crammed along the sides of the underdeck clutching their spears in their huge hands, yet looking like men about to go into arena naked and unarmed, or to their execution. Aetius nodded to them. He told them not to be afraid. He told them their one hope of survival now, and it was a good one. ‘Lay aside your ashwood spears,’ he said. ‘This is close-up sword-work.’ He explained what they must do. ‘Imagine you’re taking a castle,’ he said. ‘If you fail to take it, you drown. We all drown – food for the circling Haifisch.’
The wolf-lords drew their swords.
The pirate ship wallowed and struggled, trying to turn again from this impossibly belligerent prey, even as her ragged archers let loose their arrows onto the exposed decks but hit nothing. The Cygnus’ bronze-headed ram, more decoration than weapon of war these days, drove on through the water like some terrible sea serpent, white ripples curling back over its length. The master bellowed down below, the lash flailed. They were but fifty yards off, thirty, twenty… The pirate ship staggered and lurched as they slammed into her amidships with a terrible splintering crash. It wasn’t top ramming-speed but it was enough. The ramhead punched straight through the bulwarks of the astonished Draco, and the sea began to pour in.
It was a pact of mutually assured destruction. Immediately, the enraged pirates began to lever huge missiles, boulders and lumps of lead up over the high sides of the wounded Draco and drop them onto the decks of the pestilent prey below. One went straight through the oak deck and into the shivering rowing-hold beneath. But the master had followed Aetius’ orders to the letter: the unchained slaves were already pulled back from their rowing benches. The timbers were smashed but no men were hurt. The wooden walls of that narrow world began to collapse and the dark waters surged in.
Torismond had a vision of the ship, a puny raft of life afloat on a black and infinite abyss, full of death, of creatures unknown, spawn of moonlight and black night. And this raft was being smashed to splinters beneath them. It was insanity. They would all die. But Aetius had said to trust him. Very well. He drew his sword. War’s no sorcery, and bravery alone wins battles. That was Aetius’ creed, as the prince was learning. Like his loyalties, and his haircut, hopelessly old-fashioned.
The Haifisch was drawing behind them, determined to avenge the damage to her sister ship.
‘Loyalty among pirates,’ sneered Aetius. ‘Wonders are many! Throw out the grappling-iron!’
The great barnacled claw rang hard upon the Haifisch ’s sides and then fell back into the water. Instantly the sailors hauled it up and threw it out again. Theodoric needed no instruction to give them covering fire as surprised pirate archers tried to hit them. His own close band of half a dozen Visigothic archers returned far more aggressive fire, and the pirates ducked behind their bulwarks, as surprised as the crew of the Draco at this unexpected belligerence. They were supposed to be taking prey. Now the prey was taking them.
The grappling-iron flew spinning out again, slipped against the planking and then one barbed tine dropped and stuck hard over the lip of an oar-port. Perfect. Too low for a pirate to sweep down a sword-blade to cut it away, even if any dared brave the Visigothic arrows. Already the pirates were beginning to wonder if loyalty to their sister ship was such a good idea. There was only a handful of archers on this enemy ship, plus that hard-faced Roman commander in his red cloak, who’d fetch a good ransom if taken alive. But still, the pirates felt ill-omened. One of them was already nursing an arm struck with a white-feathered arrow. There was something they hadn’t understood today.
A pirate stood up and loosed a javelin towards a sailor, but the nimble Libyan skipped aside and it stuck quivering in the deck. He pulled it free and lobbed it back. Not a serious throw, but the pirate ducked back smartly, cursing.
‘Haul in!’ roared Aetius.
The sailors set their callused bare feet against the boards of the Cygnus and obeyed. Slowly, very slowly, the Haifisch began to drift in helplessly, broadside on. There was an angry cry from above, an order or warning from its captain. But it was too late.
There came another monstrous crash from the bows. The Cygnus’ splintered deck was holed again, and the mainmast began to lean forward. Water was flooding in below, floating the ballast of sand barrels. The ship groaned and began to tilt sickeningly forwards. The mainmast creaked ominously.
‘Haul for your lives if you’d live to see tomorrow!’ bellowed Aetius. Soon the Haifisch jolted against the poop of the Cygnus, which was raised up by the counterweight of the water pouring into her bows.
