CHAPTER THREE
The ship made no attempt to evade the two warships
and seemed to wallow, directionless, on the sea. As the crew furled
the sail and used oars to manoeuvre closer, Cato could see that the
sail was billowing freely. The sheets had been set loose or cut, he
decided. The wide beam and high stern were those of a cargo ship
and Cato felt briefly disappointed that he had been cheated of
finding his prey. There was no sign of life on the deck, and the
steering paddle rocked gently from side to side as the waves
sloshed against the hull.
To landward, Macro’s
ship was making the best use of the offshore breeze to close
swiftly before using oars, although he would reach the cargo vessel
a short time after the Sobek.
‘Shall I form my lads
up, sir?’ asked Centurion Proculus, the commander of the
legionaries assigned to the prefect’s ship.
‘No. I’ll use the
marines. They’re trained for boarding actions.’
Proculus breathed in
sharply, offended at having to give way to men he considered his
inferiors. Cato ignored him, well used to the tensions between the
two services. Besides, the decision was his. He turned to the
decurion in charge of the ship’s complement of thirty marines.
‘Diodorus, have your men formed up ready to board.’
‘Yes, sir. Shall I
deploy the corvus?’ He nodded to the contraption lashed to the deck
in front of the mast. The corvus was a gangway, which was raised
and lowered by a pulley. A wooden pin at one end allowed it to
pivot round, over the side of the vessel. At the far end was an
iron spike like a crow’s beak. When the device was in position
above the target vessel’s deck, it was released and the spike would
slam down, piercing the deck and pinning both ships together while
the marines rushed across and into action. Although there was no
sign of life, Cato decided to stick to convention in case there was
a trap waiting to be sprung.
‘Yes. Use the corvus.
If you need to be reinforced we can send over the legionaries to
settle the issue.’
Proculus puffed up
his chest. ‘We’ll get the marines out of any trouble, sir. You can
depend on us.’
‘Glad to hear it,’
Diodorus muttered sourly as he made off to issue his
orders.
As the Sobek closed on the cargo ship, the deck teemed
with armed men taking up their positions. When all was in
readiness, they stood still, awaiting the order to go into action.
The warship’s trierarch slowed the beat of the sailors manning the
oars and cautiously brought his vessel up on the stern quarter of
the drifting hulk. When he judged that they were making just enough
to carry them down the length of the cargo ship, he shouted the
order to ship oars.
Cato had put on his
full armour and climbed into the turret on the foredeck to survey
the other vessel as the Sobek glided
alongside. There were dark streaks around the scuppers which faded
away as they approached the waterline. Blood, he realised. A moment
later he saw the first of the bodies, a man slumped over the side
rail. Then more corpses scattered across the steering
deck.
‘Make ready the
corvus!’ Diodorus bellowed and there was a grating creak as the
gangway swung out, round and over the side of the cargo
ship.
‘Release!’
The gangway dropped,
the iron point curving down, gathering speed, and then it slammed
into the deck with a splintering crack.
‘Forward marines!’
Diodorus cried out, raising his sword as he climbed on to the
gangway and raced across towards the other ship. His men ran after
him, coarse, leather-soled boots pounding the boards of the
gangway. In moments the marines were across and warily fanning out
across the deck of the cargo ship.
Cato climbed down
from the turret and called out to Proculus. ‘You and your men wait
here. If I call for you, come at once.’
‘Yes,
sir.’
There was no sound of
fighting, no shouts or cries of alarm from the cargo ship, and Cato
left his sword in its scabbard as he strode across the gangway,
briefly glancing down at the water washing between the two hulls.
Despite being aboard for the best part of two months, he still
feared and hated the sea; another good reason to pray that his
current quest came to a successful conclusion as soon as possible.
When he reached the far end of the gangway, Cato jumped down and
looked round slowly. There were bodies strewn across the deck and
dark patches of dried blood. The cargo hatches had been dragged
aside and the freight below was a jumbled mess of goods: shattered
amphorae, discarded bales of cloth and split sacks of rice and
spices. Diodorus was squatting beside one of the bodies and Cato
joined him.
