But their comrades were looking on helplessly, scores of sailors on the decks of the anchored vessels, and more watching from the beach. Cato approached one of the naval officers overseeing the construction of a shelter at the top of the beach, beyond the line of tenders lying along the shingle. The trierarch was shouting orders above the noise of the surf to make his men return to their work.
‘Why aren’t you doing something?’ Cato demanded.
‘What business is it of yours?’ The trierarch turned to address Cato, saw his rank and knuckled his brow in salute. ‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Why aren’t you rescuing those men?’
‘There’s nothing that can be done to save them, sir. Not without putting more lives at stake. It’d be suicide to attempt to get them off that wreck. Besides, it’ll be swept away soon enough, and them too. It’s too bad, sir. But we can’t help them.’
Cato stared hard towards the rocks and saw a fresh wave break over the doomed ship, briefly obscuring it in spray, before the sea surged back and exposed the remaining timbers of the ruined stern section. The man who had been beckoning to those on the shore slowly eased himself down on to the deck beside his comrades and hugged his knees with a resigned air. Quickly calculating the distance between the rocks and the nearest of the anchored warships, Cato rounded on the trierarch.
‘I am not going to stand by and let men die,’ he said fiercely. ‘I want one of your tenders and four good men on the oars. Strong swimmers all.’
The trierarch clicked his tongue. ‘Sir, I really don’t think-’
‘I don’t give a shit for what you think! Just carry out my orders. At once!’
He did not give the man a chance to respond and strode back to his mount just as Miro and his men drew up. Hurriedly unfastening the straps of his helmet, he placed it on the shingle. His cold fingers removed his cloak and sword belt and then he turned to Miro. ‘Give me a hand with the armour!’ The decurion slid from his saddle and helped with the fastenings before Cato slipped the scale vest off and dropped it beside the rest of his kit. He stood in his boots, breeches and tunic, too tense to tremble in the biting cold. Beyond Miro he saw the trierarch directing several of his men to drag one of the small boats belonging to the warships down towards the roaring surf.
He cleared his throat to make sure that it did not betray his nerves. ‘We’re going to try two approaches to the wreck. I want you and your squadron to take a rope and make your way along the rocks. Get as close as you can without risk to life, and throw a line to those men. Meanwhile I’ll try to get to them from the boat there.’
Miro looked along the line of rocks stretching from the headland, and his eyes widened anxiously as he watched the waves exploding over them.
‘Decurion!’ Cato grasped him by the harness. ‘We are not letting those men die. Clear?’
Miro blinked rapidly and then nodded. ‘Yes . . . Yes, sir!’
‘Good man. Now, let’s get to it.’ Cato gave him an encouraging punch on the shoulder before striding down towards the sea, where the four sailors chosen by the trierarch were setting up their oars, their comrades doing their best to hold the small boat steady in the creamy surf. The water felt icy as it closed round Cato’s legs, and it was up to his waist as he reached the side of the boat and heaved himself aboard. He took his place in the stern and pointed to the bireme anchored nearest to the rocks. ‘Get us over to that ship!’
The sailors braced their feet, and with one of them calling the time, they bent to their work and rowed free of the breaking waves into deeper water. As they drew alongside the warship pitching roughly in the surging water of the bay, Cato cupped a hand to his mouth and called up to the crewmen watching the drama on the rocks.
‘I need a rope here! You!’ He pointed at the nearest sailor. ‘Get one end tied around the foot of the mast. Then pass me the rest. And a couple of spare coils while you’re at it. Move!’
The men at the oars kept the small craft in position while two coils were tossed down from the deck of the warship, followed by the length that had been fastened around the mast. Cato tugged it sharply to satisfy himself that it was secure before he gave the order to make for the lee of the rocks. At the foot of the headland he could see the figures of Miro and his men, roped together, carefully picking their way in the gathering gloom. At the sight of the prefect, Miro increased their pace, slipping and stumbling over the glistening rocks and clutching for handholds as spray began to burst over them. The sailors on the stricken transport rose to their feet as the boat headed towards them trailing the rope attached to the anchored bireme. Some beckoned frantically while the others looked on clutching the side rail. The stern of the vessel had all but disappeared, pounded to pieces by the waves. Only the stern strake and a few ribs remained amid the shattered timbers.
As the boat approached, Cato had a brief moment in which to think, and was horrified by the peril in which he had placed himself. He hated being in the water at the best of times and was a poor swimmer. Now he was in imminent danger of being pitched into the icy depths of a wild sea. Yet there was nothing he could do about it. He was committed to this reckless attempt to save the sailors and must see it through. No more than twenty paces ahead, through the swirl of snowflakes, he saw the gleaming mass of a rock break the surface as the trough of a wave passed over it and the surrounding water eddied violently.
‘Easy oars!’ he shouted. ‘Hold us here.’
The sailors ceased rowing and made minor strokes to hold the boat in place as Cato stared at the rocks, the wreck and the sea and swiftly considered how to proceed. The remains of the transport were more than forty paces away. Even if they got as close to the rocks as they dared, they would still be too far from the wreck to have any hope of throwing a rope to the men waiting in the bow section of the vessel. He turned his attention to the rocks stretching back towards the headland. Though the waves were crashing over them, there was an unbroken line leading almost up to the wreck before an open patch of water separated them from the jagged rocks on which the transport was caught. If Miro could reach the gap, a man with a good arm could heave a line to the sailors, Cato calculated.
Bracing himself with one hand clasping the wooden bench, he half rose and waved a hand to attract the decurion’s attention. Miro was still over a hundred paces away, and Cato could see that he and his men were making painfully slow progress. Too slow. Night was coming, and there was no hope of saving the men in the dark. As Miro looked his way, Cato waved frantically with his spare hand and then pointed towards the gap in the rocks. The decurion hesitated, then nodded and continued picking his way forward, pausing only to brace himself against the deluge of seawater boiling over the rocks as the waves struck home on the seaward side of the natural breakwater.
‘That’s it,’ Cato said to himself as he sat down heavily on the bench. ‘Keep going, man!’
As the roped men continued making their way towards the gap, Cato saw beyond them the loom of a large wave rolling in. A moment later it smashed into the rocks, inundating Miro and his auxiliaries. One was too slow in bracing himself for the impact and tumbled down towards the water with a shrill cry that carried even to Cato’s ears, almost dragging down his companions on either side. Miro turned back at the sound. In the brief respite between waves, the man was hauled back on to the rocks and lay a moment catching his breath. Cato breathed a quick sigh of relief and then craned his head forward as Miro edged back towards his men.
‘What are you doing? Get moving.’
But instead, Cato saw the line of men begin to turn back towards the headland, and he felt the blood rise in his veins as he ground his teeth in anger. He restrained himself from making any comment. The situation was too serious for that now. Miro could be dealt with later. Then he noticed that the sailors in the boat were looking at him anxiously as they worked their oars enough to hold the boat in place. He cleared his throat.