The Amber Road

XIX

The Vistula Delta

Snakes were everywhere on this river, big fuckers, absolutely fucking everywhere. Maximus knew he should get some rest. There would be none to be had tonight. But in this dismal marsh it was hard to find a place where a snake could not get at you. Most of the crew had stretched out on the bank near the hut, dozing in the sun. That was just asking for trouble. The snakes could swim, and the boat had a low freeboard, so that was no good either. The idea of a pointed black head, forked tongue flicking, eyes full of malice, sliding over the gunnels, thick, grey body coiling after, slithering up while you slept, all defenceless, was too horrible to contemplate. Fuck, he hated snakes.

Maximus could not settle. He went and sat with Ballista. One of the half-witted Harii, the taller one, was droning on about one of his relatives who was a shape-changer. When the fellow went to sleep his spirit roamed the woods in the form of a bear. Absolute fucking nonsense. Perhaps the Greeks and Romans, like that little shite Zeno over there, were right and northern barbarians were stupid beyond belief. Of course, the southerners did not know much about Hibernians. Not many of them came to the island, and quite a few that did had not been alive to leave.

Some cannabis would have been good. But with the gods knew how many longboats full of Brondings combing the delta there could be no lighting a fire. Cold food and no cannabis: it was going to be a long day. It seemed an eternity since he had had a woman. Now the other of the Harii, the short-arsed one, was talking about another relative. Apparently this one wore women’s clothing to help him communicate with whatever benighted gods haunted the forest. It appeared that holding a horse’s severed cock helped the process. Maximus had had enough of this.

Saying he would stand watch, Maximus left. Having collected some things from his pack on the boat, he made his way to where the creek divided. It was hard going, mud sucking at his boots. He used his sword to probe the reeds for snakes. You could never be too careful.

Rikiar thanked him, and went back. At least the Vandal did not yap like an old woman; not like those Harii. Actually, he was too quiet. He needed watching. If he stole anything from Maximus, it would be more than a few mutton bones around his ears the fucker would be getting.

Maximus hunkered down with Tarchon to watch. The Suanian took his duties seriously and was quiet. The water was still, black in the sun. The reeds meant you could not see far. It was more a matter of listening.

From nowhere came a feeling of loneliness. Maximus missed Calgacus. Odd, he never had when the miserable, ugly bastard was alive. The old Caledonian might have moaned the whole fucking time, but you could trust him. Not like a light-fingered Vandal or a couple of superstitious Harii. It had been better when the familia was just the three of them: Maximus, Calgacus and Ballista.

Chewing some air-dried beef, Maximus fished out the one book he owned, Petronius’s novel, The Satyricon. He unrolled the bulky papyrus at random. It was the dinner of Trimalchio, the part where the host tells the story of the midnight hags stealing the body of a baby. It reminded Maximus of something. He scrolled back. Yes, there it was: the story of the soldier who was a werewolf. Gods below, the Romans were no better than a bunch of Harii barbarians from a forest in the middle of fucking nowhere. At times Maximus wished he had never had to leave his own people.

In the mid-afternoon, Maximus and Tarchon were relieved. Back at the boat there was much to be done. Ballista had ordered the oars muffled and the rowlocks greased. The men had to stow all the metal ornaments from their gear and wrap rags around the fittings of their scabbards and bowcases. They were to wear dark cloaks, hoods pulled up over their helmets and blacken their faces and hands. The order was inclusive. Maximus enjoyed watching Zeno and the eunuch Amantius having river mud rubbed into their delicate skins by their slaves.

The sun was low when they set out. The boat glided from shadow to shadow through bands of golden light, hazed with insects. The water was thick with blown leaves, solid like amber. Beyond the screen of willows, they turned south.

Maximus crouched by the pilot. He kept the short sword below the side of the boat, but let the man see it. Ballista was on the other side of the Rugian, the latter once again tethered to the prow.

The sun went down, and they threaded their way in near-darkness. The smells of rotting vegetation and wet mud lay over the tallow and pitch rising from the boat. It was deathly quiet, every slight noise amplified: the run of water down the sides, the soft splash of the oars, the scuttle and plop of night creatures taking to the river, and the hiss of the breeze shifting the reeds. At the pilot’s whisper, they turned now left, now right. Lost, unsure of their heading, Maximus was far from trusting the Rugian. He felt the smooth leather of the hilt, reassuring in his hand.

