Funeral Games

18

I n the morning, the worst of Satyrus’s sun-sickness was off him. He took the steering oar as they cleared the beach at Ourannia and turned the bow back to the east, into the rising sun. Kyros brought him a broad straw hat, like a cavalryman would wear. ‘You’re a hippeis,’ he quipped. ‘A girl was selling them on the beach.’

Satyrus smiled. ‘I’ll buy it from you,’ he said.

‘See how it has a good linen cord so it won’t blow off?’ Kyros said. ‘Nah, boy, that’s for you from the oarsmen. Luck is luck. All that dicking about with the oar and you landed us on the Rock of Akkamas like a whore in Piraeus lands on a sailor’s cock.’ Kyros smiled. Over his shoulder, Kalos leered. ‘Boys think you’re lucky, Navarch.’

‘And you paid the price in sun-sickness,’ Kalos said. He pointed at the hat. A tiny silver trident was pinned to the crown. ‘Deck crew threw that in – pilgrim badge.’ He smiled. ‘So you stay lucky.’

So Satyrus wore the hat.

‘What are you smiling at?’ Melitta asked, coming into the stern.

‘How smart people are, even when they seem ordinary, or slow, or just plain dumb.’ He shrugged. ‘Sometimes I wonder if I ever fool anyone.’

She nodded, and stood there, watched by a hundred eyes, as the stades flowed away under the keel.

The sun was setting and Peleus announced that their landfall was twenty stades north of Hydatos Potomai on the north coast of Syria. That night they pulled down the coast under oars until Peleus and Kyros both liked a beach and landed by moonlight, sending the marines and a dozen deckhands in the boat to land and search the sands and the hillside beyond. The Lotus waited on their word.

Satyrus had shipped as a marine and he’d done the drill for camping on a hostile beach, but he’d never done it for real, and he felt his heart pound while he watched their white corslets in the moonlight.

Melitta quietly strung her bow.

They were all poised, riding their anchor and with the top-deck rowers giving the occasional stroke to keep her steady, bow-on to the open ocean in case she needed to run. There were lookouts all along the hull and a man up the mast, watching the moonlit open ocean where the sky was still salmon pink.

A long whistle from the beach. All Peleus had to do was nod – Satyrus could land the ship himself.

‘Ready on the oars. Backstroke on my command. Give way, all.’

The Lotus slipped in, grounded her stern and the oarsmen were over the side as fast as they could, every man racing for the lines as he hit the beach, simultaneously lightening the ship and helping haul him farther up the beach until Satyrus called ‘Hold and belay’ and looked at Peleus.

‘Not bad,’ the Rhodian commented. Then, very quietly, he said, ‘There’s something wrong.’

Satyrus had assumed it was his own fears rising in his throat. ‘Yes,’ he said. He stood straighter, made himself be alert. ‘Something smells wrong,’ he said with sudden realization. He looked at Peleus in the moonlight. ‘Smell.’

‘Death,’ Peleus said. He nodded and walked to the side. ‘Karpos? I need you to scout north. Smell it? Something died.’

‘We all smell it, Peleus,’ Karpos called back. Then he was off at a run, with a pair of marines behind him. The archers went south.

Fires were lit and food cooked – cauldrons of heavy stew with yesterday’s lamb. In an hour they were wrapped in their cloaks, the marines all together in the middle and a double watch on the promontories that rose like towers at either end of the beach.

The Dog Star was high when Satyrus awoke to find Karpos kneeling in the sand next to Peleus. He got out of his cloaks and knelt next to them in the moonlight.

‘This isn’t for everyone, lad. Go ahead, Karpos – tell him what you saw.’

‘Ships. A fight.’ Karpos shook his head. ‘Breeze fooled us. The next beach south is covered in corpses, and a hull turtled in the swell, breaking up.’ He shook his head. ‘Rhodian cruiser. She took a ram amidships, but only after she wasted a Macedonian trireme. Three or four hundred corpses.’ Karpos sank on to the sand.

‘Shit,’ Satyrus said, without meaning to.

Peleus rubbed his chin. ‘Sleep while you can. So – old Panther isn’t as foolish as I thought. Some of One-Eye’s fleet is on this coast – and they attacked a Rhodian to keep that news a secret.’

‘We should sail with the first finger of dawn,’ Satyrus said.

‘That’s the truth, lad.’ Peleus lay his head back down. ‘So sleep while you can.’

Karpos got up. ‘Why not run now?’ he asked.

Peleus didn’t answer. So Satyrus did. ‘What if we have to fight?’ he said. ‘We need fresh rowers.’

Karpos nodded. ‘I won’t sleep – coming across that in the dark – fuck me.’ He turned away. ‘Ever seen a battlefield in the dark, lad?’

‘Yes, I have,’ Satyrus said.

‘Too bad for you, then,’ Karpos said. And he lay down, rolled in his chlamys and pretended to sleep.

The next Satyrus knew, Kyros was clasping his shoulder, still a little tender from the sunburn. It was dark as Tartarus, and the oar master was pulling him to his feet. ‘You’re to launch us,’ he said. ‘Master Peleus is climbing the headland.’

He swallowed some hot wine and some porridge and then he was standing in the stern and the ship was sliding down the beach into the waves. His sister was standing in the bow, a heavy cloak over her, and Satyrus knew her well enough to know that she was wearing armour under that cloak and not a chiton. He heard rumours around him in the first blush of light – that the lookouts had seen a squadron pass in the dark, that there were fires on the next headland.

The stern was free – he felt the change in weight. ‘A sea!’ he shouted and the last oarsmen and all the sailors came up the side, almost swimming, while the fore-top-deck rowers gave him enough way to keep the bow on to the waves.

‘All oars,’ he called. ‘Cruising speed. Give way, all!’ He waved at the oar master the way Peleus did, and his chant started up, and they were clear of the beach in the time it took for an early gull to circle them once and give a cry.

The light boat came off the headland before they’d pulled their oars a dozen more times, and once they were out of the surf, Satyrus had his oarsmen rest, the shafts crossed amidships, while the boat came alongside and Peleus leaped up the side. Kalos, pulling the light boat, brought it up under the stern, caught a rope and tied off before swimming aboard.

Peleus was naked. He shivered as he came into the stern, and Satyrus handed him his Thracian cloak.

‘Thanks, lad,’ he said. He shook his head and lowered his voice. ‘We should do well enough,’ he said. ‘Wind’s from the north. We’ll sail until we have to weather the big headlands. There’s a big force somewhere on this coast – Aristion’s Rose was a tough nut and she wouldn’t have stayed to fight unless she was trapped.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m shaken, boy. In Rhodos, we say we can outrun everything we can’t fight and outfight anything that we can’t outrun. But Rose’s become a turtle on that beach – you’ll see her in a little while – and young Aristion’s so much fish bait.’

