the screams of men broken on the yoke, their will driving them beyond the endurance of their bodies until muscles cramped in excruciating pain and they fell, their twisted, near lifeless bodies thrust aside by relief rowers whose strength roused the men around them to greater exertion, the air filled with voices calling out in half a dozen languages in encouragement and anger, in frustration and pain as another man fell, and another, and another.
The drum master roared at the top of his lungs, shouting out the beat even as his hammer fell, viciously calling on the rowers to bend their backs through the slide, to take the strain of the catch and pull through the draw, telling them the enemy was at hand, the fight almost upon them, the end but minutes away, and the rowers responded to his words with renewed determination.
Atticus went back on deck, his nerve steeled to a fine point by the rowers’ display of raw courage. He strode back to the aft-deck, ignoring the arrows that slammed into the timbers around him and the sporadic cries of crewmen struck by the pitiless missiles. He turned and stared along the length of the Virtus to the quadrireme ahead.
The gap had increased to two hundred yards but the five-minute threshold had been passed. Ramming speed on the Virtus was being maintained by the determination of the strongest and the massive influx of relief rowers. They could not last indefinitely, but Atticus was confident that, without relief, the Rhodian’s crew had to be suffering more.
His plan was simple. Run the quadrireme down. Not to cripple it for the quinqueremes, but to take it himself, the trireme’s shallow draught ensuring there would be no withdrawal this time. The Rhodian had yet to turn and commit to a channel, the quadrireme still running parallel to the inner shoals not one hundred yards away off the starboard beam, but the turn was close, Atticus could sense it, could feel it through the desperation of his rowers, a palpable anguish that he knew must be drawing the heart out of the Rhodian’s own crew.
‘By the gods,’ the helmsman shouted, glancing fearfully over his shoulder. ‘She’s still coming on.’
The Rhodian felt the same panic rise within him and he struggled to push it aside. What had it been: seven, eight minutes? What kind of men were powering the trireme?
‘One hundred and fifty yards,’ one of the archers called beside him, shouting out the range for their next flight.
The gap was falling. The Ares was losing speed, fast; her rowers were past exhaustion, past the limits of will and determination, of pride in their strength, with only the dread fear of capture keeping them pulling, knowing that if they were to fall into Roman hands they would become slaves to the very task they performed as freedmen.
‘Distance to the channel,’ Calix shouted angrily at the helmsman, refocusing his attention. His looked ahead, his gaze darting from the sea to the land.
‘Two hundred yards, Captain,’ he replied.
‘Prepare to make your run,’ Calix said, and he looked to the trireme again. The gap was still falling; a gap he had believed would be four or five hundred yards by now, with the trireme drifting aimlessly in the wake of the Ares, her rowers blown, her strength gone. But still it came on, and Calix let his hand fall to the hilt of his sword as his options fell away to one. He had seen the two Roman quinqueremes take station on the channel through the outer shoals. His route there was blocked, even if his crew had the strength to re-cross the hostile lagoon, which they had not. The channel ahead was his only escape, and there the trireme would catch him, in the narrows of the channel, where the lack of sea room would make evasive manoeuvres impossible.
The sudden clarity of purpose gave Calix new confidence, and he slowly drew his sword, the muscles of his arm welcoming the familiar weight. The chase would end soon, on Perennis’s terms, but in the shallows of the channel it would be a duel between mismatched ships, with the Roman quinqueremes unable to assist. The Ares could yet escape to the inner harbour. But first Calix and his crew would have to draw the blood of the Roman crew and their Greek leader.
‘Aspect change,’ Corin called, pre-empting the turn by a heartbeat as he saw the helmsman put his weight behind the tiller.
The Rhodian’s galley swung hard to starboard, finally reaching the channel.
‘All hands, prepare for boarding,’ Atticus shouted, and the men cheered, eager to get in the fight, the minutes spent under the rain of arrows sharpening their aggression.