A light showed through the trees ahead. A yellow-orange fire flickering just above the water level some way off. Maximus readied himself to kill the Rugian without sound. No one else seemed concerned. He looked again. It was the moon, enormous, just past full. Moving branches made its light into dancing flames.

Time lost all meaning. The carved head on the prow led them onward, like a stern deity guiding them to some unalterable fate.

The moon had risen free of the trees. Its light made the shadows along the banks impenetrably black. But when they emerged they could not have been more exposed.

Maximus smelt the open sea long before the guide murmured for utter silence. One more turn and they would be at the mouth of the channel.

Keeping to the shallows, tight against the shore, the boat nosed around the bend. A soft indrawn breath from those at the prow. Ballista gestured back down the boat. The noise of the oars in the water was fearfully loud as they stopped the boat.

Not a hundred paces ahead were two moored longboats.

Maximus covered the pilot’s mouth with his left hand; with his right he brought the blade to the man’s throat.

The warships had their awnings rigged to shelter their crews as they rested for the night. No sound came across the water. But low on the mast of each a lantern burned. In the bright moonlight there could be no sneaking past if so much as a single one of the Brondings was alert.

The boat drifted slightly. Maximus felt the pilot’s breath hot and damp in his palm. His own breathing rasped in his throat. They were near the edge of the moonlight. Ballista had to make the decision now.

As Maximus watched, one of the lanterns blinked as a figure crossed in front of it. Ballista had seen it as well. Quiet as a wraith, the big northerner moved back through the boat, motioning to the men on the benches.

Every creak sounded like thunder as the rowers, with all the care in the world, pushed against their oars. Maximus’s eyes never left the darkness on the longship where the moving shadow had vanished. The man had to hear their blades leave the water, slide in again.

Slowly, slowly, the boat inched sternwards. No alarm rang out. As they gathered a little momentum, the noise increased. The best oarsmen in the world could not back a boat without making a sound. Still no alarm. The deck heeled a little as the steersman brought them around.

A bank of reeds slid across the view of the warships like a curtain. An all too audible sigh of relief, hurriedly shushed.

There would be thumps and bangs if the crew reversed their positions. Instead the starboard oarsmen braced their blades in the water, while the larboard ones rowed circumspectly. With the steering oar hard over, the boat came about in a little over its own length. They stole away south again like thieves in the night.

In the contingent safety of the delta, they pulled into a side-water and brought the vessel to a halt. They did not anchor or go to the bank. They rested on their oars. The water lapped at the sides.

Ballista did not threaten or bluster. He spoke to the pilot as if they were old comrades-in-arms, this just the latest of many desperate ventures they had shared. Was there another obscure channel to the gulf, one the Brondings might have overlooked, one which they could reach before daybreak? The Rugian pondered the proposition. To give the man his due, he was calm, took his time, gave it his full consideration. Yes, there was one further west, but coming to it involved several detours. They would be lucky to be there before dawn. It was both shallow and narrow, thus little frequented except by a few marsh-dwelling fishermen. At this time of year there should be just enough clearance for the boat. But there could be no guarantee the Brondings did not know of its existence. If they were aware of it, everything would depend on their numbers — if they had sufficient ships to blockade it as well as the more obvious places.

Decisions are easy, Maximus thought, when there are no real alternatives.

Like neophytes of some gloomy and clandestine sect, they followed the wooden idol carved on the prow through the marsh again. They moved through an unchanging landscape. The water was glossy and black. The drops from the oars shone like jewels in the moonlight. On either side, reedbeds slid past, the stalks bone-white, the feathery heads black and clear as if etched in metal. Down at water level, the wind had dropped. Up above, clouds chased across the haloed moon.

Again, time had loosed its moorings, drifted away into something immeasurable. The rhythmic creak and splash of the oars, the water slopping down the sides of the boat, lulled Maximus into an altered state. It was like the calm that came over him in battle, but less urgent and more reflective.

