Cato 06 - The Eagles Prophecy (23 page)

‘Boring?’ The optio was surprised. ‘There’s nothing boring about the sea. She’s a strange creature, sir. Never quite still. And she’s as fickle as a drunken bitch. Just when you think you know her, and begin to take her for granted, she’ll hit you with the full force of her fury . . . She’s not boring, sir. She’s terrifying, and you’d do well to respect her.’

Cato stared at the shrouded features of his optio, and silently cursed the man for adding to the sum of his fears.

‘That’s, er, an interesting perspective, Felix. I’ll bear it in mind. Thank you.’

‘Best get some sleep, sir. You never know what the morning will bring.’

‘Sleep. Yes, in a moment. You too, Optio.’

Felix saluted and retreated towards the dense mass of dark shapes sprawled across the deck of the Spartan. Cato watched him go, and then turned back to gaze out into the night, more unnerved than ever.

At length the strain on Cato’s senses became too much and he found a vacant stretch of deck close to the bows. Leaning his back against the base of the canted foremast, he closed his eyes and feigned sleep. If his men could sleep under such conditions then he must be seen to as well. Little by little, the gentle heave and fall of the deck, the creaking of the rigging and the soft churn and hiss of the sea alongside lulled him into slumber.

‘Sir!’ A hand shook his shoulder. ‘Sir! Wake up!’

Cato blinked his eyes open and found himself staring along an unfamiliar plane of wood. For a moment he was confused, then memory flooded back and he raised himself up, wincing at the numbness of the arm he had been resting his head on. He twisted and looked up at Felix.

‘What is it?’

‘Lookout reports sails to the north of us, sir.’

Cato thrust himself up from the deck and rose stiffly to his feet. Most of his men were already on their feet and silently staring out to sea. Cato pushed past them and made his way up on to the aft deck where Albinus acknowledged him briefly. Cato nodded back.

‘My optio says you’ve sighted something.’

‘Several sails. More appearing all the time. Over there.’ He raised an arm towards the horizon. ‘From the coast of Illyricum.’

‘Pirates?’

‘Almost certainly. There’s no other fleets operating in these waters.’ He turned away from Cato and bellowed up to the masthead, ‘How many can you see now?’

After a short pause the lookout called back, ‘Fifteen. Still hull down, but some of them look big, sir. Biremes or better.’

Cato coughed. ‘Seems they knew we were coming. As I feared.’

‘They must have known all along.’ Albinus frowned, and added, grudgingly, ‘Seems you were right, sir.’

‘Thank you.’

Albinus suddenly craned his neck forwards.’Look there!’ Cato stared towards the horizon, and as the Spartan lifted on a swell, he glimpsed several tiny dark shapes on the very rim of the ocean.

‘How long before they can reach us?’

Albinus pursed his lips. ‘Three, maybe four hours. But it won’t come to that. The prefect will have to turn south until we make the coast.’

‘Why retreat? Surely we can take them on?’

‘Not loaded down like this, and not while they have the advantage of the wind at their backs. Once we’ve landed the supplies and equipment we can turn on them quickly enough. Then you’ll see the buggers turn about and run for it,’ Albinus smiled.

‘Captain!’ the mate called out. ‘Flagship’s signalling!’

Albinus faced forward and squinted at the Horus. A long red pennant was rising up the mast, and the breeze lifted it up and out in a flickering ripple. Albinus shook his head slowly.

‘What’s the matter?’ Cato asked. ‘What does that mean?’

‘It means that the prefect is a bloody fool,’ Albinus replied softly.

‘What?’

Albinus waved a hand towards the red pennant. ‘That’s the signal for the fleet to attack.’

‘Attack? I thought you said we couldn’t.’

‘No . . .’

Cato was confused. ‘So what’s he doing? There must be some mistake.’

But even as he spoke the crew of the Horus let fly the sheets of their mainsail. The tiny figures of sailors spread out along the yardarm quickly furled the sail, and a moment later the sides of the flagship bristled with oars.

