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Authors: Harry Sidebottom
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it said a lot about Roman thinking on the respective status of the navy and army that the captain of a trireme was equivalent in rank to a centurion in the legions, yet a trierarch commanded nearly three hundred enlisted men and a centurion usually not more than eighty.
‘Surrender!’ Ballista called in German.
‘Fuck you!’ The Borani accent was strong, but there was no mistaking the words.
‘I am Dernhelm, son of Isangrim, Warleader of the Angles. I give you my word as one of the Woden-born that your lives will be spared, that you will not go into the arena.’
‘Go to hell! Mercenary. Serf. Slave!’
‘Think of your men.’
‘They have given me their oath. It is better that we die on our feet now than live a long time on our knees. Like you!’
For two hours the bolt-throwers of the Concordia bombarded the Gothic ship. Out of effective bowshot, the Goths could do nothing but wait. For two hours, the awesome force of the bolts pierced the sides of the ship and tore through the leather and metal that failed to protect the soft flesh within. Some bolts ripped through two men at once, grotesquely pinning them together.
When there was no danger of resistance, Ballista ordered the Concordia to ram the Goth amidships.
‘So many of them. They were brave men. It is a pity they all had to die,’ said Ballista as the trireme backed away from the wreck.
‘Yes,’ agreed Maximus, ‘they would have fetched a good price.’
Ballista smiled at his bodyguard. ‘You really are a heartless bastard, aren’t you?’
IV
It was so frustrating. About half a mile to the left, Demetrius could see Cyprus, the island of Aphrodite, the goddess of love, sliding past. All his young life the Greek boy had wanted to visit her shrine there, but now there was no time to lose. It had been like this ever since the encounter with the Goths. It seemed to have energized Ballista. Fighting northern barbarians had stirred his blood in some strange way, made him keener to get at eastern ones. He had fretted away the four days on Syme that it had taken to repair the Concordia (the hypozomata, whatever that was, had needed tightening). Meanwhile, the dozen captives that had been fished out of the wreckage of the first Gothic boat were sold to slave traders. No promises had been made them; their future was not good. The Kyrios had paced the decks on the one-day crossing to Rhodes. His impatience was infectious, and when Cyprus appeared after three days, Maximus, Mamurra and Priscus, the acting trierarch, were pacing about as well.
During the crossing from Rhodes to Cyprus, the first time on the voyage when the Concordia had been deep out at sea, even the bookish Demetrius had realized that a trireme was a terribly crowded place. There was nowhere for the rowers to exercise or wash. They had to sleep at their benches. There was no provision for hot food. The routine whereby, if possible, a trireme came to shore twice a day - at midday for the crew to eat lunch, and again at dusk for them to take supper and sleep - now made complete sense.
The twin necessities of practicality and observing social niceties had enforced a two-day stop at New Paphos, the seat of the Roman governor of the island of Cyprus. He outranked Ballista and thus could not be ignored. The proconsul received them in a large house, well sited, towards the end of the headland, to catch any sea breezes. It had been an occasion of some formality, which had taken up much of the first day.
On the second day the travellers had each pursued their own duties or interests. Demetrius walked half a mile or so to the agora to buy supplies; the kyrios, accompanied by Calgacus, returned for more discussions with the proconsul of doings in the eternal city. Priscus and Mamurra fussed over the Concordia. New concerns with something called the parexeiresia had joined the ongoing worries about the hypozomata. Maximus went to a brothel and came back drunk.
The next day at dawn the
‘Surrender!’ Ballista called in German.
‘Fuck you!’ The Borani accent was strong, but there was no mistaking the words.
‘I am Dernhelm, son of Isangrim, Warleader of the Angles. I give you my word as one of the Woden-born that your lives will be spared, that you will not go into the arena.’
‘Go to hell! Mercenary. Serf. Slave!’
‘Think of your men.’
‘They have given me their oath. It is better that we die on our feet now than live a long time on our knees. Like you!’
For two hours the bolt-throwers of the Concordia bombarded the Gothic ship. Out of effective bowshot, the Goths could do nothing but wait. For two hours, the awesome force of the bolts pierced the sides of the ship and tore through the leather and metal that failed to protect the soft flesh within. Some bolts ripped through two men at once, grotesquely pinning them together.
When there was no danger of resistance, Ballista ordered the Concordia to ram the Goth amidships.
‘So many of them. They were brave men. It is a pity they all had to die,’ said Ballista as the trireme backed away from the wreck.
‘Yes,’ agreed Maximus, ‘they would have fetched a good price.’
Ballista smiled at his bodyguard. ‘You really are a heartless bastard, aren’t you?’
IV
It was so frustrating. About half a mile to the left, Demetrius could see Cyprus, the island of Aphrodite, the goddess of love, sliding past. All his young life the Greek boy had wanted to visit her shrine there, but now there was no time to lose. It had been like this ever since the encounter with the Goths. It seemed to have energized Ballista. Fighting northern barbarians had stirred his blood in some strange way, made him keener to get at eastern ones. He had fretted away the four days on Syme that it had taken to repair the Concordia (the hypozomata, whatever that was, had needed tightening). Meanwhile, the dozen captives that had been fished out of the wreckage of the first Gothic boat were sold to slave traders. No promises had been made them; their future was not good. The Kyrios had paced the decks on the one-day crossing to Rhodes. His impatience was infectious, and when Cyprus appeared after three days, Maximus, Mamurra and Priscus, the acting trierarch, were pacing about as well.
During the crossing from Rhodes to Cyprus, the first time on the voyage when the Concordia had been deep out at sea, even the bookish Demetrius had realized that a trireme was a terribly crowded place. There was nowhere for the rowers to exercise or wash. They had to sleep at their benches. There was no provision for hot food. The routine whereby, if possible, a trireme came to shore twice a day - at midday for the crew to eat lunch, and again at dusk for them to take supper and sleep - now made complete sense.
The twin necessities of practicality and observing social niceties had enforced a two-day stop at New Paphos, the seat of the Roman governor of the island of Cyprus. He outranked Ballista and thus could not be ignored. The proconsul received them in a large house, well sited, towards the end of the headland, to catch any sea breezes. It had been an occasion of some formality, which had taken up much of the first day.
On the second day the travellers had each pursued their own duties or interests. Demetrius walked half a mile or so to the agora to buy supplies; the kyrios, accompanied by Calgacus, returned for more discussions with the proconsul of doings in the eternal city. Priscus and Mamurra fussed over the Concordia. New concerns with something called the parexeiresia had joined the ongoing worries about the hypozomata. Maximus went to a brothel and came back drunk.
The next day at dawn the
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