If they were alive and not captured, this time tomorrow, Ballista would be well on his way home. The Harii Wada brothers were drawing him back into that world. But Maximus was concerned it would not go well for his friend. All those years in the imperium had changed Maximus. They would have changed Ballista, too. And, leaving aside the nonsense about amber, there was the mission. The Angles were now allied to Postumus. Ballista was tasked with turning them against him, bringing them back into friendship with and obedience to Gallienus. Given the hostages held in Gaul, Ballista’s father and remaining half-brothers were unlikely to welcome that idea. Ballista had said nothing on the subject — the time in the imperium had taught him discretion — but Maximus had little doubt that if the king of the Angles refused to alter his allegiance, the imperial mandata ordered Ballista to replace him with someone more amenable. In Sicily, Ballista’s wife and sons were in the power of Gallienus. There could be no question of Ballista ignoring the mandata. If it came to overthrowing his father, there would be blood. A terrible burden came with patricide.

The mist rose just before dawn. At first, thin tendrils coiled up, then banks lay across their path. As the sky lightened, they voyaged through an opaque cloud. Beads of moisture stood on the men’s hair and clothes. The pine of the prow was damp to the touch. The trees floated above, unconnected to the earth.

‘We are there,’ the pilot whispered.

The boat shifted as it quickened to the patterns of the wider waters.

The familiar presence of the enclosing treetops faded astern. They rowed in silence through the clinging whiteness. Everyone was taut, straining their senses against the enveloping fog.

A skein of geese flew overhead, wings whirring, calling their eerie calls. After their raucous passage, the oars were loud in the surrounding quiet.

Off the starboard bow, above the mist was a tree that was not a tree. Tall, straight, with a crossbeam, shrouds hanging down. With no order, Wada the Short at the steering oar swung them to the left away from the mast.

With infinite caution, they rowed on.

Another mast, dead ahead, no more than fifty paces. They curved back to the right.

If the gods were kind and the mist held, they might yet pass undetected between the ships.

Maximus could hear nothing but the gentle slop of the oars and the harshness of his own breathing. They crept forward. Slowly, slowly, the masts fell behind.

The wind came out of the north. It snatched the fog away. They were alone on a sparkling sea. The great wall of fog was retreating towards the land.

‘Pull!’ hissed Ballista. ‘Full pressure.’

Suddenly, as if formed from the fog itself, the two longships appeared astern, their carved, painted figureheads turning towards the fleeing vessel as the wind swung them on their sea anchors.

The deck lifted under Maximus’s feet as the boat surged forward. Foam creamed up from under the bow.

The Bronding warships had striped awnings, red and blue, bright in the sun, furled sails in the same colours aloft. Two men stood on the prow of the nearer one, no more than a hundred and fifty paces away. But their backs were turned. They were watching the fog bank recede towards the land. It would be a fine thing, Maximus thought, if they escaped unseen after all.

A hoarse shout. A man on the further ship had half climbed the prow. He was pointing, hallooing. The sentinels on the nearer one spun around. They stood as if unable to comprehend the apparition of the ship to seaward. Then pandemonium broke out. Men swarmed over the Bronding decks. Horns rang. The awnings began to be hauled down. It would take them a time to get ready, win their anchors, but Maximus knew their lead would be slight.

Ballista was calling orders. The Warig was a ship with twenty benches. The thirty-two remaining Roman and Olbian crew had filled only sixteen of them. Now Ballista sent the Vandal Rikiar, Wada the Tall, Tarchon and the five slaves to take the empty places. As they unshipped their oars — some of the slaves with no great dexterity — Maximus joined Diocles in doubling up on the two bow oars.

Beyond the rising and falling stern, Maximus could see the Brondings. While the further one had yet to move, the nearer had already run out its oars and was getting under way. The improvident bastards must have slipped their anchor. It was a big vessel, probably thirty or more benches. If they had additional warriors aboard, they could put two men on some of their oars. Most of the Brondings would have slept. The crew of the Warig had been rowing all night; not hard, but they would soon tire. Pulling into the wind, the chase could not last long.

Over his shoulder Maximus could hear both Zeno and Amantius muttering prayers where they huddled among the stores in the bow: ‘Athena … Achilles … Zeus … Poseidon.’ Hieroson, the injured Olbian guide, who had been with them, hobbled past, and settled to give what help he could to another oar. Maximus had been right to judge that he was a man of some account, unlike the Greek and the eunuch.

At the prow, Ballista and Castricius were talking to the Rugian. The urgent invocations and promises in Greek prevented Maximus hearing what was being said. ‘Grey-eyed Athena, hold your hands over me. Swift-footed Achilles, turn your anger aside. To Zeus, an ox for my safety.’ Sure, all gods liked to be offered things, but Maximus thought they were more likely to aid those who helped themselves. And it would be good if Zeno and Amantius sought divine intervention on more than just their own behalf. Actually, a local deity or two might be more use. It could be the Greek gods did not spend much time up here in Hyperborea. From what he understood, they spent most of their time drinking, fucking and squabbling among themselves anyway; all that, and abducting pretty boys and girls. A feckless crew from which to seek salvation.

