Britannia

CHAPTER TWENTY

The violence of the storm was even more apparent when Cato reached the beach curving around the bay. The roar of the surf and the rattle of pebbles filled his ears as he reined in his horse and dropped from the saddle. To his left, the cliff beneath the headland shielded him from the worst of the wind, and here in its lee the sleet had already turned into snow. Large flakes spun through the air and melted almost as soon as they landed on the stones. Ahead, the line of the cliff ended where the rocks began; great boulders that lay as if the end of the cliff had been pulverised by the fist of Jupiter himself. The line of rocks continued into the sea for another two hundred paces or so, to where the transport was being pounded by the great waves rising from the depths of the ocean. The stern was taking the brunt of the storm, being steadily broken up. The bow section was protected from the impact of the waves at present but would feel their full force before long. Several men were huddled on the sloping deck, and another stood over the bows waving desperately to those on the shore, no doubt imploring them to attempt a rescue.

But their comrades were looking on helplessly, scores of sailors on the decks of the anchored vessels, and more watching from the beach. Cato approached one of the naval officers overseeing the construction of a shelter at the top of the beach, beyond the line of tenders lying along the shingle. The trierarch was shouting orders above the noise of the surf to make his men return to their work.

‘Why aren’t you doing something?’ Cato demanded.

‘What business is it of yours?’ The trierarch turned to address Cato, saw his rank and knuckled his brow in salute. ‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Why aren’t you rescuing those men?’

‘There’s nothing that can be done to save them, sir. Not without putting more lives at stake. It’d be suicide to attempt to get them off that wreck. Besides, it’ll be swept away soon enough, and them too. It’s too bad, sir. But we can’t help them.’

Cato stared hard towards the rocks and saw a fresh wave break over the doomed ship, briefly obscuring it in spray, before the sea surged back and exposed the remaining timbers of the ruined stern section. The man who had been beckoning to those on the shore slowly eased himself down on to the deck beside his comrades and hugged his knees with a resigned air. Quickly calculating the distance between the rocks and the nearest of the anchored warships, Cato rounded on the trierarch.

‘I am not going to stand by and let men die,’ he said fiercely. ‘I want one of your tenders and four good men on the oars. Strong swimmers all.’

The trierarch clicked his tongue. ‘Sir, I really don’t think-’

‘I don’t give a shit for what you think! Just carry out my orders. At once!’

He did not give the man a chance to respond and strode back to his mount just as Miro and his men drew up. Hurriedly unfastening the straps of his helmet, he placed it on the shingle. His cold fingers removed his cloak and sword belt and then he turned to Miro. ‘Give me a hand with the armour!’ The decurion slid from his saddle and helped with the fastenings before Cato slipped the scale vest off and dropped it beside the rest of his kit. He stood in his boots, breeches and tunic, too tense to tremble in the biting cold. Beyond Miro he saw the trierarch directing several of his men to drag one of the small boats belonging to the warships down towards the roaring surf.

He cleared his throat to make sure that it did not betray his nerves. ‘We’re going to try two approaches to the wreck. I want you and your squadron to take a rope and make your way along the rocks. Get as close as you can without risk to life, and throw a line to those men. Meanwhile I’ll try to get to them from the boat there.’

Miro looked along the line of rocks stretching from the headland, and his eyes widened anxiously as he watched the waves exploding over them.

‘Decurion!’ Cato grasped him by the harness. ‘We are not letting those men die. Clear?’

Miro blinked rapidly and then nodded. ‘Yes . . . Yes, sir!’

‘Good man. Now, let’s get to it.’ Cato gave him an encouraging punch on the shoulder before striding down towards the sea, where the four sailors chosen by the trierarch were setting up their oars, their comrades doing their best to hold the small boat steady in the creamy surf. The water felt icy as it closed round Cato’s legs, and it was up to his waist as he reached the side of the boat and heaved himself aboard. He took his place in the stern and pointed to the bireme anchored nearest to the rocks. ‘Get us over to that ship!’

The sailors braced their feet, and with one of them calling the time, they bent to their work and rowed free of the breaking waves into deeper water. As they drew alongside the warship pitching roughly in the surging water of the bay, Cato cupped a hand to his mouth and called up to the crewmen watching the drama on the rocks.

‘I need a rope here! You!’ He pointed at the nearest sailor. ‘Get one end tied around the foot of the mast. Then pass me the rest. And a couple of spare coils while you’re at it. Move!’

