CHAPTER SEVEN
The sails had been taken off the ships and the yards
lowered to the deck to reduce the chance that they would be spotted
from the shore as they approached. The oars were out and the
warships were making their way, very slowly, towards the headland.
Cato stood in the foredeck turret straining his eyes as he stared
towards the distant outline of the watchtower, barely discernible
against the night sky. Macro had landed with a handful of
legionaries over two hours earlier. Shortly afterwards he had sent
a boat back to the Sobek to report that
there were three ships beached on the shore in front of the supply
base, one of which was the Thoth. There
had been no sign of any movement on the ship. That was proof enough
for Cato and he had given the order for the attack he had planned
with Macro to go ahead, as soon as the first hint of dawn appeared
on the eastern horizon.
Macro would strike
first, taking the watchtower on the headland and the lookout post
before the sentries could detect the ships approaching from sea and
raise the alarm. He had taken Hamedes with him in case they were
challenged. Hamedes would claim that he had been forced ashore when
his fishing boat had begun to leak. It might buy them a few
moments, long enough to spring a surprise. As soon as the towers
were in Macro’s hands, he would signal the ships waiting to attack.
Cut off from the sea, Ajax and his men would be trapped in the
fort. They would have to surrender, or more likely they would
choose to fight to the last man. Either way, their end was assured,
Cato reflected.
He heard the ladder
creaking behind him and a moment later the trierach joined
him.
‘Too early for Macro
to go into action, I suppose.’
‘Yes, but not long
now.’ Cato glanced at the horizon and thought he detected the
faintest loom dividing the sea and the sky. ‘When we get the
signal, I want the ship to enter the bay as swiftly as possible.
Ajax must not escape.’
‘We’ll do it in good
time, sir. The Sobek will be past the
headland long before the enemy can put to sea. You have my
word.’
‘And I shall hold you
to it.’
Neither man spoke for
a moment before the trierarch asked, ‘Do you think there’s a chance
that some of the crew of the Thoth were
taken prisoner, sir?’
‘I doubt it. If I am
any judge of Ajax’s character, he will not have spared their lives.
And that might be a good thing.’
‘Sir?’
‘Those prisoners he
took during the rebellion in Crete were often saved for a far worse
fate than a quick death.’ Cato’s tone hardened. ‘Your comrades are
dead. Set your heart on avenging them.’
‘Yes,
sir.’
Cato turned and
looked round at the dark masses of the other vessels. There was no
sound from them, even though hundreds of marines and legionaries
stood and waited on their decks, while hundreds more manned the
oars. Aside from the faint rush of water along the hulls and the
splash of oar blades, the ships were like shadows as they stole
towards the coast.
‘There, sir,’ the
trierarch said quickly. ‘Dawn’s breaking.’
Cato looked. There
was a definite glow along the horizon now. He turned towards the
watchtower once again. Still nothing. He muttered under his breath,
‘Come on, Macro. It all depends on you.’
Macro lay flat on the
ground beside an outcrop of rocks. Twenty paces away the squat mass
of the tower on the headland loomed against the skyline. Already,
there was a thin wash of light that allowed him to pick out some of
the detail in the ground around him. His party had disposed of the
sentries in the lookout post and had been about to take their
second objective when a small group of men had approached from the
direction of the fort. There had just been time to take cover, and
a moment later several figures strode past. There was an exchange
of words with the men in the tower but the sound of the small waves
breaking over the rocks on the headland made it impossible to make
out what was said.
If the party of men
didn’t leave soon he would have to risk making his attack against
less favourable odds. In addition to Hamedes, he had ten
legionaries with him. Ten men against the half dozen who had
approached the tower and perhaps another four or five inside. Ten
Romans and one priest, Macro corrected himself. Still, Hamedes was
solid enough and might be useful in a tight spot. Two tenders and
their sailors were waiting in a small cove back along the headland,
ready to evacuate them if for any reason they failed to take the
towers and had to escape in a hurry.
Macro eased his hand
back and drew his sword, wincing at the faint sound of scraping as
the tip cleared the scabbard. He held it tightly as he raised his
head as much as he dared to get a better view of the tower. Beside
him Hamedes took a sharp breath and whispered, ‘We should go,
Centurion. There’s too many of them. They’ll kill us.’
‘Quiet,’ Macro
hissed. ‘And don’t move, or I’ll kill you myself.’
He switched his
attention back to the tower, clearly visible against the horizon.
It would not be long before the sentries caught sight of the
approaching ships and raised the alarm, Macro realised. Then, at
last, the men from the fort turned away from the tower and began to
retrace their steps along the headland. As they passed Macro’s
hiding place, his heart began to race as he recognised their
leader.