As Captain Albinus bellowed out a series of orders to his own crew, Cato could only watch in horror as the sternpost of the flagship turned away from him. Slowly the Horus gathered speed as the oars churned up the grey surface of the sea, and the quinquireme surged forward, directly towards the pirate fleet.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

‘Beat to stations!’ Albinus roared across the deck.’Sail in! Oars out!’

This was the moment for which sailors and marines had trained over many years, and, at the sound of the ship’s drum, the men on the deck burst into activity. Sailors swarmed up the rigging, and spread out along the yard to take in the sail. Cato ran forward to join his century, the heavy thud of his boots accompanied by the clattering and scraping of oars being run out below the main deck. All around him marines scrambled into their armour, then snatched up sword and dagger belts and strapped them on, before reaching for their helmets and shields. When he reached his kit Cato found Felix already there, holding out his chain-mail corselet.

Cato nodded his thanks. ‘Soon as the men are kitted up, get the javelins issued. And bring some more cases up from stores.’

‘Yes, sir.’

As Cato fumbled with the leather ties of his helmet he glanced back towards the aft deck. Albinus was leaning on the rail, staring over the side towards the Horus. As the Spartan’s sail was furled the trireme began to slow down. Then, from below deck, the sharp rap of the pausarius’ hammer began to sound the pace for the men at the oars. The blades dropped down into the sea with a rolling chorus of splashes, then with an audible collective grunt of effort, the Spartan lurched forward. It took a moment for the crew to find their rhythm, and then the deck steadied as the warship ploughed forward. The moment they were immediately behind the flagship, Albinus shouted an order to the steersman, who threw his weight against the shaft of the huge oars hanging over the stern of the Spartan. As the broad blades of the steering oars bit into the sea, Cato felt the deck shift beneath his boots and instinctively grabbed at the side rail. Beside him Felix saw the gesture and smiled.

‘Better get used to the feeling, sir. There’ll be plenty of turning when we close with them pirates.’

‘Let’s hope they decide not to make a stand.’

Felix looked at his centurion guardedly. ‘Why’s that, sir?’

‘We’re overloaded. They’ll have the advantage in speed, if not strength. I just hope they count the numbers and beat a retreat.’

Optio Felix glanced forward over the bows at the cluster of distant sails on the horizon. As the trireme rose on a swell the dark hulls of the pirate ships were clearly visible against the gleaming blue of the sea.

‘Doesn’t look like they’re going to run for it.’

‘No.’ Cato pressed his lips together. The enemy fleet was steadily closing on them, with no sign of changing course. ‘Tell Minucius to get the crow ready.’

Felix saluted and turned forward. A moment later Minucius was bellowing orders at his men to drop their shields and javelins, and follow him back to where the boarding device was lashed to the deck in front of the mast. As they set to work, Cato glanced back down the length of the ship, and noted the time it took for the Spartan to make the quarter-turn into the wake of the flagship. To his mind the trireme was an unwieldy vessel, a perception confirmed by the far quicker turns of the biremes as they fanned out on either side of the Horus and took up position on the flanks. It was just like on land, Cato reflected. The heavy bulk of the quinquireme and the triremes in the centre, like the legions, and the lighter vessels on the flanks, like cavalry, waiting to exploit their speed over the open space before them. Slowly, as the two fleets crawled across the sea towards each other, the Roman vessels took station on the flagship and the formation flattened from a chevron into a broad line, with a small reserve of two triremes and four biremes held back to plug any gaps that opened in the Roman fleet.

Cato raised a hand to shade his eyes as he gazed round, looking for Macro’s ship. Then he saw the small three-pronged design on the bows of a bireme, out on the left flank. Cato squinted and just made out a red crest on one of the helmets packed in at the bow. He smiled, wondering what Macro was making of his new cavalry role. No doubt his friend was itching to get stuck into the pirates and would order his trierarch to ram the first available enemy. As Cato watched, the distant outline of a crow rose above Macro and his men and hung at an angle, ready to plunge down and impale an enemy vessel.