The man next to Maximus on the larboard bow oar was the Egyptian Heliodorus, the mutineer Ballista had nearly killed. Once Maximus had got into time, he looked down the boat, out past Wada the Short on at the helm. The big Bronding longship was not much more than a long bowshot away, maybe three hundred paces. It was coming on in unpleasantly fine style, its banks of oars rising and falling all together, like the wings of a grey goose.

If there were any comfort to be drawn from the view, it was the other Bronding. The yet bigger warship — fifty benches at least, a huge vessel — had still to move. The useless fuckers must have fouled their anchor. Unless they cut or slipped the rope and abandoned the thing, they would soon be out of the reckoning.

Ballista walked the length of the boat to stand next to the steering oar. He stood, feet wide, hands hooked in his sword belt, riding the rise and fall. His long blond hair streamed out from under his helm and his black cloak whipped around him. His dark mailcoat shimmered in the sun. He looked a proper warleader, the sort men would follow.

‘Boys’ — Ballista spoke in Greek. He shouted into the wind but his voice carried easily over the noises of the boat — ‘there are some islands up ahead, about a mile. The Rugian says there is one small channel through them. The Warig has a shallow draught. We should make it. The Bronding will have a tougher time. If they cannot follow us, it is a long way around. Either they get stuck fast, or they give us a lead of an hour or two.’

Ballista repeated the news in the language of Germania.

Despite their efforts in rowing, the crew gave a low cheer. Maximus hoped it carried to their pursuers. No one cares to know that their enemy are in good heart.

‘The pilot says the prevailing wind here is easterly. When it shifts later in the morning, we can hoist the sail and test my foster-father’s claim that the Warig can out-sail anything in the north, and you delicate girls can take a rest.’

Again, Ballista repeated it for those who did not have Greek. Again, it was well received. Maximus thought the crew in good spirits. If only the two Graeculi would shut the fuck up, things might not be too bad.

The northerly breeze competing with an easterly current was beginning to raise a choppy, cross sea. Some of the slaves down towards the stern were making a balls of it, but Heliodorus was a skilled oarsman and Maximus got into a good rhythm with him.

Gouts of cold water broke inboard, soaking Maximus and the foremost rowers.

‘It is warmer in the Mediterranean.’ Heliodorus timed his words to the stroke. ‘I should have joined the Alexandrian fleet.’

‘They have a good reputation. I doubt they would have had you.’

‘It is true; there were one or two misunderstandings in Alexandria.’

Out of the corner of his eye, Maximus could see the big, shaven-headed Egyptian was smiling. A good man in a corner; maybe it was as well Ballista had not killed him.

The rear benches of rowers jeered. Maximus did not know why, until he saw a bowman on the prow of the Bronding. The man drew and released. The shaft went wide and well astern. They had closed to about two hundred and fifty paces, but from a pitching deck it would take the gods’ own luck to hit anything at that distance. There were more jeers from the Warig.

‘Save your breath, boys,’ Ballista called. ‘Nearly there.’

Careful not to break stroke, Maximus took a look over his shoulder. They seemed to be racing directly towards a belt of trees growing straight out of the sea. He hoped that fucking Rugian knew what he was about, was not playing them false. Still, he was only a couple of steps away. He would not have long to get any pleasure from treachery.

The surface was calm in the lee of the island. The Warig shot forward. Trees appeared on either side, closing in fast.

‘Full pressure,’ Ballista said. ‘Keep the rhythm.’

They were rushing down a narrow creek, the oars almost brushing the banks, weeds festooned around the blades. The breeze did not play through here, and there was a foul stench of decay and dead fish.

The Warig heeled, as Wada the Short put the helm over. Maximus saw the Bronding. Throwing a fine bow wave, about two hundred paces astern, it had no intention of breaking off and going around the islands. The Warig took the bend, and the Bronding disappeared.

A tremor ran through the hull. Another stroke, and the Warig shuddered to a stop, as if clutched by an invisible hand. Maximus was thrown off the bench. He landed in the bow in the lap of the eunuch. Amantius screamed like a girl. Cursing, Maximus struggled to get up. The length of the boat, men were doing the same. Maximus gave the eunuch a shove for good measure.

