outline of a high prow and forward-sweeping sternpost indicated a Mediterranean-style war galley. Smaller than the Armata, she appeared motionless, seemingly sitting on her oars in the shipping lane just around Lepte Point.
‘She is not alone.’ Maximus had always had keen eyes. ‘Beyond her.’
Ballista strained to penetrate the murk. Another dark shape, a second, then a third. ‘How many do you see?’
‘Six – there could be a seventh.’
Ballista could make out four now. The two he could see best had a prow at either end. ‘Bruteddius, turn us around, and get us away from here.’
‘Gothic longboats?’ The trierarch was tugging his beard.
‘Gothic longboats.’
Bruteddius shrugged. ‘That explains the empty sea and the beacons.’
‘We will fight them.’ No one had noticed Felix arrive on the fo’c’s’le. ‘We will go to the aid of the liburnian. It is unfitting we should run.’
‘They have seen us,’ said the bow officer. ‘They are getting under way.’
Ballista addressed Felix. ‘It is too late for the liburnian. She is with them.’
‘Unstep the masts; main and bowsprit.’ Bruteddius’s voice carried throughout the ship. The crew moved promptly at their trierarch’s command.
‘This is a trireme,’ said Felix. ‘We can fight them all.’
‘No,’ said Ballista bluntly. ‘Our marines and artillery were left in Byzantium. None of our rowers are armed; all of their men will be.’
‘We will manoeuvre, use the ram.’ There was no doubting the old senator’s martial spirit.
‘They would grapple us.’ Ballista shook his head. ‘Seven or eight ships – they would be on us like a pack of hounds.’
Both masts were down. The gaggle of passengers was impeding them from being securely lashed to the deck, getting tangled in the coils of the back and forestays. ‘All civilians sit down,’ bellowed Bruteddius. ‘Well spread out and not in the way.’
The trierarch led the men of rank back to the stern. Maximus had vanished.
‘All rowers to benches. Prepare for fast turn to left. On the command, starboard oars full pressure; larboard side, back her down hard; steering-oars, hard over.’
A chair was produced for Felix. He waved it away.
‘Now!’ The rowing master and the bow officer repeated the call.
The great galley surged forward and heeled. Her starboard lowest-level oarports almost under water, her ear dipping towards the sea, she circumscribed a tight circle. In a matter of moments, Bruteddius had her levelled off and racing back to the west.
Ballista looked over the stern. The Goths had gained appreciably. Now he could see five longboats behind the liburnian. As he watched, the blast of a horn echoed across. It was answered by seven or eight more.
Bruteddius spat over the side. ‘We have a start, and we have the legs on them. It has already been a longish row, but the boys have rested in turn. Anyway, fear gives a man stamina.’
No sooner were the words out than another horn rang out. It came from somewhere ahead and to the left. Another blast followed.
‘We were being followed,’ said Ballista.
‘Helmsman, take us out to the north-west, out into the deep sea.’ Clearly, Bruteddius was not given to panic. ‘Clear for action. Spare oars to all levels. Spread sand on the deck. Complete silence. Only officers to speak.’
Ballista knew what orders had not been given. This called for some tact. He turned to Felix. ‘ Dominus, I have commanded a trireme in action before. If the trierarch agrees, should I organize what fighting men we have?’
The elderly senator nodded gravely. ‘That would be best. I have never been called to fight at sea. My four bodyguards and myself are at your disposal.’
The chase soon took on its pattern. The Armata, throwing a big bow wave, forged through the dull sea. Directly astern, a little more than half a mile away, mainly visible through the gloom, were the liburnian and eight longboats. Somewhat further back, off south-east, were two more northern warships; these drifted in and out of sight.
Normally, Bruteddius would have been right: the trireme most likely would have outrun her pursuers. But, despite his reassuring words, the oarsmen of the Armata had been rowing, more on than off, for hours, since shortly after dawn. The Goths seemed fresher. At least, they were keeping station, if not actually gaining a trifle.
Bruteddius spoke. ‘The pilot says that, on this course, there is nothing between us and the Island of Achilles off the mouths of the Danube three hundred miles or more. We could edge to the north. The Crimean Bosphorus is no more than a hundred and sixty-odd miles.’ No one stated the obvious: the Goths would run them down long before they reached either.
Maximus reappeared with his weapons and equipment and that of Ballista. With him were Calgacus and Hippothous, already kitted out. As he armed, Ballista ascertained the number of warriors aboard. Four in his familia. Felix’s four bodyguards. The old man insisted on arming too. Rutilus and Castricius added just themselves. Bruteddius, of course, was a long-service centurion. Twelve men, one rather long in the tooth.
Ballista asked for volunteers from the entourages. Twenty answered the call. Ballista rejected six, among them the youths Wulfstan and Bauto. However, he gave each of the boys one of the many knives in his kit. They would not wish to be enslaved again. The eunuch Mastabates was one of those accepted. There were pikes and boarding axes aboard. These and the warriors’ spare weapons were doled out. Twenty-six men in all, less than half trained. Hopeless.
The sun broke through the haze. Everything was suddenly illuminated. Through the tendrils of mist, nine Gothic vessels astern, two more further behind on the larboard quarter. Say a minimum of thirty warriors in each. Over three hundred armed men against fewer than thirty. No sort of odds. Utterly hopeless.
The sun went in again. Grey wisps of vapour rose again. The grim chase went on.
‘I cannot understand why they would chase a warship,’ said Felix. ‘There must be easier, richer pickings. They do not know we have no marines or engines.’
‘They know everything about us.’ Bruteddius spoke quietly.
‘How?’
‘Someone from Abonouteichos told them.’
‘Never.’ Flat disbelief in Felix’s voice.
‘They are Goths, but to some they are just pirates. All latrones, on land or sea, get information from locals.’ Bruteddius sounded resigned.
‘No citizen would do such a thing!’
Ballista gently intervened. ‘The cases you heard at Amastris, Dominus? You condemned two men to the arena for joining in the barbarians’ depredations.’
The chase ground on. The water still sang down the sides of the Armata, but slower now. The oarsmen were tiring fast. Their open-mouthed faces were masks from a tragedy. Their breathing came in sobs. Their sweat dripped on the men below, puddled in the hold. Individuals were starting to miss their stroke. The banks of oars were becoming ragged, like the damaged wings of a bird. The Goths were coming up hand over fist. No more than three hundred yards of clear water separated the sternpost of the Armata from the ram of the liburnian.
Ballista ran through his pre-battle ritual: the dagger, sword, the healing stone. Wordless, he embraced Calgacus and Maximus. He shook hands with Hippothous, Rutilus and Castricius. The latter hugged him close. The sombre, gathering darkness of the day was fitting. Ballista’s main regret was not seeing his sons grow. Maybe in Valhalla, if there was such a thing or something like it.
Bruteddius had stopped tugging at his beard. The old seaman actually laughed.
Dull witted, everyone at the stern stopped gazing at the Goths and looked at Bruteddius. The trierarch called out loud to his rowers. ‘One last effort, boys. Less than half an hour, pueri, and we are safe.’
Bruteddius turned and pointed ahead. There, curving across the Kindly Sea, was a solid bank of fog.