On board the Spartan, Minucius and his men heaved the boarding device forward towards the bows. As the warship rose and fell on the swell they struggled to line up the thick wooden pivot with the iron socket that had been fixed on to the foredeck. At length, and after much cursing, the crow was lowered into position and ropes fed through the tackles that would raise and swing the boarding ramp. When the men were ready, the ramp was lifted far enough for the iron spike to be attached underneath the front and the ropes were fastened tightly to the cleats to hold the device still, until it was needed. Cato noticed that the weight of the crow and the marines had canted the bows down, and the trireme seemed markedly more sluggish as the oars drove it through the swell.

The Roman fleet was heading directly into the wind, and the bows thudded into the oncoming waves, sending up clouds of spray that fell back into the faces of the men on the foredeck. Cato blinked away each salty deluge as he stared intently at the approaching enemy. The pirates, still under sail, closed swiftly with the Roman ships, and within the hour were in clear view, barely a mile off. Most of the pirate ships were in the same class as the biremes, and at the centre of their line was the trireme Cato had seen several days earlier, its dark pennant flickering in the stiff breeze like a serpent’s tongue. Despite what Albinus had told him about the dangers of fighting with overloaded ships, Cato still felt that the coming fight looked one-sided.

‘Hello. . .’ Optio Felix muttered.’What’s that big bastard up to?’

Cato glanced back towards the trireme. The main sail was flapping wildly, then a moment later tiny figures on the yardarm hurriedly gathered in the sail as oars were thrust out from the sides of the ship. On either side the biremes and lighter liburnians continued forward, into the teeth of the Roman fleet. But as the trireme’s oars splashed down into the sea there was something odd about their motion and Cato frowned for a moment, before the truth dawned on him.

‘She’s rowing backwards.’

Felix stared hard for an instant, then nodded his head.’So she is! What’s he playing at? Think the bastard’s running for it, sir?’

‘I don’t know.’ Cato felt a sudden icy pang of anxiety deep in his guts. Something was wrong, he was sure of it. Even though he knew little of naval tactics - only what he had been hurriedly taught since his arrival at Ravenna - he was sure that this was some kind of ruse. But all around him his men, and the sailors, were cheering in triumph at the sight of the retreating pirate ship, as if the battle was already won.

‘Quiet!’ Cato bellowed.’Silence there! Next man to open his bloody mouth is on a charge!’

The cries died away and Cato turned his attention back to the enemy fleet, now close enough for him to make out the details of the men scurrying across the decks of the closest vessels. Telemachus’ trireme was steadily withdrawing ahead of the Horus and the excited cries of the men aboard the Roman flagship carried clearly across the waves to the ships following behind. Some of the men close to Cato glanced at him resentfully, but were wise enough to keep their mouths firmly shut. High up, at the stern of the quinquireme, a red-cloaked figure brandished a sword that flickered like a sliver of fire in the morning sunlight as Vitellius urged his men on. Beyond the Horus a flash of colour drew Cato’s eye and he saw a bright yellow pennant flutter up the mast of the pirate vessel. At once the other ships in the enemy fleet began to turn to either side, sails shifting round as they filled with the wind blowing over the aft quarter. They had divided in two and now each half of the pirate fleet was sailing directly at the lighter craft on the wings of the Roman fleet.

As if oblivious to the danger to his biremes, Vitellius ploughed on through the waves, in pursuit of the pirate leader. From the foredeck of the Spartan Cato could only watch in growing desperation as the enemy fleet swept across the bows of the largest Roman warships. He could understand the prefect’s thinking well enough. If they could only capture, or kill, Telemachus, then the pirate fleet might be broken in this first battle. Sure enough the Horus was slowly closing on the enemy commander’s ship. Too slowly. And all the time she was drawing them away from action that would be fought on the flanks of the Roman fleet. It was cleverly worked, Cato realised with despair. Telemachus would hold himself out as bait, knowing that the Roman prefect would be hellbent on winning himself a triumphant victory to further his career. The trick was to make it look as if the Romans stood a good enough chance of catching up with his ship, yet still have sufficient time to turn and make an escape.