Christian Cameron - Destroyer of Cities

‘That was a little precipitate,’ Theron said.

‘Was it really?’ Satyrus asked. ‘He’s a fool. And he doesn’t seem to care whether he offends me or not.’

Theron nodded. ‘Well, you have a point. And I suppose it can’t hurt. After yesterday. As you said this morning, either you are mad, or very strong, and either way it should give his master some hesitation.’ Theron had been Satyrus’ athletic coach and tutor. He had special rights in terms of criticism. ‘Besides,’ he said, ‘now you have a free hour to look at your ships.’

Satyrus laughed. ‘Am I so transparent?’ he asked.

The sun pounded down on the wharf, and on the naked backs of the work party that was installing the artillery aboard Satyrus’ new-built flagship. Arete was going to be the most powerful ship in the Euxine — a Rhodian-built penteres with a hemiolas deck.

Satyrus walked down the wharf with Helios at his back, doing his best to be a private gentleman and not the king, but sailors and oarsmen stopped whatever they were doing to smile, wave, bow, or simply stare.

‘She’s huge!’ Helios said.

Satyrus knew there were bigger ships on the seas, but Arete towered over the rest of his small fleet — taller and broader than his triremes and slightly longer as well, like a warhorse in a stable of racehorses.

‘Permission to come aboard?’ Satyrus called up the companionway.

The marine on duty nodded.

Neiron, his helmsman — technically the trierarch of the Arete — met him on the central command deck. Unlike a small trireme, the mighty penteres had a deck that went from gunwale to gunwale the whole length of the deck — armouring the rowers against archery but condemning them to airless sweat wherever they rowed. However, with the after half-deck for the sailors to work the permanent mainmast, the ship had the deck space to carry a huge marine complement — thirty or forty men, if he wished it. More important, the deck had room to support outboard sponsons — small decks — with the new artillery pieces. Arete was built to hold six ballistae — three to each side — and a seventh over the ram.

It was the weapon over the ram that Draco was installing as Satyrus came up the companionway, and he seemed to ignore the king, lying full length and squinting at the deck. The frame of the ballista lay across the bow, and there was a hole bored through the deck and into the main timber that supported the top of the ram — a timber of Euxine oak as big around as Satyrus’ leg. Two shipwrights stood by, one with a brace and bit, and the other with a saw.

Satyrus crouched by the Macedonian. ‘You’ve done this before,’ he said.

‘Nope,’ Draco said. ‘Diokles! You asleep?’

‘Didn’t go through the beam,’ came a voice from below.

Draco shook his head. ‘Needs some kind of collar, I think. Look — we put a pin in the base of the main frame, so the piece can rotate.’

‘Excellent!’ Satyrus said, celebrating his freedom from the finances of his polis.

The ballista over the bow was the heaviest piece on the ship — in fact, in the whole fleet. It could shoot an iron bar out over two stades. Allowing the piece to rotate would more than double its effectiveness.

‘The pin goes deep into the oak of the frame — and deep into the beam below.’ Draco shook his head. ‘But the thing weighs fifty talents. When it looses it could kick like a mule. Shear the pin — crack the beam — break the frame.’ He shrugged.

‘We won’t know until we try,’ Satyrus said.

‘I’d prefer bronze. A nice bronze base — cast. And a matching piece on the frame, to hold the pin.’ Neiron shrugged.

‘What’s to stop it from rotating?’ Satyrus asked suddenly.

‘What?’ asked Draco. His tone indicated that he was taking the criticism personally.

‘When there’s a sea running, won’t it just swing around like a mad thing, useless as tits on a boar?’ Neiron asked, his eyes on Satyrus. He shrugged. ‘I’m just an old man. I don’t like all this innovation. What next — we’ll all forget how to ram, and just sit back and pound our opponents to flinders with these things? Not exactly glorious, if you ask me.’

Satyrus slapped his helmsman on the back. ‘I’ll remind you of that sometime. But Draco — he’s got a point, eh?’

‘More reason for a bronze base plate. With stops, or catches, or releases. I’m not a sodding engineer, am I? Just a Macedonian who’s actually loosed one of these.’ Draco knelt back down by the hole bored in the deck, still mumbling to himself.

Satyrus expected someone to step forward, but they were all deferring to him. ‘Well?’ he asked.

Neiron raised an eyebrow.

‘Do we have a bronzesmith who can cast a base plate?’ Satyrus asked. But he knew the answer, and he was suddenly back in the realms of finance.

‘Not really,’ Neiron admitted. ‘We need one!’

‘Take a note,’ Satyrus said to Helios, who took a tablet from his leather sack and scribbled. Then he turned back to Draco. ‘Well? Rig the tackle and put it in. Let’s shoot it and see.’

Draco smiled. ‘Yes, lord.’

In a matter of moments, a dozen sailors swarmed up the mainmast, rerigged the yard to run fore and aft, belayed the aft end with a heavy rope and put a sling over the bow end with a system of hitches. Then they attached the frame of the forward ballista and used the contraption to raise the frame off the deck and lower it — swaying slightly in the very gentle motion of the Bay of Salmon — until the pin slid home into the deck and the beam below.

‘Needs a cross brace,’ Neiron said, getting into the spirit of the thing. ‘Look here — something that comes out of the base and pins into the deck.’

In fact, the whole weapon rotated slowly back and forth on its pin — a two-fingers-thick rod of iron — swaying with the motion of the waves.

‘Never thought of the waves,’ Draco said.

Neiron made a sound of derision.

Satyrus moved the weapon back and forth with his hand. It was heavy, but well balanced. Then he got down on his hands and knees and looked at the place where the pin entered the deck.

‘Wearing against the deck boards already,’ he said. ‘Draco’s right. It has to have a bronze mounting plate. But let’s shoot it anyway.’

He walked over and looked at the port-side forward weapon, which was fixed in place. It could only be moved if a dozen men lifted the entire frame. Out beyond the mole, he could see a ship putting to sea — the Macedonian ambassador.

He walked back to see Diokles, his former helmsman and now captain of Oinoe , a heavy teteres, or ‘fourer’, emerge from below decks with a heavy iron spear.

‘Shooting away a couple of drachma every round,’ he said as he came up. ‘Like throwing money at the enemy.’

‘I’ll just have the new weapons stripped off Oinoe, then,’ Satyrus responded.

‘Not my money!’ Diokles laughed. ‘It’s yours!’ He gave Draco the spear.

Between them Draco and Neiron spun the winding handles on the weapon’s torsion mechanism. The gears made a curious noise, almost musical, as the handles turned. Satyrus and Helios took a turn.

‘Not exactly fast ,’ Satyrus said.

‘That’s tight enough. Never overwind — that’s how you break a rope, and then you’re done for.’ He put a hand carefully on the string of the giant bow. Satyrus did the same.

The bowstring was as thick as rope, woven of horsehair. It was as hard as a tree branch under his hand.

‘Load!’ Draco called, and Neiron and Helios swung the iron spear up and onto the weapon’s loading trough. The nock slid effortlessly onto the string. ‘Ready!’