‘Hard to starboard!’ Satyrus called, in case some laggard had forgotten the drill. ‘Port side reverse benches all aback starboard ahead full row — row — ROW!’
Simultaneously, Jubal dropped a pair of heavy stones from the stern — stones roped by hawsers to the mainmast stanchions, so that the ship became a horizontal pendulum at the end of a pair of anchor ropes belayed amidships.
The bow came around like a living thing. For a second, their whole port side was exposed to the gale, and the wall of wind took them and moved the ship the length of a house, sideways and rolled them so far that some starboard-side oarsmen got their hands wet in the ocean and their oars were almost straight up and down, or so it seemed. But they held their ground and pulled like they had held their ground in the phalanx and the port-side men pulled like heroes, and the ship shot about in her own length, her force keeping her out against the hawsers of the fulcrum — turned at racing speed.
Jubal, armed with a great axe, chopped at his hawsers and they parted with the sound of close-in thunder.
Like a great arrow from the god’s bow, Aphrodite’s Laughter shot out of the storm-lashed darkness at the mole. Satyrus ran forward from amidships to join the marines.
‘Ares!’ Satyrus could see forward now — over the marines, every man already soaked to the skin — and he saw now that Demetrios had not recalled the flanking ships. Half were sunk, their ruptured timbers showing above the water like spiky teeth, and the others were rolling into the mole with mighty crashes, pounding themselves to flinders. ‘Poseidon!’ Satyrus prayed, and ran aft.
‘The mole’s still full of ships!’ Satyrus yelled.
‘Then we don’t need to back water!’ Neiron roared in reply.
‘Brace!’ called the men in the bow. Satyrus threw himself flat and grabbed a stanchion.
The bow hit something with a gentle tap, and then something else — Satyrus kept his helmeted head down, well clear of the stanchion, and felt impact after impact — four, five, a great shudder and a ripping noise, as if the veils that hid the world of the immortals from men had parted asunder, and then a crash forward.
Satyrus was on his feet without actually thinking that the way was off the ship, and he ran forward — the foremast had snapped off cleanly and lay over the bow, right across the deck of a half-sunk trireme — and onto the mole.
Satyrus ran down the deck, already knowing what he had to do. Because only a god could have delivered the foremast like a boarding plank, cutting across the half-sunk wreck the way that Herakles cut across most of the problems posed to him.
At full charge, Satyrus leaped onto the butt of the fallen mast and ran — ran along the rounded, slippery bridge, eyes locked on the mole, blocking his fear — fear of heights, fear of slipping, fear that no man would follow him. He ran across the fallen mast and slipped — at the very end — and skidded on his knees at the edge of the mole to fall in a heap-
— on the mole.
Only his greaves kept him from ripping all the skin off his knees, and the salt-water spume hurt like a hundred avenging furies, but he was up on his feet in a heartbeat, his spear still in his hand, shield on his shoulder — he’d hurt that shoulder falling, hell to pay later — and he looked back to see Draco coming across the foremast, jumping effortlessly onto the surface of the mole.
‘Let’s kill every fucker here,’ he said, and ran off down the mole into the dark.
The oarsmen were clambering off their benches, impeded by their armour, but the marines were coming across the mast. Satyrus didn’t wait for them.
He turned, and ran down the mole after Draco.
The whole length of the mole seemed deserted.
And it seemed to stay that way until he heard a scream, and then a massive lightning flash lit up the scene.
Draco was killing men. And the mole was packed — packed with men. All the men from all the ships.
Zeus sent lightning from heaven to give them light, Poseidon blew wind and rain at the men on the mole, and Satyrus and his puny handful came out of the storm and started to kill.
Satyrus ran shield first into a clump of men illuminated by the levin-bolts. The thunder seemed to roll on now in one continuous peel, and the rapid flashes of the storm strobed together in an almost continuous light that nonetheless had a terrifying quality to it.
Most of the men closest to him were unarmed oarsmen. Satyrus killed them anyway, because a night assault in the heart of a storm is not a time when a man shows mercy. He was economical, fighting as only a veteran of dozens of hand-to-hand combats can fight — killing as only the veteran knows how to kill, shallow jabs to eye and throat and abdomen, no long thrusts — the needle-sharp point of his best short spear was a reaping scythe, into temples, through skull-fronts, into necks — any stroke that left the victim dead without risk to the attacker, risk of a wound or of his weapon binding in the wound.
The storm roared. It gave the fight an Olympian quality, as no sound of mortal man could be heard.
Men came up out of the storm, more marines and more and more again, and then Jubal and the deck crew — and the oarsmen, packed like herd animals died without response, their screams lost in the scream of the storm.
But behind the living wall of oarsmen were good soldiers, professionals, men who knew how to shelter themselves on a stormy night, and knew when they were under attack, knew that their lives were forfeit if they failed. The oarsmen died to buy them time, and they awoke, took up their weapons and formed.
Satyrus could see them forming, and he tried to cut his way through the last fringe of terrified oarsmen, who now pressed back into the forming ranks of the enemy soldiers — now the enemy soldiers were killing the oarsmen as ruthlessly as Satyrus’ men, defending the integrity of their formation. All in the lightning-lit roar that filled the senses.
Satyrus broke through the last rank of oarsmen, face to face with an officer in a bedraggled double crest. He thrust — hard — and his spear point caught on the other man’s breastplate and knocked the man down, but failed to go through the heavy bronze. Satyrus stepped in, kicked the man in the groin and went for the kill-
A spear caught his in the descent, parried him, swung up, inside his guard — Satyrus sprang back and the counter-thrust just touched the front of his helmet under the crest, a killing blow a finger’s width from its target.
Satyrus planted his feet, caught the replacement blow on his shield and went in with the other man’s spear safe on his shield, and now the other man sprang back.
Time to think this man is a brilliant spear-fighter and then a flurry of blows, blocking on instinct, and an overarm swing with his spear point to catch what he couldn’t see — pure luck, his bronze saurauter caught the man in the side of the helmet — just a tap, but it staggered him and they fell apart, and five flashes of lightning showed Satyrus that he was facing Lucius, who he’d seen before.
Lucius must have recognised him. The Italian grinned, showing all his teeth. ‘Let’s dance,’ he said. And rifled his spear overarm, a beautiful throw.
Perhaps Herakles or Athena lifted his shield. Perhaps it was just the wind. The spear, meant for his eye, sprang off the bronze of his aspis rim and leaped high in the air over his head.
Lucius was right behind it, having quick-drawn his sword, and his swing blew chips out of the aspis. He was inside Satyrus’ spear.
Satyrus dropped his spear and punched his open hand at Lucius’ face, a pankration blow — he only caught the man’s armoured forehead but he rocked his head back, powered forward on his leg change and knocked the Italian off his feet and went for his own sword, but the Italian’s legs came up and kicked him square in the chest and he was down, his aspis rolling away into the light-punctuated darkness.