation and now he was heading almost due north, into the oncoming rams of the enemy’s relief column.

  ‘Glory of Demeter is through the line,’ Diokles said. ‘Getting his sail up. Just where we ought to be, sir.’

  Satyrus’s neck hurt as if he’d been stepped on by a horse. He put a hand to it again and was shocked to see how much blood t
here was. ‘Diokles, we need to go hard to starboard – see the dark green-hulled ship with the golden statue in the bow?’

  ‘I see him,’ Diokles answered.

  ‘Right at him – at ramming speed. But just short of him, we turn – and pass under his stern. If he turns towards us—’

  ‘I have it!’ Diokles yelled, waving him away.

  Satyrus ran for the oar master. ‘Ramming speed. Turn to starboard – see the big green? Straight at him – ramming speed. And when I say, a little more. We’ll pass under his stern and never touch him.’

  Neiron had an arrow in his side. ‘Fucking point is in my skin,’ he said, face already grey-white with shock. The arrow had punched straight through his tawed-leather cuirass. ‘Aye! Starboard bank – drag your oars! Port banks, full speed! Now!’ His voice lost none of its power. Then he sank against the mast. ‘Pull it out, sir?’

  Satyrus glanced forward – the next few heartbeats would be vital.

  ‘As soon as we’re past the green,’ he said.

  ‘Aye,’ Neiron said grimly. His feet slipped out from under him and he sat heavily, with his back against the mast. ‘You’d better call the stroke,’ he said.

  Satyrus stepped over him. ‘Pull!’ he called. An arrow hit his helmet hard enough that he smelled copper and his ears rang. ‘Pull!’ he called again. The bow was almost on line – time to stop the turn. ‘Cease rowing!’ he called. ‘All oars! Ramming speed! Now!’

  He felt the surge of power under his feet. ‘Pull!’ he called.

  He felt the change in weight as Diokles made a steering adjustment.

  The big green ship was turning to meet them. He towered over them – a quadrireme at least, perhaps the biggest ship in the enemy fleet.

  ‘Pull!’ Satyrus wanted to get past the green so his bulk would shield them from the rest of the enemy squadrons. He looked down at his oar master, who was losing consciousness, his face as pale and grey as the sea on a cloudy summer day. There was blood coming out from under his cuirass. Another arrow struck deep in the mast, its barbed head a finger deep in the oak.