Gaius brought the Virtus through the turn, keeping the ram on a line to the rudder of the quadrireme, now only fifty yards ahead. The quadrireme began to slow further, the breaking waves of the shoals enveloping her bow as she entered the channel, and Gaius called for battle speed, keeping his pace above that of the Rhodian’s, not needing to anticipate the turns in the channel in the wake of the quadrireme pathfinder.
Atticus looked over the side to the waters below. Only half the oars of the Virtus were still engaged, the others having been withdrawn, the rowers collapsed upon them. The sea seemed to boil on all sides and Atticus could see the deadly fangs of the shoals piercing the surface of the water not twenty yards from the hull.
‘Best guess,’ he said to Gaius. ‘Get us alongside the aft-deck.’
The helmsman nodded, his eyes never leaving his prey. The chase was over but the mortal stroke had yet to be delivered. It was impossible to guess what sea room was available in the channel and Gaius knew he would have to judge which side to attack from the manoeuvres of the quadrireme. It was a difficult task, but as he saw the prefect hesitate at his side, ready to offer help, he broke eye contact with the quadrireme for the first time.
‘Go,’ he said vehemently. ‘I have her.’
Atticus nodded and ran from the aft-deck, the crew responding to his flight by gathering in a wave behind him. He drew his sword, a commitment that was echoed by his men and, as he reached the foredeck, he grabbed a discarded hoplon shield.
The crews roared at each other across the gap, battle cries and challenges, while arrows were loosed at near point-blank range, the barbs striking deeply into shield and flesh, fuelling the belligerence of each crew. Atticus stood silent amongst his men, his shield held tightly against his shoulder as he looked to the waters around the stern of the quadrireme, trying to discern the sea room, to give Gaius some advantage.
The two galleys sped through a turn in the channel but, as the quadrireme straightened out, Gaius continued the turn for a second longer, the nimbler hull of the trireme cutting inside the line of the bend. Atticus felt the hull buck beneath him as Gaius called for attack speed, a final push from the exhausted rowers to bring the port bow quarter in line with the starboard aft of the quadrireme.
‘Grappling hooks,’ Atticus shouted without conscious thought, and a line was thrown but instantly parted under the strain of the uneven stroke of the galleys. A dozen more followed, the majority finding purchase, to be attacked by the Rhodian’s crew with axes and swords.
The Romans drew the remaining lines in, heaving them hand over hand until the hulls slammed against each other, the timbers grating, the galleys reluctantly giving way to each other’s pitch. Atticus led the men over the rails with a roar that unleashed their savagery, and they jumped across the treacherous maw of the clashing hulls to slam into the first rank of the defenders, their momentum checked then revived as they gained a foothold on the enemy deck.
Atticus kept his shield at chest height, slashing forward with his sword, his eyes locked on those of the defender before him, the man’s eyes wide with anger, but they suddenly dropped low, signalling the strike of the sword. Atticus dropped his shield to counter the blow before driving his blade to the flank, the defender reacting with incredible speed to parry the strike. He came on again and Atticus reversed his block to push the sword away, exposing the defender’s torso and, risking all, he threw his body off balance to bring his sword to bear, the defender trying to react as he sensed the unexpected strike, his reflexes too slow to avoid the blade. Atticus punched the sword through, twisting the blade as it sank into the defender’s stomach, and he whipped it back to free it, a gush of warm blood and viscera spilling out over his hand. He pushed forward against the dying man with his shield, knocking him underfoot to the deck.
The aft-deck was in chaos but slowly the Romans made headway, their numbers twice those of the Rhodian. The helmsman never left the tiller as the battle raged, his eyes ever locked on the shoals and the narrow line of the channel; but, as the battle line advanced beyond him, he fell under the slash of a Roman sword. Released from the control of the rudder, the bow of the Ares skewed sideways, the pressure of the Virtus ’s bow against its stern hastening the turn, and the strake timbers of the bow struck the shoals that clawed out from the edge of the channel.
The battle descended into a ferocious brawl as the Rhodian’s men felt their ship shudder beneath them. They roared in anger and hatred, stopping the Roman advance on the fringes of the main deck. The Romans rebuked the challenge, giving no quarter, and the line of battle steadied as each side fed more men into the fray, the opposing
