The Amber Road (28 page)

The wind came out of the north. It snatched the fog away. They were alone on a sparkling sea. The great wall of fog was retreating towards the land.

‘Pull!’ hissed Ballista. ‘Full pressure.’

Suddenly, as if formed from the fog itself, the two longships appeared astern, their carved, painted figureheads turning towards the fleeing vessel as the wind swung them on their sea anchors.

The deck lifted under Maximus’s feet as the boat surged forward. Foam creamed up from under the bow.

The Bronding warships had striped awnings, red and blue, bright in the sun, furled sails in the same colours aloft. Two men stood on the prow of the nearer one, no more than a hundred and fifty paces away. But their backs were turned. They were watching the fog bank recede towards the land. It would be a fine thing, Maximus thought, if they escaped unseen after all.

A hoarse shout. A man on the further ship had half climbed the prow. He was pointing, hallooing. The sentinels on the nearer one spun around. They stood as if unable to comprehend the apparition of the ship to seaward. Then pandemonium broke out. Men swarmed over the Bronding decks. Horns rang. The awnings began to be hauled down. It would take them a time to get ready, win their anchors, but Maximus knew their lead would be slight.

Ballista was calling orders. The
Warig
was a ship with twenty benches. The thirty-two remaining Roman and Olbian crew had filled only sixteen of them. Now Ballista sent the Vandal Rikiar, Wada the Tall, Tarchon and the five slaves to take the empty places. As they unshipped their oars – some of the slaves with no great dexterity – Maximus joined Diocles in doubling up on the two bow oars.

Beyond the rising and falling stern, Maximus could see the Brondings. While the further one had yet to move, the nearer had already run out its oars and was getting under way. The improvident bastards must have slipped their anchor. It was a big vessel, probably thirty or more benches. If they had additional warriors aboard, they could put two men on some of their oars. Most of the Brondings would have slept. The crew of the
Warig
had been rowing all night; not hard, but they would soon tire. Pulling into the wind, the chase could not last long.

Over his shoulder Maximus could hear both Zeno and Amantius muttering prayers where they huddled among the stores in the bow: ‘Athena … Achilles … Zeus … Poseidon.’ Hieroson, the injured Olbian guide, who had been with them, hobbled past, and settled to give what help he could to another oar. Maximus had been right to judge that he was a man of some account, unlike the Greek and the eunuch.

At the prow, Ballista and Castricius were talking to the Rugian. The urgent invocations and promises in Greek prevented Maximus hearing what was being said. ‘Grey-eyed Athena, hold your hands over me. Swift-footed Achilles, turn your anger aside. To Zeus, an ox for my safety.’ Sure, all gods liked to be offered things, but Maximus thought they were more likely to aid those who helped themselves. And it would be good if Zeno and Amantius sought divine intervention on more than just their own behalf. Actually, a local deity or two might be more use. It could be the Greek gods did not spend much time up here in Hyperborea. From what he understood, they spent most of their time drinking, fucking and squabbling among themselves anyway; all that, and abducting pretty boys and girls. A feckless crew from which to seek salvation.

The man next to Maximus on the larboard bow oar was the Egyptian Heliodorus, the mutineer Ballista had nearly killed. Once Maximus had got into time, he looked down the boat, out past Wada the Short on at the helm. The big Bronding longship was not much more than a long bowshot away, maybe three hundred paces. It was coming on in unpleasantly fine style, its banks of oars rising and falling all together, like the wings of a grey goose.

If there were any comfort to be drawn from the view, it was the other Bronding. The yet bigger warship – fifty benches at least, a huge vessel – had still to move. The useless fuckers must have fouled their anchor. Unless they cut or slipped the rope and abandoned the thing, they would soon be out of the reckoning.

Ballista walked the length of the boat to stand next to the steering oar. He stood, feet wide, hands hooked in his sword belt, riding the rise and fall. His long blond hair streamed out from under his helm and his black cloak whipped around him. His dark mailcoat shimmered in the sun. He looked a proper warleader, the sort men would follow.

