Authors: Christian Cameron
So he smiled. ‘Arimnestos. I knew you would get me here.’
I nodded. ‘Lord, these men are my enemies, and I don’t intend to give them the chance to betray their oaths to the gods.’
Cyrus smiled at me. He put a hand on mine, right hand to right hand. ‘You are a good man,’ he said. ‘Why must we fight?’
‘Change is the only constant,’ I said. ‘Some day, perhaps, we will be allies.’ I stood up. ‘I will have you swayed gently over the side, my lord, but the very moment you come to rest on that wharf, my men will back oars, and I will fly.’
Artapherenes nodded. ‘My heart advises that what you do, you must do,’ he admitted. ‘That man’s face held much hate. What have you done?’
I smiled. ‘They made me a slave. I paid them back.’ I rose to my feet and walked back to the helmsman’s station. I took the oars from Sekla and said, ‘Give me a moment here,’ and he smiled and walked away.
Briseis watched it all.
I put my ship on a long, slow curve towards the pier to which the Carthaginian harbour officer pointed from his pilot boat.
I made a hand sign to Leukas, and the oar-rate picked up. The Carthaginian ships had come to a full stop to watch our talk with their elder, and they were slower and heavier, and we shot away.
‘I am about to put your husband ashore,’ I said.
She nodded.
‘You could always come with me,’ I said. ‘I know you won’t, but I’ll curse myself for the next ten years if I do not ask.’
Briseis stood. Very softly, she said, ‘Some day, I will live as your wife. But you do not want to humiliate Artapherenes any more than I do.’ She smiled into my eyes. ‘I do not love him with fire, but I love him none the less, Achilles. He is a worthy man.’
‘He lay with your mother!’ I said. See, the adolescent is never far beneath the surface, and I was suddenly angry.
She recoiled, looked away, and flushed. Then she said, ‘You once swore to protect our family.’
Now it was my turn to look away.
She nodded. ‘If the world were a simple place, none of us would have to make the choices that define who we are. Even when our choices are folly and hubris.’ She shrugged. ‘And would you have me abandon our children?’
‘Children?’ I asked.
She laughed. ‘You are a fool, my Achilles.’ She rose on her toes and kissed me, to the scandal of all the Persians. ‘It is war,’ she said. ‘And in war, there is change. Didn’t Heraklitus say so? Not this summer or next – but soon.’
‘I will come for you,’ I said, as rash as an ephebe.
She smiled. ‘Good.’
We were three ships’ lengths from the wharf. And as usual, I had put Briseis ahead of all my other concerns. Thankfully . . .
In many ways, despite everything that follows, it was
Lydia
’s finest hour.
First, because we rowed to within a ship’s length of the pier – and suddenly, without warning or orders, at a single whistle, the port-side rowers reversed their cushions and we turned in our own length, slowing in the process to a stop and then continuing sternward at a walking pace. It is a wonderful manoeuvre – try training men to it, and you will find that it can take a summer to get it right once. Only a crew that has been together for years can get it just right, without broaching the ship or capsizing or breaking oars or wallowing.
All the starboard-side oars for the first six benches from the stern came in, and our starboard side sternward bulwark came to rest against the stone of the pier as if we were a child accepting the gentle embrace of a loving mother.
Before we touched, every marine was ashore. And Briseis – bless her – her voice barked like a fishwife’s, and the women climbed the side and made the short jump while the lines were held. I clasped Cyrus’s hand while Arayanam and Darius lifted Artapherenes on a bed made of spears and cloaks, and they stepped from the rail to the shore like sailors.
The three Persians saluted with their hands in the Persian way.
Briseis smiled at me.
I broke free of her gaze and made a single hand gesture to Megakles at the helm, and then at Leukas amidships. Leukas roared, ‘Pull!’
Now, I don’t know that the men of Carthage meant to betray their oaths. But I saw no reason to linger and test them.
The two heavy triremes were two cables astern, just getting up to speed. Three more triremes were launching from the sheds, and there was a great deal of commotion along the shoreline, and my heavy crew – with all the best men in their seats – knew the drill.
In five strokes we were at cruising speed.
There was a shout from the ship-sheds.
A sixth ship got off the beach under the sheds. I watched him – Phoenicians’ ships are often male – and his oar-stroke was disgustingly ragged, and that made me watch him another few heartbeats. Only a certain kind of trierarch would have such a ragged crew. Phoenicians are generally superb sailors, but they have a few right fools and at least one evil madman.
Fifteen strokes and my oarsmen were pulling like the heroes in the
Argo
and I could see their oars bend at the height of the stroke. We were almost at full speed – ramming speed, as fast as a galloping horse.
I’ve said this other nights, but a sea fight seems to get faster and faster as you get closer to the moment of combat. I don’t know whether this is some effect of the hand of the gods, of the spirit men carry within them, or merely a flaw in the flow of time’s stream. Once thing I know – sometimes it is merely that the rowers pull harder as the ships close.
