The northerly breeze competing with an easterly current was beginning to raise a choppy, cross sea. Some of the slaves down towards the stern were making a balls of it, but Heliodorus was a skilled oarsman and Maximus got into a good rhythm with him.
Gouts of cold water broke inboard, soaking Maximus and the foremost rowers.
‘It is warmer in the Mediterranean.’ Heliodorus timed his words to the stroke. ‘I should have joined the Alexandrian fleet.’
‘They have a good reputation. I doubt they would have had you.’
‘It is true; there were one or two misunderstandings in Alexandria.’
Out of the corner of his eye, Maximus could see the big, shaven-headed Egyptian was smiling. A good man in a corner; maybe it was as well Ballista had not killed him.
The rear benches of rowers jeered. Maximus did not know why, until he saw a bowman on the prow of the Bronding. The man drew and released. The shaft went wide and well astern. They had closed to about two hundred and fifty paces, but from a pitching deck it would take the gods’ own luck to hit anything at that distance. There were more jeers from the Warig.
‘Save your breath, boys,’ Ballista called. ‘Nearly there.’
Careful not to break stroke, Maximus took a look over his shoulder. They seemed to be racing directly towards a belt of trees growing straight out of the sea. He hoped that fucking Rugian knew what he was about, was not playing them false. Still, he was only a couple of steps away. He would not have long to get any pleasure from treachery.
The surface was calm in the lee of the island. The Warig shot forward. Trees appeared on either side, closing in fast.
‘Full pressure,’ Ballista said. ‘Keep the rhythm.’
They were rushing down a narrow creek, the oars almost brushing the banks, weeds festooned around the blades. The breeze did not play through here, and there was a foul stench of decay and dead fish.
The Warig heeled, as Wada the Short put the helm over. Maximus saw the Bronding. Throwing a fine bow wave, about two hundred paces astern, it had no intention of breaking off and going around the islands. The Warig took the bend, and the Bronding disappeared.
A tremor ran through the hull. Another stroke, and the Warig shuddered to a stop, as if clutched by an invisible hand. Maximus was thrown off the bench. He landed in the bow in the lap of the eunuch. Amantius screamed like a girl. Cursing, Maximus struggled to get up. The length of the boat, men were doing the same. Maximus gave the eunuch a shove for good measure.
‘Stay at your places. Silence.’ Ballista was vaulting the benches towards the bow.
Maximus got back on next to Heliodorus and gripped the oar. Taut ropes ran to the prow from poles in the water pulled out of true by the impact. The Warig had run into fishing nets strung right across the creek. So close to escape, and now this. It really was, Maximus thought, an absolute fucker.
‘Castricius, Diocles, Heliodorus, cut us free.’ Ballista was heading back to the stern. ‘Maximus, Tarchon, Rikiar, Wada the Tall, with me.’
Maximus ripped off his cloak, grabbed up his shield and, drawing his gladius, clattered aft.
The five warriors clustered around Wada the Short at the steering oar. Ballista pointed at four on the rear benches. ‘Get your weapons. With us.’ The three Romans and an Olbian obeyed.
The bend in the channel was thirty or so paces astern. The Bronding was not yet in sight. Those at the prow were hacking at the stinking tangle of ropes and nets.
Nine armed men, four of them unarmoured; it was not many to hold the Brondings. Still, the narrow creek meant the enemy could not come alongside. It would be close work, stern to prow.
‘How is it coming, Castricius?’
‘Getting there.’
Neither Ballista nor Castricius betrayed any emotion, beyond an understandable urgency.
‘The rest of you, ready to row on command.’
The tall, curved prow of the Bronding came around the bend. Her crew howled. Warriors rushed forward, thick on her deck.
‘Get ready,’ Ballista said. ‘We will take the fight to them.’
A last glance back. Swords flashing, slimy ropes being hauled free and cast into the water. Tense faces staring up from the benches.
The figurehead of the Bronding loomed above. The bearded, implacable face sliding towards the left of the stern post of the Warig. Wada the Short hauled the steering oar onboard.
A Bronding leapt before the ships closed. Wada the Tall swung a great two-handed blow into his shield. The wood split. The warrior was knocked aside. Arms wide, he fell into the water. The prow-idol forced him under his own keel.
The deck bucked under Maximus’s boots. He staggered back a step. Wood ground against wood. The longship’s gunwales were a foot or two higher than the Warig. The Bronding stopped six paces beyond her stern. Maximus gained his balance, stepped forward, gathering himself to jump.
A Bronding slammed into him, shield to shield. Maximus was driven down on one knee. The Bronding brought his sword down overhand, like a man chopping wood. Maximus got his shield up at an angle, jabbed the point of his blade out low at shin level. The inside of Maximus’s shield crashed down on to the top of his helmet. His head rang, his arm dead with the impact. The Bronding was on one leg, the other bright with blood. Maximus surged up and forward under his own ruined shield. He thrust the steel under the hem of the mailcoat, into the crotch. The warrior fell half on him. He shouldered him aside.
Ballista was on the prow of the Bronding longship, the enemy all around him. Maximus went to cross over to help. A sword sliced at his face from the left. Still numb, his shield arm was too slow to block. Desperately, he brought his blade up and across. The hilt took the blow a hand’s breadth from his nose, drove his own fist into cheek. Rolling back on his right foot, with his left he kicked the man in the left kneecap, then whipped his gladius around and down into his assailant’s left shoulder. Sharp cracks as rings of mail broke. A grunt of pain and surprise. The wound was not deep. Maximus dropped nearly on to his right knee and cut into the Bronding’s left calf. As he doubled up, Maximus straightened and finished him with a neat blow to the back of the neck below the helmet. Fuck, he had been careless; fucking lucky to get away with it.
Maximus checked the situation. Shouts. Screams. Boots stamping on the deck. Steel on steel. Steel on wood. Too many men fighting in too small a space. As the battle calm descended, Maximus could take it all in, order it correctly. Four Brondings on the deck of the Warig fighting five men. Ballista and Wada the Tall on the prow of the enemy longship preventing more warriors getting to the Warig. The Brondings jostling each other trying to get at the Angle and the Harii. Their numbers must tell in the end, but now they were hindering.
A sidestep, four balanced steps forward, and a jab into the back of a distracted Bronding’s thigh. Maximus twisted the blade, withdrew it and danced clear. Make that three Brondings fighting on the Warig. Maximus grinned. Some men could understand philosophy, others interpret a poem, but Maximus could read a fight, the most difficult text of all.
Maximus went to the side of the boat. His left arm was still numb, the shield dragging it down. Better without the thing. He dropped it, hoping it would be there later. There were some expensive ornaments on its face. He waited until Ballista attacked and moved forward a little. Shifting his gladius to his left hand, with his right Maximus grasped the gunwales of the longship and swung up.
Landing on the balls of his feet, he took a two-handed grip on his sword. A gap opened to the right of Ballista. A Bronding moved to get at the Angle’s flank. Maximus lunged at the warrior’s face. Instinctively, the Bronding flinched back. Maximus took his place at Ballista’s shoulder.