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Authors: Christian Cameron
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hundred and eighty oars bit the water.
One.
The six enemy ships swept at us like avenging falcons. No doubt that they meant me harm. No doubt they were coming for the kill. Fixated on it like predators – four from the west, two from the east. And the middle ship of the four was Dagon’s – now I could see him standing amidships with a heavy whip in his hand. He had painted his ship red above the mid-deck oarsmen and white below, and the white showed brown and black stains – an ugly ship.
Two strokes. We were moving a little faster than walking pace, and the lead western ship cheated his helm a little to keep his ram in line with us.
Without a word from me, Megakles read my mind and steered a little bit to the west. I was looking at the sloppily rowed ship. There he was.
You know how you can pick out a woman you have loved or a good friend three streets away in a crowded city street – yes? The sway of hips, the particular way a man holds his hand or cocks his head, the slant of the forehead, the droop of a shoulder . . .
There was Dagon.
I knew him.
I laughed.
There are fools who do not believe in the gods, but I have seen them. And that day, in the harbour of Carthage, I felt Athena at my shoulder as if I was Odysseus reborn.
Third stroke. We were now moving as fast as a man can run.
I raised my fist and waved it at Dagon.
Fourth stroke. We shot out from between the beaks of the Carthaginians, like a hare that gybes so fast that the claws of the eagle close on empty air.
Except that there were six eagles, and they were on converging courses.
I watched Dagon as he saw the two ships to the east which had been hidden by my hull. And his own greed.
All six ships tried to change course.
One ship evaded the collision, but the other five slammed into each other – our two pursuers from the east into Dagon and the ships immediately north and south of his. They all collided – oars snapped, and men died.
We rowed out of their harbour, smelling their barbaric sacrifices and listening to the screams of their broken oarsmen, as their ships fouled the oars of the others, splintering the shafts, and breaking men’s chests and arms and necks.
Brasidas came aft, and gave me his little smile.
Sekla was still shaking his head. ‘Did you plan all that?’ he asked.
I shrugged. ‘I made it possible for the gods to show their hands,’ I said.
The Spartan nodded.
I wasn’t going back to Sybaris or Croton or Syracusa. So I watered at Lampedusa and again at Melita, and rested my rowers there. I intended to run for Athens, but at Melita, Brasidas asked me – with grave courtesy – if I could take him home.
And there was a man on the beach, nearly beside himself with fury. He was an Italian Greek, and an athlete. I knew him – everyone did, in those days. Astylos of Croton. He had won the stade and the diaulos at Olympia. He had a statue in Croton, his home city, and I had seen him pointed out to me there by Dano, Pythagoras’s daughter.
He came to me as soon as we landed, put his hand out in supplication, and begged me to take him aboard as a passenger. The same storm that had dismasted Lydia had wrecked his ship on Melita’s rocky shores. And he was desperate because it was an Olympic year, and he was due to compete. Athletes are required by the games to come a full lunar month before the first sacrifice – to prove they are worthy to compete. He was already a week late.
And his trainer was Polymarchos. Do you remember him from last night? A freedman who had trained me in Syracusa. I won’t say he was the best swordsman I ever saw – that honour belongs to Istes, brother of Hippeis of Militus. But he taught swordsmanship better than any man I ever met, and he taught pankration as well, and running, and here he was on the beach at Melita.
He looked at me from under his heavy brows, like Herakles come to life – I’ve seldom met a man with the same weight of bone over his brow and yet such startling
One.
The six enemy ships swept at us like avenging falcons. No doubt that they meant me harm. No doubt they were coming for the kill. Fixated on it like predators – four from the west, two from the east. And the middle ship of the four was Dagon’s – now I could see him standing amidships with a heavy whip in his hand. He had painted his ship red above the mid-deck oarsmen and white below, and the white showed brown and black stains – an ugly ship.
Two strokes. We were moving a little faster than walking pace, and the lead western ship cheated his helm a little to keep his ram in line with us.
Without a word from me, Megakles read my mind and steered a little bit to the west. I was looking at the sloppily rowed ship. There he was.
You know how you can pick out a woman you have loved or a good friend three streets away in a crowded city street – yes? The sway of hips, the particular way a man holds his hand or cocks his head, the slant of the forehead, the droop of a shoulder . . .
There was Dagon.
I knew him.
I laughed.
There are fools who do not believe in the gods, but I have seen them. And that day, in the harbour of Carthage, I felt Athena at my shoulder as if I was Odysseus reborn.
Third stroke. We were now moving as fast as a man can run.
I raised my fist and waved it at Dagon.
Fourth stroke. We shot out from between the beaks of the Carthaginians, like a hare that gybes so fast that the claws of the eagle close on empty air.
Except that there were six eagles, and they were on converging courses.
I watched Dagon as he saw the two ships to the east which had been hidden by my hull. And his own greed.
All six ships tried to change course.
One ship evaded the collision, but the other five slammed into each other – our two pursuers from the east into Dagon and the ships immediately north and south of his. They all collided – oars snapped, and men died.
We rowed out of their harbour, smelling their barbaric sacrifices and listening to the screams of their broken oarsmen, as their ships fouled the oars of the others, splintering the shafts, and breaking men’s chests and arms and necks.
Brasidas came aft, and gave me his little smile.
Sekla was still shaking his head. ‘Did you plan all that?’ he asked.
I shrugged. ‘I made it possible for the gods to show their hands,’ I said.
The Spartan nodded.
I wasn’t going back to Sybaris or Croton or Syracusa. So I watered at Lampedusa and again at Melita, and rested my rowers there. I intended to run for Athens, but at Melita, Brasidas asked me – with grave courtesy – if I could take him home.
And there was a man on the beach, nearly beside himself with fury. He was an Italian Greek, and an athlete. I knew him – everyone did, in those days. Astylos of Croton. He had won the stade and the diaulos at Olympia. He had a statue in Croton, his home city, and I had seen him pointed out to me there by Dano, Pythagoras’s daughter.
He came to me as soon as we landed, put his hand out in supplication, and begged me to take him aboard as a passenger. The same storm that had dismasted Lydia had wrecked his ship on Melita’s rocky shores. And he was desperate because it was an Olympic year, and he was due to compete. Athletes are required by the games to come a full lunar month before the first sacrifice – to prove they are worthy to compete. He was already a week late.
And his trainer was Polymarchos. Do you remember him from last night? A freedman who had trained me in Syracusa. I won’t say he was the best swordsman I ever saw – that honour belongs to Istes, brother of Hippeis of Militus. But he taught swordsmanship better than any man I ever met, and he taught pankration as well, and running, and here he was on the beach at Melita.
He looked at me from under his heavy brows, like Herakles come to life – I’ve seldom met a man with the same weight of bone over his brow and yet such startling
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