‘How long ago?’

‘Two days, or three. Long enough for the corpses to rise.’ Peleus shook his head. ‘What is One-Eye doing on this coast? I thought he was going after Cassander.’

Satyrus shrugged. ‘That’s what he wanted us to think, maybe. And maybe Stratokles wanted Ptolemy to think the same.’

‘Nasty thought, lad. If that’s the case – why then, he’s going to have a go at Aegypt. Could already be over.’

‘I worried about that last night.’ Satyrus shook his head. ‘And other things.’

‘You’re a worrier, and that’s a fact. Make you a good helmsman. Except that your steering oar will be a sceptre, won’t it, lad? This is just an adventure for you, eh? Timaeus told me who you are. Sort of knew all along, of course. Anyway, you could be a helmsman.’ Peleus sounded rueful.

‘Why – thanks!’

‘In a few years,’ Peleus said, with a glint.

Early afternoon. Laodikea’s beaches shining to the east in the hazy sun and the wind rising to a scream and then falling away to a fitful breeze that somehow failed to clear the haze.

An Athenian grain merchant, sails flapping, barely making headway. He was a huge ship, with something like a full load, heading south along the coast.

‘Lay me alongside,’ Peleus said. That was the only order he issued, and the oar master and the sailing master did the rest. The merchant ship needed wind to run away, and the wind was not cooperating.

Rising and falling on the swell, grappled to the Athenian, Satyrus waited with the archers all on their toes, eager to shoot, and all the marines away on the giant merchant ship with Peleus. And then the boat came back, the marines all shaking their heads, and finally Peleus coming up the side, his chiton soaked through from climbing the side of the grain ship.

‘Grain for Demetrios,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Grain for his fleet. He assumed we were Rhodians. Surrendered. I told him not to be silly – we’re not at war.’ Peleus shrugged. ‘We can’t tow that behemoth. I’d like to let him go.’

Satyrus stared up at the towering sides of the great ship. ‘I see your point. Won’t he report us?’

‘Only as a friendly merchant ship that paid him a ship visit. And he gave me a chestful of information.’ Peleus stripped his chiton over his head and pulled another from the leather bag he kept under the sternpost.

Satyrus waited, as did Kyros and Karpos. The marine captain had his cuirass open to catch any air that happened to brush past him, and his Attic helmet was tilted back on his head.

‘Demetrios, One-Eye’s golden son, has two hundred ships of war on the beaches south of here. He’s got half his father’s army, and they’re on the march, heading east into Nabataea.’ Peleus nodded into the silence. ‘It’s a money raid. He’s going to rape the Nabataeans for gold and use it to finance the war in the west against Cassander. See?’

Satyrus waited patiently – not an easy feat for a sixteen-year-old. But he wanted to let the grown men speak first. In case he was wrong.

‘So we’re done,’ Karpos said. ‘Slip away to seaward and we can be in the Bay of Kyrios tomorrow afternoon and find the Rhodian cruiser. Make our report.’ He slapped his hands together and sailed one away over the horizon of the other. ‘And home.’

Kyros shook his head. ‘It’s clear you’re not a Rhodian, Karpos my lad. No Rhodian captain will take a report like that. We need to see this fleet.’

Peleus nodded. ‘’Fraid so, Karpos.’

Karpos shrugged. ‘Let’s get at it, then.’

Satyrus stepped forward. ‘They’re not raising the money for the war on Cassander,’ he said.

The other three turned to look at him.

‘It’s all a deception. Listen – I grew up with this. Stratokles came to get troops out of Ptolemy. Now there’s an army in Nabataea and the whole of One-Eye’s fleet is two days’ sail from Aegypt. The target is Aegypt. Cassander has made a deal with One-Eye.’ Satyrus looked around at them, conscious that he had pounded his fist into his palm in his eagerness to convey his conviction.

Peleus rubbed his beard. ‘Not saying I believe you, lad – but not saying I don’t. It could be that way – aye, and that makes the risk all the worse if we’re wrong.’

Karpos pursed his lips, spat and then said, ‘I may not be a fucking Rhodian, but I can tell you that what we need is a prisoner. A good one – somebody who knows this crap.’

‘How do you propose we get one?’ Peleus asked.

Karpos glanced at the towering sides of the grain ship. Due to the fitful wind, the grain ship was still less than a rope’s length away.

Peleus rubbed his chin. ‘I gave my word,’ he said.

‘We’re not pirates,’ Satyrus said, ‘and we’re no worse off than we were this morning. Down the coast, on the lookout. If we can find a prisoner, fine. Otherwise, the moment we see the ships on the beach, we’re away for Cyprus. And then straight across the great blue to Alexandria. I’m happy to help Rhodos – but it’s Ptolemy who needs this information.’

‘I think-’ Peleus began.

Satyrus nodded pleasantly and cut the older man off. ‘Happy to listen to your council, helmsman. In private.’

Peleus looked stung, but only for a moment. Then he gave a grim smile. ‘Well – you’re the navarch, right enough.’

As if to confirm their decision, the wind came up – first two strong gusts that laid them over, and then a long, hard blow from the north that swept the Athenian away. He had bigger yards and a stronger hull. Golden Lotus had to brail her boatsail, strike the mainsail and row to keep her direction, and the merchant ship was gone over the horizon in an hour.

‘Storm coming,’ Peleus said. He had the steering oar. ‘And wind change.’

True to his word, half an hour later and their sails were hanging limp again. It was all Satyrus could do to stay awake. He was trying to decide how long he could sweep this hostile coast before he had to turn back north or out to sea just to find a beach for the night that would be safe.

Mid-afternoon, and they were cruising the coast of Lebanon north of Tyre – a coast so empty of shipping that it was as if the gods had swept the seas clean. They were coasting on their boatsail, the oarsmen resting under awnings, the water gurgling down the side with just enough way on the Lotus to give the steering oar a bite on the water.

Peleus was cursing, almost without ceasing. Every new headland and every bay they passed without seeing a merchant ship or even a fishing smack brought new invective.

‘As soon as we open Laodikea,’ Satyrus said, finally forcing himself to decide, ‘we turn west into the open sea.’

‘What’s the matter?’ Melitta asked, as they ate new bread and goat’s cheese at midday.

‘The longer we don’t see anything, the worse it looks all the way around,’ Satyrus translated. ‘The bigger the sweep was, the bigger the fleet that’s here. And the longer it endures, the longer ago it got here, and that’s bad too.’ He looked out to sea. ‘If we could find a ship to take, we’d get a prisoner and be gone. Right? We don’t want to find One-Eye’s fleet ourselves. We want to hear about it.’

