The rowers were tired and aching after two weeks at the oar, but now was the time they would have to work hardest. The wind dropped further but still the silent dromonds came on. Suddenly it seemed a cruel, flat-calm, malevolent and glittering sea. ‘Wine-dark’ indeed, thought Aetius, clutching the stern-post, watching the bosun haul the big rudder round, feeling the wind desert them. Blood-dark, more like. ‘Wine-dark’ was Homer’s lyrical view of it. Blind Homer.
The nearing vessel had a single bank of oars and a mainsail, like the Cygnus, but it boasted high parapets and a solid raised deck over the rowers to protect them from incoming missiles.
The master turned to Aetius in consternation. ‘They’ll destroy us in a missile exchange. They stand much higher, as does their sister ship coming in there.’
‘Thank God it’s no battle group,’ muttered Aetius.
‘There may be squadrons in the area,’ said the master. ‘You heard what they did on the island of Zakynthos? Sent back sackfuls of heads to their king, Genseric.’
‘We’re going to Constantinople. We have business there. I trust our rowers can still get up to ramming speed?’
‘Ramming?’ growled the master. ‘You’re crazy.’
Aetius grinned, allowing him the impertinence. He knew the score. The stately, high-sided galleys of old were always vulnerable to ramming by low, skimming Liburnians and dromonds. But those sleek wolf-ships were very vulnerable to having a huge boulder dropped onto their hull, holing them instantly. Naval warfare by dromond and Liburnian nowadays was all about keeping your distance and shooting missiles, bolts, fire-arrows – those accursed fire-pots of Alexandria. Only a madman would still practise ramming as a tactic.
‘Prepare for ramming,’ he confirmed. ‘But let ’em come in close first.’
‘Then there won’t be enough distance to get up to speed.’
Aetius did not repeat orders.
‘You think like an old legionary,’ said Prince Theodoric quietly, having overcome his sulks about the helmet.
Aetius frowned. ‘Meaning?’
Thedoric looked at him respectfully but without fear. ‘Meaning, you want to get up close to your enemy, engage face to face, looking him in the eye, and stab him in the guts with your old-fashioned gladius. You think that’s how a true-hearted man fights, and you think to do the same at sea. You want to ram and hole this pair beneath the waterline, right up close. But there are two of them, and they stand higher than us. Ram one and you will get stuck yourself. The other will come alongside and we’ll be attacked on two fronts. Each pirate ship probably carries a hundred cutthroats. My wolf-lords are valiant beyond words, but they are not superhuman. They will all be destroyed.’ The young prince braced his shoulders. ‘And I will not have them destroyed.’
This haughty, blue-eyed prince in his gold-fillet, an unsalted adolescent, offering criticism of his naval tactics…? But Aetius quelled his indignation. ‘Trust me,’ he said.
The second ship was a mile or two off now, moving in close astern. They were to be surrounded, as expected. But the Cygnus would surprise them. Never do the expected. Alchemical Alexandrian fripperies won no battles, but rather courage, discipline, and a dash of the wholly unexpected. Aetius grinned. It was good to be fighting again.
Before boarding at Massilia he had ordered a big grappling-iron and a couple of boarding-planks from the naval stores. Now he commanded them to be brought up and laid at the stern of the ship, the grappling-iron roped.
‘The stern? But we’re ramming at the bow!’
‘Just follow orders, sailor.’ He went below.
They were magnificent men but they looked terrified, these Gothic spearmen, sea-green and shaky. The massive clunk of the ram, the sounds of battle at sea, would terrify them. They were fine and powerful, but barbarian and undisciplined. Today they might die, here in these salt wastes far from home. How could a sea death be a heroic death? Food for fish. It was not the Visigothic way. They looked to their princes and this commander, this Aetius, the Roman beloved of King Theodoric, and saw that he did not have the aura of death about him today.
Prince Torismond appeared beside Aetius.
‘Trust me,’ said the general again. ‘Consider the regard I have for your father. There is no Christian king finer, and you are his sons. You are in my care.’ Would that King Theodoric cared so much for his daughter, he thought bitterly.
Torismond looked a little reassured.
He sent further orders to the master. ‘Unchain the slaves now. The instant we ram, pull them back from below. You understand? To the stern. Shift the ballast to the bows. Our foredeck will soon be smashed in from above by pirate missiles. Keep the wolf-lords hidden until the moment I give the order. And ready your sailors to throw out the grappling-iron.’
‘Where?’
‘The second ship,’ said Aetius patiently.
‘How do you know she’ll come anywhere near?’
‘She’ll come. Hook her in, then throw out the boarding-planks.’
The pirates must have been flogging their enslaved rowers nearly to death, their vessels came on so fast. The first was only half a mile off now, the second still two or three miles off but closing fast.
‘Pull us up to full speed.’
‘We can’t outrun them.’ The master was right. The first pirate ship was already turning, ready to cut across their bows.
‘I don’t intend to outrun them. I intend to engage them.’
The rowers were driven harder.
From the nearing enemy ship, a couple of exploratory arrows came over the water but fell short. At the prow they could see her captain, narrowing his eyes. Very tall and whip-thin, with long, lank hair, bleached fair in sea and sun. He was naked but for a thick gold torc round his neck, torn breeches and a wide sword-belt, sword bare in his hand. More of his cutthroats sat along the yardarm with bows and arrows.
The Cygnus surged forward steadily, the pirate ship inexorably gaining on her, curving in tight. Away to their right was the little sunlit island of Melos. The Visigothic spearmen crouched below, beside the unchained slaves. The two ships closed slowly, amid the vast serenity of the sea.
Not taking his eyes from the enemy ship for one second, Aetius said to the brothers beside him, ‘You can swim, can’t you?’
They shook their heads miserably.
‘Then today you might have to learn – either that or make sure we don’t go down. Order your wolf-lords well.’
As she closed, they could see the pirate ship better: the Draco, with a saurian red dragon painted along the boards. Rufus squinted across to the second ship, which was giving them a wide berth, coming in astern; her prow was scratched with crude runes.
‘The Vandal tongue,’ said Aetius.
‘It looks like “ Halfish ” or something.’
‘Haifisch – the Shark.’ He roared below, ‘Wolf-lords at the ready!’
The master looked deeply unhappy.
Suddenly the Draco hauled round, her oars digging into the backwash, and came broadside on to this helpless fleeing merchant ship, blocking her off.
‘These pirates must be just out of school,’ murmured Aetius. ‘Ramming speed – now!’
Immediately the hortator ’s drum below accelerated into a furious rhythm, and the bosun’s lash whipped through the fetid air below. The slaves hauled on their oars, blistered and bleeding hands straining in one last effort, and the Cygnus surged forwards, straight towards the Draco.
The pirates stared at the oncoming ship, dumbfounded. The Haifisch altered course again to keep up with it.
‘That’s it,’ muttered one old hand. ‘We’re finished now. Good as sunk.’
‘Correct,’ said Aetius, arms folded, smiling. He strode to the stern and dropped down. The wolf-lords sat
