‘And failing that?’ Ballista asked.
‘Trapezus.’
‘How far?’
‘Better none of us think of that.’ Bruteddius went back to studying his ship and the sea.
The storm did not come in one rush. It built gradually, wave on wave, the wind keening higher in the rigging. The fore and aft lift were increasing. The waves were showing white. The rowers were having trouble catching their strokes. Bruteddius, ignoring the pleading looks of his officers and men, bided his time.
Ballista, one arm holding the sternpost, the other firm around Wulfstan and Bauto, watched the Goths astern. The longboats were only about two hundred yards behind. They were rising and falling on the waves like seagulls. At times, they were completely lost from view in the troughs between the rollers. These were big – all the way from the mouth of the Borysthenes; three, four hundred miles of sea room to gather themselves, to build up into something terrifying.
‘Are we going to die?’ Wulfstan had to shout to be heard.
‘We are not sailing on a mat. Old Bruteddius knows what he is doing.’ Ballista squeezed the boys harder. ‘The goddess Ran will not get us with her drowning net today.’ He did what he could to convey reassurance.
Maximus, timing the roll, slid to his side. ‘The Goths are gaining.’
Ballista flicked his head to get his long hair out of his eyes. ‘There will be no fighting in this. Help me out of this mail shirt.’ He released Wulfstan and Bauto. ‘You boys hold on tight to the rail.’
Soon the waves were breaking and tumbling. The oarsmen were fighting for purchase on the broken sea. The deck was streaming. One of the thalamians was carried up from the depths of the ship. He was twitching, his face a bloody mess. He had missed his stroke; somehow the metal counterweight on his oar had smashed into his face.
‘Deck crew,’ Bruteddius bellowed above the elements, ‘on my command, unfurl the mainsail – only a little canvas, steady on the brails. Rowing master, when she draws, on my second command, oars inboard; zygians and thalamians, all the way, seal the oarports; thranites, leave just the blades outside the weather screen.’
Bruteddius, moving easily across the wildly pitching deck, went to the rear helm. He placed his hands on the tillers, next to those of the helmsman. Braced, feeling the run of his ship, he gazed back over his shoulder towards the prow.
‘Deck crew, now!’
The sail dropped, snapped and bellied out, tight as a drum in an instant. The mast groaned.
‘Enough!’
The deck crew, leaning back, feet slipping, struggling for balance, wrestled the brails secure. There was just a few feet of sail showing. The ship shied like a racehorse.
‘Rowing master, oars inboard!’
The poles rattled home, and the Armata twisted, straightened and forged ahead with a new urgency.
‘Helmsmen, bring the wind a touch to larboard.’
The waves rushed under the high, curving stern of the trireme, tipped her nose down, lifted her. The long, delicate ship rode at a slant up the great face of water. At the top, she hung for a moment among the flying spume, ram high, then wriggled and slid down the far side. Again and again the threat was surmounted, the inhuman power negated.
‘Oarsmen, lie on your benches. Thranites, listen for orders. More hands to the pump. Bow officer, get some men bailing.’ A bigger wave brought Bruteddius to his knees. He was up in a moment. He bawled the traditional cry of seafarers: ‘Alexander lives and reigns!’
Ballista had been in a galley caught in heavy weather before – the Clementia, out in the Adriatic, north of Corycra. He understood the risks. So many things could turn the boat side on to the waves – too much water in the bilges, rushing uncontrolled, making the boat unstable, unresponsive to the helm; an exposed rank of oars, caught by a wave, acting like a lever; the ram driven too deep, becoming a forward rudder; a broken steering oar – and caught side on, she would roll, and that would be an end to it. Bruteddius was doing everything he could. The pump and bailing. The double steering oars. Just enough sail to give the vessel steerage. The oars inboard, but the upper rank poised for a desperate attempt to claw her head around.
You could not fault Bruteddius’s efforts. But they might well not be enough. A terrible wave could break over the ship, swamp her. If that happened, no despairing efforts would prevent her, sooner or later, turning broadside to the sea. The Armata might fail to ride a huge wave. Not reaching the crest, she would pitch poll; upended, stern over bow. If such a terrible wave came, it could simply drive the ship, ram first, down into the depths. That would be best – it would be the quickest.
The storm buffeted at their ears, yet not so loud they could not hear the groans and unnatural thumps as thousands of wooden joints flexed and ground together, not so deafening they were not aware of the high thrum of the rigging, and the roar and crash of the waves.
‘ Dominus, the water down below is rising. I think the hypozomata is working loose.’
‘No,’ Bruteddius reassured the shipwright, ‘it is just the seams moving. Nail a patch over anywhere it is coming in too fast – and get more men bailing; keep changing the shifts on the pump.’
The naupegos reeled away below deck, clutching at the woodwork as he negotiated the steps.
‘What is a hypo – hypozoma-?’ Maximus asked.
‘Nothing of importance,’ replied Bruteddius.
The air was full of water, the sea raging, but still the ship swam; sliding, twisting, bucking beneath their feet, but she still swam.
‘Hercules’ hairy arse!’
The Armata ran into something. She was smashed sideways. Across the deck men were knocked off their feet, sent sliding down towards the starboard rail.
‘All hands, larboard,’ bellowed Bruteddius. ‘Now!’
Ballista did not think. He skidded around the corner of the cabin, and set off between it and the back of the rear helmsman. The deck lurched up in front of him. He was thrown flat. He was slipping backwards in a deluge of water. His foot hit something, broke the momentum. His fingers found purchase in a join in the deck. Wulfstan was slithering past. Ballista put out a hand, grabbed the boy by the scruff of his tunic.
‘Larboard now!’ Bruteddius’s voice was cracked. ‘The next one will turn us over.’
A few steps and Ballista’s chest collided with the rail. Locking his forearms under it, he gripped for dear life. A body banged in on either side, another from behind.
Looking up, Ballista saw that a mountain of water was heading straight for him. The third of the rogue triple waves towered over the boat.
Ballista forgot to breathe before the impact. Saltwater forced its way into his mouth, up his nose. It tried to rip him from the rail. The Armata was tipping. Ballista tried to breathe out. He failed. The boat reared still higher.
Ballista’s body forced him to try and breathe. Nothing but water, choking, down into his lungs, drowning him. The boat literally hung in the balance.
Allfather, this is it, thought Ballista. I am going to die.
Then wonderful, sweet air. Gulping, coughing, Ballista felt the rail start to fall. Slowly at first, then faster, the Armata began to right herself.
‘Rowers, back to your benches.’ Bruteddius was indestructible, a thing of nature. ‘Balance the boat.’
From below, the sounds of the starboard oarsmen stumbling, bumping to their places – a herd of weird migrating animals.