‘There’s little sign
of corruption.’ The decurion sniffed and then touched his fingers
to the blood on the deck beside the corpse. ‘Still tacky. They were
killed only a day or so ago. Certainly no more than two
days.’
‘If this is the work
of Ajax, then we’re closer to him than I thought,’ Cato mused,
rising up.
‘Maybe, sir. But
equally it could be the work of pirates.’
‘Really? Then why
take so little, if anything, from the hold? There’s a fortune in
spices down there. That doesn’t make any sense if the ship was
taken by pirates.’
‘Sir!’ a voice cried
out. ‘This one’s alive!’
Cato and Diodorus
hurried towards the marine standing beside the mast. He stood aside
and revealed a thin, sunburned figure, naked save for a soiled
loincloth. At first Cato thought the man had thrown his arms up,
but then he saw the broad black head of the iron nail that had been
driven through his palms into the wood, pinning him upright, high
enough so that he could not fully stand on the deck and had to
carry his weight on his toes and the balls of his feet. A faint
groan issued from the man’s mouth and his breathing was shallow and
laboured.
‘Get him down!’ Cato
ordered. He turned towards the Sobek
and shouted, ‘Send the surgeon over!’
While two marines
supported the man’s weight, a third grasped the head of the nail
and began to work it free. The man gasped and cried out. His eyes,
bloodshot and rolling up, flickered open. It seemed to take a long
time to get the nail out of the mast and then the man collapsed
into the arms of the marines.
‘Lay him down.’ Cato
gestured to the nearest marine. ‘Give me your canteen. You and the
others, search the ship for any other survivors.’
He leaned over the
man as he pulled the stopper from the canteen, wincing as he saw
the cracked and bloody lips. Slipping one hand behind the man’s
head, Cato eased it up and poured a little water over the face. The
lips smacked as they felt the water and there was a groan of relief
as the liquid trickled inside his parched mouth. Cato fed him some
more sips and stopped when he choked and coughed, spluttering as he
turned his face aside.
‘Thank . . . you,’ he
croaked weakly.
‘What happened here?’
asked Cato. ‘Who attacked you?’
The man’s swollen
tongue licked his cracked lips and he winced painfully before he
made his reply. ‘Romans . . .’
Cato exchanged a
glance with Diodorus. ‘Romans? Are you certain?’
A shadow passed over
the deck and Cato looked up to see the mast of the Ibis as Macro’s ship drew alongside. An instant
later there was a dull thud as the ships nudged against each other.
Then the sound of boots landing on the deck. Cato looked up and saw
his friend. ‘Over here, Macro!’
Macro strode over,
glancing round at the deck. ‘Looks like they had quite a
battle.’
‘More of a massacre,
I think. But we found this one alive.’ Cato gestured towards the
torn flesh of the man’s hands. ‘Nailed to the mast.’
Macro let out a low
whistle. ‘Nasty. Why would they do that?’
‘I can guess. They
wanted to leave a witness behind. Someone who might live long
enough to report what happened.’
The surgeon from
Cato’s ship came trotting up with his haversack of dressings and
salves. He knelt down beside the survivor and examined him quickly,
feeling his pulse. ‘He’s in a bad way, sir. Doubt I can do much for
him.’
‘All right. Then I
need to find out what I can before it’s too late.’ Cato leaned
forward and spoke gently into the ear of the man. ‘Tell me your
name, sailor.’
‘Mene . . .
Menelaus,’ the voice rasped softly.
‘Listen to me,
Menelaus. You are badly injured. You may not live. If you die, then
you will want someone to avenge your death. So tell me, who did
this? Romans you said. What did you mean? Roman
pirates?’
‘No . . .’ The man
whispered, and then muttered something more, a word Cato could not
quite catch.
‘What’s
that?’
‘Sounded like he said
worship,’ Macro suggested. ‘Doesn’t make sense.
Worship?’
Cato felt an icy
thrill as he grasped what the sailor was trying to say. ‘Warship,
that’s it, isn’t it? You were attacked by a warship?’