‘Boys’ – Ballista spoke in Greek. He shouted into the wind but his voice carried easily over the noises of the boat – ‘there are some islands up ahead, about a mile. The Rugian says there is one small channel through them. The
Warig
has a shallow draught. We should make it. The Bronding will have a tougher time. If they cannot follow us, it is a long way around. Either they get stuck fast, or they give us a lead of an hour or two.’

Ballista repeated the news in the language of Germania.

Despite their efforts in rowing, the crew gave a low cheer. Maximus hoped it carried to their pursuers. No one cares to know that their enemy are in good heart.

‘The pilot says the prevailing wind here is easterly. When it shifts later in the morning, we can hoist the sail and test my foster-father’s claim that the
Warig
can out-sail anything in the north, and you delicate girls can take a rest.’

Again, Ballista repeated it for those who did not have Greek. Again, it was well received. Maximus thought the crew in good spirits. If only the two
Graeculi
would shut the fuck up, things might not be too bad.

The northerly breeze competing with an easterly current was beginning to raise a choppy, cross sea. Some of the slaves down towards the stern were making a balls of it, but Heliodorus was a skilled oarsman and Maximus got into a good rhythm with him.

Gouts of cold water broke inboard, soaking Maximus and the foremost rowers.

‘It is warmer in the Mediterranean.’ Heliodorus timed his words to the stroke. ‘I should have joined the Alexandrian fleet.’

‘They have a good reputation. I doubt they would have had you.’

‘It is true; there were one or two misunderstandings in Alexandria.’

Out of the corner of his eye, Maximus could see the big, shaven-headed Egyptian was smiling. A good man in a corner; maybe it was as well Ballista had not killed him.

The rear benches of rowers jeered. Maximus did not know why, until he saw a bowman on the prow of the Bronding. The man drew and released. The shaft went wide and well astern. They had closed to about two hundred and fifty paces, but from a pitching deck it would take the gods’ own luck to hit anything at that distance. There were more jeers from the
Warig.

‘Save your breath, boys,’ Ballista called. ‘Nearly there.’

Careful not to break stroke, Maximus took a look over his shoulder. They seemed to be racing directly towards a belt of trees growing straight out of the sea. He hoped that fucking Rugian knew what he was about, was not playing them false. Still, he was only a couple of steps away. He would not have long to get any pleasure from treachery.

The surface was calm in the lee of the island. The
Warig
shot forward. Trees appeared on either side, closing in fast.

‘Full pressure,’ Ballista said. ‘Keep the rhythm.’

They were rushing down a narrow creek, the oars almost brushing the banks, weeds festooned around the blades. The breeze did not play through here, and there was a foul stench of decay and dead fish.

The
Warig
heeled, as Wada the Short put the helm over. Maximus saw the Bronding. Throwing a fine bow wave, about two hundred paces astern, it had no intention of breaking off and going around the islands. The
Warig
took the bend, and the Bronding disappeared.

A tremor ran through the hull. Another stroke, and the
Warig
shuddered to a stop, as if clutched by an invisible hand. Maximus was thrown off the bench. He landed in the bow in the lap of the eunuch. Amantius screamed like a girl. Cursing, Maximus struggled to get up. The length of the boat, men were doing the same. Maximus gave the eunuch a shove for good measure.

‘Stay at your places. Silence.’ Ballista was vaulting the benches towards the bow.

Maximus got back on next to Heliodorus and gripped the oar. Taut ropes ran to the prow from poles in the water pulled out of true by the impact. The
Warig
had run into fishing nets strung right across the creek. So close to escape, and now this. It really was, Maximus thought, an absolute fucker.

‘Castricius, Diocles, Heliodorus, cut us free.’ Ballista was heading back to the stern. ‘Maximus, Tarchon, Rikiar, Wada the Tall, with me.’

Maximus ripped off his cloak, grabbed up his shield and, drawing his
gladius
, clattered aft.

The five warriors clustered around Wada the Short at the steering oar. Ballista pointed at four on the rear benches. ‘Get your weapons. With us.’ The three Romans and an Olbian obeyed.

The bend in the channel was thirty or so paces astern. The Bronding was not yet in sight. Those at the prow were hacking at the stinking tangle of ropes and nets.

Nine armed men, four of them unarmoured; it was not many to hold the Brondings. Still, the narrow creek meant the enemy could not come alongside. It would be close work, stern to prow.