She nodded, obviously craving some excitement and not in complete agreement.

‘Melitta, listen to me. Alexandria may already be blockaded – perhaps under siege. There may have been a battle. See? It’s that bad.’ Satyrus shook his head.

‘Why don’t we run down the coast and help? Tell them what’s happening? ’ she asked.

‘Because we don’t know,’ Satyrus said. ‘We can guess. But until we see a hundred triremes, or find someone who has, we’re just making stuff up to scare ourselves.’

Melitta nodded while she watched the water. ‘Mama used to talk about scouting just this way,’ she said.

‘I was listening,’ Satyrus said. He was watching Laodikea Head. Beyond, the great beach ran for a hundred stades, but he wouldn’t see it for half an hour, and the light was changing as afternoon gave way to golden evening. He needed sea room if there was to be a blow – better yet, he needed a safe beach. He rubbed his chin in unconscious imitation of Peleus. The breeze was dying to nothing. Time to have the oars out.

‘Ships! Ships on the horizon to starboard!’ came the call from the mast, where the sail hung almost still.

Satyrus came awake without being aware that he’d been napping. He looked aft, and then over the side to the west and saw one on the horizon – and then another.

He nudged Peleus and pointed.

Peleus grunted. He opened his mouth to speak and the bow lookout gave a cry like a man drowning.

‘Poseidon – the beach is full of ships!’ he shouted after a sputter.

Peleus had the oar, so Satyrus ran forward, past his sister still wrapped in her cloak, to where he could see. Once there he didn’t wait for advice from his helmsman. ‘Kalos, get the mainmast down. Rig for fighting.’

He ran back the length of the ship. ‘Fleet. Fills the beach. You’ll see yourself in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’

Peleus nodded. ‘Look west,’ he said.

The two nicks in the horizon were defining themselves – a heavy trireme and a lighter one.

‘Ares and Aphrodite,’ Satyrus swore.

Just then the north wind gave a gust and then backed.

‘Good order, getting the mainmast down,’ Peleus went on, ‘because the north wind is about to be a south wind, and then we’re going to have to fight. At least, we’ll fight until all those Macedonian cruisers see us, and then we’re all fish bait.’ He leaned close. ‘Don’t let your sister be captured, lad. Do it yourself it you have to.’

Satyrus swallowed. But his eyes were on the hundreds of hulls on the golden beach – unmoving.

Peleus shook his head. ‘With your permission, Satyrus, I’m going to release the lower decks and row with just the top deck until the pirates are firm on our wake.’

Satyrus nodded. ‘Look who’s standing off the bay,’ he said. He pointed at the big Athenian grain freighter off riding out in the deep water of the bay, just fifteen stades down the coast.

‘No difference to us, boy,’ Peleus said.

‘Does Laodikea have a harbour?’ Satyrus asked.

‘Open beach,’ Peleus answered. ‘If we’re going to lighten ship, now’s the time.’

With a rattle and thump that Satyrus had come to dread, the engine fired. But the two pirates were well astern and the changing wind was blowing across their path. The bolt never became visible.

They rowed two stades, Peleus taking them as close in to the headland as possible in a belated attempt to remain invisible to the Macedonians on the beach.

Satyrus nodded. ‘Straight across the beach,’ he said. ‘If they can’t get a boat in the water, we’re clear.’

He spoke as much to hearten the deck crew in earshot as anything else. The changing wind favoured the deep hull of the heavier Phoenician galley, who was pulling away from his lighter brother ship.

The second bolt flew as if it came from the hand of Zeus and struck their sternpost square on, an impact that could be felt throughout the ship.

‘Poseidon, we’re sunk!’ the oar master said.

Peleus punched the man hard enough to make him writhe in pain. ‘Don’t be an ass!’ he said. ‘A hundred of those spears won’t hurt us, as long as they hit the works. It’s rowers they can kill!’ He went astern and climbed the rail with an axe and cut the lance free. ‘Nice piece of bronze,’ he said. ‘Now, about dumping some weight?’

‘Do pirates read Thucydides, do you think?’ Satyrus asked. His eyes were on the merchant ahead.

‘I doubt there’s a man in those ships who can read a word, lad,’ Peleus said. ‘Something on your mind?’

‘Have you read Thucydides?’ Satyrus said.

Peleus shook his head. ‘Ancient history. Can’t say as I have. What’d he do?’

Satyrus felt his stomach turn over in fear, and he made himself smile. ‘I have an idea,’ he said.

There were hordes of Macedonians on the shore and as Satyrus watched he saw oarsmen forming in long lines by the sterns of a dozen triremes – and worse, a heavy quinquereme, the biggest warship on the beach.

Satyrus prayed to Herakles.

God of heroes, he prayed, now I will roll the bones with fate. Stand by me.

The Athenian merchants were also watching, standing on the high stern of their ship. Some of their crewmen were already ashore, and others were lying on pallets of straw on the deck, cheering as if they were watching a race.

From their shouts, Satyrus could tell that they thought the end was near. The Lotus was dumping what little cargo he had in the outer road-stead, and he shot ahead, but throwing his cargo overboard took time and effort and men off the benches and he couldn’t keep the pace. The Lotus began to labour, his rowers apparently exhausted and ill-trained – or perhaps their morale had collapsed. The pirates increased their efforts, sure of their prey. And their engine of war fired bolts the size of a sarissa. Two of them stuck in the stern of the fleeing galley.

Satyrus was up on the half-deck with the sailors, while Peleus steered as close as he could.

‘I want it to come down in one go,’ he said for the third time, because sailors could be stubborn. ‘Make it look like the boatsail mast went. Can you do it?’

His sister was right behind him, trying to get his attention. He ignored her.

‘Like enough,’ said an Aegyptian mate with a thick accent. ‘Like we was winged, eh?’

Satyrus nodded. ‘Just so,’ he said. He glanced aft, prayed to Poseidon and tried not to flinch as the next bolt sank four inches into the planking of the stern. He looked forward, judging the distance, and aft.

‘Next one. Can you do it?’

The sailors all shrugged and looked uninterested, and Satyrus couldn’t decide whether to scream or cry. To starboard, the Athenian merchant ship, a giant tub with high sides and a towering mainmast, stood alone in the deep water just half a stade off the beach. He rode so high out of the water, even with a full load of grain, that his bulk screened three-quarters of the beach from sight.

Now that Satyrus’s orders were given, the whole idea seemed absurd. His throat was so tight that he didn’t think he could speak. But he smelled the damp lion skin, and suddenly he felt as if he’d been filled with ambrosia.

‘What the hell are we doing, brother?’ Melitta asked.

Peleus was ordering the archers and marines into the bow, which seemed to be against all reason, as they were almost at long bow shot over the stern.

