‘Poor devils,’ Cato muttered to himself. He could see that the legate was right, and watched the crews desperately drive their vessels on as the sea began to broil around them. White-capped waves rose and fell, and clouds of spray burst across their decks.
The full wrath of the storm struck home as the leading ships were no more than half a mile from the comparative safety of the bay. Even though the earlier arrivals were in the shelter of the headland, their commanders had laid out additional stern anchors to secure them in the rough waters, and the ships fetched up with sharp jerks against their cables as they were battered by the waves. But the men anxiously watching for any signs of the anchors dragging were in far less danger than their comrades battling the storm raging across the open sea a short distance away.
A collective gasp amongst the officers drew Cato’s attention back to the other ships just in time to see one of the transports struck side on by a large wave. She lurched drunkenly, men tumbling down the canted deck, before rolling over completely. For a moment there was no sign of the transport, or the men she had carried, as if the sea had swallowed them whole. Then the keel and the bottom of the hull broke the surface, glistening like the back of some large creature. Cato could just make out a handful of figures splashing in the sea nearby. One of them found the stern strake and climbed on to the hull, where he lay at full stretch, desperately holding on for his life as the icy waters burst over him. There was no hope of rescue by the other ships, whose crews were fighting for their own lives.
The wind and rain suddenly blasted over the headland, driving stinging sleet into the faces of the horsemen watching the disaster unfold. Cato’s cloak whipped about him, and his horse turned away from the wind and needed a firm hand to force it back into position.
‘Prefect Cato!’
He turned to see Quintatus beckoning to him, head hunched down into the folds of sodden cloth covering his shoulders. ‘Sir?’
‘There’s nothing we can do here. I’m returning to camp. You and your men are to stay and keep watch for the enemy. If there’s no further sign of them by nightfall, then post one of your squadrons on picket duty. The rest can return to camp.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Cato saluted.
The legate urged his mount forward and trotted back on to the track leading towards the camp being constructed above the shore. His officers followed, icy sleet sweeping over them in the rising wind.
Beside Cato, Decurion Miro snorted bitterly. ‘Well thank you, Legate Quintatus. Just go and warm yourself by a fire while the rest of us freeze our arses off, why don’t you?’
‘That’s quite enough,’ Cato cut in. He looked round and saw a small copse a few hundred paces away. ‘Get the rest of the men over there and into what shelter you can find.’
Miro saluted and turned to give the order to the column of men huddled into their cloaks. As they moved off, Cato spared a glance for the men still on picket duty, keeping watch in the direction of Mona. There was at least an hour of daylight left that they would have to endure. But their suffering was as nothing compared to the fate of the crews on the ships making for the bay. The first of the warships was passing the rocks below the end of the headland, a line of dark jagged shapes amid the swirl of waves and bursts of spray. The trierarch wisely held his course for another quarter of a mile before steering into the bay. From his elevated position Cato could see the ranks of men at the oars straining to drive the ship on, and could imagine their dread and terror at being at the mercy of Neptune’s wrath. One by one the other warships and the first of the transports edged past the rocks and made for shelter.
But they were not safe yet. Cato felt his heart clench as he saw a transport’s mast snap and plunge over the side, the reefed sail acting as a drag that slewed the ship’s bow round to point towards the headland. At once the crew set to work, hacking desperately at the rigging to free the sail as the waves carried them in towards the rocks. Their work was hampered by the sea crashing over them and sweeping across the deck, and Cato could clearly see that they were doomed. Even if they cut themselves free, they would then have to rely on the long sweep oars, which were designed to manoeuvre such vessels over short distances. It would not be enough to keep them away from the rocks.
The last strand was cut and the broken mast and sail abruptly plunged into the sea and were swept past the stern of the transport. The oars, two on either side, were slid out and the first clumsy strokes heaved the ponderous ship round parallel to the line of rocks, a scant hundred paces away. Then, out of the storm, a huge wave rolled in, the steely grey mass lifting the ship and swinging the bows back towards the coast before dumping it much closer in so that it was obscured by the cloud of spray that burst over the rocks as the wave struck the shore. The crew strained at the oars, forcing the vessel back on its original course and driving it forwards through the tempest. Cato felt a surge of hope that they might be saved after all. Then another monstrous wave rolled in from the sleet-streaked gloom, gathering up the ship and carrying it high on its shoulders before it broke on the rocks.
As the water swirled away, Cato saw that the transport was wedged at an angle on top of the glistening black rocks, its back broken, the keel shattered on impact. There were still men on the deck, clinging on, doomed to live a little longer yet before the waves pounded the ship to pieces, and them along with it. Cato watched in horror, his stomach knotted with pity at their fate. Then he looked again at the rocks, the distance from them to the pebbled beach off which the three warships lay at anchor, and reached a decision.
Snatching at his reins, he spurred his horse into a gallop and caught up with Miro and the Blood Crows as they plodded through the sleet towards the trees.
‘Halt!’
The men stopped in their tracks. Cato reined in hard as he reached the waiting decurion, the blood pounding in his ears as he caught his breath and began.
‘Your squadron is to come with me. The rest can wait in those trees. Tell Aristophanes to take over and keep an eye on the enemy before you come after me.’
Miro frowned. ‘What exactly are you intending to do, sir?’
Cato quickly explained about the transport and the peril faced by its crew. ‘They can still be saved.’
‘Sounds like they’re already dead men, sir.’
Cato frowned. ‘Not while there’s still a chance. Not while we can do something. You have your orders, Decurion. Move!’
Leaving Miro to organise his men, Cato turned and spurred his horse down the slope towards the storm-lashed shore. In all probability the decurion was right. But he’d be damned if he would abandon any man to such a terrible fate while there was still the slimmest chance of saving him.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The violence of the storm was even more apparent when Cato reached the beach curving around the bay. The roar of the surf and the rattle of pebbles filled his ears as he reined in his horse and dropped from the saddle. To his left, the cliff beneath the headland shielded him from the worst of the wind, and here in its lee the sleet had already turned into snow. Large flakes spun through the air and melted almost as soon as they landed on the stones. Ahead, the line of the cliff ended where the rocks began; great boulders that lay as if the end of the cliff had been pulverised by the fist of Jupiter himself. The line of rocks continued into the sea for another two hundred paces or so, to where the transport was being pounded by the great waves rising from the depths of the ocean. The stern was taking the brunt of the storm, being steadily broken up. The bow section was protected from the impact of the waves at present but would feel their full force before long. Several men were huddled on the sloping deck, and another stood over the bows waving desperately to those on the shore, no doubt imploring them to attempt a rescue.