The master, a grizzled sailor with a tanned, weather-beaten countenance, shook his head fiercely. ‘If we ram that ship we’ll be stuck in her when the others come up. We won’t last two minutes against all those soldiers. I decline to risk my ship.’
Marcellus was looking at the galleys, on course to intercept. He did not see Titus’s eyes on his back, did not know that the legate, who had the power to command this grey-haired sailor, decided against an attack because he had no wish to risk the only son of Lucius Falerius Nerva.
‘Very well, Master, you may decline the action.’
The sailor was aware that he had displeased Titus, who was certainly powerful enough to break him, and not knowing the legate, he was unaware of his innate fairness. It could be the beach for him if he did not do something to salvage his reputation.
‘Be a pity to without giving them something to chew on, sir.’
He called out a series of orders, bringing the trireme round on a converging course with the nearest of the grain ships. Marcellus, in the bows, watched closely as the distance between the galleys shortened. He ran back along the catwalk and begged for a spear, grabbing it eagerly and heading back, past the waiting soldiers, into the bows. Titus opened his mouth to order him below, but he said nothing, suspecting that the boy, close to his first taste of real battle, would probably ignore him. They were nearly on them now and the leading grain ship edged round to avoid being rammed, the side crowded with armed men, spears at the ready. That was when the master gave his order, reasonably sure that no one aboard the vessel he was attacking had ever seen a trireme in action.
The drum beat faster and the speed of the Roman ship increased slightly so that they were closing on their enemy rapidly. The first javelins started to fly, falling into the water between the ships as the master, leaning on the sweep, aided by men hauling on ropes, yelled another command that had the drum beating an almost continuous tattoo. Marcellus saw the oars beneath him disappear inboard and the trireme swung round. With perfect timing, the other oarsmen first raised their oars out of the water, held them for a second, them dipped then again. Their action brought the trireme in close to the grain ship, running alongside, and the prow took the first enemy oar almost immediately.
Marcellus felt the ship shudder and he held his arm up, spear ready, choosing as his target the biggest man on the grain ship, a huge fellow with a thick black beard. Oars were snapping like twigs beneath his feet as the trireme glided along the side of the grain ship, whose rowers, less disciplined than the Romans, had not pulled in their sweeps, despite the desperate orders being yelled at them to do so. As he came level, the black-bearded man, distracted like his fellows by the mayhem below decks, looked up just in time to see the danger. He raised his shield and his spear, his arm hauling back for a powerful throw.
Marcellus beat the shield by a fraction, his spear skipping over the very rim as the man raised it, and embedding itself in his chest. A well-aimed foot took Marcellus’s legs away and he fell heavily onto the trireme’s deck, just as the men on either side of his victim cast their spears in return. They flew harmlessly overhead, to land in the sea on the other side. Marcellus lifted his head and looked into the smiling face of Titus Cornelius, who was crouched protectively over him with his shield shutting out any danger.
‘I think more men die in their first fight than at any other time. I can’t quite decide whether that is because of excitement, or stupidity.’
Marcellus, hauled onto his knees, found himself staring at the stern of the grain ship as it spun round, totally disabled, with a mass of wounded men on the deck. Every fighter aboard the Roman ship had cast at least one javelin as the trireme cleared the oars from the side of the enemy ship and now, as if by magic, their own oars reappeared from the ports and as they bit into the water, the master hauled on the sweep and the trireme spun round, in its own length, to outrun the other enemy galleys coming up to engage. Titus and Marcellus made their way back to the stern as the master handed over the sweep to one of his subordinates and pointed to the pursuing ships.
‘If I can get them to chase me far enough, we might get that boat laying the boom after all.’
As if they had heard his words, the oars on the rebel ships shot up in the air, completely clearing the water. Below decks the men who had rowed those ships would be hunched over their sweeps, gasping for breath. There was no way that galleys like these could pursue a trireme, even one rowing easy in an attempt to draw them on.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Titus threw his few troops ashore as soon as he could, setting up a proper Roman camp in a bay about five miles from the city, well inside the river barriers to the east. They would never hold the place if the slave army chose to attack but it served to remind both the runaways and the inhabitants of Agrigentum that Roman power still existed. The trireme was given the task of patrolling the approaches to provide early warning of any intended incursions from the sea and Marcellus spent most of his time aboard the ship perfecting his rowing, never straying far from the master between shifts, pestering the man with an endless stream of technical questions.
The days dragged on into weeks as Cholon travelled between the camp and the city, finalising the arrangements that would return the slaves to their farms, albeit under the less brutal conditions that Lucius intended to force through the Senate. Titus had instigated a regular service from the mainland and legionaries, taken from the various city garrisons in the south, were quietly shipped to his camp. Lucius was most adamant that nothing be done to alert the Senate, but Roman strength grew daily, boosted most importantly by a detachment of cavalry.
Lucius arrived to find his son ashore for once, in the kind of regular encampment he had served in as a soldier all those years ago. Paternal greetings were brief; the senator took over Titus’s tent and, with his health finally and steadily improving, went into deep consultation with Cholon.
They met at the agreed rendezvous again, happy to see each other in good health. The tall Celt, riding a magnificent if slightly skittish horse, now wore elaborate, expensive attire: light wool clothing and a fine decorated leather breastplate and greaves. A plumed Greek helmet was looped over his saddlebow and his shield was embossed with carefully worked gold and silver images. Even his weapons gleamed. Aquila wore the battered armour that had served him for the last two years, carried the same sword with the sweat-stained pommel, so beside Gadoric he looked like a peasant. Ritual greetings exchanged, it was not long before they were discussing the situation of the slave revolt.
‘Are you still planning to fight?’ asked Aquila.
The Celt scowled. ‘Right now we talk. You’ll have seen that Roman camp by the shore to the east.’
Aquila nodded, but did not add how tempted he had been to enter it; the sight of those soldiers dressed in the same manner as his ‘Papa’ Clodius had acted as a powerful draw upon his primary allegiance.
‘We could drive them into the sea in an hour,’ said Gadoric, looking over his shoulder, ‘and leave their bones to bleach in the sun.’
‘They wouldn’t stand and fight, Gadoric. They’ve kept enough ships to get away if they have to.’
‘True, but it would be nice to try, instead of just sitting doing nothing.’
‘How is Hypolitas?’
That produced a wry smile. ‘King Hypolitas, if you please.’
‘A strange title for an ex-slave.’
‘He says that it makes negotiations with the Romans easier, but in truth he loves the name, as well as the trappings of kingship. He’s become quite regal these last few weeks.’