Poseidon's Spear (Long War 3) (35 page)

I didn’t stand there pondering it.

I just want you to understand that there was no way that I was telling Doola
no
. In three years, I don’t think he’d ever asked me for a single thing.

We were slanting down on Vecti, on a quarter-reach, with the wind a few points off the stern.

‘Everyone ready to row,’ I called. Everything would now depend on the ability and willingness of my friends to trust me and read the signal book.

Because I was throwing the plan out of the window.

There was one advantage to having the smaller ships. We were lower in the water.

What I was about to try was insanely risky. It made me smile: in fact, as soon as I’d made my decision, I began to grin uncontrollably. There is a feeling you get, as a commander – a
feeling you get when you know you’ve made the right choice, even if you fail.

I had it immediately.

I grinned at Doola. ‘We’ll get your wife,’ I said. We were six stades off Vecti, racing for the westernmost point of the island. In the old plan, we should have dropped our
masts and turned north to row through the channel.

‘Signal that we will turn to the SOUTH.’ I pointed at the Great Blue.

Doola had the signal tablet, and he began to flash my bronze-faced aspis. We had an alternate signal system with lanterns, and another with cloaks. The sun isn’t as common in northern
waters as he is at home.

Amphitrite
signalled that they understood.

Euphoria
signalled that they understood.

But Nike shot in under my stern. Gaius leaned far out over his curved stern. ‘
South
?’ he bellowed.

‘South!’ I called. ‘Trust me!’

Gaius shrugged, and his ship dropped astern.

‘Signal again,’ I said.

One by one, the three ships acknowledged.

‘Sails down on the signal!’ I called. Doola repeated it in three flashes. This, we had practised.

‘Do it!’ I roared.

Leukas’s men sprang into action, and our sails dropped to the deck, our masts came down with a rush and no one was killed. The deck crews grabbed the billowing canvas, trapped it against
the deck and sides and began folding it aggressively. The triakonters had the harder job – no real deck crews, less space, no deck or even a good catwalk.

But the sails were gone in the beat of a heart. Even a nervous heart.

Before the way was off us, I had turned my trireme south by west – out to sea, and headed for the deep blue.

We were going to spend a night at sea, in the most dangerous waters in the world. On the positive side, the sun was golden orange and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

Against the coastline, our low hulls ought to have been invisible, and we were rowing west and south out into the open ocean. If the enemy saw us, or deduced our course, we’d be caught. On
the other hand, we’d know almost immediately when they figured out our ruse because they would have to turn – to tack across the wind, and with their sails up, that would show at quite
a distance.

I watched those sails the way a coach watches his runner at the Isthmian Games, or the Olympics. My heart was in my throat. It beat twice as hard and made my gut ache.

On and on we rowed – not at racing speed, either. I knew we were in for a long haul, and the wind was still blowing from east to west. It should have favoured us, but we wanted to go
south, and our sails would give us away. Even poor
Amphitrite
had to row, and she was a pitiful rower.

After an hour, I cast her a tow. My two hundred rowers were her only hope. Otherwise, her twelve oarsmen were going to burst their hearts.

Passing the tow cable used some time. And we rowed some more, and I watched those ships.

And then they all took their sails down.

It was late afternoon by this time. If our plan had worked, then they had ‘followed’ us into the channel between Vecti and Alba. They’d have had to take their sails down, to
row east into the channel.

But one ship kept her sails up. And as I watched, that ship tacked across the wind and came down towards us.

I cursed.

Doola came aft.

‘He’s not onto us yet, but the Phoenician trierarch smelled a rat. He’s sending one ship south, just to have a look.’ I watched him. ‘When he’s hull up to us,
then he can see us. We’ll know the moment he catches us: he’ll turn back north and start signalling like mad.’

‘And then what do we do?’ Doola asked.

‘We raise our masts and pray to the immortal gods,’ I said.

It was two hours before he caught us – late enough that we began to hope darkness would creep over the rim of the world and save us. But the gods were not with us, and we
saw him suddenly spin about on his oars, and we knew the game was up.