The sailor nodded and
moistened his lips. ‘Ordered us to heave to . . . Said they were
checking the cargo . . . Started killing us . . . No mercy.’ The
man’s brow wrinkled at the memory. ‘He spared me . . . Said I was
to remember his name . . . Then they held me against the mast and
forced my hands up.’ A tear glistened in the corner of the man’s
eye and then rolled down his skin and dripped from his
ear.
‘His name?’ Cato
prompted gently. ‘Tell me his name.’
The sailor was silent
for a moment before his lips moved again. ‘Cent . . . Centurion
Macro.’
Cato sat up and
looked at his friend. Macro shook his head in astonishment. ‘What
the fuck is he talking about?’
Cato could only shrug
before he turned his attention back to the sailor. ‘Are you
certain? Are you sure he said his name was Macro?’
The sailor nodded.
‘Macro . . . That was the bastard’s name . . . Made me repeat it to
be sure . . . Centurion Macro,’ he murmured, then his face
contorted in agony.
‘Sir,’ the surgeon
intervened. ‘I have to get him out of the sun. Below deck in the
Sobek. I’ll tend to his injuries
there.’
‘Very well. Do what
you can for him.’ Cato eased the sailor’s head down and stood up.
The surgeon called over four of the marines and ordered them to
lift the sailor’s body as gently as possible. Cato watched them
make their way towards the gangway, and then turned to Macro. ‘Odd,
don’t you think?’
‘I have an alibi,’
Macro responded with harsh humour. ‘Been busy hunting fugitive
slaves.’ He jabbed his thumb at the sailor being carried across the
gangway. ‘What’s that Centurion Macro business about?’
‘It’s Ajax. Has to
be.’
‘Why?’
‘Who else would use
your name?’
‘No idea. But if it
is Ajax, why do it?’
‘His idea of a joke,
perhaps. That, or something else.’
‘What?’
Cato shook his head
faintly. ‘I’m not certain. But there’s more to this than there
seems.’
‘Well, if it is Ajax
and his men, then we’re back on their trail.’
‘Yes, we are.’ Cato
puffed out his cheeks. ‘The timing isn’t great,
though.’
‘What do you
mean?’
‘We’ve run out of
supplies. Water’s almost gone. We can’t continue the pursuit until
we’ve replenished our food and water. We’ll take what we can find
aboard this ship, and then make for Alexandria.’
Macro stared at him.
‘You can’t be serious . . . sir.’
‘Think about it,
Macro. If he has a day or more’s head start then he could be over a
hundred miles away by now. How long do you think it will take us to
find him? How many days? If we attempt it then we run the risk of
being in no condition to fight him, or being too weak to even make
it back to port. I have no choice. We make for Alexandria. Then we
take on supplies, and try to get enough reinforcements to search
this area thoroughly.’
Macro was about to
protest once more when Decurion Diodorus approached to make his
report. ‘Sir, my men have searched the ship. There are no other
survivors.’
‘Very well. Tell your
men to bring whatever’s left of the food and water up on deck and
divide it between our two ships.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Diodorus
saluted and paced back towards the marines milling about the cargo
hold. ‘Right, you dozy lot! Sheathe your swords and down your
shields. There’s work to do.’
Macro was staring
hard at Cato. He cuffed his nose.
‘What is it?’ Cato
asked wearily.
‘I was thinking.
You’d better be right about this. If Ajax gives us the slip again
while we return to Alexandria, then the gods know how we’ll pick up
the trail again. It’s been over a month since we last heard any
news of him.’
‘I know.’ Cato
gestured helplessly with his hands. ‘But we have no choice. We have
to go back.’
Macro pursed his
lips. ‘That’s your choice, sir. Your order.’
‘Yes. Yes it
is.’
Three days later the
Sobek led the way into Alexandria’s
great harbour. The vast structure of the lighthouse constructed on
the rock of Pharos island by order of Ptolemy II towered above the
two warships. The men aboard had all been seconded from the Roman
forces at Alexandria to help crush the slave rebellion on Crete and
so were used to the extraordinary vision of the lighthouse. Cato,
too, had seen it before, but nevertheless paused from his pacing up
and down the deck to marvel at the scale of Ptolemy’s ambition.
