With a shake of his head Allectus dug out the wax tablets from the pouch at his side and turned back to the fisherman.
“Ask the man how many ships he saw, and how many men they were carrying. Ask him when they set sail,” he said briskly. “If I cannot stand by my commander’s side with a sword in my hand, I will give him what may be of more worth—the information he needs to plan his battle, and a fleet alerted and prepared to follow him! Quickly—the ship that carries this message must catch the tide!”
Romans fighting Romans! Even the thought of it made Teleri shiver. Goddess, protect Carausius! she prayed, shamed by the fervor she saw in Allectus’ eyes. And forgive my doubts! Tonight I will look into the silver bowl again. Perhaps Dierna will have news for me as well.
The fisherman looked from one to the other, trying to understand. Teleri took a quick breath, and began to question him.
Carausius stood on the afterdeck of the Orion, swaying a little as the trireme rocked in the swell, sails furled. The lowest rank of oarsmen were sufficient to keep her in position, while the others rested. The other ships of his command held position in three columns, except for one swift liburnian which he had sent ahead to look for the enemy. The land was a blur of green off his port bow, low hills and sandspits rising into rocky bluffs to the west. The shore looked peaceful, but an occasional ridging of water that ran across the line of the waves revealed the hidden currents there.
Orion had been completed over the winter, the largest ship in his command, in size a throwback to the big triremes of ancient days, and her wood gleamed white in the sunshine. At the prow the carven hunter took aim at an invisible foe. The image was Roman, but it was Dierna who had suggested this name for the flagship. There was a power, she had said, in the constellation of that name that would bring him victory. But the shrine at the stern sheltered a goddess, her statue helmed and armed with shield and spear. The Roman officers addressed her as Minerva, but this choice had also been guided by the High Priestess, and she had told Carausius to pray to the goddess as Briga, who was honored in Avalon on the Maiden’s Isle.
“Lady, with heavy heart I call you,” Carausius murmured. “I do not want to fight Maximian. Give me an omen, that I may see my way, and if we fight, then, for the sake of the brave men who have followed me, look upon us with gracious aspect, and give us the victory.”
He cast another handful of barley upon the altar, and poured out a libation of wine. Menecrates, the man he had chosen as Orion’s captain, took a pinch of frankincense and cast it on the coals. The tang of the sea air mingled pleasantly with the sweetness of the incense burning in the shrine.
But even as he prayed, a part of the Admiral’s mind was calculating, planning, preparing for the fray. Allectus’ message had brought Carausius speeding back from the delta of the Rhenus, and when he reached Dubris, the Rutupiae and Adurni squadrons had been waiting to join him. There was new word from Teleri as well—Maximian’s fleet had put to sea and was beating up-Channel. Teleri herself had seen them in vision, three squadrons of ten ships each, crammed with men. Carausius’ total command was larger, but his forces must be spread out to defend the province, whereas Maximian could bring his whole strength to bear on whichever fortress he chose.
Teleri wrote that the High Priestess had promised to call the winds to slow Maximian’s advance, but she could only delay their meeting for a little while. It would be enough, thought Carausius, for that same wind was bearing them down-Channel so swiftly that they were passing Portus Adurni now.
Their numbers were unequal, but Maximian must make do with slaves and drafted fishermen, seasoned by a few officers drawn off from the Mediterranean and the Rhenus patrols. The Emperor would be hoping to trap his foe against the shore and force a boarding battle, where he could make use of the legionaries he carried on board.
The ships of the British fleet, on the other hand, could make up in maneuverability for what they lacked in manpower. Carausius told himself to beware overconfidence. The Saxons he was accustomed to righting were good sailors, but as warriors they sought individual glory rather than a shared victory. Carausius’ men had never fought ships under Roman discipline. Still, the enemy did not know the Channel, and that in itself might be advantage enough today.
