Babylon, page 20
‘Oil,’ Archias muttered. ‘“Oil quickens a flame.”’
The hiss of loosed arrows rose from the archers, their aim more in hope than certainty for all suspected that there was only one man aboard each of the small boats: one man was all that was needed to steer the craft and to ignite it at the last moment. One man on each boat to cause such damage; granted he had a small chance of survival, but what slave promised his freedom and wealth should the gods favour him would turn down such an opportunity?
With no responding volley from the vessel confirming their assumption, the archers changed ranks with the marines whose presence now was superfluous. Arrow after arrow thumped into the wooden vessels and through the leather sails but still they remained on course; their helmsmen, well protected behind specially built wooden screens, were impervious to the strafing.
Artonis looked with growing fear at the oncoming doom. She turned to Archias. ‘I can’t swim; nor can Artakama.’
Archias did not seem too perturbed. ‘Then it looks like I’ll be giving you your first lesson very soon, unless we can ward off these boats.’ He turned back to the marines now standing in the middle of the deck, unsure of what to do as there was no enemy to face. ‘Buckets! Get buckets on ropes! Now!’ The force of the command sent the marines pounding away; their footsteps like drumbeats adding to the din that now enveloped the entire fleet for it had been wholly infiltrated by scores of the small terrors. Now many of the transports were heaving up their sails, risking a night voyage just to get away from the danger. Triremes marshalled their rowers and the stroke-masters’ pipes sounded, the great beasts awaking from their slumber as the sweeps pulled them away into the night. With relief, Artonis heard the first groans of exertion from below as the trireme’s oarsmen put their backs into the initial few strokes and the ship got under way.
Arrows continued to fly but still the boats came on, their shapes solidifying as they passed out of the shadows, rocking on the swell stirred by the stiff breeze.
‘Sitalces, take three of the lads to the bow,’ Archias ordered as the four oars arrived. ‘Take two of the oars and Artakama. Look after her if the ship starts to founder.’
‘She’ll be fine,’ Sitalces growled in his guttural accent.
‘Let’s hope so; she can’t swim.’
Sitalces’ reply in Thracian was an expletive of some force as he stomped off to obey his orders, grabbing Artakama by the arm.
‘Just do as he says,’ Artonis called after her sister as she was hauled away.
If Artakama replied, Artonis missed it as the boat now aimed at the stern of the trireme burst into flame with a series of whumps, the fire spreading from cloth to cloth, igniting the oil within the jars, the heat hitting her face moments later.
Shouts from the oar deck echoed beneath her as the rowers realised the exact extent of their danger. Their oars clattered down; all attempt to get the ship under way faltered and the vessel listed to starboard as the larboard oarsmen rushed across, distancing themselves from the threat. The trireme slowed and skewed to starboard. The boats changed direction to compensate as they came on.
‘There!’ Archias shouted at the archers, pointing to a figure diving for the stern of the approaching boat. ‘The helmsman is swimming away.’
Bowstrings hummed; arrows whipped into the night, speckling the water with splashes as they strafed the area around the man. A scream and an arm thrown up in the air was but a small victory compared to the menace he had delivered. Artonis cast a glance to the bow; the other boat now exploded into flame.
Blazing, the boats drew nearer, their momentum carrying them on despite the sails disintegrating in the infernos.
Archias took one of the oars with the help of a Thracian, whilst the other two took the second, reaching out and leaning down to catch the boat on each side of its fiery bows. On it came as Archias and his men braced themselves for impact, the heat burning their faces. Artonis lent her weight to Archias’ back as marines ran in to aid the operation as well.
The jolt was sudden, the weight of it transferring up the oars to push Archias and the Thracians back, sending Artonis stumbling to the deck. As she hit it, the ship shuddered and creaked; smoke wafted over the rail, back-lit by flame, glowing orange and swirling with menace. Cries came from the oar deck as men surged up the companionway, trampling comrades in their haste. Many more slithered from the starboard oar-ports taking their sweeps with them in the hopes that they would preserve their lives as they tried to make it to as yet untouched vessels, all of which were now straining their oars in a desperate attempt to distance themselves from the tiny craft as bigger beasts will flee from a swarm of bees.