‘Let me take some long shots,’ Melitta said. ‘Maybe I can kill some crewmen on that machine.’ She had her bow in her hand.

‘We’re going about, Lita,’ Satyrus said. ‘We’re going to fight, the way you wanted.’ He couldn’t manage to be angry, and he hugged her briefly. ‘Get your armour on and join the archers.’

Peleus glared.

Satyrus shrugged. ‘Wait until you see her shoot,’ he said, by way of apology.

She hugged him back fiercely. ‘Don’t be captured,’ she said.

‘Nor you,’ he said, and then he could see the men on the enemy bow cranking at their machine, the arms of the bow coming back.

Melitta was leaping down from the half-deck into the bow.

‘Ready!’ Satyrus called out. His nerves receded – mostly. Another part of him said they had enough of a lead to run the bow up the beach and leap clear – and surrender to the Macedonians.

He couldn’t imagine going back to his uncle without the Golden Lotus. Was that cowardice, too?

‘Steady!’ Peleus called. ‘Every man on deck – hard in on the port rail. Now, you whores!’

At Peleus’s command, all the men on deck without other orders ran to the port-side rail, tilting the ship an awkward angle to port.

Less than a stade aft, the engine fired and the bolt, aimed high, ripped across the deck at head height. The oar master died instantly; his head exploded like a ripe melon so that his brains showered the half-deck rowers and one of his eyes smacked Satyrus in the cheek and splatted on the deck at his feet. Satyrus gave a squeak of pure fear and stumbled back.

The boatsail fell in rush of heavy linen that filled the deck so that Satyrus was covered, swathed as if in a burial sheet, and the boat seemed to steer wildly, the stern shooting out to the port side and the heavy bow pivoting as the helmsman seemed to have lost control of his vessel. Satyrus grasped at the heavy linen, swimming through it in increasing desperation. There was a man screaming, and then he was free of the cloth, and they were screened from the rush of the pirates by the high side of the merchantman towering above them as they turned and turned, their deck crew stiffening the ship by leaning far out on the port side while their rowers pulled or backed at Peleus’s direct command, because the oar master was a headless corpse whose blood continued to be a spreading stain on the boatsail.

‘Pull, port! Drag, starboard! Half-deck, racing speed!’ Peleus called and Satyrus was out of the cloth and jumping on to the steering platform.

‘Take the helm, boy!’ Peleus said. ‘It’s your plan!’

‘Where are you going?’ Satyrus asked. In the bow, he could see his sister nocking an arrow. His palm slapped the steering oar and he spoke automatically. ‘I have the helm,’ he said.

‘You have the helm,’ Peleus responded. He grinned. ‘We need an oar master.’ He jumped for the platform amidships. Before he was up on the half-deck, he called, ‘Give way, all!’ And then, his voice swelling in power, ‘Ramming speed!’

Satyrus had never, in his wildest dreams of heroism, imagined steering a ship in combat. This was the art for which helmsmen got the highest pay.

‘Right between them, boy!’ Peleus shouted. ‘Don’t get fancy – fuck them in the oars!’

That made it through his fear-addled brain. An oar-rake. He took a moment to breathe – really breathe, all the way in and all the way out. One glance at his wake and then he steadied down.

They had turned all the way, like a hairpin, around the Athenian merchant ship, their whole manoeuvre screened from the two pirates by the grain ship’s high sides.

The bow swung clear of the merchantman. Using the big hull for cover, and even as a fulcrum, the Lotus had turned all the way around, losing very little of her speed, and now, with all banks pulling with the expertise that Leon paid for, they shot out from the merchant’s stern like one of the bolts fired by the enemy’s machine.

The two pirates were abreast, close to their prey and eager to cut off escape. The apparent success of the last bolt had made them cocky – a ship steering wild, with her oars all over the place was no threat to anyone.

In heartbeats, the situation was transformed, and the big hemitrieres emerged from the stern of the grain ship less than a stade from them. Their combined speeds of closing left the pirates only heartbeats to react.

‘Oars in!’ Peleus roared, and all along the decks, the oarsmen grabbed their oars and hauled them inboard, sometimes fouling each other, sometimes injuring themselves, desperate to get the oars clear of the imminent collision. They practised this. The oars began to come in, all eighteen feet of oak coming across the benches until the handles rested under the opposite thwart.

Satyrus stood straight, a wild grin plastered on his face, the smell of cat fur streaming off the wind, and he flicked the steering oar as he had seen Peleus do, so that Lotus’s bronze beak kicked a few feet to the starboard side without a major change of direction, and then their own archers fired, all together, his sister’s body leaning into the shot like the goddess herself – she nocked and shot, nocked He flicked the oar back and Lotus’s bow moved and crashed into the oar box of the top deck of the older Athenian boat, so that Lotus’s heavy cat-head ripped the light outrigger right off the side of the smaller boat, and oarsmen screamed as they were snuffed out by thousands of pounds of wood and metal driven by three hundred arms. Inside their hull, their own shattered oars ripped them to death, the sharp fragments of the wood lashing like spears in the hands of giants, shards of hardwood filling the hull, the ends in the water driven up and up into the decks, breaking bones and slashing skin, while the ram crushed the outer hull and the men who had been rowing there a moment before.

Lotus passed between her enemies, and left the former Athenian hull a drifting wreck while she caught many of the Phoenician’s oars in the water. The heavy-hulled Phoenician didn’t take the damage that the Athenian did, but he was labouring, and before his oar master could make corrections he was turning because his starboard oars were undamaged. They could hear the oar master screaming, even as Peleus rose to his feet.

‘Oars out!’ he roared. ‘Blood in the water and silver in our hands, boys!’ and the oars shot out of the ports like the legs of a live monster as the Lotus continued to coast, on and on, her momentum almost unchecked by the oar-rake down the side of the opposing ships.

Melitta, graceful as an acrobat, leaped up on the port-side gunwale, balanced a heartbeat and shot the Phoenician oar master as he roared orders. Satyrus saw the other deck officers on the stricken ship staring, their mouths open, as his sister jumped down, avoiding with athletic contempt the shafts aimed at her.

‘On my mark!’ Peleus called. ‘Port side give way! Starboard side to reverse your benches! Ready about! Pull, you bastards! Pull for hearth and home!’ He raised his stick and hit the mast. ‘Pull!’

Like the legs of an enormous water bug, the oars dipped and pulled, each side pulling in opposite directions, and the deck tilted absurdly. Satyrus could see that the archers in the bow had stopped shooting and were hanging on to avoid being tipped over the side.