Realizing that the men were watching him, he completed his prayer and fastened the doors of the shrine. Menecrates took the censer and tossed the coals over the side. Carausius looked around him and grinned. He had a good ship, from the bronze ram that cut the waves just below her waterline to the heavy linen sails. And he had good men—ship’s officers whose naval training had been completed by two years’ experience against the pirates, two dozen legionaries of long service, and one hundred and sixty-two free oarsmen committed to the defense of Britannia. And the gods had sent him a fair spring day, with a few wisps of cloud and a light following wind to set an edge of froth on waves as deeply blue as lapis, a day on which to meet death gladly or to rejoice in victory.
He missed Allectus, whose keen wit and sardonic humor had lightened many a dismal hour. But though the younger man had truly earned his place on the Admiral’s staff, he had no stomach for the sea.
Gulls flew yammering around the mast, then swooped landward, feathered pirates greedier than any Saxon. Be patient, thought the Admiral, soon enough you will be fed.
From the prow the lookout shouted, and Carausius stiffened, shading his eyes with one hand as he peered over the sea.
“The liburnian!” the man cried again. “She’s approaching under full oars—”
“What signal?” rapped the Admiral, taking the steps down to the catwalk between the banks of oars two at a time and running forward.
“Enemy in sight!”
Now Carausius could see the bobbing mast and the froth of white as the oarsmen dug into the waves. Steadily the little ship grew larger, until she drew up with a swirl of oars like a duckling returning to its mother’s side. His stomach tightened. The moment of decision was upon him now.
“What strength?” called the Admiral, gripping the rail.
“Three squadrons—coming up-Channel in cruising formation under easy sail.”
Carausius felt the momentum of events begin to seize him. “They’ll be preparing for a landing at Portus Adurni, thinking to lie offshore till nightfall and take us by surprise. We’ll surprise them instead, lads.” He turned to his crew. “Hoist the shield!”
As the gilded shield swung upward, it caught the sun like a fallen star. The brightness was a risk, but even if some keen-eyed enemy caught the flash he would be puzzled to interpret it, if he could see no sails. Behind Carausius, the awning that had sheltered the rowers was being rolled up in a rattle of canvas. Men checked to make sure their swords were handy, and the middle and upper ranks stood to their oars.
The lapping of waves against the side seemed loud in the sudden silence. A shadow passed across the foredeck; Carausius looked up and saw the stark shape of a sea eagle. The sun was almost overhead, the bird a black silhouette against the sky. It slid past, banked with a flash of white-and-black feathers, and circled the ship, once, twice, and again. Then with a cry it sped away westward, as if to lead the British to their enemy.
“An omen!” Menecrates’ exclamation came faintly through the sudden roaring in Carausius’ ears. The gods had answered him; all his regrets fled away.
“The Lord of Heaven himself gives them into our hand. Forward! The Eagle has shown us our road!”
The deck shivered beneath his feet as one hundred and eight oars lifted and then bit into the sea. Orion lurched forward, rolled a little, and finally began to move more smoothly as the rowers found their rhythm and gathering momentum gave her headway through the waves. Behind her, the line of larger triremes followed, masts aligned so that it was hard to see how many there were. To either side, the lighter ships kept pace, holding, he was glad to see, their own columns in as steady a formation as good seamanship could achieve.
Carausius blinked and shaded h
is eyes with his hand. On the horizon the flicker of white showed again, and he grinned. “Come, my pretties, come on—you cannot see our numbers—tell yourselves we will be easy meat and come on!”
The enemy appeared to have heard him. As the rest of Maximian’s fleet came into view, he saw the severe shapes of the sails crumpling as they were hastily taken in, and white wakes exploding into froth as the ships shifted to oars. The wedge formation in which they had been sailing tightened, but they did not slacken speed. Carausius motioned to his trumpeter.
Menecrates snapped an order. Orion’s helmsman leaned on the rudder, and the deck tilted as the great ship began a smooth turn to starboard. The line of masts behind him shivered as one by one the other ships in the column followed and repeated his turn. Orion’s rowers continued their steady stroke, but the ships behind her were putting on speed, and the smaller, swifter craft in the outer two columns were flashing through the water and veering away to either side.