And the flames grew, taking hold of the side of the ship and flicking in through the oar-ports to lick the rowers’ benches, heating them until they combusted, for there was no one left down there with the will to fight the fire; those few remaining were focused solely upon escape, preferring to chance drowning rather than the certainty of death by fire.
And that was the choice that Artonis faced for she could see that the ship would not swim for long, such was the ferocity with which the flames had spread. She felt her heart sink for she would be unable to keep her promise. She looked at the urn in her hands. Eumenes, my love, I have failed you; your death shall go unavenged.
‘Come,’ Archias said, grabbing her arm and leading her to the starboard side, away from the flames. ‘Take your cloak off; it’s time you learned how to swim. There’s a good chance that we can get picked up by another ship as they row away; to remain here means the chance of death becomes more certain by the moment.’
‘But my husband!’
‘He’s already dead. Leave the urn here, it goes to Poseidon whatever happens and it would be best if it didn’t take you too.’
She knew that he was right; there was nothing else for it. Tears slipped down her cheeks as she lay Eumenes on the deck. She unclipped her cloak and let it fall, understanding that its heavy cloth would only serve to drag her under. She looked down the length of the ship and saw her sister being prepared for the jump in the same fashion. She bent down and placed a fold of her cloak over the urn and nodded, steeling herself. ‘I’m ready.’
‘If she dies we don’t get paid,’ Archias told his three comrades. ‘And we’d struggle to get what we left behind in Egypt back from Ptolemy even if we did decide to risk going back there.’
Artonis could forgive the mercenary aspect of the speech; they would be risking their lives trying to keep her afloat in amongst the chaos of burning ships.
‘Hold onto me,’ Archias said as two of his men whipped their long curved two-handed blades, rhomphaia, from the sheaths on their backs. Down they slashed, the sleek iron into the rail cutting through the smoothed wood as if it were no more than an outstretched arm. With a couple of kicks they removed the posts supporting it, creating a gap through which they could jump.
‘Ready,’ Archias shouted, his arm tight around her. ‘They’ll get you if I lose you. And Rhomesces will be right behind us. Go!’
It was pointless to think about it; she ran and jumped, her hair flying behind her. With a shock of cold, she hit the water and felt hands clamp her wrists.
‘Relax,’ Archias hissed in her ear. ‘It will help you to float.’
Against all nature she went still, fighting the terror of the water lapping around her mouth and up her nose as Rhomesces splashed in next to them.
‘Head back!’ Archias shouted, adjusting his grip so that he had his arm about her chest, under each armpit, so that she lay on her back.
The grips on her wrists were released and she felt hands trailing down her body, along her legs to seize her by the ankles as another put an arm under the small of her back.
‘Pull together, lads,’ Archias shouted. ‘Now!’
Artonis felt the force of the stroke as the four men securing her pulled their free arms through the water; up the length of the ship they swam to where they had last seen her sister and the four Thracians accompanying her. Archias led, with the two Thracians supporting her legs as they struggled through a swelling sea, up and down wave and trough.
Still and relaxed she stayed, her fear allaying as the comfort of strong men holding her gave her hope that she might survive this unplanned excursion into a foreign element. On, her saviours swam, as fire grew on the trireme and silhouetted figures hurled themselves into the water with little hope of survival, for the confident swimmers had long since abandoned ship.
‘Sitalces!’ Archias shouted as they approached the bow. ‘Sitalces!’
‘Here!’
Artonis’ relief was great; she suppressed the urge to call her sister’s name.
‘This way, Archias!’
She felt Archias change direction away from the ship, crossing the line of the swell at an angle, changing the motion of her body; to her surprise, she found herself marvelling that no sense of sickness afflicted her – indeed, apart from the cold, she felt well.
‘Artonis!’ Artakama shouted in the gloom.
‘Relax, woman,’ Sitalces barked, ‘or you’ll take us all down.’
Artonis had heard the panic in her sister’s voice. ‘Stay still, Artakama. Still!’