‘How is it coming, Castricius?’

‘Getting there.’

Neither Ballista nor Castricius betrayed any emotion, beyond an understandable urgency.

‘The rest of you, ready to row on command.’

The tall, curved prow of the Bronding came around the bend. Her crew howled. Warriors rushed forward, thick on her deck.

‘Get ready,’ Ballista said. ‘We will take the fight to them.’

A last glance back. Swords flashing, slimy ropes being hauled free and cast into the water. Tense faces staring up from the benches.

The figurehead of the Bronding loomed above. The bearded, implacable face sliding towards the left of the stern post of the
Warig
. Wada the Short hauled the steering oar onboard.

A Bronding leapt before the ships closed. Wada the Tall swung a great two-handed blow into his shield. The wood split. The warrior was knocked aside. Arms wide, he fell into the water. The prow-idol forced him under his own keel.

The deck bucked under Maximus’s boots. He staggered back a step. Wood ground against wood. The longship’s gunwales were a foot or two higher than the
Warig
. The Bronding stopped six paces beyond her stern. Maximus gained his balance, stepped forward, gathering himself to jump.

A Bronding slammed into him, shield to shield. Maximus was driven down on one knee. The Bronding brought his sword down overhand, like a man chopping wood. Maximus got his shield up at an angle, jabbed the point of his blade out low at shin level. The inside of Maximus’s shield crashed down on to the top of his helmet. His head rang, his arm dead with the impact. The Bronding was on one leg, the other bright with blood. Maximus surged up and forward under his own ruined shield. He thrust the steel under the hem of the mailcoat, into the crotch. The warrior fell half on him. He shouldered him aside.

Ballista was on the prow of the Bronding longship, the enemy all around him. Maximus went to cross over to help. A sword sliced at his face from the left. Still numb, his shield arm was too slow to block. Desperately, he brought his blade up and across. The hilt took the blow a hand’s breadth from his nose, drove his own fist into cheek. Rolling back on his right foot, with his left he kicked the man in the left kneecap, then whipped his
gladius
around and down into his assailant’s left shoulder. Sharp cracks as rings of mail broke. A grunt of pain and surprise. The wound was not deep. Maximus dropped nearly on to his right knee and cut into the Bronding’s left calf. As he doubled up, Maximus straightened and finished him with a neat blow to the back of the neck below the helmet. Fuck, he had been careless; fucking lucky to get away with it.

Maximus checked the situation. Shouts. Screams. Boots stamping on the deck. Steel on steel. Steel on wood. Too many men fighting in too small a space. As the battle calm descended, Maximus could take it all in, order it correctly. Four Brondings on the deck of the
Warig
fighting five men. Ballista and Wada the Tall on the prow of the enemy longship preventing more warriors getting to the
Warig
. The Brondings jostling each other trying to get at the Angle and the Harii. Their numbers must tell in the end, but now they were hindering.

A sidestep, four balanced steps forward, and a jab into the back of a distracted Bronding’s thigh. Maximus twisted the blade, withdrew it and danced clear. Make that three Brondings fighting on the
Warig
. Maximus grinned. Some men could understand philosophy, others interpret a poem, but Maximus could read a fight, the most difficult text of all.

Maximus went to the side of the boat. His left arm was still numb, the shield dragging it down. Better without the thing. He dropped it, hoping it would be there later. There were some expensive ornaments on its face. He waited until Ballista attacked and moved forward a little. Shifting his
gladius
to his left hand, with his right Maximus grasped the gunwales of the longship and swung up.

Landing on the balls of his feet, he took a two-handed grip on his sword. A gap opened to the right of Ballista. A Bronding moved to get at the Angle’s flank. Maximus lunged at the warrior’s face. Instinctively, the Bronding flinched back. Maximus took his place at Ballista’s shoulder.

The warrior opposite Maximus did not lack courage. You could see it in the many bright rings on his arm, the set of his face and the way he came on again. Maximus parried a cut to his right shoulder, then his left. The steel shivered and rang. He riposted with a downward slash to the leg. As the Bronding drew back, he collided with the warrior behind. Seeing the advantage, Maximus thrust to the stomach. The man managed to drag his shield into the way.