The men at the oars kept the small craft in position while two coils were tossed down from the deck of the warship, followed by the length that had been fastened around the mast. Cato tugged it sharply to satisfy himself that it was secure before he gave the order to make for the lee of the rocks. At the foot of the headland he could see the figures of Miro and his men, roped together, carefully picking their way in the gathering gloom. At the sight of the prefect, Miro increased their pace, slipping and stumbling over the glistening rocks and clutching for handholds as spray began to burst over them. The sailors on the stricken transport rose to their feet as the boat headed towards them trailing the rope attached to the anchored bireme. Some beckoned frantically while the others looked on clutching the side rail. The stern of the vessel had all but disappeared, pounded to pieces by the waves. Only the stern strake and a few ribs remained amid the shattered timbers.

As the boat approached, Cato had a brief moment in which to think, and was horrified by the peril in which he had placed himself. He hated being in the water at the best of times and was a poor swimmer. Now he was in imminent danger of being pitched into the icy depths of a wild sea. Yet there was nothing he could do about it. He was committed to this reckless attempt to save the sailors and must see it through. No more than twenty paces ahead, through the swirl of snowflakes, he saw the gleaming mass of a rock break the surface as the trough of a wave passed over it and the surrounding water eddied violently.

‘Easy oars!’ he shouted. ‘Hold us here.’

The sailors ceased rowing and made minor strokes to hold the boat in place as Cato stared at the rocks, the wreck and the sea and swiftly considered how to proceed. The remains of the transport were more than forty paces away. Even if they got as close to the rocks as they dared, they would still be too far from the wreck to have any hope of throwing a rope to the men waiting in the bow section of the vessel. He turned his attention to the rocks stretching back towards the headland. Though the waves were crashing over them, there was an unbroken line leading almost up to the wreck before an open patch of water separated them from the jagged rocks on which the transport was caught. If Miro could reach the gap, a man with a good arm could heave a line to the sailors, Cato calculated.

Bracing himself with one hand clasping the wooden bench, he half rose and waved a hand to attract the decurion’s attention. Miro was still over a hundred paces away, and Cato could see that he and his men were making painfully slow progress. Too slow. Night was coming, and there was no hope of saving the men in the dark. As Miro looked his way, Cato waved frantically with his spare hand and then pointed towards the gap in the rocks. The decurion hesitated, then nodded and continued picking his way forward, pausing only to brace himself against the deluge of seawater boiling over the rocks as the waves struck home on the seaward side of the natural breakwater.

‘That’s it,’ Cato said to himself as he sat down heavily on the bench. ‘Keep going, man!’

As the roped men continued making their way towards the gap, Cato saw beyond them the loom of a large wave rolling in. A moment later it smashed into the rocks, inundating Miro and his auxiliaries. One was too slow in bracing himself for the impact and tumbled down towards the water with a shrill cry that carried even to Cato’s ears, almost dragging down his companions on either side. Miro turned back at the sound. In the brief respite between waves, the man was hauled back on to the rocks and lay a moment catching his breath. Cato breathed a quick sigh of relief and then craned his head forward as Miro edged back towards his men.

‘What are you doing? Get moving.’

But instead, Cato saw the line of men begin to turn back towards the headland, and he felt the blood rise in his veins as he ground his teeth in anger. He restrained himself from making any comment. The situation was too serious for that now. Miro could be dealt with later. Then he noticed that the sailors in the boat were looking at him anxiously as they worked their oars enough to hold the boat in place. He cleared his throat.

‘Right then, it’s down to us. Get me close to that gap in the rocks.’

None of the men responded at first, and Cato saw the fear in their eyes. He regarded them squarely. ‘Those are your comrades over there. Would you leave them to the storm? Would they leave you if you were in their place?’

‘It’s madness to try to save them, sir,’ said the man at the bow oar.

Cato felt tempted to snap back and tell him to shut his mouth, but he bit back on his anger and continued gently. ‘I won’t ask you to sacrifice your lives. Just get me close enough to do what I can. That’s all.’

The sailor nodded and called the time for the others, and the boat surged towards the wrecked transport. Cato peeled off his drenched tunic, took up one of the coils of rope in the bottom of the boat and looped it over his shoulder. ‘If I make it, I’ll heave the end of this back to you. You’ll need to tie it to the ship’s cable. Clear?’

‘Aye, sir.’

‘One final thing. If I fail, don’t try and save me.’

The man smiled grimly. ‘Is that an order, sir?’

Cato forced himself to smile, then untied his bootstraps and kicked off the heavy military sandals, shivering in the biting cold as he crouched in only his loincloth, summoning up his courage. He thought briefly of Julia, and their child, who might soon be widow and orphan, and pushed them from his mind. Then, without hesitation, he leapt from the boat and plunged into the rough sea.