The heavy Phoenician was wallowing in the beach swell, his rowers paralysed with fear, their oar master dead with a Sakje barb in his voice box. Peleus looked down at Satyrus as the ram seemed to cross the beach. They were turning so fast that Satyrus was afraid that they might capsize, and even as he watched, the marines and the archers began to pull themselves outboard to stiffen the ship, led by Xenophon, who jumped fearlessly for the outrigger as if unaware that a missed jump meant drowning in his armour. But Satyrus could again feel the change as soon as his friend’s weight went outboard of the rail, and again as other marines joined in – they were above the waterline and outside the hull, and still the bow came round – the Phoenician was almost broadside-on to them now, the two ships parallel. If the archers had stayed in the bow, they could have fired again, but all of them, even his sister, were hanging off the port-side rail, and still Lotus’s head came around, and the beach swell caught the Phoenician again and pushed her bow back. Men were trying to get her around, but no one seemed to be in charge.

Peleus waved to get his attention. ‘You going for the kill, boy?’ he shouted.

Satyrus nodded, his eyes fixed on the enemy ship.

‘Marines, get back in the bow!’ Peleus shouted. ‘We need to get the bow down – and clear. Prepare to back-water on my command, all decks!’

Satyrus wrapped both arms around the steering oar against the shock and watched his sister roll inboard like a sea nymph and bounce to her feet, racing for the bows and scattering arrows from her upturned quiver.

And then the bow began to slide across the Phoenician, and Peleus called the stroke – the whole ship rocked as the starboard-side oarsmen reversed their benches, and he had to put his breastbone against the oar to keep it steady, and then the first stroke fell like a hundred axes and the bow leaped forward and down as the marines dropped to the fighting deck, and the rowers, led by Peleus, began to sing the Paean.

Melitta was right in the bow, pressed flat against Xenophon, crushing him against the breastwork of the bow, where all fifteen of them were crammed in a little wooden box to weight the ram and be ready to board. Suddenly she had another view of the fight she had lusted for since the day began – because over the scaled bronze of Xeno’s shoulder piece she could see the white faces of the panicked foe, and dead men, and shark’s fins already cutting the water. The men in the Phoenician knew they were dead. And for the first time, death was real to Melitta – their deaths, and thus her own – and her throat filled with bile.

Karpos, the marine captain, raised his head from his forearms. ‘When we hit,’ he said calmly, ‘you archers shoot, and the rest of you don’t fucking move until we know whether the ram is stuck or not. I don’t want any of you left behind when we pull our bronze dick out of that fucker. Got me?’ he asked, his voice as rough as gravel, and then he was down, an arrow right through his armour. Melitta froze in the moment of nocking an arrow.

‘Lock up!’ Xenophon bellowed. The marines got their heads down and the archers pressed on top of them and Melitta put her cheek on the smooth bronze of Xeno’s shoulder piece, trying not to vomit because blood was spitting out of Karpos on her legs. The Paean rose to drown his cries, driving all thoughts from her mind – sweat in her eyes, hot moisture on her legs, an arrow almost forgotten in her fingers.

The longest, loudest crash she had ever heard – the ship seemed to stop dead under her and the pressure on her gut was intense as she crushed Xenophon beneath her, bounced and slammed into the wooden partition at her back.

‘Archers!’ Xeno’s voice cracked as he yelled again, higher pitched but still firm, ‘Archers!’

Melitta nocked without any conscious thought, and her bow arm swept the deck until she saw a man in armour trying to cross the deck. Loose.

The arrow went into his shield and she had another on her string. The man next to her shot, and his arrow went into the shield, and then there was another man in armour – their own ship still pushing forward, their ram under the other ship’s spine, so that instead of holing her they were tipping the heavy Phoenician over, driving her starboard gunwale under the water. Every armed man on the pirate was surging for their bow.

‘Stroke!’ roared Peleus and Satyrus together.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ Xeno said, and Melitta leaned past him and shot the first armoured man just a few fingers below his shield, and he sank slowly to one knee, the arrow buried in his thigh, and then flopped into the water.

Xeno looked back over the half-deck. And then his eyes met Melitta’s. ‘Repel boarders!’ he yelled, looking at her. ‘Don’t move a fucking foot off this deck!’ he roared at an older marine.

The marine grinned back, leaned forward and hurled a javelin at the first enemy to reach across. The enemy deck was tipping fast, and water was rushing to fill the Phoenician – he was tilted at a wicked angle and there was no hope for him, and the marine’s javelin, a heavy, old-fashioned lonche, went through the pirate’s bronze-faced shield and through the bones of his arm – he bellowed and fell into the sea, but there were a dozen men behind him.

Javelins flew both ways – a volley and a counter volley, and then the fighting deck was full of men. Melitta backed away and away again, using her arrows like a Sakje, shooting men in the face and groin when they were close enough to touch Xeno, who fought from behind his heavy aspis and covered her. She lost track – shot, and shot, and saw Xeno take a heavy blow to his helmet. She shot his opponent between the cheekpieces of his ornate Thracian helmet and reached for her next arrow to find that she had none.

There was a scream – rage and triumph and horror – and when she flicked a glance to see what had happened, she saw the enemy trireme turn turtle right over their ram, his other rail falling on their ram with a heavy thud and a hollow sound like a temple bell, so that they rocked deep, men falling flat, but she kept her feet. Xeno fell backwards into her and the last attackers, desperate men, surged forward and she was pinned against the back rail of the fighting platform. She went for her akinakes, got her hand on the horn of the hilt and knew that it was too late as the pirate’s axe went back – a heavy bronze axe that her helmet would never turn – but she pulled the knife anyway. It seemed slow, and the axe paused as Xeno rose into its path, got a hand on the haft and butted the axe-man in the face with the bronze of his helmet. Then he fell into the space at her feet, his body across Karpos’s – she had her knife out and tried to stand, and then a spearhead flashed past her and caught the axe-man in the throat, and suddenly – there was no more fighting.

Her brother was balanced on the rail behind her, weaponless, and Peleus stood below him with an axe of his own.

‘Good throw, boy,’ Peleus said. His voice was hoarser than usual, but otherwise he seemed calm. Then he crumpled like an animal at sacrifice, and she could see the arrow that transfixed his lungs front to back.

Her brother pitched forward on to the enemy dead. ‘Xeno!’ he cried.

Xeno got his head up. ‘Oh,’ he said. He was bleeding.

Melitta looked back at the oarsmen, who were cheering as they backed water. ‘Satyrus!’ she yelled into his ears. ‘You’re the navarch. Peleus is down!’

Satyrus hadn’t seen. He stood up, whirled, his face crumpling as he saw his hero lying on the deck in a pool of lung-bright blood. He fought a strong desire to sit on the deck and go to sleep. He sucked in a breath.

‘See to the wounded. You there,’ he pointed at a marine, ‘don’t kill their wounded. I want prisoners. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir!’ The marine looked ready to fall over, but he stood up.