‘Ajax,’ he breathed
softly through gritted teeth. He felt his muscles tense like iron
and an icy rage gripped his body so that it took all his
self-control not to spring from cover and hack the gladiator to
bloody pieces. As he lay, trembling with fury, visions, smells and
emotions filled his mind with a raw intensity as he recalled the
shaming torments that Ajax had subjected him to. Torments that he
had tried to forget and suppress. Things he had never confessed to
even his closest friend, Cato, and never would. Macro shut his
eyes, blanking out the barely discernible figure of Ajax. He
breathed deeply, fighting back against the memories that threatened
to overwhelm him. When he opened his eyes again, the gladiator and
his companions had disappeared down the track that led to the beach
on the inside of the headland.
Macro rose into a
crouch and turned to the silent shapes lying on the ground behind
him. ‘On me,’ he growled softly.
He moved forward,
keeping low, and there was a faint swishing through the dry grass
behind him as his men followed. Keeping in the shadow of the rocks,
Macro moved stealthily towards the tower. He could see that the
heavy door at the base of the tower was open. Above, on the
platform, he heard voices muttering and a faint rustle as the
morning breeze stirred the tips of the palm leaves of the sunshade.
Macro scurried across the open ground in front of the tower, making
straight for the door. Then a figure appeared in the frame, and
froze. Macro powered forward, lowering the tip of his sword. At the
last moment he punched the blade forward and it ripped into the
man’s midriff an instant before Macro’s shoulder struck him in the
chest. He slammed the man back through the door, across the
interior of the tower until he struck one of the posts holding up
the floor above. The man grunted as the breath was driven out of
him and warm spittle and blood splattered Macro’s face. Clamping
his spare hand over the man’s mouth, Macro thrust the sword up into
the ribcage, ripping through vital organs. His opponent struggled
frantically and then abruptly slumped forward on to Macro. He drew
back, wrenching his blade free, and eased the body down on to the
ground. Around him, his men crowded into the tower.
‘What’s going on
there?’ a voice called down the flight of wooden stairs leading up
to the platform. ‘Portius?’
There was a faint hue
of wavering orange light from above, illuminating the topmost
stairs.
‘Let’s go,’ Macro
growled, running to the stairs and pounding up to the first level
of the tower. When he reached the top, he saw a room with several
sleeping mats lining the wall, a table and stools and weapons rack.
There were two men. One rising up on an elbow, disturbed from his
sleep. The other was near the top of the stairs, close to the
weapons. He was quicker witted than his companion downstairs and
instantly snatched at a spear and lowered the tip towards Macro as
he and his men raced into the room. The spear tip thrust forwards
and Macro swerved aside, crashing into a stool that sent him
sprawling. The legionary behind him did not see the danger until it
was too late and the spear thudded into the shoulder of his sword
arm, the impact spinning him round against the shaft and knocking
it to one side. The next man thrust his way past, and hacked at the
spearman’s neck, cutting deep. With a sharp cry the renegade
collapsed back, on to the floor, the butt of the spear clattering
beside him. The man on the mattress made to get up but was cut down
before he reached his feet.
‘The roof!’ Macro
called out as he scrambled to his feet. ‘Move!’
The first few men ran
past, climbing the last flight of stairs. Macro went after them.
There was a brief cry of alarm, quickly cut off. As he emerged on
to the roof, Macro glanced round. There was a low wall topped off
with a wooden rail surrounding the roof. In one corner was the
palm-leaf shade. In the opposite corner the signal brazier. There
were four bolt throwers. A dull glow came from a small niche where
an oil lamp stood ready to light the brazier.
‘You two!’ Macro
pointed at the nearest of his men. ‘Get downstairs and seal the
door. Barricade it with whatever’s to hand.’
He hurried across to
the rail and stared towards the fort. A handful of torches glowed
by the main gate and by their light he could see a pair of sentries
standing on the gatehouse, apparently unconcerned. The dark shapes
of three ships lay beached on the shore in front of the fort. There
was no sign of alarm.
‘Good.’ Macro nodded
to himself. Then he turned and crossed to the brazier, snatching up
some of the kindling. He then carefully picked up the oil lamp and
made his way down the stairs and outside. He set the lamp down and
made a small pile of the kindling against the side of the tower
facing the sea, and presented the flame of the oil lamp to it. The
pallid yellow flicker licked the bundle of dry twigs and palm
leaves. Then there was a puff of smoke as the flame caught and
quickly spread through the rest of the bundle. The wall around the
fire lit up with a bright yellow glow and Macro stood back and
turned to look out to sea, searching until his eyes fixed on the
distant shapes of the warships.
There was a shout
from inside the tower and Macro looked up and saw light flickering
from a small window halfway up the wall. The light quickly
intensified and now the crackle of flames came to his
ears.
