‘Fucking Pera,’ Quintus said.
‘The piece of shit isn’t waiting for us!’
‘We can still make it!’
They scrambled down the rocks and thumped on to the planks, which swayed beneath them. ‘Sir!’ Quintus called out in a low voice. ‘Wait!’
When Pera saw them, he muttered to the fisherman — a man Quintus didn’t recognise — who pulled the last of the rope into the boat.
Quintus had no breath to curse, but rage filled him that Pera would desert them so deliberately. They began to sprint, with Quintus in the lead. He had covered half the distance when there was an almighty crack from behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he was horrified to see Marius half disappear through a hole in the rotten timbers. He skidded to a halt, noticing soldiers emerging from the tunnel. Fuck!
Quintus glanced at the boat. It had only moved a length away from the jetty; the fisherman hadn’t yet run up its sail. They might still catch it by swimming. He lay down and reached down towards Marius, swearing because of the splinters in the broken planks. ‘Grab my hand!’
‘I’m hurt,’ groaned Marius as Quintus hauled him up.
‘Up, up on your feet. We can look at you on board,’ said Quintus. His gaze slid down below Marius’ waist. So much blood and bone poking through the skin was really bad news, especially now that they needed to swim. His eyes lifted; he saw the soldiers already at the end of the jetty. He tried to grab Marius, but his friend pushed him away. ‘Leave me.’
‘No!’ Quintus made another effort to pick him up, but there was nothing wrong with Marius’ arms. He resisted fiercely.
‘I’m done, Crespo! If you don’t go, we’ll both die. Where’s the point in that?’
Quintus wanted to weep, but Marius was right. The first soldier was no more than twenty paces away.
‘Get me up on my feet. I’ll hold them back so that you can jump.’
Quintus’ throat was closed with emotion. All he could do was nod. With an arm around Marius’ shoulders, he managed to lift his friend upright. Marius roared with pain as he tried to stand on his injured leg. He took a deep breath, fixed Quintus with his eyes. ‘Give me your spear.’
‘Here.’
‘Save yourself. Pera will pull you on board if you get to the boat. Go!’
‘I will.’ Quintus gripped Marius’ arm hard. Then he turned and fled.
‘Come on, you stinking Greek arse-humpers!’ he heard Marius shout in Greek. ‘One Roman is worth ten of you any day!’ The Syracusan soldiers roared abuse in reply.
Quintus felt the timbers move as they advanced on to the jetty, but he didn’t look back. He couldn’t. There was an open space at the end of the planking and he hared towards it. The boat’s sail was up now. Despite the shelter provided by the walls, there was some breeze to fill it. He would have one chance before the craft was beyond his reach.
Quintus slowed up enough to plunge into the sea head first, with his arms outstretched. He was no expert, but he’d often seen the men who dived for shellfish off the coast of Campania. The water was shockingly cold. Kicking out with his arms and legs, Quintus shot above the surface in a great spray of droplets. The boat was perhaps fifteen paces from him, and picking up speed fast. Pera was watching him, his face inscrutable. Quintus swam for the vessel with all of his strength. From the jetty came the sound of men fighting. Marius was still alive, then. Despite his growing distance from the vessel, new determination filled Quintus. His comrade’s sacrifice must not be in vain.
Quintus’ sense of time and space vanished. He felt the sting of salt in his eyes, the burn of it at the back of his mouth, and his limbs powering him along. Ahead, he saw only the boat. Finally, incredibly, he was almost within reach of it. With a huge effort, he swam close enough to touch its hull. The fisherman saw him, and Quintus prayed that it was he who reached out a hand. But it was Pera whose face appeared over the side, whose hand bore an oar like a weapon. Shocked, Quintus swallowed a mouthful of water and flailed backwards, trying to get away. He’s going to brain me.
‘Two people rowing would give us more speed,’ said a voice — the fisherman.
Disappointment flickered in Pera’s eyes; he changed his grip on the oar and extended it to Quintus. ‘Grab a hold!’
Still wary, Quintus obeyed. To his relief, Pera pulled him in and held out his other hand. They shared a look — of mutual dislike, even hatred — before Quintus lifted his arm from the water towards Pera’s.
‘Quickly, quickly,’ urged the fisherman as Quintus landed sprawling on the deck. ‘The artillerymen won’t sit about!’
Quintus’ gaze shot not to the ramparts but to where Marius had stood. He saw only a bloody corpse. You died well, brother, he thought sadly. Several enemy soldiers had run to the end of the jetty, from where they hurled their spears. None had the range to reach the boat, nor, it seemed, did they know how to sail. Not a man among them climbed into any of the other fishing craft. Heartened by this, Quintus made obscene gestures at them. ‘Fuck you, you whoresons!’
‘Don’t waste your breath.’ An oar was shoved at him. ‘Take this and row,’ ordered Pera.
‘Sir.’ Quintus took the oar, little more than a length of wood with one end that was slightly thicker than the other, and lowered it into the crude rowlock, and thence into the water.
‘On my count. One. Two. Three. Pull!’ said Pera. ‘One. Two. Three. Pull!’
With the wind filling the sail, their efforts helped the boat to travel over the waves at a respectable clip. It was two thousand paces to the far side, but at four hundred, they’d be out of range of the enemy artillery. Quintus judged that the boat had already travelled a quarter of that distance. He eyed the ramparts nervously. Still no activity there.
‘I can’t remember the last time there was an east wind in this harbour,’ said the fisherman. ‘It never happens.’
‘Fortuna must have sat on Eurus’ cock today,’ Pera pronounced. ‘He’s in a good mood.’
Quintus had to smile, for all that he hated Pera. Eurus, the Greek god of the east wind, was regarded as the bringer of ill fortune, yet it was thanks to him that the boat was moving so fast.
Whizzzz!
The all-too-familiar sound made Quintus’ gorge rise. There was a blur of movement some distance off to his right, and a splash as a large arrow scythed into the sea.
‘Row! Row!’ yelled the fisherman.
Quintus and Pera bent their backs. Their oars rose and fell in near unison, over and over.
It was as if the first missile had been a sign to the other artillerymen. Whizzzz! Whizzzz! Whizzzz! Whizzzz! The air filled with the deadly noise, and the water around the boat was struck again and again as the arrows landed. One hit the deck by the base of the mast, and another punched a hole in the sail, but that was the only damage. A second volley came close on the heels of the first, but again the little boat and its occupants escaped serious damage.
Just as suddenly as it had begun, the volleys ended. Quintus felt nervous rather than pleased. They were at the limit of the bolt-throwers’ range, which meant that the stone-throwers would be next. They began shooting an instant later, yet this barrage too was desultory. About half a dozen rocks were loosed before the boat was left alone to complete its voyage.
Perhaps their ammunition was too valuable to waste on a couple of spies, thought Quintus. He didn’t wait for Pera’s command. Lifting his oar from the water, he slumped down beside it on the deck. The centurion glared, but then he too did the same. They sat in silence. Quintus couldn’t put Marius’ death from his mind, nor the image of Pera ordering the fisherman to move off from the jetty without them. His grief morphed into white-hot anger. ‘You were going to leave us behind, sir.’
‘Bullshit. I thought you had been caught.’
‘Even when we were on the jetty, sir?’