‘Stay at your places. Silence.’ Ballista was vaulting the benches towards the bow.

Maximus got back on next to Heliodorus and gripped the oar. Taut ropes ran to the prow from poles in the water pulled out of true by the impact. The Warig had run into fishing nets strung right across the creek. So close to escape, and now this. It really was, Maximus thought, an absolute fucker.

‘Castricius, Diocles, Heliodorus, cut us free.’ Ballista was heading back to the stern. ‘Maximus, Tarchon, Rikiar, Wada the Tall, with me.’

Maximus ripped off his cloak, grabbed up his shield and, drawing his gladius, clattered aft.

The five warriors clustered around Wada the Short at the steering oar. Ballista pointed at four on the rear benches. ‘Get your weapons. With us.’ The three Romans and an Olbian obeyed.

The bend in the channel was thirty or so paces astern. The Bronding was not yet in sight. Those at the prow were hacking at the stinking tangle of ropes and nets.

Nine armed men, four of them unarmoured; it was not many to hold the Brondings. Still, the narrow creek meant the enemy could not come alongside. It would be close work, stern to prow.

‘How is it coming, Castricius?’

‘Getting there.’

Neither Ballista nor Castricius betrayed any emotion, beyond an understandable urgency.

‘The rest of you, ready to row on command.’

The tall, curved prow of the Bronding came around the bend. Her crew howled. Warriors rushed forward, thick on her deck.

‘Get ready,’ Ballista said. ‘We will take the fight to them.’

A last glance back. Swords flashing, slimy ropes being hauled free and cast into the water. Tense faces staring up from the benches.

The figurehead of the Bronding loomed above. The bearded, implacable face sliding towards the left of the stern post of the Warig. Wada the Short hauled the steering oar onboard.

A Bronding leapt before the ships closed. Wada the Tall swung a great two-handed blow into his shield. The wood split. The warrior was knocked aside. Arms wide, he fell into the water. The prow-idol forced him under his own keel.

The deck bucked under Maximus’s boots. He staggered back a step. Wood ground against wood. The longship’s gunwales were a foot or two higher than the Warig. The Bronding stopped six paces beyond her stern. Maximus gained his balance, stepped forward, gathering himself to jump.

A Bronding slammed into him, shield to shield. Maximus was driven down on one knee. The Bronding brought his sword down overhand, like a man chopping wood. Maximus got his shield up at an angle, jabbed the point of his blade out low at shin level. The inside of Maximus’s shield crashed down on to the top of his helmet. His head rang, his arm dead with the impact. The Bronding was on one leg, the other bright with blood. Maximus surged up and forward under his own ruined shield. He thrust the steel under the hem of the mailcoat, into the crotch. The warrior fell half on him. He shouldered him aside.

Ballista was on the prow of the Bronding longship, the enemy all around him. Maximus went to cross over to help. A sword sliced at his face from the left. Still numb, his shield arm was too slow to block. Desperately, he brought his blade up and across. The hilt took the blow a hand’s breadth from his nose, drove his own fist into cheek. Rolling back on his right foot, with his left he kicked the man in the left kneecap, then whipped his gladius around and down into his assailant’s left shoulder. Sharp cracks as rings of mail broke. A grunt of pain and surprise. The wound was not deep. Maximus dropped nearly on to his right knee and cut into the Bronding’s left calf. As he doubled up, Maximus straightened and finished him with a neat blow to the back of the neck below the helmet. Fuck, he had been careless; fucking lucky to get away with it.

Maximus checked the situation. Shouts. Screams. Boots stamping on the deck. Steel on steel. Steel on wood. Too many men fighting in too small a space. As the battle calm descended, Maximus could take it all in, order it correctly. Four Brondings on the deck of the Warig fighting five men. Ballista and Wada the Tall on the prow of the enemy longship preventing more warriors getting to the Warig. The Brondings jostling each other trying to get at the Angle and the Harii. Their numbers must tell in the end, but now they were hindering.

A sidestep, four balanced steps forward, and a jab into the back of a distracted Bronding’s thigh. Maximus twisted the blade, withdrew it and danced clear. Make that three Brondings fighting on the Warig. Maximus grinned. Some men could understand philosophy, others interpret a poem, but Maximus could read a fight, the most difficult text of all.