Besides the lighthouse, there was the vast complex of the Great
Library, the tomb of Alexander the Great and the broad avenue of
the Canopus which ran across the heart of the city. Everything
about the city was designed to impress visitors and foster a sense
of superiority in its citizens.
It was close to
midday and the noon sun forced Cato to squint as he looked up at
the lighthouse. A steady column of smoke rose from the fire that
blazed permanently at the very top of the tower, proclaiming the
presence of the city to ships far out at sea, or along the
coastline of Egypt.
Cato looked down
again, clasping his hands behind his back, and resumed his pacing
along the main deck of the warship. It had become a habit since the
hunt for Ajax had begun. Being cooped up on a small vessel was
anathema to Cato’s restless spirit and the routine of walking the
deck gave a limited amount of the exercise he craved, as well as
time to think.
He was deeply
frustrated by the enforced delay in pursuing Ajax. However, there
was no alternative. Even with the food and water they had gleaned
from the cargo ship, the men were starving and their throats were
parched. They were in no condition to fight Ajax’s desperate gang
of fugitives, most of whom were gladiators. Men who had spent years
training to do nothing but fight and kill in the arena. The bodies
on the cargo ship had been weighted and buried at sea, together
with the sailor who had been nailed to the mast and had expired a
few hours after he had been taken aboard the Sobek. A small prize crew had been put aboard the
cargo ship with orders to make best speed to Alexandria. The
warships had gone ahead, driven on by the prefect in his desire to
return to the hunt as swiftly as possible.
‘Furl the sail!’ the
trierarch, Phermon, ordered from the stern. ‘Make ready the
oars!’
Moments later the
Sobek continued towards the naval
harbour, lying next to the royal palaces, once the home of pharaohs
but now the quarters of the Roman governor of Egypt and his staff.
The oars rose, swept forward and fell in a steady rhythm as the
ship glided over the calm waters towards the stone jetties where
the Alexandrian fleet was moored. Already Cato could see a sentry
rushing from the signal tower at the entrance to the naval harbour
to report the arrival of the two ships.
Cato made his way aft
and descended into the stern cabin. He was a head taller than Macro
and was forced to stoop uncomfortably as he put on the cleanest of
the two tunics that he had brought with him from Crete. Then he
struggled into the vest of scale armour and fastened the harness
over the top. The harness was decorated with the silver discs of
the medals he had been awarded during his service in the Second
Legion. The unit had been part of the army that had invaded Britain
a few years earlier when Cato first proved himself as a soldier,
and won promotion to the rank of centurion. Now he was a prefect,
an officer singled out for senior command.
But only once his
rank was confirmed by the Emperor, Cato reflected. And that was not
likely to happen if he failed to find and destroy Ajax, the
bloodthirsty rebel who had done his best to destroy the province of
Crete. He had also managed to capture the Egyptian grain fleet when
it had put into Crete on the way to Rome, thereby threatening to
starve the people of the capital. For a brief moment Cato felt a
grudging admiration for his enemy. Ajax was the kind of man who
understood all the forces in play, and made his plans accordingly.
Truly, he was as dangerous a foe as Cato had ever faced and he
presented the gravest of threats to Rome itself. Such a danger
could never be tolerated and if Cato failed to capture or kill
Ajax, then the Emperor would not forgive him. A refusal to confirm
his promotion to prefect would be the least of Cato’s worries. More
likely he would be reduced in rank and sent to end his days in some
gods forsaken outpost on the furthest fringe of the Empire. That
would mean an end to his military career, but there would be a
higher price than that. He would be forced to give up
Julia.
The daughter of a
senator could not be expected to endure the hard life on a frontier
post. She would stay in Rome and find a better prospect for a
husband. The thought cut deeply into Cato’s heart, yet he would not
blame Julia if that happened. Despite his feelings for her, Cato
was rational enough to know that love had its limits. The idea of
having Julia follow him into exile and growing to resent him for it
filled him with dread. Better that he should go alone, and have a
memory to cherish, than have his failure compounded by gnawing
bitterness.
