Dwayne stood with men lining the prow and speared any Carthaginians trying to climb the hull and lion edifice to board the bireme. A heavily armored man dropped from the ship to land with a clatter on the base of the ram. He stood clawing upward to find the purchase to pull himself aboard. His iron perch gave way beneath him as the ram fell away from the ship like an enormous anchor. It dropped into the chop with an engulfing splash. The armored man was sucked beneath the surface, an anguished squeal cut short.
Released all at once from the burden of the ram, the deck heaved under the defenders with a grating quake. The planks rushed up to meet them. Dwayne fell hard. The shaft of his spear broke under his weight. The blade skittered away over the boards. The rest of the crew crashed to the gore-slick deck. The Lion bobbed back upright. The mast whipped forward and back with a screech of protest from the keelson below. The oarsmen beneath decks were thrown from their benches. Ahinadab slid on his ass to come up hard against the foot of the still-humming mast.
The Carthaginian trireme was a pyre now as it reached flashpoint. The top spar collapsed to the deck, trapping men under a blazing mantle of the sail. Flames greedily consumed the tar infused timbers and raced up the lines. Men leaped from every deck. More struggled in the water to keep their heads above the current crashing in to broach the trireme. They made sounds much like the terrified pigs made when they were tossed to the sea. Many were drawn back toward the careening ship and carried under the hull into the dark water. Those wearing armor vanished from sight with a single cry. Crewmen clung to the broken stems of oars in the golden glitter of the blaze off the choppy foam. Water swept over the freeboard as the ship heeled harder to port, drawn down by the torrent gushing inboard through the crippling wounds to its side. The ship canted sharply, and the hull rolled down to crush men struggling in the water. Down along its port stern and half-submerged, the exposed wood of the ship still burned. Sparks flew up through a thick pall of black smoke streaked with white that blotted the stars.
The rowers on the Lion regained their places and pulled hard to gain distance from the yawning inferno. Yada had returned to the helm and guided them along the shallowing water. The crater lake had reached its lowest ebb and spikes of rocks were revealed by the fallen water levels to either side, leaving only a pond of deep water at the center.
The crippled wolf’s head trireme lay half out of the water where it grounded on rocks. Its crew stood at the rails howling in impotent rage at the Phoenician ship now dropping anchor in what remained of the lake. This amused the crew of the Lion, who jeered back at the careened ship lying beached like an immense evil fish.
The flames of the burning vessel soon had no more to feed upon. The dark closed in. The bowl of black rock echoed with cries. Men in the water called out the names of fellow crewmen or of gods. Their voices grew fewer and fewer as the cataract of the withdrawing tide pulled them under and away. All that remained was the smoke that hung atop the water like a fog rich with the stink of cooked meat.
Dwayne was gasping for air. The rush of adrenaline was leaching from his body and his legs and arms tingled with a chill that he knew meant that pain was coming. He used his body hard for what had felt like a whole day, but he knew was probably less than an hour. It was a good hurt. Pain meant you were alive. He joined the giddy laughter of the crew that rose above the cries of the wounded.
“We kicked their asses!” he roared to those around him who nodded and laughed though they understood not one word. “We. Kicked. Their. Motherfucking. Asses!”
“Dwayne.”
Caroline was beside him. She was drenched, and stank like a shithouse. He crushed her to him and held her close. He rested his cheek on her matted hair and closed his eyes to hold the moment.
She broke away and looked at him from arm’s length.
“You’re hurt,” she said.
“I don’t know. Maybe. Most of the blood is someone else’s.” He sank to the deck, suddenly exhausted.
She knelt and ran hands over him. Angry bruises to his arms and legs were growing black. A long cut ran down his chest and another gash to his side. Neither was deep. They’d still need sutures. They’d need to be cleaned as well.
“We’re both in bad shape.” He took her wrists to look at her hands. They were raw and bleeding.
“Yeah. Wasn’t it you who told me never to volunteer?” Caroline winced as he pulled a long splinter from her palm. She hadn’t even noticed it.
“Not me. I’m the dope who raises his hand every time. The shit hits the fan, and I’m your man.” He pulled her against him as he lowered his back to the deck.
“Big dope,” she said and rested her head against him, his hand brushing her hair from her brow.
They were both asleep even before they closed their eyes.
50
No Mercy
The morning sun touched the lip of the crater, then descended down the west wall, drawing back the black shadows like a curtain to reveal the aftermath of the night’s battle.
Bloated corpses covered with feeding sea birds lay among the rocks or drifted in the shallows. The bottom of the crater was fogged with smoke from the smoldering wreck of the trireme lying on its side like flotsam along one wall of the gap