Every one of our ships had his masts laid to, with heavy hawsers already laid to the mastheads. The masts went up; the sails came out like the rapid blossoming of flowers and the oarsmen relaxed
with muttered curses. Men rubbed their arms, or each other’s backs, and we ran towards the setting sun at a good clip.

But the moment the sun touched the horizon, I put my helm down and headed south. Due south. The wind had backed a few points, and we were committed, now. And there was no way the Phoenician
scout could see us. We should be lost in the dazzle of the setting sun, or the gods hated us.

About midnight, the wind dropped altogether. I had stars by which to navigate, and I kept the north star over my shoulder as best I could – no mean feat when there’s a roof of wood
covering your navigational aid, let me tell you. I kept giving the oars to Leukas and running forward to take another sight.

How the gods must have been laughing.

The moon was full, and we ran south over a ghost-lit ocean. I could see the other three ships well enough, and whenever we threatened to get ahead, I would order the sail brailed up.

It was my second night awake, and I must have fallen asleep between the steering oars because some time not long before dawn, when the air goes through that change – from cool to warm, I
think, hard to define, but the moment when your mind, if awake, begins to hope for dawn – something was wrong, and I awoke as if a trumpet was being played in my ear.

We sailed on for twenty heartbeats, and I couldn’t place it but my heart was beating a Spartan marching song, and then I caught it.

It was an unmistakable sound, even to a lubberly sailor like me.

Surf.

‘Leukas!’ I roared. And threw my body into the oars, turning the bow to the north as hard as I could. The wind had swerved to being almost due south, and I wanted to get the head up
into the wind and drop the sail – the fastest way to get a ship to stop.

Leukas had his deck crew on the sail instantly. The sail came down, even as Doola roused the oarsmen to their duty and the oars started paying out of their ports. We were losing way – the
steering oars wouldn’t bite – and I could hear the ocean pounding on rocks to starboard. I left the steering oars and leaped onto the rail, looking south.

I couldn’t see a thing – and then I saw water shooting into the air, perhaps as high as the top of a tall temple – due south. It was hard to make out: that’s what it
looked like.

Just astern,
Nike
was following my lead, head up into the wind. Oars were coming out.

Euphoria
had made the turn.

Amphitrite
had been last in line, and now she had turned all the way to the east and was still under sail, but she could make way with the wind almost amidships, and we could not. She
began to come up on us, hand over fist.

When my rowers got their oars in the water, I was all a-dither about what to do – had we discovered an island? What rocks were these? What lay beyond them?

I couldn’t see enough to tell, and as minutes led into hours, I realized that our beautiful weather was gone and now we were running east, slowly under oars, and the sound of surf crashing
on rocks came from astern.

It was dawning a grey, grey day with fog, and I couldn’t see a thing.

We ran east for three hours before the fog burned off, and then we couldn’t believe our eyes.

Due south, across our path, was land.

I summoned Leukas. ‘What the
hell
?’ I shouted. I was angry – the anger of fear.

He shook his head. ‘I think . . . that is, I—’ he looked around, as if perhaps Poseidon would come and save him from my wrath. He shrugged. ‘It has to be Gaul,’ he
said.

We had taken eight days, or so I assumed, to sail from the coast of Gaul to Alba, and we’d done the return trip in the same number of hours. Or so it appeared.

Thugater, the truth – inasmuch as I’ll ever know the truth – is that the Venetiae had lied to us about the shape of Alba and the shape of Gaul. Why should they tell us their
navigational secrets? So we spent days running along the coast of Alba when we might have been safe in a harbour in Gaul.

We landed at noon, and bought some bread and some good wine, and got sailing directions for the mouth of the Venetiae river – the Sequana. That night, we made camp on a good beach –
one of six or seven in a row, almost as fine as the Inner Sea. It was easy to land, despite the rising swell. We purchased fish from local men, and we ate well. Oarsmen need food.

I posted guards on the headlands and ordered a day of rest. We’d been at sea five days straight, and the oarsmen had worked every day. There’s a limit to endurance, especially with
men who have been kept under cruel conditions. Although I was also happy to see how Neoptolymos and Megakles were both filling out, their emaciated bodies starting to remember their form. I had
been through the same process when I was recovering from Dagon’s tender mercies.