“Orion,” he whispered, “there go your hounds! May the gods give them good hunting!” The Roman Commander would seek to grapple and board in the traditional manner, whereby superior numbers might carry the day. The goal of the British fleet must be to destroy or disable as many of the enemy ships as possible before they came to grips with their foe.
They were closing fast. Carausius’ body servant brought him shield and helmet. The javelins had been brought up as well, and Orion’s marines were piling them at the after-and foredecks, while the slingers readied their stones. Now he could see the gleam of enemy armor on the deck of the oncoming trireme. He cast a last glance around him. As Admiral he could plan strategies, but it was up to the individual captains to judge, in a situation that changed from moment to moment, how to carry out the orders they had received. Now that the die was cast, thought Carausius with a curious relief, he himself was no more important than any other marine.
Orion lurched as an order from Menecrates altered her course toward the smaller ship he had selected as her first prey. The enemy, seeing her danger, started to veer, and the chance to ram her bows was lost, but the British trireme’s momentum made collision inevitable. Portside oars swung high out of the water as the two vessels came together, and Orion’s newly sharpened ram sheared through her enemy’s waving oars and gouged a groove along her side. She was not destroyed but, for the moment at least, out of action. A javelin struck the deck and clattered past; then Orion’s oarsmen set to their work once more and pulled her out of range, driving onward into the mass of the foe.
Shouts and trumpets to either side told Carausius that the squadrons on his wings were beginning to envelop the enemy’s wedge from the rear; even light ships could do great damage by ramming from astern.
The next enemy, her attention engaging Hercules, noticed too late the new threat bearing down on her. Carausius leaped down to the catwalk and grabbed one of the struts, bracing himself as Orion smashed into her foe. Timbers shrieked and a few javelins came whistling over the side, but Menecrates’ men were backing oars, pulling Orion free before her victim could settle in the water and hold her fast. A marine fell with a javelin in his shoulder, but his companions held on to their weapons, knowing that the sea would avenge him soon.
A burst of yelling and the clash of arms told him that someone from another ship had managed to grapple and battle was joined. But Orion surged onward. Masts swayed on the water like treetops in a storm. Beyond them he could see the rocky bluffs that edged the shoreline, closer now.
A flight of slingstones buzzed past his head, and the lookout was knocked down. In a moment one of the marines hauled him upright again, swearing, with blood streaming from a graze on his temple. The ship from which the missiles had come was turning toward them, but not fast enough. A shout from Menecrates sent Orion charging toward her unprotected side.
They struck, shattered oars flying through the air like kindling. A hunk of wood punched through a rower’s neck like an arrow, and he collapsed. Orion’s bow dipped as her enemy’s weight bore down. Grapples came whipping through the air, but the marines managed to bat them away. For a few moments Carausius feared the two ships would be stuck together, but once more Orion managed to pull free. The shore was growing steadily closer. Carausius glanced up at the sun and realized that the afternoon tide must be setting landward. He grabbed the trumpeter by the arm and shouted in his ear.
In another moment the signal to disengage blared above the clamor of dying ships and men. Orion backed oars, drawing away, and the Romans began to cheer. But they did not know this coast and its tides.
As the British ships began to pull back, the Romans tried to follow them, but the enemy triremes, heavier and less well manned, moved slowly. The Romans shouted imprecations while their more agile opponents regrouped, waiting as the tide strengthened and drew their foes inexorably toward the hostile British shore. Roman captains realized their danger and began to turn their attention from battling men to fighting the sea. A few, already too close to escape, turned their prows shoreward, looking for a cove in which to ground. The others, oars thrashing the choppy waters, angled slowly away from the coastline, seeking the open sea.