The first sensation was the terrible cold of the water that briefly closed over him, as if a giant fist was clenched around his body. Then his head burst free and the roar and hiss of the sea filled his ears. At once he struck out for the rocks beneath the hull of the transport. They seemed close, but he was fighting the swirling currents and knew that he must reach them swiftly. There was not much daylight left, and the agonising cold of the sea would soon sap his strength.

He made for a low step in the rock and had almost reached it when a fresh wave broke over the transport’s bows. The surf carried him back a short way before it ebbed, drawing him closer. Taking advantage of the current, he kicked out with all his strength and groped for a handhold as he reached the rock. The sea rose up underneath him and he allowed himself to move with it, then grasped the hard surface tightly and clambered out of the water, drawing himself several feet higher before he paused to take stock. He was crouching on a flat-topped rock, above the waves. The hull curved up a short distance away, and Cato looked down on the foredeck, where the sailors had been watching his progress with anxious expressions. Now there was a spark of hope in their faces, but they had not been saved yet.

Trembling violently in the biting wind and snow, he uncoiled the rope and stood, feet braced and arm drawn back as he beckoned to the men in the boat to draw closer to him. They worked hard at the oars, and when they were within twenty feet of the rock beneath him, the sailor closest to the bow shipped his oar and turned to take the rope. Cato hurled the loose loops out and they snaked through the air, splashing just short of the boat.

He gritted his teeth and snatched the rope back, hurriedly looping it, and adding another length, then threw again. Fortune was with him. The swell lifted the boat closer and the rope fell across the bows. Instantly it began to slide back and the sailor snatched at it, missed, then tried again. This time his fingers closed tightly, and he pulled it in and fastened it to the rope trailing back through the sea to the warship before looking up at Cato and nodding.

Turning back to the transport, Cato hefted the remaining coils of rope and looked over the rocks between him and the open sea. Another huge wave loomed, sending frothing sheets of water surging up the shattered deck and swirling round the rocks beneath. Then the sea receded and he clambered down from his perch and scurried over the glistening mass of rock and thick growths of seaweed, stopping directly under the bows.

‘Take the rope!’ he shouted at the faces looking down at him. He swung his arm and threw the loops up. Hands snatched at them and pulled the cable in, then Cato quickly worked his way round the hull until he found a gap in the shattered timbers and climbed on to what was left of the deck, gasping for breath as his frozen body trembled uncontrollably. He staggered towards the others just as a fresh wave struck, sweeping him off his feet and tumbling him across the deck. He tried to grab hold of something to prevent himself being drawn back by the sea, then, just as he felt the first stab of despair, a hand closed tightly around his forearm, bringing him to a stop, and then more hands drew him up and out of the water and he saw the faces of the sailors staring down at him. The nearest was grinning through a dark, glistening beard.

‘Mate, you have got balls of solid iron! Here, let me.’ The sailor hauled Cato up on to his feet and steadied him as the others slapped him on the back. Beyond them, Cato saw that the rope had been securely tied around the bow post and was taut as it angled down towards the sea where the boat bobbed. Now that it was fastened to both the warship and what was left of the transport, the small craft was held steady in the swell. Then he noticed two more boats approaching, drawing towards the cable and pulling themselves along it. He glanced round at the sailors and counted nine of them.

‘We have to get off here as soon as possible. One at a time, down the rope, into the boat.’

The burly sailor who had kept him from being washed away pointed to the nearest of his companions. ‘Sallus, you go first. Porcinus, you next, once he has reached the boat.’

The small group of men gathered by the bow post while Sallus swung himself out. He hung downwards, legs locked on to the rope as he used his arms to draw himself out over the rocks, then the sea, towards the boat that had carried Cato out from the shore. By the time he had reached the craft, the other boats were alongside and he was manhandled into the nearest of them as the second man began his descent.

‘Look out!’

Cato’s head snapped round in time to see a cloud of spray above his head. He gripped the side rail as he was engulfed by the icy torrent. The man on the rope gave a brief cry, and when the spray cleared, there was no sign of him, just the rope trembling as water dripped from its length.

‘Poor bastard,’ the burly sailor muttered before he slapped the next man on the shoulder. ‘You’re up. Get moving!’

As they watched the man swing himself on to the rope and make his way down to the waiting boats, he turned to Cato. ‘The name’s Talbo. If we survive this, I’ll buy you the best jar of wine I can find, my friend.’

He thrust his hand out and Cato clasped his forearm. ‘Good. We’ll need a drink after this. I’m Cato.’

‘You’re from the Medusa?’ Talbo gestured towards the nearest warship. He continued before Cato could respond. ‘I hope your skipper writes you up for a medal for this. You bloody deserve it, my friend.’

Cato bowed his head slightly. ‘Thanks, but let’s not count our chickens just yet, eh? Fortuna likes to play her games to the very end.’