‘I see you, Sitalces,’ Archias called, stretching out another one-armed stroke.
Within a few pulls the two parties were united but there was no time, nor cause, for congratulation. ‘Stay still!’ Artonis, Archias and Sitalces all shouted as Artakama tried to get to her sister’s arms, terror visible in the dim light of her eyes.
Artonis could do nothing to comfort her. ‘Lay back, Sister; you will be fine.’ But even as she said it she knew that was not necessarily the case for they were adrift in the midst of nautical chaos in the darkest hour of the night with hundreds of other desperate men close by. And it was as she realised the true horror of this thought that the reality of it hit and hands grabbed Sitalces and another of the Thracians from below.
Down they went as the drowning men, trying to save themselves, climbed up their bodies. In the struggle, as they tried to kick away their assailants, their grip on Artakama was released; terror took her and she kicked and floundered as her remaining two helpers struggled to keep her head above water.
‘Do nothing but float,’ Archias hissed in Artonis’ ear, letting go of his grip. Suddenly she found her head unsupported as Archias dived below and the struggle continued beneath the waves, breaking the surface with flaying limbs. Gold glowed the water, spraying up from the thrashing violence, as the great trireme, not a hundred paces away, succumbed to engulfing flames. Artonis squeezed her eyes shut, praying for her sister to cease her struggles as their fate was being decided in the depths, the violence increasing with desperation as the Thracians left on the surface struggled to keep the two sisters afloat.
The shriek, as she felt her robe tugged, was curtailed by water flooding into her mouth; under she went and all thought of relaxation fled with her breath. The hold on her garment remained and the force of it dragged her under as the Thracians with her kicked their legs to stay afloat and heaved at her to bring her back to the surface. And now panic took her for she swirled around and knew not what was up or down; all she could feel was the thrash of limbs all about as bubbles burst this way and that in fire-tinted sea.
And then a dark cloud rose in the water, a spray in slow motion, and the struggle eased. She felt a strong arm around her and then a hand grabbed her hair and pulled. Breaking the surface she sucked in wheezing lungfuls of air, her chest heaving and her throat tight. Hands and arms steadied her; she felt her body calm.
‘How is she?’ Archias asked.
‘Not good,’ was the reply. ‘She’s not breathing.’
But I am; I can feel it.
‘Leave her; it’s Artonis who we have to get back to Egypt.’
And then Artonis realised what was being discussed. ‘No! No, give her to me.’ Once more she thrashed, not caring for her safety, wanting only to reach her sister. ‘Give her to me!’ She felt the body, limp and lifeless, being pushed against her and she knew it to be true: Artakama was dead, drowned in the struggle. Drowned on a journey that she had not needed to make; a journey that her faithless husband had forced her into. Ptolemy had as good as sent her to her death. Artonis held her tight and screamed silently to the sky as the Thracians surrounded her, treading water.
‘We must leave her,’ Archias insisted. ‘She will drag us down.’
Despite her knowing that it was the truth Artonis could not allow that to happen. ‘If you leave her, I shall make sure I go down with her and then where will your reward be? I’ve already lost my husband’s ashes to the sea, I’ll not lose my sister’s body. You take her as best you can.’
And as she spoke they heard the sound of massed men rowing, groaning with each stroke, and a war-galley hove into view lit by the raging fire of their trireme.
Archias and Sitalces waved, shouting their presence as the vessel grew closer.
‘I have Ptolemy’s wife and Eumenes’ widow,’ Archias called. ‘Ptolemy’s wife and Eumenes’ widow!’
A figure leaned over the rail looking down into the water. ‘Back stroke!’ he ordered, peering at the struggling survivors. The oars bit the water in reverse and the ship slowed.
‘Who are you?’ the figure asked.
‘I am Archias the Exile-Hunter, and I have here Artakama, the wife of Ptolemy, and Artonis, Eumenes’ widow. Bring us aboard.’
