Fortunately, their captain had taken the decision to direct the ship down the middle of the entrance to the harbour. This kept them at the outer edge of the enemy catapults’ range. A good number of the quinqueremes in front and to the sides were not so lucky, however. The enemy artillerymen had ranged their weapons well. Quintus could not be sure of the size of the stones being hurled, but the damage they were causing was significant. He could see a number of vessels that had been holed, some near the waterline. One was sinking slowly, its crew and passengers jumping off in scores. Another ship had had its mast cracked; the tall piece of wood now leaned at a crazy angle. Shouts of dismay rose from the vessel’s crew. To continue, they would have to chop the mast down, thought Quintus, and the flotilla was so close together that that ran the considerable risk of hitting another quinquereme.
Crash! A stone struck the deck of a quinquereme perhaps a hundred paces off their port side. As if by magic, a gap appeared in the densely packed soldiers on board. The stone shot into the sea between the ships with a loud splash. The roars of pain reached Quintus a heartbeat later.
‘Shit, that’s not a pleasant way to go,’ said Urceus.
‘How many men did it kill?’ asked Quintus, fascinated and horrified. ‘Five? Ten?’
‘At least,’ replied Urceus with a grimace.
Crash! Crash! The enemy artillerymen were focusing on the quinquereme that had just been hit. Two more rocks landed, clearing swathes more space on its decks.
Quintus’ gorge rose, and he knelt and busied himself with the laces on one of his sandals. After that, he tried not to look at what was going on. His comrades were doing the same. It was an act of self-preservation. Nothing could block from their ears the screams of the injured and the piteous cries for help from the soldiers who were in the sea, however. Quintus gritted his teeth and wondered if it had been wise to wear his mail shirt. Even the strongest of men would struggle to swim wearing one. Mars, let us reach the bottom of the walls soon, he prayed. Do not let me die in the water.
Their ship ploughed on, with death and destruction showering down on either side. A stray stone ripped a great hole in the mainsail, but they took no other direct hits. There was a near miss with a quinquereme that had suffered heavy casualties among its oarsmen, and which could not move out of their way. Luckily, the soldiers at the front relayed the message, allowing the captains to order their rowers to back water. They came to a halt less than a javelin throw from the stricken ship. Many of the hastati shouted abuse at its crew, telling them to get the fuck out of the way or they would sink their damn vessel themselves.
Long moments passed, during which their craft had to sit motionless. It soon became a target for the enemy catapults. A number of stones smacked into the water just to the front of it, and two hit the decks of the quinquereme that their one was attached to, killing a dozen soldiers. Quintus and his comrades were helpless, able to do nothing but study the walls on both sides in utter dread, wondering when the next barrage would be launched. It was pure good fortune that their ship and, more importantly, the great ladder with which they would launch their attack, were not hit. After what seemed an eternity, the damaged quinquereme in front limped from their path, allowing them to continue.
‘That was a close one, lads,’ said Corax as he prowled past. ‘Be a shit way to die, colliding with some of our own, eh? Or to be mown down while we sat there?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the pair muttered.
There was to be no respite. More and more stones and arrows rained in. The enemy artillerymen had ranged their weapons by stages, Quintus concluded. There was no other explanation for their concentrated volleys to have been so efficient. Finally, inevitably, their ship’s luck ran out. Two men in the ranks ahead went down, both their skulls smashed by the same stone. Another was thrown to the deck, skewered through the chest by a bolt as thick as two of Quintus’ fingers. Blood pooled rapidly beneath his twitching body as he choked and gasped his way to oblivion. It left a crimson stain on the deck timbers. On the neighbouring quinquereme, a trio of soldiers were hurled overboard, falling into the gap between the two vessels. The screams as they were crushed to death or pushed under the water by the ships’ momentum were horrendous. Quintus prayed; around him, his comrades did the same. Corax seemed oblivious. He paced to and fro between the men, making no acknowledgement of the enemy artillery at all.
Corax was made of iron, Quintus decided. He himself managed not to soil his undergarment, and to appear calm, yet it was quite another to do as Corax did, and to defy death. Despite the centurion’s example, Quintus was grateful that they were nearing their destination. Hades beckoned in numerous new ways, but at least he’d have his feet on dry land.
Twang! Twang! Quintus held his breath; he did not look up. It was better not to. Wolf had been right. If the gods had marked him out to be wiped from existence, there was nothing he could do about it. Blood pulsed behind his eardrums nonetheless; fear gnawed at his guts. Crash! The roars of agony that followed were some distance to his rear; Quintus felt guilty relief that the stone had not hit him or Urceus, and then immediate terror about where the second stone would land. Crash! The deck trembled beneath his feet; there was the unmistakeable sound of a body hitting the ground, right behind him.
‘Wolf!’ wailed Unlucky.
Blood sprayed over Quintus’ lower legs as he turned; he winced at the sight. The stone had taken Wolf’s head clean off; there was no sign of it, or his helmet with its signature strip of fur. His truncated corpse sprawled before them, unrecognisable as their comrade. The severed arteries in the stump of Wolf’s neck pulsed with each slowing beat of his heart, showering the area with droplets of blood. A great gouge had been taken out of the deck planking beyond Wolf, but fortunately for the other hastati, the stone appeared to have bounced on into the sea.
‘Wolf,’ whispered Unlucky, his face as grey as week-old snow. ‘Wolf.’
‘He’s gone,’ grated Quintus, seizing Unlucky’s chin and forcing his gaze away from the mangled body. Quintus stared into Unlucky’s eyes. ‘He’s gone. The gods will take care of him now. Get a grip of yourself.’
For a moment, it seemed that Unlucky would crack, but then he knuckled away his tears and nodded. ‘I’m all right,’ he muttered. ‘I’m all right.’
‘Good.’ Quintus released him, noting that Unlucky’s grip on his dice was so tight that his knuckles were glistening white through the skin of his fist. ‘Thank the gods that the wretch will be behind us on the ladder,’ he said to Urceus in an undertone. ‘Otherwise we’d have him falling on top of us.’
‘You’re not wrong there. Gods grant that it is soon.’ Urceus made an obscene gesture at the defences. ‘Wait until we get up there, you whoresons!’
Quintus felt the same fury. If he lived long enough to reach the enemy, he would make them pay dearly for Wolf’s life: yet another comrade to be avenged.
Chapter VIII
‘We’re nearly there, boys!’ Corax’s shout could not be ignored. The centurion was pointing at the imposing stone walls that were looming above them, some 150 paces away. ‘Steady yourselves. Pray to your favourite deities. When the captain gives me the order, the crew will raise the ladder. The instant it hits that rampart, I want you scrambling up there as fast as you fucking can. Do you hear me?’
‘YES, SIR!’ they roared at him, their nerves, their desire for vengeance adding volume to their voices.