Raised up. Nearer and nearer to the high parapet of the pirate ship. The master breathed out slowly, his bafflement and fear at last turning into something else. The timbers of his beloved Cygnus were creaking and screaming, the poor vessel tearing herself apart at the seams, yet serving in her very death throes as an unexpected siege-engine for boarding the hooked Shark at their rear. He felt a surge of hope, and sudden admiration for this obdurate Aetius. Master-General of the West, was he? Then maybe the West was in good hands.
‘More ballast to the fore!’
A crazy order on a sinking ship under assault, but now the master understood. A couple of lithe, sun- blackened sailors scrambled below, leaping over the straining line of the grappling-rope and rolling the last barrels down the steepening incline of the lower deck. The prow sank further in the water, the ram stuck into the belly of the Draco grinding her down into the depths with it. The poop deck rose further.
Aetius grinned at the princes. ‘Think your wolf-lords can vault that now?’
Theodoric nodded. ‘No problem.’
‘Then take it.’
‘Wolf-lords!’ The old Gothic war-cry.
The magnificent warriors, needing no second bidding to escape the fetid and drowning darkness, driven by a powerful mix of fear and battle-fury, came buckled and armoured up the steps at a run, shining blades in hand. The pirates looked down in shock at this erupting tide of red cloaks and straw-coloured plumes. What in Hell’s name had they taken on? This was no ordinary ship. They would be lucky to escape with their lives.
With the ships locked together in their fatal embrace, the crew of the Draco had fallen silent and inactive. At the appearance of the wolf-lords, however, they realised that the battle was on to take charge of the Haifisch, the only seaworthy ship left of the three. In an instant they were swarming over the sides of their own listing vessel and dropping down onto the foredeck of the Cygnus, now almost at water level. They tried to fight their way up, but the deck was slippery and sloped against them. Another foresight of Aetius’. As they scrambled up, they were met by three men with drawn swords, two fair-headed adolescents and an older, grey-haired fellow with a certain look in his eyes which suggested he’d seen battle before. Soon the decks were more slippery still with Vandal blood. For a few seconds Aetius, Torismond and Theodoric manned this second front alone, swords sweeping and thrusting, cutting down the oncoming pirates with ruthless despatch, letting the slain fall back into their scrambling comrades. Then the Visigothic archers loosed arrows in from the sides, and the pirates of the Draco knew the day was lost along with their ship. Now they understood very well the temper of those they had so foolishly chosen to attack this bright summer’s day. There was nothing left for it. They threw themselves into the sea.
The handful of scrawny pirates on the Haifisch were similarly outfought. Accustomed to taking harmless passenger vessels for kidnap and ransom, or fat, wallowing cargo ships laden with amphorae of oil and wine, they were stricken helpless. No match for the fifty Gothic wolf-lords vaulting in over the high bulwarks, swords drawn, teeth bared, long hair flying. There was hardly a fight to be had, to the wolf-lords’ considerable disappointment. Though unable to swim, like most sailors, who superstitiously regard the skill as a kind of temptation to fate, the second crew, too, gave themselves up to the dark, still waters of the Aegean. Any who lingered were swiftly cut to pieces, their lifeless bodies following into the foaming pink brine.
There came a strange sound from behind, like the bubbling of a drain in a rainstorm, though far greater, more sonorous. The rumbling of some vast and nameless sea creature, perhaps. It was the Cygnus at last going down, joined prow to broadside with the Draco in fatal embrace. The masts of the two ships collapsed into each other like tired lovers. The timbers creaked, the decks were washed and swamped. From below decks on the Draco, anguished cries: the pirates had not troubled to unchain their oar-slaves. And then, amid the cries of terror and lamentation, cries of desperate hope.
Aetius glanced around. Torismond had vanished.
The slaves of the Cygnus, meanwhile, were swarming after the Gothic swordsmen to the safety of the abandoned Haifisch. Then came the sailors, then Aetius and Theodoric, and finally the master himself, kneeling only to kiss the decks of his dying ship in time-honoured tradition, before abandoning her to the seas.
Slaves were emerging above deck on the half-drowned Draco and rolling over into the water. Theodoric
