“Why Nymphaeum? Why so far north?”
“That your legions might reinforce Pompey’s army without any interference from Caesar.”
“Do you not mean my army?”
“It shall only be yours once the treasury gold is in my master’s custody. Until then, Pompey commands.”
“Your master gives me an insurmountable task.” Antony had said frustratedly. He pondered his predicament for a long moment, searching for a solution. He glanced at Orestes. “What about you, Orestes? Any ideas creeping into that deviant cerebrum of yours? The Rhodian fleet is at the bottom. I have a collection of rotted river scows, not proper transports, and Libo watches my every move. Now that he controls Basada – ”
“There is a way,” Lucius had said suddenly before the quiet eunuch could respond. “Pardon my interrupting, sir.”
Antony had sighed. “Go on, Lucius.”
“Libo’s fleet is worse off than you think, sir,” Lucius had said. “Their water casks are near empty. They’ve enough to get them through a week or so, but if you give him a chance to water his fleet, he’ll have no choice but to take it.”
And Lucius’s suggestion had been the key. The cavalry patrols had been recalled, and Libo had taken the bait.
Now, Antony’s convoy was close to reaching the natural harbor at Nymphaeum, and the designated rendezvous with the Raven. The crossing had not been without its problems. Every ship in Brundisium that could maintain no more than a foot of water in the bilge had been commandeered, be it merchant or fisherman, Roman or foreign, nearly eighty ships in all. They ranged in size from the three-decked quinquereme on which he now stood down to small, deckless galleys that could scarcely surmount the waves without being swamped. Even with this massive armada of assorted vessels, Antony had been forced to leave three cohorts of the Eighth Legion behind in Brundisium. Still, he had managed to ship the better part of four legions and eight hundred horse, along with engines and impedimenta, and now they were only a few leagues away from their destination.
They would not all make it, of course. The scraggly armada was spread out for miles, clustered according to their speed and seaworthiness. Thus far, only a handful had foundered in the rough seas, but now they were sure to lose many more.
“The enemy has overtaken the Nisus, sir!” the lookout above reported.
Antony looked astern and saw what he expected to see. Far off, a charging quinquereme smashed into one of the slower transports, turning it into splinters. It was the first ship to be overtaken by the enemy fleet which had been in full pursuit for the last several hours.
Libo’s fleet had appeared in the early afternoon, a forest of masts on the western horizon that had crept slowly over the edge of the world until the hulls were visible, their imposing bows cutting through the waves while gleaming oars rose and fell in rapid succession. As the sun had waned in the sky, the enemy had closed the distance and was now overtaking the tail end of Antony’s column as it crawled up the coast.
"That is the Argonaut in the lead, is it not?" Antony asked no one in particular, pointing at another of the enemy ships, a giant deceres with several ornate pennants whipping at its masthead.
"I believe it is, sir," replied one of the legates beside him.
"Where Postumus and his whelp Libo no doubt lick their lips, thinking they will catch us." Antony grinned, raising his hands in an obscene gesture. "Not today, you turds from a calf's arse!”
Several of the legionaries on the deck below chuckled mildly at his oath, but their merriment was guarded, for it was evident to all that they were not out of the fire yet.
In spite of his lusty invective, Antony himself had to admit an unnerving feeling at the sight of the massive Argonaut. She closed the range at an unsettling pace, coming on at full speed, her massive bow parting the waves as a plow tills the soil. The slower transports had no hope of escape, their leaky hulls were too cumbersome to evade. Like hunting falcons swooping down upon a field of mice, the giant flagship and her consorts singled out their victims. The Argonaut altered course slightly, choosing a single-decked transport to be the first to feel the bite of her jagged ram. Facing imminent destruction, many of the transport’s crew and passengers leapt into the sea mere moments before the fatal strike. The Argonaut ran upon the smaller craft from astern, at two or three times her speed. The transport shivered from the keel to the masthead and then came apart. Shattered timbers were scattered in all directions and the flailing bodies of men and beasts were propelled into the air. The Argonaut's momentum seemed unaffected by the disassembling vessel, as if she rode over a patch of open water. She quickly returned to her original course, continuing the pursuit while her sisters dealt with many of the other stragglers in a similar fashion.
The speed and efficiency with which the enemy fleet diced up the trailing ships was unsettling, but Antony watched the destruction with forced coolness for the sake of those around him. The slower transports would have to be written off. The majority of the convoy would make it, he kept telling himself.
A flaming ball arced across the sky and splashed into the water less than a ship’s length away from another transport. As Antony’s eyes followed the projectile’s path, he caught sight of Lucius down on the Vulcan’s stern deck. He was dressed like a proper centurion now, wearing mail armor and a helmet adorned with a plume of yellow feathers that fanned from ear to ear. While the legionaries around him stood on their toes to see the action and the pursuit, Lucius casually leaned against the bulwark, thumbing the hilt of his gladius and appearing disinterested.
Antony chuckled inwardly. The big idiot had no idea how close he had come to walking into his own murder, and he seemed oblivious to the fact that Antony still held a grudge against him. Had the fool not been captured by the enemy fleet all those days ago, he would now be lying in some shallow grave alongside the road to Thessalonica.
Do you not see yet, Lucius, you imbecile? You embarrassed me in Spain, and I never forget a personal insult. I always get my revenge, in the end.
While it was true Lucius had been an instrumental help ever since his return, Antony knew he would eventually have to do away with him. His own personal honor demanded it, notwithstanding the fact that the bothersome centurion was an atrocious bore. But there would be time enough for that, once the Raven had conferred upon him his new title.
“The Hammer of Rodon, General!" the Vulcan’s captain called, pointing ahead.
Antony wheeled around to see a finger of land stretching out across the convoy’s path. The convoy had been cruising up the seaward side of a vast cape covered with high green hills that poked above white cliffs lining the shore. The lead ships had now arrived at the northern end of this cape, where a thin, hilly outcropping extended nearly a mile into the sea, and continued well beyond that as a scattering of dark, half-submerged rocks, some the size of Saturn’s temple. Mariners had dubbed it the Hammer of Rodon, and the name suited it well. Even from this distance, Antony could see the tumult of white surf surrounding it.
“This is what I warned you about, General,” the captain called up to him. “The wind comes at us from the South now. We should manage to weather the cape, if the wind holds. But if it doesn’t,…”
The captain did not finish, nor did he have to. The hundreds of foreboding black teeth, where the sea swirled and spouted, gave a clear enough indication as to what their fate would be should the winds shift. Antony sighed, knowing that he could be throwing away his legions, not to mention the gold riding in the holds.