Carausius waited, his brain busy with calculations of time and distance, as Orion paced her enemies, ready to cut off their escape if they should progress too far. Beyond the bluff the coast curved back into a shallow bay. As the Admiral glimpsed it, he spoke once more to the trumpeter.
The horn blared across the waves as Orion hallooed her hounds to the attack once more. Carausius pointed toward the largest of the remaining foes, and the deck dipped as the ship began to turn. Ever more swiftly flashed the oars, in the all-out stroke that can only be sustained for as long as it takes to close the last few ship-lengths that separate two foes.
Carausius could make out faces now. He saw a centurion whom he had served with on the Rhenus when both were little more than boys, and brought up his sword in salute. The enemy ship, seeing her danger, tried to turn; the Admiral glimpsed the carven sea-nymph that ornamented her prow. But she was rowing against the tide, whereas Orion had the force of the sea behind her. They struck with a rending crash that lifted both ships, spilling men overboard.
Carausius was flung to his knees, staring as armed men rained down around him. The impact had carried them halfway through the other vessel; no need for grappling irons to hold them fast this time, and no way that any strength of oars could pull them free. The rowers were already abandoning their benches and snatching up weapons. Then a sword flared toward him; the Admiral scrambled to his feet, bringing up his shield to guard, and all thought beyond the need to defend himself was swept away.
The men he was fighting were veterans of a thousand such me mêlées.. They recovered quickly from the shock of the collision and began to regroup, cutting their way across the foredeck of Orion with deadly efficiency. Carausius took the shock of their blows on his shield and thrust with all his might. A glancing hit to his helm sent him reeling, but in the next moment a marine and an oarsmen locked in a death grapple fell against his opponent and knocked him overboard.
With a gasped prayer of thanks Carausius got back to his feet. Bodies thrashed in the water or lay tangled among the oars. Where there was room to stand, fighters hacked with sword or thrust with pilum. The fight had spread to the other ship, but he could not tell who was winning. He took a quick breath as he saw the bluff looming above them.
Its shadow fell across the locked ships, and a few men looked up, but most were too intent on their own struggles to see. And in another moment it was too late. The Roman vessel’s port side hit the rocks, slid upward on the swell, and settled back with a crackling of timbers. And Orion’s prow, dislodged by the impact, groaned and began to slide free.
The Roman ship was dead, but her crew could still carry the day by taking the fight to Orion. Carausius gritted his teeth and summoned the last of his strength as more legionaries leaped to his deck from the enemy’s settling rail.
He had thought the
battle hot before, but now it was ten times fiercer, more desperate than any fight against Saxon pirates. Carausius’ sword arm began to tire; his shield arm ached from the shock of blows. He was bleeding from a dozen scratches; soon loss of blood would slow him down. They had floated free of the Roman vessel and were now themselves at the mercy of the tide; there was no man free to take the helm.
Dead men lay all around him, but a centurion and another man scrambled over the bodies and came in swinging. Carausius set his feet and prepared to defend himself. Perhaps he should have contented himself with planning the battle and stayed ashore; no doubt that was what Maximian had done. Young men never believed they could be killed, he remembered as a swordstroke slammed into his helmet, snapping the strap and knocking it away; or older men either, he thought as he forced his weary arm up to block the next blow.
He slipped in someone’s blood and went down on one knee. Glancing over his shoulder, he realized that the fight had brought him back to the Lady’s shrine. He sucked in breath and let it out more slowly, his desperation giving way to a great calm. Lady, my life is yours, his spirit cried.
A shadow rose above him, Carausius tried to raise his shield, knowing it would not be in time. Then he felt a quiver in the boards; the deck jerked, and the blow that would have split his head went awry. He glimpsed the man’s neck unguarded and swung; blood spurted in a crimson stream as the Roman fell.
Carausius struggled to get upright, supporting himself on his sword. No living man stood near him. He levered himself to his feet and realized that the shore was no longer moving. The soil of Britannia herself had reached out to save him; Orion was aground.