Satyrus leaped the rail and ran down the amidships deck. ‘I need an oar master,’ he shouted. ‘Who’s the man?’

The oarsmen were not used to having their opinions asked. Even as they rowed, heads turned and the stroke suffered. Satyrus didn’t know the oarsmen as well as a real navarch should. But he knew Kleitos, who, though young, was often sent off in the light boat. Kleitos had rowed with him that night in Alexandria two weeks ago, which now felt like another world.

‘Kleitos!’ he called. He pulled the man’s arm, then pushed a deckhand on to the bench. ‘You are the oar master.’

‘Me?’ the young man asked. His jaw worked silently, his eyes wide.

‘I want to turn to starboard in our own length – all the way around. The way Peleus and Kyros did it.’ Satyrus looked out over the stern – plenty of room now. Backing water for fifty strokes had them well clear of both wrecks.

The lighter Athenian trireme was limping away, only a dozen oars going on her port side, and she was turning involuntarily out to sea.

‘Starboard oars,’ Kleitos said.

‘Louder!’ Satyrus said.

‘Starboard oars!’ Kleitos shouted. He had good lungs, when he used them. ‘Back-water on my mark!’

‘They’re already backing, lad,’ Kalos said. The deck master was standing by Kleitos.

‘Portside oars, switch your benches!’ the man called. His voice was tentative, and many of the oarsmen looked at Kalos before obeying.

Satyrus winced – he’d made a bad choice. Kleitos was not ready for the job – but Satyrus didn’t have another oar master under his hand.

The ship tilted as ninety men shifted their weight and reversed the way they sat. ‘Port side, give way on my mark! Give way, all!’ Kleitos seemed to be getting the knack of it, although his orders came a little too fast and the execution was slow.

It didn’t matter, because the Athenian galley hadn’t made a stade since they started their turn.

Satyrus ran aft, to where a deckhand held the steering oar, petrified with responsibility. ‘I have the helm,’ he said. ‘Go and see to Master Peleus.’

The sailor ran off, bare feet slapping the deck.

‘Master Kalos!’ Satyrus called. ‘I’ll do my best to lay us alongside that Athenian. I intend to come up from her stern and take her. You will prepare the deck crew to board her. You will go aboard with all our marines and all our deck crew and get her boatsail on her. Is that clear?’

Kalos’s grin filled his ugly face and showed all his missing teeth. ‘You’re going to take her? Aye, Navarch!’

With the sails down, Satyrus could see the whole run of his deck. Xenophon was standing, and there were three prisoners stripped of their armour being bound to the mast. Peleus lay in his own blood with two deckhands standing ineffectually above him.

‘Master Xenophon!’ Satyrus called. His voice was cracking every shout. He wanted to sit down and rest, but they were not done yet.

Xenophon’s bare feet slapped the deck as he ran to the stern. ‘Sir!’

‘Take all the marines who can fight and support Master Kalos in boarding the Athenian.’ Satyrus corrected his course even as Kleitos ordered the starboard side rowers to pull forward again. They were around – perhaps the ugliest manoeuvre in the Golden Lotus’s history, but they were around. Satyrus leaned forward. ‘Xeno, can you do it? Secure that ship? Kill their oarsmen if it comes to that? Do I need to put another man in charge?’

‘Try me,’ Xeno said. He grinned. ‘I got us through the boarding party!’

‘So you did.’ They embraced, spontaneously, a certain hard joy flowing between them. And then Xeno turned away and started calling for ‘his’ marines. And Satyrus felt better. Suddenly he stood up, aware that his shoulders had been hunched since he’d thrown the spear.

‘Right then,’ he said to himself. ‘Lita!’ he called, and his sister ran down the central deck. He had some time in hand – perhaps a hundred heartbeats until he would have to give the next order. He was flying on the daimon that came to men in war and sport – so full of it that his hands shook and his knees trembled, but his head was clear and the world seemed to slow. Melitta sprinted to his side. ‘Sir!’ she said. She smiled when she said it.

‘You and Dorcus are the closest I have to doctors. See to the arrow in Peleus’s lungs – and the other wounded.’ Quietly, he said, ‘See that he goes easy if that’s what it takes, Lita.’

Melitta’s nose was pinched in an unaccustomed way, and she had a tendril of snot across part of her face and blood on her forehead. She used her sleeve to wipe her face. ‘I’ll do it,’ she said, and turned away, shouting for Dorcus.

Satyrus still had time in hand and he turned to watch the Macedonians.

The quinquereme was in the surf with her oarsmen aboard, and two triremes were coming off the beach, but the wind was rising – from the south and west – and the helmsmen were being careful. Satyrus felt that he had time in hand – still. Just ahead and to port, the Athenian wallowed in the growing swell, oarsmen beating the water ineffectually.

‘Master Kalos, get me that boatsail rigged before you go off,’ he said. ‘Slow the stroke, oar master.’ He felt very much in control. He looked at the sky, and back at the beach.

The sailors got the boatsail rigged, the stain of Kyros’s blood like a blossom in the centre of the sail. The moment it filled, the Golden Lotus leaped forward like a warhorse changing gaits, a smooth acceleration that made some of the sailors grin with pleasure, while aboard the Athenian trireme, men pointed over the rail at them in panic.

Satyrus put a second sailor on to help steer, because at this speed she could veer wildly, and he kept four of the sailors back from the boarding party to manage the sail.

‘Oars in!’ Satyrus roared.

The Athenian turned away, yawing wide at the last minute, but Satyrus had seen the helmsman move his hands and he was on the Athenian’s stern, his ram under the Athenian’s port side in a few heartbeats, and the Athenian’s rowers panicked, fleeing their benches to avoid the second oar rake, and in the confusion Xenophon leaped across the narrowing gap alone on to the enemy deck. He landed, rose to his feet and knocked the enemy helmsman unconscious in one continuous motion and then faced the enemy trierarch. Grapples flew from all along the Lotus’s deck and the sailors were over the side, flooding the enemy rowing deck.

Just a few feet away, the enemy trierarch and Xenophon faced off. Xenophon made a simple fake and then cut overarm at the top of the Athenian’s shield. His opponent took the blow on his shield and pushed forward, knocking Xenophon to the deck effortlessly. He towered over the prostrate young man and raised his spear.

Melitta shot. Her arrow rose on the breeze, a shot that had to pass the length of the ships, past ropes and rigging and hulls and rails, and fell from its apogee as if guided by Athena’s hand to bury itself in the mercenary’s thigh, a handspan above his greave. The man fell to one knee, and Xeno was up.

