Christian Cameron: King of the Bosphorus

Diokles got his last buckle done. He tugged the scale shirt down on his hips so that the pteruges sat right, and then put his hands on the steering oars. 'Got him!' he said.

Satyrus shook his head. 'After the turn,' he said. 'Find me my greaves, will you?'

Diokles ducked his head and started to root through the leather bags stuffed under the helmsman's bench.

Satyrus watched the shield. There. The command ship gave a single flash and all down the line, ships turned to starboard, so that the two lines of ten ships heading east were once again two columns of ten ships heading due south.

The shield flashed again, repeating the next order. In the column next to them, Theron's Labours of Herakles was slow to turn and almost fouled the Glory of Demeter. The two ships brushed past each other, oar-tips entangled, but momentum saved them and Theron's rowers had the stroke back.

Abraham shook his head. 'I can't watch!' he said. 'This is not like fighting elephants!' Abraham had proved his courage at Gaza the year before, capturing Demetrios the Golden's elephants and winning a place on the list of Alexandria's heroes.

The shield flashed on, now repeating the order. Then the flashes stopped.

'Any time,' Diokles said.

'Take the helm,' Satyrus said.

'I have it,' Diokles said, suiting action to word.

'You have it!' Satyrus said, and ran for the command spot amidships. 'Watch for the signal! Neiron, the next signal will require us to slow.'

'Aye aye!' Neiron, the oar master, was Cardian – a prisoner of war who'd chosen to remain with his captors. He seldom wore hat or helmet, and had the habit of rubbing the back of his head. He did so now.

The bronze shield gave a single flash.

'Got it!' Neiron called. 'All banks! Cease rowing!'

Behind them, Fennel Stalk made a quarter-turn out of line to the north and the ship behind Fennel made a quarter-turn south, so that in a few heartbeats they were ranging almost alongside, just a few oar-lengths behind. The next two ships came up on their flanks, so that Satyrus's second line was shaped like a wedge.

Whatever the odds, it was well carried out, and despite some spacing issues created by the size of the Glory of Demeter, they were formed in a wedge before the enemy could react. Ahead, Leon's better-trained column had angled in to cover them and then formed a wedge themselves, so that Golden Lotus was the centre of the first line and Black Falcon was the centre of the second wedge, all rowing east against the flank of the enemy line.

The enemy ships were caught broadside-on, strung out over a stade of quiet sea in the morning light. Moments before, they had been the horns of a giant envelopment, hunters of the doomed prey. Suddenly they were the target, and the opposite horn was six stades away – hopelessly far to take part in the sort of diekplous head-to-head engagement that the Alexandrians were forcing.

Diokles grinned. 'That was something worth seeing,' he announced.

A stade to go, and the enemy ships were turning to face them. The enemy centre, now more than two stades off to the east, was still tangled.

Another signal from the Lotus and the first line picked up speed. Fennel took up the stroke in the second line, advancing at battle speed until his helmsman realized his error. The second line was there to take advantage of the chaos caused by the first. They continued to move at cruising speed, and Fennel coasted back to his spot.

'Don't board unless we're sinking,' Satyrus said to Abraham. 'Understand?'

Abraham gave his sarcastic smile. 'All too well, brother.'

They embraced briefly, and then Abraham buckled the cheekpieces on his high-ridged Thracian helmet and ran down the catwalk to the marines that he commanded.

Satyrus had time to gulp a few lungfuls of air and to feel the flutter in his chest and the cringing in his bowels – the fear that never seemed to change for him when danger came. He spat over the side and prayed to Herakles, his ancestor and patron, for courage.

Half a stade ahead, Golden Lotus seemed to dance, a swift quarter-turn and then back to his course, his oars suddenly in. Lotus was the point of the wedge, the first ship to hit the enemy line, and he was ramming an enemy trireme head to head, the most dangerous manoeuvre in war at sea and the most likely to cripple the attacking ship.

There was a sound not unlike that of two phalanxes crashing into each other – or like a lightning storm ripping through the woods on the slopes of a mountain – and the engagement was over, the Lotus already getting his oars out and coasting free, the enemy ship half-turned to starboard and showing his flank to the Falcon because the Lotus had ripped his starboard oar gallery and mangled his oarsmen on that side.

'Ramming speed,' Satyrus said.

Diokles made a face in the stern. The oar master called the new speed and the ship leaped forward.

'What?' Satyrus asked.

'We're supposed to break free, not kill ships,' Diokles said.

'I'm not afraid to fight,' Satyrus said.

Diokles shrugged and said nothing.

'Ready for impact!' Abraham bellowed from the bow.

'Oars in!' Neiron called.

Satyrus braced himself against the stern and Diokles crossed his arms over the steering oars.

As they crashed together, the ram went in, and there was resistance – and then something gave. Men on the deck crew were thrown flat, despite their best efforts, and Satyrus only just kept his feet.

'Reverse oars! Cross your benches!' Neiron called.

Satyrus ran forward. The enemy ship, caught almost broadside-on, was turning turtle, his shallow side crushed amidships, so that he was filling with water. But the upper strakes of his well-built hull were caught on the Falcon's ram.

'Back water!' Satyrus called. 'We're caught!'

The oarsmen had to get under their oars and sit on the opposite bench to put their full strength into backing water. It took precious time.

Falcon's bow began to sink. The strain on the bow timbers was immense, and there were popping noises all along the hull.

Neiron stood on his deck by the mast, watching the oarsmen and rubbing his head. 'Don't rush 'em, sir,' he said. 'We need three good pulls, not a new mess as they panic.' He flashed Satyrus a smile and then raised his voice. 'Ready there?'

A deep roar answered him.

'Backstroke! Give way, all!' he called, and the oars bit into the water. One stroke and there was a grinding from the bow – a second stroke and every man standing was thrown flat as the ram slipped out of the stricken enemy and the bow rose sharply. The rowers lost the stroke and oars clashed.

Satyrus fell heavily and Neiron fell on top of him, and it took them long heartbeats to get back to their feet. Neiron began to yell at the rowers, getting them on beat again.

Satyrus ran for the bow, looking everywhere. To the east, Fennel had swept down the side of a heavy trireme, destroying his starboard oars just as the ship in the first line had done to his port oar bank, so that the ship lay on the water like an insect with all its legs plucked.

To the west, a Cardian mercenary vessel had sailed right through the enemy's first line and continued into their half-formed second line, where he was preparing a diekplous oar-rake of his own.

Dead ahead, Lotus had rammed a second adversary and left him wallowing, oars crushed and the upper oar box literally bleeding red blood where the ram had crushed wood and bodies together.

Farther east and west, however, the enemy was rallying. They had so many ships that the local disaster didn't materially affect the odds. The enemy centre was still not organized, but a dozen ships, better rowed or more aggressive, were leaving the centre and racing to relieve the beleaguered flank.

Satyrus took this in and ran back amidships. 'Switch your oars,' he said to the oar master.