The flutes’ whistles accelerated into the almost constant screech of ramming speed and the lead Getic ships surged forward into the Roman squadron. Two caught a trireme broadside, crashing into it fore and aft, whilst another shipped its larboard oars as it skimmed up the side of a bireme, breaking its oars like twigs and catapulting rowers out of their seats, their backs broken and the skulls smashed. The sounds of cracking wood drowned the flutes as the two Getic vessels reversed stroke in order to wrench themselves free of the crippled Roman ship. The second wave of the Getic fleet crunched into the hapless squadron and Vespasian turned his horse.
‘I think I’ve seen enough of that to know I wouldn’t want to be involved in a sea battle,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘There’ll be some good lads crossing the Styx today,’ Magnus muttered as he followed, pulling the priest’s horse after him, ‘and all because Poppaeus wants to silence one man.’
‘Or, conversely, because we want to keep him alive,’ Sabinus pointed out. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it though, the timing of a man’s death is down to the will of Mithras and there’s bugger all to do about it.’
Not wanting to get into a theological debate with his brother, Vespasian kicked his horse into a canter and started to make his way down the hill to the plain that rolled all the way to the Euxine Sea and the port of Tomi.
Vespasian and his comrades were chilled to the bone by the time they reached the town gates, two hours after dusk. The wind had strengthened to gale force, dispersing the clouds, and the temperature had plummeted under the clear, starry sky. The sight of a military tribune’s uniform was enough to persuade the surly gatekeepers to open up after curfew and they passed through into a wide thoroughfare, dimly lit by the moon, which led directly to the port, the town’s main reason for its existence. The buildings on either side were mean and shabby and the whole town had an air of neglect about it; it had seen better days.
‘What a miserable shit-hole,’ Magnus opined as a few ragged beggars peered at them out of a gloomy side street.
‘That’s why it’s used as a place of exile,’ Sabinus said. ‘The poet Publius Ovidius Naso lived out the last years of his life here, the poor bastard.’
‘It once was a great Odrysian port,’ Sitalces said mournfully, ‘until you Romans conquered the northern part of Thracia and turned it into the province of Moesia; then it went into decline as you have no need for a port here and we now use the ports in what’s left of our kingdom.’
‘How do the inhabitants survive then?’ Artebudz asked.
‘They still do some trade with the Bosporan kingdom in the north and the kingdom of Colchis in the east, but that’s about it; so it’s mainly fishing and piracy, not that they’d admit to the last, of course.’
‘I thought that Pompey Magnus cleared the seas of pirates,’ Vespasian pointed out. ‘Not the Euxine,’ Drenis said, spitting on the ground. ‘He only cared about protecting your precious trade and grain routes in your sea. A lot of the pirate crews just moved north to the Euxine.’
‘There’re still some in the Mare Aegeum,’ Sabinus informed them. ‘There’re plenty of places to hide amongst all those islands. On the way here my ship was chased by pirates as we sailed around the southern tip of Achaea; if it hadn’t been for some fine archery they’d have got us, but they lost their enthusiasm after we brought ten or twelve of them down including the captain, a nasty-looking, ginger-haired brute; he could have been one of your lot, Sitalces. Mind you, not all pirates are bad; the Cilician pirates brought the Lord Mithras to the Empire about the time of the Spartacus slave revolt.’
‘Who’d have thought it, Mithraic pirates.’ Vespasian laughed. ‘I suppose they make light of heavy weather.’
‘Don’t laugh, little brother,’ Sabinus cut in seriously. ‘The Lord Mithras shines his light on all men equally, good or bad, believers or not; he makes no judgement because he died to redeem us and was resurrected after three days to show us that death can be beaten.’
‘I didn’t notice Faustus beating it,’ Magnus observed.
Sabinus glared at Magnus. ‘Death is not just physical.’
Vespasian stopped short of making a flippant remark as he saw the depth of conviction on his brother’s face.
‘That looks to be our ship,’ Sitalces said, defusing the tension. The Thracian royal standard flapped in the wind on the mast of a huge, bulky, moon-lit quinquireme, rocking at its mooring on a swell that was substantial, even within the harbour.
Relieved that the theological discussion had been curtailed, they hastened along the deserted quay to the quinquireme’s guarded gangway.
‘Sitalces, you big old bugger,’ the guard captain called as they approached, ‘we didn’t expect you to be on time; not that we’re going anywhere in this weather.’
‘I’d have thought that the trierarchus would be the best judge of that, Gaidres,’ Sitalces replied, dismounting and slapping the guard on the shoulder. ‘What makes a foot-slogger like you think you’re qualified to make such a nautical judgement?’
‘I’m not a foot-slogger any more, I’m a marine and well qualified to make nautical judgements; I base them upon the amount of praying the old man’s doing, which is a lot since this wind got up,’ Gaidres said with a grin. ‘Come on board and hear it for yourselves. Tie the horses up, I’ll have someone feed them; we can see to them in the morning.’
‘This weather will deteriorate,’ Trierarchus Rhaskos said, looking up past the mast to the night sky that had started to fill with scudding clouds. ‘This wind is forewarning us of Zbelthurdos’ wrath. He is coming; he rides to hurl his lightning-bolts at us and soon we’ll hear the thunder of his great horse’s hooves and the howling of his faithful hound.’
‘Do you mean there’s going to be a storm?’ Vespasian asked testily. How much talk of gods did a man have to endure in one evening?
‘Yes, when Zbelthurdos is angry a storm usually follows,’ Rhaskos replied, scratching his woolly grey beard, which, set under his short-cropped, grey hair, gave Vespasian the curious impression that his head was on upside down. ‘We must placate him. I shall prepare a sacrifice; one of your horses should do the trick.’
‘You are not sacrificing our horses to your gods,’ Sabinus stated categorically. ‘They-’
‘They’re army property,’ Vespasian put in quickly before his brother offended anyone by denouncing the Thracian gods in favour of Mithras.
‘Mine is the property of the Queen,’ Sitalces said. ‘I’m sure that she would be pleased to offer it for sacrifice.’
Vespasian was not so sure but knew enough about the consequences of insulting the Thracian gods to keep his doubts to himself. Rhaskos looked pleased. ‘Good, that’s settled then. You have a prisoner, I believe?’ He turned to where Rhoteces lay struggling on the deck between Magnus and Artebudz. ‘The Queen asked me to construct a special cell for him; you’ll find it on the oar-deck. Gaidres will show you down, he’s been assigned with ten of his men to guard the prisoner.’
‘Drenis and I will, er… sort out the horse,’ Sitalces said to Vespasian as he turned to follow Gaidres. He nodded his assent; Sabinus snorted.
They followed Gaidres the fifty paces down the length of the huge ship, Magnus and Artebudz dragging the bound priest between them by his arms. The deck creaked and heaved below their feet and the wind whistled past the vibrating stays supporting the mast. The two brothers were already starting to feel the ill effects of the sea by the time they reached a hatch at the bow of the vessel. A waft of human excrement and urine hit them as they made their way down a ladder on to the oar-deck.
‘Smells like we’re in the shit again, sir,’ Magnus remarked from the top of the ladder as he passed the unwilling Rhoteces down to Artebudz and Sabinus.