That bastard. Sometimes I wondered if he was aboard one of the ships that were trailing us, but of course it was unlikely. Nor did I think he was a good enough sailor to survive in the Outer
Sea.

We slept a lot that day, and the locals flocked to see us and sell us food. I had silver, and by midday, the local war chief came in his chariot, and looked us over with lordly disdain. That was
fine with me. Neoptolymos wanted to challenge him to single combat. He was young.

Mornings were starting to be cold. I didn’t feel young.

After the local aristocrat was driven away by his charioteer, I found Doola. He was stretched out under a sail, staring at the canvas over his head. I handed him a cup of wine.

‘We’re in Gaul,’ I said.

He nodded.

‘I meant to sail south to Oiasso,’ I said. ‘But either my navigation is very bad, or the bastard Venetiae lied to us about the shape of Gaul.’ I shrugged. ‘The
local chief says that your wife is about nine hundred stades south of here.’

He actually laughed. He got up on an elbow and patted my arm. ‘Now that’s an error in navigation,’ he said.

I shrugged. ‘We’re all alive,’ I said. ‘And we have our cargo on the right side of the channel. Even if the Phoenicians catch us now—’

He put two fingers to my lips. ‘Naming calls,’ he said.

‘I plan to sail north another two days, to the mouth of the Susquana. There’s a Venetiae town there.’ I fingered my beard. ‘If you want to take the warriors and go south,
I’ll buy horses for you – and I’ll wait for you.’ I shrugged. ‘It’s the best offer I can make.’

Doola nodded. ‘I’ll take it,’ he said. He picked himself a half-dozen fighters – Alexandros, of course – and Neoptolymos, which was no surprise. I traded a full
ingot of tin for a dozen good horses, with tack, and some dried fish, dried meat and wine.

In the dawn, there were still no Phoenicians in the offing, and we prepared for sea. One of my fishermen from Marsala – an older man, Gian – took Doola’s place as oar-master.
My marines rode away south, with a local guide. Sittonax went with them, leaving Leukas as my sole interpreter.

We got off the beach beautifully – Gian seemed to know his job immediately – and despite heavier waves, we made good time. The coast was low, with some beautiful small islands
– one was a magnificent rock rising out of the water, and as we sailed by, we could see that it was dry at low tide. Tides here ran very high, insanely high by the standards of the Inner
Sea.

We camped on another fine beach of beautiful white sand. In the night, someone attacked my guards, and we all stood to arms, waiting for the Phoenicians to descend. But in the morning, it was
obvious that we’d been raided by a half-dozen young men, because their tracks were clear in the sand.

I sighed for my lost sleep, watched the cliffs carefully and ordered my ships to load. I was suffering from a nagging fear by then, that we were simply too far from home. The men were hungry,
and our feast day of a few days earlier was already just a memory.

But early afternoon showed me an opening in the coast – it
had
to be the estuary of the Sequana. But I couldn’t run into the estuary in the dark, so I stood off.

We spent a brutal night at sea. The wind rose, and I began to wonder if I was going to be wrecked just when all seemed safe. Dawn found me too close to land, with a rising westerly that
threatened to drive me hard to shore. I had no choice but to run into the estuary, and once I did that, I was at the mercy of the Venetiae.

On the other hand, I had three warships, one of which ought to be the biggest in local waters – well, of course, there were the Phoenicians. But I hoped that they were well to the
west.

I ran into the estuary with a gale rising behind me. The estuary of the great river runs east to west, and we ran east for hours in the odd light, with the sky to the west growing blacker. But
the water of the estuary was calm and shallow – almost too shallow.

Amphitrite
had trouble tacking back and forth, and she parted company to travel long boards to the north and south.

We had to row, and my unfed rowers were increasingly unhappy. I had no more wine to give them. I walked up and down the catwalk, promising them a life of ease once we reached the town. I had
only other men’s word there
was
a town. The estuary seemed to go on for ever, and by the end of the day, despite the rising storm behind us, we had slowed to a crawl because
Amphitrite
had no more room to tack and had to row. Everyone was exhausted. No one was making their best decisions.