took aim and fired again at Arcelian, sending an arrow whizzing over his head.
Arcelian saw that the remaining grapple lines were amidships, although the two vessels were touching at the stern and the fighting had drifted aft. The oarsman dropped to all fours and scurried beneath the rail to the first line. A dying barbarian lay nearby, his midsection a jagged mass of exposed flesh. The strong oarsman approached and nimbly hoisted the man over his shoulder, then turned and stepped to the grapple line. Immediately there came a thwack, and an arrow drove hard into the barbarian’s back. With his free hand, Arcelian swung the sword and sliced the line in two as a second arrow burrowed into his human shield. The oarsman collapsed to the deck, rolling the now dead barbarian off his shoulder while catching his breath.
Nearly spent from his ordeal, Arcelian surveyed the final grapple, which had clawed into a yardarm a dozen feet above his head. Peeking over the rail, he spotted the enemy archer, who had finally abandoned his perch on the mast and was descending toward the deck. Seizing the opportunity, Arcelian jumped up and ran down his own deck, climbing onto the rail where the grapple line sloped down. Catching his balance, he started to swing the sword, but momentum beat him to the punch.
The force of the two divergent ships on the single line was too powerful to bear, and the iron grapple lost its grip on the masthead. The rope’s high tension flung the grapple like a projectile, spinning it in a low arc toward the water. The sharpened barbs whizzed past Arcelian, barely sparing him a bloody demise. But the rope looped around his thigh and jerked him off the rail, throwing him into the water just ahead of the pirate vessel’s bow.
Unable to swim, Arcelian splashed wildly, trying to keep his head above water. Flailing about, he felt something hard in the water and latched onto it with both hands. A chunk of wooden railing from the pirate ship knocked loose during the earlier collision, the flotsam was just large enough to keep him afloat. The blue-sailed pirate ship suddenly loomed over him, and he kicked frantically to escape its path. He was carried farther away from the galley in the process, catching a current that was just too much to overcome in his weakened state. Kicking weakly to hold his position, he watched wide-eyed as the pirate ship caught a gust of wind and accelerated toward the shore, its deck riding low above the water.
While Arcelian had freed the starboard grapples from the Roman ship, Vitellus and a junior officer had cleared the port-side lines, save for a remaining grapple near the stern. Leaning against the tiller with an arrow protruding from his shoulder, the captain yelled over to the centurion on the adjacent ship.
“Plautius, return to the vessel,” he said in a weakened voice. “We are cast free.”
The centurion and his legionaries were still battling fiercely on the opposite vessel, though their fighting numbers had diminished. Plautius pulled his bloodied sword from the neck of a barbarian and gave a quick glance toward the galley.
“Proceed with the cargo. I shall detain the barbarians,” he yelled, plunging his sword into another attacker. There were but three legionaries left standing with him, and Vitellus could see that their remaining breaths would be few.
“Your bravery shall be recorded,” the captain yelled, cutting the last line. “Farewell, Centurion.”
Free of the anchored attack ship, the galley leaped forward as its lone sail filled with the breeze. His
Littered across the deck was a mass of dead and dismembered bodies, Roman and barbarian intermixed, in a wash of red. A nearly equal number of attackers and crewmen had engaged one another, fighting to a mortal standstill. It was a scene of carnage like no other he had ever witnessed.
Shaken by the sight and faint from loss of blood, he stared at the heavens.
“Protect thee for thy Emperor,” he gasped.
Swaying back to the stern, he wrapped his tired arms around the tiller and adjusted its angle. Cries for help echoed up from men afloat in the water, but the captain’s ears fell deaf as the ship sailed by. With his eyes staring vacantly at the land ahead, he gripped the tiller with his last bit of energy and fought for the final moments of his life.
Drifting in the choppy waters, Arcelian looked up in surprise to see the Roman ship sailing clear, suddenly bearing down on his own position. Crying for help, he watched in anguish as the galley slipped past him, ignoring him in complete silence. A moment later, he caught a profile of the ship as it turned and he saw with horror that not a single soul stood upon her main deck. Only the lone figure of Captain Vitellus was visible, slumped over the tiller on the raised stern. Then the ship’s sails rustled in the wind, and the wooden galley darted toward shore, soon disappearing completely from sight.
The naval dock was abuzz with activity, despite the dampening effects of a cold drizzle. Royal Navy stevedores busily worked beneath a steam-powered derrick, hoisting huge amounts of food, supplies, and munitions aboard the gray leviathan moored at the dock. On board, the crates were neatly stowed in the ship’s forward hold, while a throng of sailors in heavy woolen pea-coats readied the ship for sea.
The HMS
In an empty storehouse a quarter mile down the quay, a blond-haired man stood by an open siding and studied the ship’s loading through a pair of brass binoculars. He held the binoculars to his eyes for nearly twenty minutes until a green Rolls-Royce appeared, crossing the dock and pulling up in front of the main gangway. He watched intently as a band of Army officers in khaki uniforms quickly materialized, surrounding the car and then assisting the vehicle’s occupants up the gangway. From their dress, he judged the two arrivals as a politician and a high-ranking military officer. He caught a quick glimpse of the officer’s face, smiling to himself as he noted that the man wore a heavy mustache.
“Time to make our delivery, Dolly,” he said aloud.
He stepped into the shadows, where a weather-beaten cart was hitched to a saddled horse. Stuffing the binoculars under the seat, he climbed aboard and slapped the reins. Dolly, an aged dappled gray mare, lifted her head in annoyance, then shuffled forward, pulling the cart out into the rain.
The dockhands paid scant attention to the man when he pulled his cart up alongside the ship a few minutes later. Dressed in a faded woolen coat and soiled trousers, a flat cap pulled low over his brow, he resembled dozens of other local paupers who survived by the odd job here and there. In this instance, it was an acted role, embellished by a failure to shave and a liberal dousing of cheap scotch on his clothes. When it was deemed time to perform, he made his presence known by advancing Dolly to the base of the gangway, effectively blocking its use.
“Get that nag out of the way,” cursed a red-faced lieutenant overseeing the loading.
“Aye got a d’livry for the
“Let me see your papers,” the lieutenant demanded.
The deliveryman reached inside his jacket and handed the officer a crumpled page of watermarked stationery. The lieutenant frowned as he read it, then slowly shook his head.
“This is not a proper bill of lading,” he said, quietly eyeing the deliveryman.
“It’s wot the general gave me. That and a fiver,” the man replied with a wink.
The lieutenant walked around and surveyed the crate, which was roughly the size of a coffin. On the top was an address stenciled in black paint:
PROPERTY OF THE ROYAL NAVY
TO THE ATTENTION OF SIR LEIGH HUNT
SPECIAL ENVOY TO THE RUSSIAN EMPIRE
C/O CONSULATE OF GREAT BRITAIN
PETROGRAD, RUSSIA
“Humph,” the officer muttered, eyeing the paperwork again. “Well, it is signed by the general. Very well,” he said, passing the paper back. “You, there,” he barked, turning to a nearby stevedore. “Help get that crate aboard.
