Quintus struck out towards the east, offering up more prayers. It was ironic how he made requests of the gods in times of danger, he knew. At other times, he barely believed in their very existence — they never really offered proof of such — but now, here, he wanted every scrap of hope that might be on offer. Let Urceus be alive somewhere, he asked. Corax too. And as many of my maniple as you can spare. Do not take them all, please.
‘Help me, brother!’ croaked a soldier to his left. ‘I can’t swim.’
Quintus forced himself to look the man in the eye. ‘I’m not a good swimmer. If I help you, we’ll both drown. I’m sorry.’
The soldier reached out an arm. ‘I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.’ His tone was frantic, and Quintus knew that if the man grabbed hold of him, they would both sink faster than a stone. Without a word, he swam away as fast as he could. Guilt tore at him, but he did not let up until the man’s pleas had vanished into the crescendo of voices and the noise of missiles landing.
After a time, he stopped for a rest. There were fewer projectiles coming down here, because the enemy artillerymen were concentrating on the Romans directly below their positions. Some way off to his right, the sambuca on the craft that had come in at the same time as theirs had just been grabbed by another iron claw. Quintus’ eyes were riveted to the horrifying sight. Soldiers on board were frantically trying to do what he and his comrades had done — land a rope on it — but they too failed. It didn’t take long for the Syracusans to catch one of the quinqueremes’ rams. Commands rang out at once from the rampart, and a few heartbeats later, the chain holding the claw snapped taut. The prow of the ship was jerked out of the water, pulling the vessel a substantial distance into the air as well. Shrieks filled the air. The tiny figures of men fell away from the decks like ants falling off a disturbed log. That was bad enough, but as the claw was released another arm appeared over the battlements. This one bore a massive stone, the size of three men’s torsos. Fresh wails rose from the men who had survived the fall as they saw a new terror looming over them. Quintus could bear to watch no longer, but he was unable to block his ears to the noise of the block striking the ship and the wave that followed in its wake.
Clenching his jaw, he began swimming again. The pain from where he’d been struck in the midriff and leg slowed his progress, and he began having to rest more often. During these breaks, he scanned the area, hoping to see a ship that might be able to pick him up. His search was in vain. Every vessel within sight had either been wrecked beyond redemption by the enemy’s missiles, or was in the process of sinking to the bottom of the harbour. Not since Cannae had Quintus seen such wholescale carnage.
He studied the faces of the closest men, praying that he would recognise no one. He didn’t. There was no point examining the corpses — there were too many. So when Quintus bumped into yet another body, he gently pushed it away. The man, who was lying on his back, bobbed off to his left. Quintus was about to swim on, when something made him look again. The dead soldier’s ears stuck out from his head. He blinked. It was Urceus.
He swam to his friend’s side, grief tearing at him anew. Urceus’ eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open. He looked dead, but Quintus placed two fingers on the side of Urceus’ neck, just under the angle of his jaw. Heart thudding, Quintus waited. For a moment, he felt nothing, but then, to his utter joy, he sensed a weak pulse. ‘You’re as tough as an old fucking sandal, Urceus,’ he muttered, uncaring that tears were running down his face. ‘Thank you, Neptune, for leaving this man to float rather than sink.’
Quintus’ joy was short-lived. There was no chance that he could support Urceus all the way to the mouth of the harbour and beyond. Despair began to creep over him once more. ‘Stop it,’ he whispered savagely. ‘Urceus wouldn’t give up if it was him helping me. Think of something!’
He glanced about, trying to ignore the horror, trying to see a way out. His gaze settled at last, unwillingly, on the vessel that he and his comrades had arrived on. It lay in the water like a dead thing, useless to everyone. The realisation hit Quintus from nowhere. The pair of quinqueremes didn’t appear to be sinking. Yes, they could not move anywhere. Yes, they were right under the enemy’s noses, but therein lay the beauty of it. In the Syracusans’ eyes, there was no need to continue raining missiles on the pair of ships because they presented no further threat to the city. ‘We’ll be safe there,’ Quintus murmured to Urceus as he hooked an arm around his friend’s chest from behind. ‘For a time at least.’
It seemed to take an age to reach the nearest quinquereme. Quintus could have reached the stricken ship sooner if he’d aimed for its middle, but there were still missiles landing there. At the stern, perhaps even in the gap between the two vessels, they would be hidden from the ramparts entirely. The enemy artillerymen’s attention was concentrated on visible targets. As they drew near to the back of the ship, he spotted a cluster of heads in the water. Quintus’ spirits rose a little. The more of them there were, the more hope they had of surviving. He redoubled his efforts. The arrow in Urceus’ arm needed to be looked at. Extra pairs of hands would make that possible. ‘We’ll get you sorted out soon, you’ll see,’ he said to Urceus, longing for his friend to answer.
There was no response, and Quintus’ worries surged back. He fumbled again for the pulse in Urceus’ neck and was mightily relieved to find it. Then he heard a distinctive voice among the group. Corax! All was not lost, he decided. The gods had not completely abandoned them. It was as well, because he was weakening. Much further, and he would have begun to struggle with Urceus.
About twenty paces from the stern, he called out: ‘I have an injured comrade here. Can anyone help?’
Faces turned, and three men struck out towards them.
The first one to arrive had black hair and blue eyes. Quintus recognised him as a hastatus in the other century of their maniple, but he didn’t know the man’s name. ‘Where’s he hurt?’ the newcomer asked.
‘He has an arrow through the left arm. But he’s been unconscious since I found him, so there might be a head injury I haven’t seen.’ Do not let that be the case, Quintus prayed.
‘Let me take him,’ said the black-haired soldier. ‘Head for the centurion. He’s the-’
‘I know,’ Quintus butted in. ‘Corax is my centurion, thank all the gods.’
‘Seems like a good man.’ With great care, the black-haired soldier took ahold of Urceus around his chest. ‘I’ve got him.’
Happy that Urceus was in good hands, Quintus swam towards Corax. The hastatus and his companions followed.
When the centurion recognised Quintus, an expression of real pleasure crossed his face. ‘Look who Neptune just spat out! By all the gods, Crespo, it’s good to see you.’
‘And you, sir,’ replied Quintus fervently. ‘I didn’t think you’d made it.’
‘Nor I you. I haven’t seen a man of my century until you showed up. This lot are mostly from the unit that split itself between our ship and the other one. A few sailors too, and a handful of Vitruvius’ lot. Who have you got there?’ He gestured behind Quintus.