‘Ten stades and we’re safe,’ Peleus said out loud. He cheated his helm another fraction to the north. ‘Oar master, give us a touch of speed.’
The oar master started to call the beat, and the upper-deck oarsmen gave way with a will, rowing carefully so that the drag of their oars wouldn’t fight the last push of the breeze.
‘Sail down on my command,’ Satyrus sang out, and got a nod from Peleus, and the deck master had them all lined up, with Agathon handling a rope despite the stripes on his back – he’d been punished in Xanthos that morning, beaten with a rope.
The breeze was failing them as they came in with the land. It was a matter of judgment as to when the oars were of use, and then again when the sails became a liability – the sort of fine judgment that could make all the difference in the world.
‘Lower decks ready,’ the oar master called.
‘Mainsail down,’ Satyrus called at a nod from Peleus.
The deck crew released lines at the rail and the sail folded to the deck in a gleam of red. The pirates – if the dark hulls were pirates – were coming up fast. Their bows shone clear – the Phoenician had a pair of eyes painted above his ram.
Something flashed astern, out of the sun, and splashed into the sea well astern, and then there was the sound of a distant thud.
‘There they are,’ Peleus said. ‘Same fucking ships.’ He pulled the steering oar a little farther to the north, so that their course lay opposite to that of the Lesbian merchantman on the southern tack.
‘All oars!’ he roared. ‘Best speed, boys!’
Off to the south, the warship squadron was at full speed now, but Peleus had fooled them by steering farther to the north of his course every stade. They were coming on in a column, led by the two heaviest ships, and despite having the advantage of the tide and fuller galleries of rowers, they weren’t gaining ground. But there they were, like breakers or a lee shore, a threat that couldn’t be ignored.
‘Macedonians. Some Corinthians, and maybe an Asiatic,’ Peleus said. ‘Antigonus’s fleet.’ He shook his head. ‘You can’t see it, but we’re already past them. They’ll give up in a minute – they’d better, or we’re in a lot more trouble.’
The bolt-thrower astern fired again, and the bolt skipped over the waves to pass them before it sank.
‘Poseidon, I hate those things,’ Peleus swore. ‘A new calf smoking on your altar, Wave-Treader, if you will see me safe into Rhodos.’
One more time, as they heard the protests of the Lesbian, Peleus moved the steering oar and pushed the bow north, so that they were now on the opposite tack to the merchant ship, almost at right angles to their initial course, and the two pirates astern had to fetch their wake to make distance. They were no longer losing the race, and the angry merchant ship, which had to turn south to avoid collision with the madmen aboard the Lotus, called insults as they shot by.
‘And will the pirates take the easy prey?’ Peleus asked. ‘And how dare they come so close to Rhodos?’
Satyrus shook his head.
Sure enough, away to the south and west, the military squadron had abandoned their chase. Dark was coming on, and they needed a beach.
‘Look at that!’ Peleus said.
Astern, the two pirates ignored the merchant ship, which actually passed between them with another chorus of insults.
‘They’ve been paid well,’ Peleus said. ‘Ready to take the helm?’
Satyrus walked over. ‘Ready to take the helm,’ he said, and took the oar into his hands. The living ship moved under his grip.
‘You have the helm,’ Peleus said.
‘I have the helm,’ Satyrus said.
‘On my word, we’re turning ninety degrees off our course and running for the harbour.’ Peleus left him and ran forward, calling to the oar master.
Satyrus grinned, suddenly understanding. Because the Macedonian squadron was pulling for its night beach, they’d opened a different road into the harbour – in effect, the Lotus would pursue them – and the pirates would once again have lost ground. Too much ground this time to overtake.
‘Everyone together – steering oar keep her steady, and the oar banks will turn us. Ready? All ready? On my command,’ Peleus shouted. Heads came up as all the bench leaders showed that they understood.
The ship rowed another stroke north. Peleus was watching the pirates. Satyrus didn’t even turn his head. That was Peleus’s job now.
‘Hard to port!’ Peleus roared.
Instantly, the oar master translated the order into rowing orders. In three heartbeats, the port oar banks were backing water, the steering oar bit deep, and every sailor and deckhand on the half-deck ran to the starboard side and threw themselves outboard, and forward the marines and archers did the same. Satyrus, eyes on the bow, saw his sister and Dorcus throw themselves on the outboard lines like deck-crewmen. Every bit would count.
The Lotus turned from north to west in twice her own length and raced on, her way virtually undiminished.
Aft, the predators couldn’t even get their engine to bear. They rowed on for precious seconds as their prey jigged like a rabbit chased by dogs, and then they took too long to make the turn – the heavier Phoenician trireme took so long to make the manoeuvre that she was almost a stade north of her prey and lost several stades in distance.
The big Phoenician chose to lose more ground and fire his machine again. It was his last throw – it cost more time and more manoeuvres.
‘Lie down!’ Peleus shouted, and got his back against the stem. He looked stricken as he realized that Satyrus was standing up with nowhere to hide – a long-stretched moment as Satyrus saw the bolt leap from the engine in the last of the sun, but it passed harmlessly off to the south, mistimed, and the older man straightened up with a wry look for his own worries.
As the last fingers of the sun reached across the wine-dark sea, Lotus shot past the headland at ramming speed and into the outer harbour, the pirates already turning away in their wake. Down on the beach below the Temple of Apollo, a small crowd of onlookers cheered them as Peleus ordered the rowers to crash-stop the ship, putting their oars into the water against her momentum.
Peleus rubbed his back and straightened. ‘All’s well that ends well,’ he said. He shook his head. ‘Too damned close for an old man.’
‘I never saw your trick coming – neither did the pirates!’ Satyrus said.
Peleus just shook his head. ‘Your sister’s right,’ he said. ‘My nerve ain’t what she used to be.’
They unloaded a hidden cargo of finer things – amulets, engraved seal stones and super-fine Aegyptian linen – and the real cargo, Aegyptian emmer wheat. Leon’s factor had already arranged buyers for every item, and Satyrus, as the navarch, received a small bundle of papyrus notations indicating the value of the cargo and the final sale. Not an obol changed hands – the money stayed on paper, where pirates couldn’t seize it.
‘Athenian tanned hides to Smyrna,’ Satyrus said.
‘Already loading,’ the factor said smugly. ‘Glad you know your business, boy, but we know ours. Nestor the Gaul is factor in Smyrna. Land him the hides and he’ll have a load of stuff for you to carry back to Aegypt. Wool and oil, that’s my guess.’ The short man smiled for the first time. ‘He must love you, boy. Trusted you with the Lotus.’
Satyrus smiled in confusion and let that comment go.
Peleus took him from the factor’s office to the Rhodian navy’s offices by the Temple of Poseidon, just above the ship sheds. ‘Every officer is supposed to report in,’ Peleus said. ‘If you plan to stay in this business, you’ll do well to be one of them.’
Satyrus went up the steps with Peleus. By the time they were abreast of the courtyard of the temple, a dozen scarred veterans had greeted Peleus with the utmost respect. They went in through a row of painted wooden columns and joined a dozen men in weather-worn chitons and oil-smeared cloaks gathered around a pair of older men on wooden stools.
‘Peleus!’ said the oldest, a gnarled man with a beard as white as the snow on Olympus. ‘I heard a report you
