‘What?’ said Indavara.
Cassius realised he had spoken aloud.
‘Forget your giant creatures, Indavara,’ he said, pointing at the warship. ‘There’s nothing in the sea mightier than that.’
As the Armata cut towards them, one big, oval eye stared out from above the metal ramming spike. There was no sense of grace or elegance about the warship’s lines, just an angular, brutal efficiency. She seemed to lie low in the water, yet somehow glide across it. The hull was an ominous black, the deck the same bright red as the huge square standard hanging from the comparatively short mast. Sail power was strictly a secondary form of propulsion; for the watchers aboard the Fortuna, it was hard to concentrate on anything other than the scores of closely packed oars dipping in and out of the water with synchronised precision.
Cassius counted them. ‘Twenty-two ranks of three. Must be a flagship. I wonder which fleet?’
‘Alexandrian,’ answered Tarkel as he knelt by the side-rail. In one hand was a sheet of paper held against a writing block, in the other a piece of charcoal. The lad gazed out at the Armata as he continued speaking. ‘One hundred and fifty feet long, thirty wide. Full complement of crew: two hundred and five, including one hundred and thirty-two oarsmen and forty marines. Armed with ram, boarding bridge and grappling hooks, with capability for battle towers, ballistae and artillery. Normally escorts grain shipments. Wonder what she’s doing out here.’
‘Me too,’ said Cassius quietly.
They could hear the ship now; the beating of the timing drums, the churning splashes of the oars. Gradually the beat slowed and the dip of the oars slowed with it until the warship eased to a stop about a hundred yards away.
Despite what Tarkel had said about the numbers aboard, Cassius could see little of the crew: not a trace of the oarsmen of course, and perhaps only a dozen men on deck, barely visible behind the high wooden barricades painted to resemble a line of shields. There was, however, activity at the rear: the ship’s two tenders had been drawn up to the stern and men were climbing down rope ladders.
Cassius looked at Asdribar. The captain was standing close to Korinth, deep in discussion.
Annia came over to the side-rail. ‘What could they want?’
Cassius studiously ignored her.
‘Officer?’
‘No idea.’
‘I hope they won’t keep us long,’ Annia said. ‘Perhaps they might even help us.’
Simo came up through the hatch with Cassius’s gear. Cassius threw his cloak over his shoulders, then pulled on his helmet, tying the chinstrap tight. Leaving the spearhead with Simo for now, he took a little leather folder from him and tucked it carefully into his belt.
There were three letters inside. One was the authorisation issued several months earlier by Chief Pulcher, permitting him to join the governor’s staff in Syria. The other two he had obtained before leaving Antioch for Cilicia. The first was from Abascantius, identifying Cassius as an officer of the Imperial Security Service and reminding the reader of the authority and privileges this afforded him. The second was from Prefect Oppius Julius Venator, commander of the Fourth Legion.
Venator had good cause to be glad that Cassius had brought the Persian banner affair to a successful conclusion and had readily acceded to his two requests: firstly that Cassius be officially assigned to the Fourth; secondly that the prefect write him a letter of recommendation. The former was largely a formality but the latter was — to Cassius — nothing short of invaluable.
It was a short note, just a few lines declaring that Venator knew Cassius to be a capable officer of good character and concluding with a request that the reader grant him favour and lend him assistance if required. The letter also happened to be the single most exciting piece of post Cassius had ever received; he had read it at least ten times before spending an indulgent night out to celebrate.
As well as being a prefect in charge of five and a half thousand men, Venator came from an extremely influential family thought to be the sixth or seventh richest in the Empire. He had uncles and brothers in the Senate and contacts in dozens of provinces. A written, formal association with such a man could secure influence, financial assistance and (most crucial of all) protection. Along with his mail shirt and the spearhead, the letter was one of Cassius’s most prized possessions. His father had always told him a man is judged by four things: his words, his coins, his clothes and his letters.
As he watched the two tenders cast off from the Armata, Cassius hoped he wouldn’t have to invoke either the letters or the spearhead. He’d never dealt with the navy before.
‘What you sketching that bloody monstrosity for, boy?’ asked Squint.
Tarkel ignored him.
‘Let him draw,’ said Opilio, who’d also come up on deck to see the warship.
When they were about fifty feet away, the tenders split up. The first continued slowly towards the starboard side of the Fortuna, while the other rounded the bow. The eight oarsmen in the first tender were sculling gently, just enough to keep the boat moving. In front of them were six marines clad in green tunics, wearing light leather armour with muscled chest plates. They also wore helmets, and three were armed with bows.
Apart from the oarsmen and marines, there was one other man in the tender. He had been sitting close to the bow but now stood up, one hand on the boat to steady himself. In the other hand was a short stick with a balled end, which Cassius knew to be the naval equivalent of a centurion’s vine stick. He felt sure the officer must have noticed his crested helmet by now but there was no sign of acknowledgement. Cassius looked over his shoulder. The second tender was close to the port side.
‘Listen carefully!’ shouted the officer in Latin as Cassius turned back. ‘Two men are to stand by at the stern to take our lines. The rest of you are to gather by the mast. Any man with a blade or other weapon must take it off and place it on the deck. Do so now!’
One of the older marines put his hand on his sword. The archers drew arrows and raised their bows.
Indavara turned to Cassius. ‘Ready for war?’
XII
Once the two tenders had been secured, the marines hooked rope ladders over the stern and clambered up on to the Fortuna. Desenna and Korinth were the two sailors Asdribar had assigned to take the lines and as they withdrew to join the others, the Romans fanned out on either side of the deckhouse. Those without bows kept their hands by their sword hilts and stared hard at the group gathered by the mast. Unlike legionaries, the marines wore trousers under their tunics and long socks with their boots; instead of thick leather belts, their swords were slung from hardy lengths of cloth.
The officer was the last to appear. He was a small man, too small for his voluminous, richly coloured, dark blue cloak. The clasp on his left shoulder was in the shape of an oyster shell and had been polished to a high sheen. His greying hair had been recently combed and oiled, and resisted the wind well. Thumping the ball of the stick into his palm, he stopped by the pile of daggers next to the hatch and gestured for Cassius to come forward.
‘What in the name of the great gods are you doing out here, young man?’
‘Cassius Quintius Corbulo, sir. Long story, I’m afraid.’
The officer offered his hand and they shook forearms.
‘Commander Sextus Viridius Ivmarus Litus, Imperial Vessel Armata, Imperial Fleet of Alexandria.’
‘Might I ask why you hailed us, Commander?’
‘You tell your tale first. I’m third in command of a flagship, which rates me well above any centurion.’
‘I’m actually not a centurion, though my rank is equivalent. I’m with Imperial Security.’