Cato adjusted his
harness, then reached for his sword belt and slipped it over his
head on to the shoulder. Lastly, he opened the small chest at the
foot of his cot and took out the leather scroll case that contained
the orders he had been given by Julia’s father, Senator Sempronius,
to track down Ajax. A separate document stated that he had been
promoted to prefect, subject to imperial confirmation. Between the
two documents, Cato hoped that he would have sufficient authority
to secure the assistance of the governor in carrying out his
mission.
He was not looking
forward to meeting the governor again. The last time, Cato had
sailed from Crete, on Senator Sempronius’s behalf, to ask for
reinforcements to put down the rebellion. It had been an uneasy
confrontation, and only the threat of being co-opted into the ranks
of those who would share the blame for the fall of Crete had
induced the governor of Egypt to grudgingly provide the necessary
men and ships to defeat Ajax.
Cato picked up his
helmet, took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, then turned to climb
back on to the deck, where he could complete his dress without
having to crouch down to avoid crushing the crest of his helmet. As
he fastened the straps under his chin, Cato watched the trierarch
and his men complete the final stage of their approach to the
jetty. Mooring cables were tossed ashore to waiting sailors and the
Sobek was eased into position, creaking
up against the woven mass of reed fenders.
Cato turned to the
trierarch. ‘I want you to go ashore and find the fleet’s
quartermaster. I want both ships resupplied as soon as possible.
There will be no time for any shore leave for the crews. I intend
to put back to sea the moment I have reported to the governor and
fresh supplies are on board.’
The trierarch puffed
his cheeks and responded in an undertone. ‘Sir, the men are
exhausted. They’ve not seen their families for months. A day or two
ashore will put heart back into ’em.’
‘They are to remain
on the ship,’ Cato said firmly. ‘Any man who attempts to go ashore
will be treated as a deserter. Is that understood?’
‘Yes,
sir.’
‘Good.’ Cato turned
away and saw that the Ibis was mooring
directly astern. The gangway was already run out and Macro
scrambled on to the jetty and made his way alongside the
Sobek to wait for Cato.
‘Remember what I
said,’ Cato warned the trierarch, and then turned away to go
ashore. As soon as he stepped on to the paved surface, it seemed to
Cato that the land was shifting unsteadily beneath his boots. He
struggled to adjust his sense of balance and Macro winked at
him.
‘Now that is a
strange feeling.’
‘Quite,’ Cato agreed.
‘Come on.’
They set off along
the jetty, the heat beating off the stones beneath them. Ahead, at
the gate leading from the jetty towards the palace buildings, a
party of legionaries stood waiting, a centurion standing in front
of them, vine cane held across his thighs as he stood with his feet
apart.
‘Didn’t take long to
send out a reception committee,’ Macro remarked. ‘Someone was quick
off the mark in calling out an honour guard.’
‘Yes.’ Cato frowned.
‘But how could they know?’
‘Perhaps you’re not
the only one with good eyesight,’ Macro suggested mildly. ‘Still,
full marks to the officer in charge of the watch.’
They continued, as
steadily and with as much dignity as their sea legs allowed,
towards the waiting soldiers. As they approached the gate, the
centurion stepped forward and raised his right hand in a
salute.
‘Are you Prefect
Quintus Licinius Cato, sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you, Centurion
Lucius Cornelius Macro?’
Macro nodded. ‘I take
it you’re here to escort us to your commander?’
The centurion looked
mildly surprised.
Cato shook his head.
‘There’s no time for formalities. I have to see the governor, at
once.’
‘Formalities?’ The
centurion gestured to his waiting men. ‘I think you misunderstand,
sir. We’ve not been sent to greet you. I’ve been ordered to place
you under arrest. Both of you.’
‘Arrest?’ Macro
glared. ‘What the bloody hell are you talking about.
Arrest?’
‘Wait!’ Cato held up
his hand. ‘Whose order is this?’
‘Comes straight from
the governor, sir. Soon as he had word that the ships were entering
the harbour. You’re to be taken to the watchroom and held there
until further orders are issued. If you’ll follow me,
sir?’
‘Why?’ Cato stood his
ground. ‘What are the charges?’
The centurion stared
at them. ‘I should have thought that’s obvious, sir. Murder, and
piracy.’