Ropes were thrown over the side; Archias and the Thracians struggled towards them dragging the two women, one dead and one alive, behind them. Up they climbed, Artonis with them, before lowering two ropes to secure Artakama’s body. As it was laid down on deck, Artonis fell to her knees and held her sister’s limp head in her hands, kissing her as she sobbed, oblivious to what was going on around her whilst Archias spoke with the triarchos of the vessel and the marine officer with him.
Eventually she controlled her grief and looked up at Archias. ‘I will bury her in Pathos. How far is it?’
Archias looked down and shook his head, his eyes hard. ‘We won’t be going to Pathos.’ He indicated to the ship and to the sailors around them. ‘This is a Kition vessel. They will be taking us back to King Pygmalion of Kition.’ He knelt and, grabbing her arms, whispered: ‘Trust me.’ Looking back at the triarchos he smiled. ‘Antigonos and King Pygmalion will reward us both handsomely for this pretty thing and the body of the other one.’ He stood, hauling Artonis up with him. ‘Take me to the resinated cyclops.’
The triarchos smiled; it was the last thing he did. The smile remained on his face as his severed head hit the deck. Sitalces’ rhomphaia continued in an arc to take the right arm of the marine officer as he went for his sword. With a scream and clutching at the spurting newly hewn stump, the man went down onto his knees, staring in horror at the limb lying beside him. Archias’ knife stilled his noise.
Alerted by the officer’s screams, his men rushed to his aid. The Thracians spread across the deck, giving themselves room to wield their deadly weapons. Flashing in the firelight, the blades – long, sleek iron with a curve at the end, attached to a leather-bound handle, an arm’s length – whirred in their hands as the shielded, spear-armed marines rushed them. But they did not realise the danger they hurtled towards for none had faced a Thracian in combat before. Safe, they believed, behind their shields, they formed a wall, with spears spiking over its top.
On they came with confidence, outnumbering their foe five or six to one; but their foe did not cower under such odds. Indeed, they came forward, standing tall as their blades flashed, held two-handed over their right shoulders with taut-muscled arms. The marines stamped their left legs forward, holding their shields firm before them as they punched with their spears at the Thracians’ throats; but the Thracians ducked low, sweeping their blades below the shields and taking a harvest of left feet, a couple each, before jumping back as the shield-wall collapsed to the ground spouting blood and shrieking their agony. And then the Thracians pounced as the remaining marines looked down at their comrades in shock. So swift did their blades hiss through the air that Artonis’ eyes could not keep up with them; all she could see were body parts slopping to the deck. Those who were beyond the reach of the mortal scythes turned and ran. But on a vessel there are few places to run to; the Thracians hunted down the fugitives in short order, taking their surrender, lives or a limb depending on their whim.
‘Come with me,’ Archias said, beckoning to Artonis. ‘Leave Artakama there, she won’t be going anywhere.’
With a glance down at her dead sister, Artonis followed the Exile-Hunter towards the stern of the ship where Sitalces and a comrade now held the two steersmen, their eyes riveted to the curved blades, dripping blood, just before their faces.
‘Thank you, Sitalces,’ Archias said as if he had just passed him a cup of wine. ‘Nip down and bring the stroke-master up here, would you please?’ Archias turned to the steersmen. ‘Do you wish to return to Kition?’ His tone was conversational. They both nodded. ‘Good; then you both shall as soon as you’ve seen us safely back to our fleet.’
‘Here he is,’ Sitalces said, thrusting the stroke-master at Archias, his hand clamped about his neck.
‘Ah, good; excellent, Sitalces.’ Archias contemplated the man for a few moments. ‘I assume the rowers are all mercenaries; am I correct?’
‘Yes; most of them.’ The reply was surly, his accent that of Cyprus.
‘In that case most of them won’t care who is paying their wages. Tell them that if they row, no one will get hurt. Once we rejoin the fleet and get to Pathos, any of you who wish to return to Kition will be free to do so; those who would rather sign on with Ptolemy’s navy under Seleukos’ command will be welcome. Is that fair?’
The stroke-master muttered his agreement.
‘Go with him with a couple of the lads, Sitalces, and make sure that he behaves himself.’