The two closest Carthaginians were suddenly five ships’ lengths away. And closing at the converging speeds of a cavalry charge.
I had a ship that had been built for me – a crew I’d led for two wildly successful years, and trained the way a swordsmith hones a sword. And the harbour of Carthage isn’t like the open ocean – it is like a mill pond. Flat. Weatherless. With no surprises. The moment I saw that badly handled trireme launch, I hoped it was Dagon. How many mad trierarchs could Carthage have?
I had a notion.
As we shot at the two Carthaginians, both altered their helms very slightly, to widen the gap between them so that I couldn’t oar-rake the two of them.
It was a wise precaution.
But I had no intention of touching a Carthaginian that day. I had come into this harbour as an ambassador, and I had already done a great deed – I had kept an oath, and followed the bonds of hospitality. Cimon, I was sure, would praise me as a noble man. I had no intention of sacrificing all that for a moment’s satisfaction in fighting. Let the Phoenicians break the truce and be cursed by the gods.
‘Oars in!’ I roared.
Always the last order before an oar-rake.
My oars shot in – my opponents might have asked why they came in so early, but no one ever does, in a real fight. The enemy helmsmen saw my oars come in and they each cheated their helms slightly inward and ordered their own oars in, ready for the clash.
Every one of my marines and deck crewmen – and my twenty spare oarsmen – went and leaned on the port side of our trihemiola’s deck rail. And I motioned, and Megakles put the helm hard over.
And we turned. Not the sharp turn of a low-speed rowing turn, like the one we’d just executed, where you turn on a single point, like a pivot – but a high-speed turn on the arc of the ship’s length, drawing a geometrical figure in the water.
I might not have tried in the open ocean with real waves, but on the still waters of their inner harbour, I trusted to Moira and my rowers.
We shot across the westernmost ship’s bow, so close that I could have hit their ship with an apple core. We were coasting, coasting . . .
Ka held up an arrow and I shook my head.
Both of the enemy ships fell astern, turning as fast as they could.
‘Oars out,’ I called.
Have you ever had the moment come to you when you can
feel
the favour of the gods? When you are almost with them?
I had the sun and the sparkle of the sea – the stink of their barbaric sacrifices and the warmth of Briseis’ smile.
I looked off to the west, where the four triremes were struggling to get all their rowers seated and rowing.
Sekla sighed. ‘You’re grinning,’ he said. ‘Everyone’s scared, except Brasidas, who says you are like a mad priest.’
‘Brasidas didn’t say that many words.’ I looked at Sekla, and his dark brown eyes were laughing.
‘Whatever you are planning, I think it’s my duty to point out that if you’d just turn out to sea, we’d run clear in five minutes.’ Sekla pointed to the harbour mouth.
I nodded. ‘Give me five minutes,’ I said.
Sekla shook his head. ‘Why?’ he asked.
‘Revenge,’ I said.
We went west, no faster than a fast cruise. The wind was against us, and since our mast was a standing mast, the rowers had to work hard just to maintain speed. Leukas began to use the reserves to replace men as they tired.
I motioned, and Megakles cheated our hull south, towards the beach, by slapping his oars with the palms of his hands – just a few dactyls that would move the ship’s hull south a little and then back on course before we lost way.
I needed all of my opponents to remain fixated on me.
And the gods were with me.
When the time seemed right . . . It was like working a problem in mathematics, with Heraklitus watching over my shoulder, or Pythagoras’s daughter Dano making little disapproving noises – I thought of her surprise to hear that a little man like me used her great father’s theory of triangles.
But this was sheer guesswork.
I assumed it would take a certain time to turn my ship, even at this slow speed.
‘Prepare to turn north!’ I called.
‘Starboard rowers, reverse your seats!’ Leukas roared.
The ship was alive beneath me, and as soon as Leukas’s hand came up to tell me that the benches were reversed, I pumped my fist – the starboard side oars touched the water, and Megakles leaned in his harness, pushing both steering oars together, and we turned.
The enemies to the west were slower. Those to the east – those we’d outmanoeuvred – were faster. Now I turned between them.
They all went to ramming speed with a clash of cymbals that carried across the water.
They were all very slightly astern of me, running at almost right angles, aimed a little ahead of me. I wasn’t going very fast – in a ship fight, nothing loses speed like a hard turn. Every one of my rowers had his oar poised at the top of its arc, but none of them was in the water.
Bah. This is like having to explain the punchline of a joke. I confess that had they not been blinded by the gods, they would have smoked the trick or at least realised that I wasn’t rowing.
Sekla said, ‘This is insane.’ He laughed aloud.
I lifted my hand. ‘Now!’ I roared.
Leukas’s spear hit the deck.
One 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.