Their exchange was interrupted by a lurch in the deck beneath them and a grating crunch, and they looked back to see a section of the deck collapse no more than ten feet away.

‘Not long now,’ said Cato.

The sailors calmly took their turn and the first boat turned back to the shore with those it had rescued. At last only Talbo and Cato remained.

‘After you.’ The sailor gestured towards the rope.

Cato shook his head. ‘You’re a big man. You’ll need more time. You first. Go.’

‘Calling me fat? Ah, shit, I was just getting to like you.’

Talbo heaved himself over the side and started to shimmy away, leaving Cato alone on the foredeck. Another wave struck, and the wreck shifted again, more noticeably this time, and a section of the deck split open. His judgement of the sailor was correct, and Cato had to restrain himself from shouting encouragement to the man to move faster. He was shivering violently now and the feeling had gone from his toes. He rubbed his hands together hard and clapped them to try and keep them from locking up.

At last Talbo reached the side of the boat, and the sailors hauled him in. At once Cato clambered over the rail, grasped the rope, swung his legs over it and pulled himself hand over hand along it. Each time the sea washed over what was left of the wreck, the rope jerked and he swayed over the rocks and then the surging foam of the sea. Dropping his head and glancing back, he saw that he was close to the boat and the sailors were urging him on with desperate gestures. At first he did not grasp their anxiety, then he looked up and saw that the last section of the bow was swaying from side to side. Suddenly the bow post gave a lurch and toppled, the rope slackened and he plunged down into the sea.

Once again he was violently seized by its icy grip, and this time he held his breath and clung to the rope rather than try to reach the surface. If he released it, he knew he might not have the strength to swim to safety. As he hung on, he felt a tug, and his body moved through the icy depths. Just as his lungs were starting to burn, he broke the surface a short distance from the boat, and then hands grasped him and pulled him over the side and dumped him unceremoniously into the well of the craft.

‘Cast us loose!’ Talbo roared. ‘Before the fucking wreck takes us down with it! Don’t untie it, you fool! Cut it! Out of my way.’

Cato looked up in a daze and saw the sailor against the failing light of day sawing at the rope with his knife. The hemp parted strand by strand and then the severed end flickered and was gone. Talbo sheathed his knife and gave the order to head for the shore. Then he picked up Cato’s sodden tunic and laid it over him as he lay shaking in the water slopping about the bottom of the boat.

‘Rest easy, Cato. Your job’s done, mate.’

Talbo patted him on the shoulder and then called the time for the men on the oars as the little craft rose and fell on the rough sea, lurching away from the danger of the rocks and making for safety. Cato felt a terrible weariness seep through his body and was tempted to close his eyes and drift off. But he feared that call to sleep. What if he never woke? Instead he propped himself up against the stern bench and hugged his knees as he shivered, teeth chattering.

At last his ears filled with the crash of waves on shingle and the boat lurched as it grounded, lifted again and then thudded home more solidly. The sailors shipped their oars and jumped over the side to draw the craft up the beach. Talbo leaned back in, offering a hand. Cato took it willingly and allowed himself to be helped out on to the pebbles. Dusk was gathering along the shore and the gloom was made worse by the snow, which was falling heavily now.

‘My boots,’ he said weakly, and the sailor reached in and handed them to him.

‘There you go, mate. I’ll see what I can do about a cloak for you, and some wine, food and a warm fire. Then I’ll get you back to your ship.’

As Cato nodded dumbly, the sound of footsteps racing over the shingle reached his ears.

‘Sir! Sir! Prefect Cato!’

He glanced up and saw Miro and several of his men rushing forward with excited and relieved expressions. One had already removed his cloak and now pressed it around Cato’s shoulders as Talbo looked on with raised eyebrows.

‘Prefect Cato? Well, I . . . I . . . Fuck me.’ Talbo laughed. ‘I thought you was a sailor. One of us. Never thought I’d have my life saved by a landsman. An officer at that.’

‘It takes all kinds, Talbo.’ Cato smiled thinly.

They clasped arms again and grinned with the delight and relief of men who had faced grave peril together and lived through it.

‘And as for that wine? Make it Falernian, and bring it to my tent. I’ll hold you to it.’

‘Aye, sir. That I will. On my word.’

There was a pause, and both men instinctively looked back towards the rocks. There was no longer any sign of the transport. The storm had destroyed it completely and swallowed the remains. Out in the white-capped waters of the bay, the battered survivors of the fleet were dropping anchor or being beached by their exhausted crews amid the wind and snow that was starting to settle on the surrounding landscape. Winter had finally arrived in earnest, Cato reflected grimly, and he wondered if their troubles were only just beginning.