‘I will talk to him,’ Ballista said.
Felix, seated in comfort, was listening to one of his staff, a winsome youth, reading the Argonautica of Apollonius. Ballista waited for him to finish the passage. Then, choosing his words with care, he spoke in Greek. ‘ Kyrios, this early in the sailing season the weather is unsettled. Ionopolis is just a grandiose name given to the obscure Paphlagonian town of Abonouteichos. We would have to ride at anchor. There is nothing to see except the temple built by the charlatan Alexander of Abonouteichos. Long ago, Lucian exposed the god Glycon as a fraud: a tame snake with a moulded human head, deceitful voices whispered through the windpipes of cranes, sham oracles created by greedy men. The consul Rutilianus became a laughing stock when he was taken in by it.’
Felix turned a cold, baleful face on Ballista. ‘Publius Mummius Sisenna Rutilianus was my kinsman. In matters of religion, allow me to believe a Roman of high rank and unblemished character over a malicious scribbler like Lucian of Samosata.’ He pronounced the latter with extreme distaste. ‘Lucian, part Graeculus, part Syrian, all malevolent.’
Ballista nodded. ‘Of course, Kyrios.’ There was nothing else to say.
Despite the desolate coast, Ionopolis was reached without mishap. The elderly consular and his entourage went ashore. Ballista and the others stayed with the ship. Bruteddius allowed the crew no shore leave; two thirds camped on the beach, the rest remained aboard. Thankfully, the night was placid.
At first light, Felix climbed the boarding ladder, smiling, gracious, obviously buoyed up by an auspicious response from the oracle. Bruteddius assured the consular that everything was ready. Felix made the libations, asked for the favour of the gods. Ballista was irritated, but unsurprised to hear Glycon among the deities. What has the snake god promised you, old man? he thought. A century ago your kinsman believed, so now you do; to you that passes for piety.
There was no wind. The sea was dead calm, leaden. Even the eastward current seemed to have deserted them. The sun was a pale disc behind the haze. Intermittent patches of vapour curled on the surface of the water. The oarsmen would have a hard day of it.
Ballista sensed the unease of Bruteddius; something deeper than just scratching at his beard. The veteran trierarch had ordered that one of the three levels of rowers should rest at all times. He had taken the Armata well out into the deserted sea. A glance at the coastline showed why. Iron-bound promontory after iron-bound promontory; between each, open, rock-strewn coves.
Bruteddius had taken on another local pilot. There was but one safe anchorage in the sixty or seventy miles between Abonouteichos and Lepte Point. As it was pointed out, Bruteddius relaxed a little. As the Armata left it astern, he went back to worrying at his beard.
Across a grey sea, under an increasingly grey sky, the trireme laboured on, the men singing doleful songs to keep time. At the foot of the cliffs, jagged black-green rocks, frosted white on top with bird droppings. Above the precipices, rugged foothills, jagging up to wild mountains just visible through the mist. Only the occasional column of smoke, rising straight in the still air, showed the country was not deserted.
In the heavy fullness of time, the shoreline turned north. The Armata turned to follow. The high cliffs dropped away. Through the gathering mist, gentle meadows could be seen rolling down to the sea, on them tiny white dots, most likely sheep grazing, seemingly unattended. Ballista thought it might put some men in mind of pastoral poetry or Greek novels. He had never really cared for either. Demetrius would have enjoyed the view; probably Hippothous did.
‘Lepte Point.’ Bruteddius pointed. The headland ended in a low jumble of grey rocks. The water pushed and sucked sluggishly at them. Bruteddius kept the Armata well out. When he thought it completely safe, he brought her head around.
‘Ship in sight,’ the bow officer called out. Ballista, Maximus in tow, walked forward with Bruteddius. The three peered through the shifting obscurity. The bow officer pointed. ‘A warship, a liburnian by the size of her. Must be from Trapezus, one of the Classis Pontica.’
It was hard to judge distance in the mist. Maybe a mile away to the south-east was a dark shape. The outline of a high prow and forward-sweeping sternpost indicated a Mediterranean-style war galley. Smaller than the Armata, she appeared motionless, seemingly sitting on her oars in the shipping lane just around Lepte Point.
‘She is not alone.’ Maximus had always had keen eyes. ‘Beyond her.’
Ballista strained to penetrate the murk. Another dark shape, a second, then a third. ‘How many do you see?’
‘Six – there could be a seventh.’
Ballista could make out four now. The two he could see best had a prow at either end. ‘Bruteddius, turn us around, and get us away from here.’
‘Gothic longboats?’ The trierarch was tugging his beard.
‘Gothic longboats.’
Bruteddius shrugged. ‘That explains the empty sea and the beacons.’
‘We will fight them.’ No one had noticed Felix arrive on the fo’c’s’le. ‘We will go to the aid of the liburnian. It is unfitting we should run.’
‘They have seen us,’ said the bow officer. ‘They are getting under way.’
Ballista addressed Felix. ‘It is too late for the liburnian. She is with them.’
‘Unstep the masts; main and bowsprit.’ Bruteddius’s voice carried throughout the ship. The crew moved promptly at their trierarch’s command.
‘This is a trireme,’ said Felix. ‘We can fight them all.’
‘No,’ said Ballista bluntly. ‘Our marines and artillery were left in Byzantium. None of our rowers are armed; all of their men will be.’
‘We will manoeuvre, use the ram.’ There was no doubting the old senator’s martial spirit.
‘They would grapple us.’ Ballista shook his head. ‘Seven or eight ships – they would be on us like a pack of hounds.’
Both masts were down. The gaggle of passengers was impeding them from being securely lashed to the deck, getting tangled in the coils of the back and forestays. ‘All civilians sit down,’ bellowed Bruteddius. ‘Well spread out and not in the way.’
The trierarch led the men of rank back to the stern. Maximus had vanished.
‘All rowers to benches. Prepare for fast turn to left. On the command, starboard oars full pressure; larboard side, back her down hard; steering-oars, hard over.’
A chair was produced for Felix. He waved it away.
‘Now!’ The rowing master and the bow officer repeated the call.
The great galley surged forward and heeled. Her starboard lowest-level oarports almost under water, her ear dipping towards the sea, she circumscribed a tight circle. In a matter of moments, Bruteddius had her levelled off and racing back to the west.
Ballista looked over the stern. The Goths had gained appreciably. Now he could see five longboats behind the liburnian. As he watched, the blast of a horn echoed across. It was answered by seven or eight more.
Bruteddius spat over the side. ‘We have a start, and we have the legs on them. It has already been a longish row, but the boys have rested in turn. Anyway, fear gives a man stamina.’
No sooner were the words out than another horn rang out. It came from somewhere ahead and to the left. Another blast followed.
‘We were being followed,’ said Ballista.
‘Helmsman, take us out to the north-west, out into the deep sea.’ Clearly, Bruteddius was not given to panic. ‘Clear for action. Spare oars to all levels. Spread sand on the deck. Complete silence. Only officers to speak.’
Ballista knew what orders had not been given. This called for some tact. He turned to Felix. ‘ Dominus, I have commanded a trireme in action before. If the trierarch agrees, should I organize what fighting men we have?’