The mercenary parried, parried again, using his spear with desperate skill. He tried to rise to his feet and failed, fell in his own blood, and still managed to block Xenophon’s death stroke. He rolled over – red blood from his thigh wound dripping from his fine bronze cuirass – and got back up on one knee. Xenophon stepped back and saluted him, and the mercenary laughed and returned the salute – then turned it into a cut.

Xenophon parried, but now he had a long red line on his sword arm.

During the pause, Kalos had stepped up behind the Athenian with a deck maul. After the salutes were done, Kalos struck, hitting the Athenian hard in the side of the head. The man went down.

Satyrus was able to breathe again, and under his breath he offered a prayer to Athena and to Herakles for preserving Xenophon, who, for all his skill, was clearly outmatched.

After the Athenian trierarch went down, the Athenian ship offered no fight at all. The swell was increasing, out away from the beach, and it was all their port-side oarsmen could do to keep them bow-on to the waves, which were twice the height they’d been ten minutes before.

Satyrus dropped back and then put his ram under the Athenian’s stern with a far more threatening crash than he had intended – but he got it done, and the rest of the marines and sailors were across in a single long peal of thunder.

‘Follow me, and may Poseidon send we make it,’ Satyrus called. ‘Try and keep their navarch alive!’

Kalos waved and Satyrus could hear him bellowing orders, could see the Athenian marines being disarmed in the bow, Xeno with his helmet off, pouring water on a wound. He ranged alongside with the wind in his brailed-up boatsail alone and his archers covered the decks. There was no more resistance.

Kalos had the Athenian boatsail mast up before the waves turned to whitecaps, and then he was scudding away. The Athenian trireme was damaged, but with the wind now directly astern, she went well enough, and Kalos had time to reorganize the rowers – captives, now.

Satyrus watched the quinquereme come off the beach and start to pull into the waves.

Two unemployed oarsmen brought Peleus to sit in the stern. He was as white as new-scraped parchment and blood dribbled from his mouth, but he was alive. Melitta and Dorcus had washed him and cut the arrow shaft at the wound so that he could rest against things. The fact that the shaft hadn’t been withdrawn told Satyrus everything.

‘Master Peleus.’ Satyrus sat on his heels, holding the oar, trying to hear the helmsman as his lips moved.

Peleus raised his head. ‘Beautiful,’ he said. Then he said, ‘Need to get on the beach. Now!’

‘If you were hale, master, we could have a go at the big ship.’ Satyrus found that his cheeks were wet. ‘What do you mean, on the beach?’

‘Storm,’ Peleus said.

Satyrus looked out to sea and knew that the helmsman was right.

‘Fucking beautiful,’ Peleus said. He had himself up on an elbow, and he could just see over the stern. ‘Two to one, under the eyes of the enemy!’ He laughed, and the laugh turned to a gurgle and a spray of blood. Peleus’s eyes caught Satyrus’s, and the younger man could see that the older was going – could all but see his shade pulling free of his body.

‘Storm coming,’ Peleus said. Then, with enormous effort, ‘Tell Rhodos!’

He slumped then, and Satyrus thought he was gone. He turned to watch over his stern. The storm was coming from the sea, moving so fast that he could see the bow-shaped front and feel the drop in temperature. Out to seaward, there was a line, like a line of fog, but Satyrus knew it was a squall line.

Landward, the quinquereme had already abandoned the chase. He was backing into the heavy surf even as they rounded Laodikea Head and the beach full of Macedonian ships vanished around the point.

They were sailing fast – so fast that a moment’s inattention caused the hull to tremble like a dog on a leash and sway. They were overhauling the captured Athenian hand over fist now that they had the sail well set.

They passed within an oar’s length and sailed on, the edge of the storm carrying them as fast as a galley dared to sail. They cleared the rocks north of Laodikea Head and then the next bay to the north in minutes.

‘I’m going for it,’ Satyrus said. He was speaking to Peleus, whose eyes still had life in them. There was no one else to talk to – Kleitos was busy with his new responsibilities and Melitta was forward with the archers. ‘I’m going to try to beach right here and make it through the night.’

Peleus nodded, startling him. ‘Good boy,’ he said.

Satyrus hadn’t been at sea his whole life, but he’d seen storms. He prayed that this one would follow the usual pattern – a lull just before the front came in.

‘Master Kleitos!’ he called.

Kleitos came up.

‘I intend to beach us, stern first, on the next beach – see her?’ Satyrus pointed over the starboard bow, and Kleitos looked blank.

‘When I order the boatsail down, you must have all the oarsmen ready – one quarter circle turn to port and then back oars for their lives.’ Satyrus mimed the manoeuvre with his hands.

Kleitos nodded, but his eyes showed no understanding.

‘Repeat it to me,’ Satyrus urged.

‘When you drop the boatsail, quarter turn to seaward and back him into the surf,’ Kleitos said. He didn’t sound as if he believed it.

‘Pass that word to every man. No relying on orders at the last minute. Got me?’

‘Aye, Navarch!’ Kleitos’s eyes were dull – he was already exhausted by the effort of command.

Satyrus grabbed an oarsman. ‘What’s your name, man?’

‘Diokles, lord.’

Satyrus started, recognizing the man from the night in Alexandria.

‘Diokles, can you take the steering oar?’ Satyrus had seen Diokles with Peleus often enough – if they were friends, the man had to be competent. He’d been in charge of the watch.

Diokles reached out and took the heavy oar. ‘I have the helm,’ he said. His voice was thick, foreign and raspy. He looked down at Peleus, who gave a very short nod.

Heartbeats until they were in the surf. So much to do. ‘You have the helm!’ Satyrus said, and went forward. He found the four sailors.

‘On my command, bring the boatsail down. Down flat – understand – nothing to catch the wind.’ Too much information – he could see it on their faces.

‘We know our business, Navarch,’ the oldest said. He gave a lopsided smile. ‘No worries, lad,’ he whispered hoarsely.

He went back aft, found that Diokles had been cheating the bow in towards the beach – a nice job of steering.

They had a great deal of way on them – in fact, Satyrus wasn’t sure but that this was the fastest he’d ever moved in his life. Satyrus watched the shore – so close – and took a deep breath. He glanced at the Athenian galley. Did they have a chance of duplicating his motions?

They were both angling towards the beach. Just short of the breakers – the rising, increasingly angry breakers – Satyrus ordered Golden Lotus parallel to the beach, waiting for the lull. Praying for it. The squall line was ten stades away and coming like a cavalry charge.

A flaw in the wind – the sail cracked and swayed.

‘Drop the boatsail!’ he called. Then he watched as Diokles leaned his whole weight on the steering oar, and Satyrus stood amidships, willing the bow to turn out to sea, to get head-on to the swell.

Poseidon, let us live! Drop the wind!

