'Standing orders, sir. If an unknown vessel is sighted, the garrison is to be alerted.'
'It's not an unknown vessel, is it? It's a warship. We are the only people who operate warships in the eastern Mediterranean. Therefore it's not unknown, and there's no need to trouble the men, Optio.'
Septimus stood his ground. 'Unless the ship is making a scheduled call, it is unknown, according to the book, sir.'
'The book?' Philipus puffed his cheeks. 'Look here, Optio, if there is any sign of hostility then you can call out the garrison. Meanwhile, inform the quartermaster that we have a visitor and that he and his staff are to be ready to revictual the warship. Now, if I may, I'll finish my breakfast. Dismissed.'
'Yes, sir.' The optio stood to attention, saluted and turned to stride down the short colonnade towards the exit to the commander's quarters. Philipus sighed. He felt guilty about treating the man with disdain. Septimus was a good junior officer, efficient, even if he wasn't terribly imaginative. He had been right to cite standing orders, the same orders that Philipus had carefully penned in the early days of his appointment when the first flush of enthusiasm for his new post had governed his actions.
Philipus finished the last mouthful of bread, drained his watered wine and rose to make his way to his sleeping chamber. He paused by the pegs on the wall, and then reached for his breastplate and helmet. It would be as well to greet the commander of the ship formally, and to ensure that he was efficiently served, so that a favourable impression was conveyed back to the fleet in Alexandria. As long as his record was good, there was always a chance that he might be promoted to a more prestigious command, and could leave Epichos behind him.
Philipus tied his chinstrap and adjusted his helmet, then slipped his sword belt over his shoulder and strode out of his quarters. The fort at Epichos was small, barely fifty paces along each wall. The mud-brick walls were ten feet high and would present little obstacle to any enemy who decided to attack the supply base. In any case, the walls themselves were cracked and crumbling and could be knocked down with ease. In truth, there was no danger of any attack, Philipus mused. The Roman navy commanded the seas, and the nearest threats by land were the kingdom of Nubia, hundreds of miles to the south, and sundry bands of Arab brigands who occasionally raided the more isolated settlements along the upper Nile.
The trierarch's quarters were at one end of the fort, flanked by the granary and the warehouse for ship's stores. Six barrack blocks lined the street running down the middle of the fort towards the gatehouse. A pair of sentries unhurriedly stood to attention at his approach and presented their spears as Philipus passed between them and left the fort. Although the sky above was clear, a thin mist hung across the bay, thickening where it lay over the mangroves so that the tangle of rushes, palms and shrubs assumed a vague spectral form which Philipus had found a little disturbing when he had first arrived. Since then, he had frequently joined the river patrols and had become used to the early-morning mists that often cloaked the Nile delta.
Outside the fort lay a long strip of beach, reaching round the bay towards the mangrove. In the other direction it gave way to a rocky strip of land that curved out towards the sea, creating a fine natural harbour. Directly in front of the fort lay the beached bireme, which came with the command. The chief carpenter had lavished many months of his time on the old warship and he and his men had replaced worn and rotting timbers and applied fresh tar to the hull and re-rigged the mast and spars. The sides had been repainted with an elaborate eye design at the bows. The ship was ready to put to sea, but Philipus doubted that this veteran of Actium would ever see action again. A short distance to one side of the Anubis a sturdy wooden jetty projected from the shore forty or so paces out into the bay to allow visiting ships to moor alongside.
Although the sun had not yet risen above the mist, the air was warm and Philipus hoped that he could quickly dispense with any formalities arising from the arrival of the ship and remove his breastplate and helmet. He turned and strode along the dusty track that led towards the lookout post. The small tower was built on a rocky outcrop on the strip of land forming the natural breakwater of the harbour. At the end of the strip another, sturdier, watchtower guarded the entrance. Four bolt throwers were mounted on the walls, together with a brazier, so that any enemy vessel entering the narrow channel leading into the harbour could be subjected to the torment of incendiary fire.
When he reached the lookout post, Philipus entered the shelter at the bottom and saw three of his marines sitting at a bench, chatting in muted tones as they ate their bread and dried fish. As soon as they saw him they rose and saluted.
'Easy, boys.' Philipus smiled. 'Who reported the approach of the warship?'
'Me, sir,' one of the marines said.
'All right then, Horio, lead the way.'
The marine lowered his bread into his mess tin and crossed the interior of the tower and climbed the ladder leading to the roof. The trierarch followed him and emerged on to the platform, next to the signal brazier, made up and ready to be lit at a moment's notice. A section of the space was sheltered by a roof of thatched palm leaves. The sentry who had replaced Horio stood at the weathered wooden rail, gazing out to sea. Philipus joined him and Horio and stared towards the ship approaching the entrance of the bay. The crew were busy furling the sail, a wine-red spread of goatskin decorated with the broad wings of an eagle. A moment later the sail had been lashed up and oar blades extended from the sides of the vessel and dipped down into the light swell. There was a brief pause before the order to take up the stroke was given and then the oars rose, swept forward and down, cutting into the water and thrusting the bows of the ship forwards.
Philipus turned to Horio. 'Which direction did it come from, before it made towards land?'
'From the west, sir.'
The trierarch nodded to himself. From the direction of Alexandria, then. Which was odd, since no warship was due to pay a visit to the outpost for at least another month, when it would drop off despatches and the quarterly pay chest. Philipus watched as the ship passed by the tower guarding the entrance of the harbour and continued across the calm waters towards the jetty. He could see the sailors and marines lining the sides as they surveyed the bay. In the wooden turret at the front of the vessel a tall figure in a plumed helmet stood erect, hands spread out on the rail in front of him as he stared towards the jetty and the fort beyond.
A movement over by the fort caught Philipus's attention and he saw Septimus and the quartermaster, together with a small escort of sailors, making their way down to the jetty.
'Best join the reception committee,' he mused. Philipus took a last look at the ship crossing the bay, a picture of efficient grace against the tranquil backdrop of distant mangrove. Then he turned to climb down the ladder.
By the time he had returned to the end of the jetty, the warship had slowed and the order to backwater carried clearly to the three officers and the sailors as they advanced down the jetty to greet their visitors. The rowers held their oars in the water and the resistance of the blades quickly killed the forward motion of the vessel.
'Ship oars!'
There was a dull rumble of timber as the oars withdrew through the slots on each side of the ship and it continued to glide round towards the jetty as the men on the tiller steered the liburnian alongside. Philipus could see the officer in the turret clearly now: tall and broad-shouldered, younger looking than he expected. He stood impassively as his trierarch bellowed the orders for the sailors to make ready their mooring ropes. As the ship edged towards the jetty, ropes snaked through the air from the men in the bows and Philipus's men caught them and heaved the vessel alongside, until the side creaked up against the bundles of woven reeds that protected the jetty's posts. Another line was tossed to the men waiting near the stern and a moment later the ship was securely moored.