‘What the hell?’ He
hurried round to the door as the first of his men came stumbling
outside.
Macro grabbed the
legionary. ‘What’s going on?’
‘There’s a fire in
the sentry’s quarters, sir! The oil lamp must have gone over and
set light to one of the bedrolls.’
‘Fuck,’ Macro gritted
his teeth. ‘We have to put it out, quick.’
He ran back inside,
up the stairs. Already the air was thick with smoke and the flames
flared up against the walls, lighting the space in a hellish red
light. There were shouts from above as the flames licked up the
stairs. Macro looked round desperately, then saw an amphora leaning
in the corner. He rushed over and snatched it up, and pulled out
the stopper, instantly releasing the sharp tang of wine. Moving
towards the fire, and wincing at the heat that struck him like a
stinging blow, Macro shook the contents towards the flames. The
wine landed in gouts, quenching the flames, but not quickly
enough.
‘Bugger this,’ Macro
growled, stepping back. He hefted the amphora, took aim at the wall
where the flames were most fierce and hurled the jar. The heavy
pottery exploded, wine splattered on the rough plaster and drenched
the sleeping mat below. Snatching up a cloak from the table, Macro
started beating out the flames.
He looked over his
shoulder and saw Hamedes. ‘Give me a bloody hand!’
The priest hesitated
for an instant, his eyes wide with fear, then he plucked a cloak
from a peg on the wall beside him and joined Macro, smothering the
remaining flames. When the last of the fire was stamped out, Macro
nodded his thanks. He looked round the smoke-filled room. An acrid
stench gripped his throat and he coughed. Throwing the cloak down,
he stumbled to the stairs, pushing the priest ahead of him, and
climbed up on to the roof. He crossed to the wooden rail and
breathed deeply to clear his lungs. The dawn was coming up fast; a
band of pale light thickened along the horizon. By its glow Macro
could already see the full extent of the bay from the shadowy
mangroves, across the water to the fort. Several figures had
emerged from the gate and were looking directly towards the
headland. More appeared on the walls of the fort and then there was
a shrill blast of a horn.
‘Damn, they’ve seen
the fire.’ Macro clenched the rail. A moment later, he watched a
strong force of men emerge from the gate. They carried shields and
a mix of weapons - swords, spears, axes and a handful of bows.
Several of them carried torches that flared brightly as they broke
into a trot. They hurried along the path leading to the headland.
Macro sucked in a breath. ‘Now we’re for it.’
Cato had given the
order for the Sobek to head for the
entrance to the bay at full speed and the drum beneath the deck
beat the time as the oars swept forward, down and back, powering
the warship forward. In the near darkness, Macro’s signal had stood
out clearly. But then more flames had appeared briefly, licking up
out of the tower and illuminating the surrounding
rocks.
‘What the hell is he
playing at?’ said the trierarch. ‘He’s going to give the whole
thing away.’
‘Something’s gone
wrong,’ Cato responded anxiously. ‘How long before we make the
entrance to the bay?’
The trierarch
squinted at the coastline and estimated the distance. ‘Within the
half-hour if we keep up the current speed.’
‘So long?’ Cato
stared at the headland. He forced himself to push his concern for
Macro aside and concentrated on the timing. From his experience of
the last two months he knew that a well-handled ship could be
refloated from a beach in less than a quarter of the time. If Ajax
moved quickly he could get his men aboard their ship and make for
the open sea before the trap was closed. That could not be allowed
to happen, Cato resolved. He turned to the trierarch.
‘Can the ship go any
faster?’
‘Yes, sir. Ramming
speed is part of the drill. But we can only keep it up for a short
stretch.’
‘Then give the
order.’
‘But sir, it will
exhaust the men. They need their strength for when we close to do
battle.’
‘There won’t be any
battle unless we reach the bay in time. Your men must row their
hearts out. Understand?’
‘Yes,
sir.’
‘Then give the order.
Pass it on to the other ships. Go!’
The trierarch dropped
down the ladder on to the deck and ran to the midships hatchway to
shout the order to his timekeeper. Cato heard the drum increase its
pace, and the deck gave a little lurch beneath his boots as the
Sobek began to speed up. To the east,
off the port bow, the sky was turning pink and painting the
undersides of a few scattered clouds in a warm delicate hue. Cato
willed the ship on. The flames on the tower had died away now and
he could not help wondering what had become of Macro and his men.
If they still lived, then they were on their own until the warships
reached the bay. Even as his thoughts were with this friend, Cato
saw a tiny pinprick of light dancing along the headland, then
another, and more, and with a sick feeling in his stomach he
realised that Ajax and his men were already hunting down Macro and
his small band.