The rowers’ response was as crisp as could be. They turned the quarter circle in the time it took for two breakers to roll under their stern, so much pressure on the backing oars that Satyrus could see the shafts bend under the strain; and then they were backing water, oars dragging on the gravel of the beach, and the stern was carried high and came down with a heavy thump.

The whole manoeuvre was near perfect – but now the trials of the day showed. The Lotus had almost no deck crew to leap ashore and steady the stern, and the sea pounded the bow relentlessly. Kleitos called a stroke on his own initiative, so that the bow oars that could still bite steadied the ship. Sternwards oarsmen started to leap over the sides, which lightened the ship so that he drove higher up the beach and the bow caught a wave and almost swept in – but there were just enough oars in the water and just enough strong backs in the surf to drag the hull a few feet higher, and then a few more. The ship was diagonal across the grain of the beach – but now the hull was empty, and before the next breaker could seize the ram and push it in to break his back, two hundred men and two women were pulling and the whole black-tarred hull shot up the beach half his length. It wasn’t pretty – in fact, the whole manoeuvre swirled at the edge of confusion, chaos and failure – but then the Lotus was on the sand and upright, and there was a strong cheer.

The Athenian wasn’t so lucky. He made his turn with style, and his oarsmen knew their lives depended on their rowing, and Kalos had redistributed rowers and oars to get men on both sides, but their backing-water was clumsy and the Athenian ship came in on the crest of a heavy breaker just as the storm hit. A wave broke over the bow, pushing it up the beach, out of control. Exhaustion and broken spirit cost them precious seconds as the rowers lost their stroke and the ship flooded amidships.

But Kalos had friends ashore. He had the deck crew. They had ropes over the side before the trireme could broach, and the two hundred men ashore were not willing to lose their prize to Poseidon when they were so close, and they pulled, and pulled again, hauling the damaged ship ashore and out of the clutches of the storm. The ship fell over on its side, spilling the water it had taken and dumping rowers in the surf, but the howling wind gave the stern a push and the next wave lifted the bow as Kalos roared ‘heave’ like Poseidon come to life, and the balance changed. The Athenian hull groaned, but he went up the beach the length of a horse – and again on the next wave, as the last of the oarsmen scrambled out. And once more, lifting the ram clear of the waves, three hundred men pulling together, drenched by the lashing rain.

And then they sank to their haunches on the wet sand. They were ashore, and alive.

Satyrus lay panting on the rain-slick sand, a rope end still clutched in his hands. He was ready to go to sleep, but a crisp voice in his head said, Not through yet, boy. He forced himself to his feet and walked to where Peleus lay. The helmsman had died during the last manoeuvre. Satyrus closed his eyes and whispered a prayer.

Then he stood up and pulled his cloak around him in the rain. ‘Master Xenophon?’ he called. ‘Secure the prisoners. Let’s get a sail up in the lee of-’ He looked around. There was no lee. They were on a beach that swept from horizon to horizon, and only the towering cliffs a few stades inland promised any cover at all.

Melitta took his arm. ‘There are caves,’ she said, pointing.

‘Sail up to cover the cave entrance. Melitta will take you there. Injured men under cover first.’ The orders flowed out of him like water from a spring. As if Peleus was giving them.

Kalos was calling his men to action.

Kleitos was kneeling in the sand, shaking his head. Diokles gave Satyrus a look, punctuated by lightning, and Satyrus nodded.

‘All right, you lot!’ Diokles shouted.

Satyrus stayed upright until the last men were in the caves. The sand underfoot was dry, and the fires of driftwood were roaring, and it was all he could do to speak. His cloak was heavy with water and the wind howled, and if the surf came up any higher, they would lose the trireme – and he couldn’t do anything about it. He wanted to keep on moving, keep on commanding, because now that he had time to think, all he wanted to do was weep.

He stood there alone in the storm, water streaming off his face and his sodden chlamys. Lightning pulsed and flashed, and thunder roared louder than a hundred rams hitting a hundred hulls.

Kalos came up to him. ‘Inside, sir!’ he shouted over the wind and the thunder. He pulled Satyrus by the arm, and they went through the flapping boatsail that covered the cave’s entrance and suddenly it was warm. Satyrus stumbled and almost fell. The whole cave was full of men – lying so close that they looked like the amphorae that a merchant ship carried as cargo. The fire – not the first this cave had known – and the heat of more than three hundred bodies made Satyrus shed his cloak.

‘Try this, lad,’ Kalos said.

Diokles came up and pushed a heavy black-ware mug into his hands. It was too dark to see what was in it, so Satyrus took a sip – kykeon, full of cheese and wine. The wine went through him like an electric shock. The taste of honey and the tartness of the wine were the finest things he’d ever had.

‘Finish it,’ Diokles said in his raspy voice. He smiled briefly, and then, as if that smile took too much effort, his face went blank again.

Satyrus slumped into an open space near the cave mouth. He fell asleep with the mug still warm in his hand.

Farther down the cave, Melitta was entwined with Xenophon, wrapped around him for warmth and for the emotional protection of his familiar body. She wanted to sleep, but her thoughts ran around and around her head the way an exhausted child will run around and around. Screaming.

She saw her brother come into the cave, and she knew in the flicker of firelight what he would look like when he was thirty – or perhaps fifty.

‘You saved my life,’ Xenophon said out of the darkness. His voice sounded different, and he didn’t make it like a flat statement, but as if he was trying to make out a puzzle.

‘You saved mine, too,’ she said. She shrugged.

‘But – it was single combat,’ Xeno said. ‘He was better than I.’

Melitta wriggled, seeking to get a stone out from under her hip.

He misinterpreted her wriggle, and wriggled back.

‘No, it wasn’t,’ Melitta said. ‘You had to face the helmsman – he was in armour – and the mercenary and perhaps half a dozen sailors. So it was a general action. I shot because it was my duty to shoot.’

‘It was a wonderful shot,’ Xeno said. This time it was he who shrugged, and she who thought that it was a wriggle, and she wriggled back. ‘I was lying on my back, waiting for death – so like Homer! And I saw the arrow go into his thigh just above my head, and I thought – Melitta shot that!’

This was the praise that Melitta wanted. It had been the best shot of her life. ‘I killed a few men today,’ she said, somewhere between bragging and sobbing. Unsure what to make of those deaths. Feeling mortal herself.

‘Me too,’ Xenophon said. He rolled over to face her.

In a moment, she rolled over too.

And at some point when most of the oarsmen were snoring, their wriggles of discomfort and embraces of support changed rhythm, and became something else. It wasn’t the romantic idyll that Melitta had imagined, with her buttocks trapped against a stone and three hundred possible witnesses – and yet, it was.

‘We shouldn’t do this,’ Xenophon said, when it was far too late to change their minds.