'He's seen us,' Neiron said. He was looking into the late winter sun, and the sparkle on the wave-tops was enough to fool most eyes. 'Coming about.'
Satyrus got a hand on the standing shroud and pulled himself up until he was standing on the rail. The speed of their passage – crisp west wind heeling them over – raised his chiton and he slapped it down.
Far off, almost to the horizon, the other ship's masts were narrowing, coming together.
'Yes,' Satyrus said.
A week on Rhodos and ten days to Byzantium – a meal, a hug from Abraham and from Theron, an exchange of orders and off again, leaving Sandokes and Panther of Rhodos to bring the fleet along after the interval he had commanded. He had hoped to slip by the picket at the Bosporus – indeed, he'd counted on it.
Abraham and Theron had been successful – and that meant that he needed an anchorage in the Euxine – an anchorage to windward of Pantecapaeum. Lysimachos had contributed a mere three triremes and a hundred marines – but his alliance meant a great deal more than that. Theron had done well.
And Demostrate, the pirate king, was still in hand – thanks to Abraham, the old man clasped hands with a wary Panther, as if he had always been a friend of Rhodos. Satyrus had left them watching each other warily.
Manes had glowered, his eyes doing everything but glow red. But his ships had followed as well.
Satyrus had passed the Bosporus as fast as his rowers could manage and the gods favoured him with a perfect wind, so that the moment the Lotus's bow had passed the rocks at the exit to the channel, he had spread both his sails and turned east, the wind astern. Everything had been perfect for a fast passage – except the warship to windward.
'He'll never catch us,' Neiron said after the sand-glass was turned.
Satyrus shook his head. 'He doesn't have to catch us.' He stamped his foot in pure annoyance. 'Never, ever underestimate your opponent. I didn't think Eumeles had the captains to keep the sea all winter. Listen, Neiron – we're in the Golden Lotus. Every sailor in the Euxine knows this ship.'
Neiron nodded. 'In other words…' Neiron said, his eyes now rising to the sky and the weather.
'In other words, we have to take him,' Satyrus said. An hour later, they had their pursuer dead astern, a heavy trireme or perhaps a decked penteres with extra rowers – hard to tell. Whichever warship he might be, he had a heavy crew and a deep draught for a galley, and carried his sail well.
Golden Lotus might have had no trouble outrunning the heavier ship, if that had been his aim. Instead, Neiron had the mainsail badly brailed and the boatsail set nearly fore and aft, drawing as little wind as he could without attracting attention – and the big leather sea anchor was being dragged in the wake, which made Satyrus's job at the helm far more difficult. The Lotus was labouring like a plough horse, and Satyrus's arms were taking the whole weight of the struggle. He was out of shape – he was feeling the effects of weeks in bed. Wrestling sailors and eating like a bull were helping, but he'd lost muscle and he knew it.
Astern, their pursuer had his lower oar deck manned, and they were pulling like heroes racing for a prize – which, in fact, they were. The lower deck pushed the ship just a little faster and kept her stiff and upright.
'That's a right sailor,' Neiron said approvingly. 'Knows his business.'
'Too well,' Satyrus said. He pointed to where a scarlet chiton could be seen standing on the enemy ship's bow. 'He's looking at our wake. Stesagoras!' Satyrus called to his new Alexandrian deck master. 'Look alive, Stesagoras! Get ready to cut the sea anchor free. At my command, Philaeus! Prepare to go about – oars in the water.' Philaeus was his new oar master, one of Leon's professionals.
Philaeus could be heard relaying the commands and adding his own – reversing the port-side benches.
Lotus had all his benches manned, despite the fact that his sides were closed. For now.
The pursuer was manning his upper benches. 'He wants to surprise us when he turns away,' Satyrus said.
'He knows his business,' Neiron said again.
'Show them our oars,' Satyrus called.
Philaeus had a beautiful voice – deep and melodious, like a priest. 'Open the ports! In the leather! Ready, and steady, and oars!'
All together, like a peacock's tail, the Golden Lotus showed her oars – all three decks at once.
'Turn to port!' Satyrus ordered.
The port oars on all three banks were already reversed. From the first stroke, he leaned on the steering oars.
Stesagoras severed the sea anchor himself with one shrewd blow of a fighting axe. The whole hull rang and the Lotus went from plough horse to racehorse in a single bound. Then the deck master ran down the central fighting deck. 'Sails!' he called. 'Brail up tight and drop the yards. Look lively, lads!'
The wind on the sails pushed against the rowers for precious seconds, but then the yards came down – the advantage of a triemiolia was that his masts could stand even during a fight, allowing him to carry sail longer and drop it faster. The dropped yards covered the half-deck and not the oarsmen, who rowed on.
The sailors and the deckhands laboured to get the mass of flapping linen canvas under control – but the ram was already halfway around.
'Poseidon!' Neiron shouted.
'Herakles,' Satyrus said. He picked up a wineskin that the helmsman kept under the bench and flung it over the side full, without even pulling the plug. 'We need all the help we can get,' he said, but he laughed and felt the power on him.
Stesagoras waded into the mainsail, his long arms gathering material as he went, and suddenly there were ten men visible on the canvas, and then – just like that – the mainsail was half the size, a quarter, and then the heavy bundle was being lashed to the mast. The boatsail was already gone.
Their pursuer was just starting his turn, his oars out and rowing crisply, his port-side benches reversed – but the range was short and the larger ship was having his own troubles.
Satyrus's archers shot a volley of arrows and received a volley in return. There were screams from forward.
'Oar-rake and board,' Satyrus said. 'Neiron, take the helm.'
Neiron's hands shot out and took the steering oars. 'I have the helm,' he shouted over the screams from the bow.
'You have the helm,' Satyrus said again and relinquished control. Helios had his breastplate in its bag out from under the bench and he pulled it on, somewhat surprised to see that despite the weather, the breastplate gleamed like gold and the helmet was as silver as the moon. His arming cap was damp and cold, but the breastplate was colder.
An arrow glanced off his backplate and stung his arm, scarring Helios along the thigh before vanishing over the side. He looked up from the buckles to the fight.
'They're shooting downwind,' Neiron said. Another arrow passed so close that Helios ducked.
'Archer captain's down!' Stesagoras passed from amidships.
'Any time, Navarch!' Neiron said.
'Take him,' Satyrus said. 'I'm away.' He turned to Helios, who was fully armed. 'With me, lad,' he said. He ran forward even as he heard Philaeus call for the ramming speed. The enemy galley, having passed from hunter to prey, was turning away towards the south coast of the Euxine, obviously intending to save himelf by beaching.
An arrow passed so close to Satyrus's helmet that its passing sounded like the ripping of fine linen. The ship leaped forward between his feet – he could feel the change in motion – but the enemy ship was turning, faster. And faster. Satyrus ran forward as Philaeus bellowed for the starboard-side rowers to back water – a chancy manoeuvre, but one that was faster than actually reversing benches. The deck shifted under his feet.
Satyrus got forward and found his new archer captain dead with a Sakje shaft just over his nose and another under his arm. The archers were all down with their heads safe under the bulkheads. 'They murdered us!' one called.
Satyrus counted three dead – of eight archers. As he counted, a blow rocked his helmet and he saw stars and fell flat on the deck – but his helmet turned the arrow. Helios gave him a hand and he got to his feet. Then an arrow hit the boy and stuck in his quilted corslet. Helios gave a whimper and then clamped down on it and crouched beneath the bulkhead, trying to get the arrow out of his side.
'Son of a bitch!' Satyrus said. He picked up a fallen bow, raised his head and shot. He had no idea where his arrow went and immediately reached for another arrow.