Maximus went to the side of the boat. His left arm was still numb, the shield dragging it down. Better without the thing. He dropped it, hoping it would be there later. There were some expensive ornaments on its face. He waited until Ballista attacked and moved forward a little. Shifting his gladius to his left hand, with his right Maximus grasped the gunwales of the longship and swung up.

Landing on the balls of his feet, he took a two-handed grip on his sword. A gap opened to the right of Ballista. A Bronding moved to get at the Angle’s flank. Maximus lunged at the warrior’s face. Instinctively, the Bronding flinched back. Maximus took his place at Ballista’s shoulder.

The warrior opposite Maximus did not lack courage. You could see it in the many bright rings on his arm, the set of his face and the way he came on again. Maximus parried a cut to his right shoulder, then his left. The steel shivered and rang. He riposted with a downward slash to the leg. As the Bronding drew back, he collided with the warrior behind. Seeing the advantage, Maximus thrust to the stomach. The man managed to drag his shield into the way.

They drew apart, just beyond sword reach, panting and watching each other. Behind Maximus, someone was shouting. Ballista was still fighting. Wada, also, beyond him.

Maximus stamped his right boot, feigned to lunge. The warrior with the arm rings brought his arms up to block. In the brief time he had won, Maximus glanced over his shoulder. Tarchon was yelling something incomprehensible from the stern of the Warig. Further away, Castricius was beckoning from under her prow-idol.

To his left the warrior matched with Ballista pressed home an attack, swinging furiously. Steel flashed in the sunlight. The Bronding reeled back and across the one facing Maximus.

‘Jump!’ Ballista shouted.

With no hesitation, Maximus spun around and, one boot on the gunwale of the big ship, vaulted down into the Warig. The deck was unsteady under him. He staggered a few steps. Someone landed heavily behind him, crashed to the deck. Maximus ran into Rikiar.

‘Row!’ Ballista was roaring from down on the deck. ‘Row for your fucking lives!’

Maximus felt the ship stir as the oars fought the resistance of the water.

‘My brother!’ Wada the Short had dropped the steering oar. He moved to the side.

Tarchon grabbed the Harii, held him fast. Ballista was scrabbling along the woodwork towards the abandoned helm.

Wada the Tall was trapped on the prow of the Bronding, ringed by warriors. His sword was weaving intricate patterns.

‘My brother!’ Wada the Short fought to get free of Tarchon’s embrace. Rikiar leapt to help restrain him.

‘All bad with him. Too late,’ Tarchon said.

A tortured scraping of wood against wood, and the Warig pulled free from the longship.

Wada the Tall was surrounded. He staggered. His blade was still moving. A Bronding tottered back, clutching an arm that looked nearly severed. The others closed in. Wada took a blow, then another. Wada fell. Swords arced down over the space where he had stood.

‘He die brave,’ Tarchon said. ‘Much honour.’

Wada the Short stared out over the widening gap of water. He said nothing.

‘To your places.’ Ballista had the steering oar. ‘Get down, let me see the prow. Maximus, Tarchon, get the dead over the side.’

There were six Brondings — four dead, and two who needed finishing off — and three dead Roman crewmen. There was no time to search them. Friend or foe, Maximus and Tarchon just cut the wallets from their belts, removed any still-sheathed blades and threw them all in a pile. Gripping the dead by the feet and under the armpits, they hauled them over. As the last splashed in, Maximus noticed the mailcoat of the previous Bronding shining through the disturbed silt. He was only about four feet down.

The channel ran straight for half a mile or more. The Brondings were slower getting back to their benches. But, all too soon, Maximus saw the oars lift and dip. They had no intention of giving up.

No one spoke. There was nothing to say. A wounded Olbian who was whimpering was told to shut the fuck up and be a man.

Wada the Short had not moved. Motionless, he looked back at the Brondings.

The Warig had a slender lead, no more than a hundred paces. She was well within bowshot. No sooner had the thought occurred than the first shafts sliced down. Maximus snatched up a discarded shield and crouched over Ballista, covering them both.

The Brondings’ aim was wild. They were not shooting in volleys, but men on benches can neither jump aside nor shield themselves. Inevitably, an arrow found its mark. An Olbian screamed. He fell back off his bench. He was not dead. The shaft in his chest quivered obscenely with his breathing. No one went to help him.

Another scream. Another man down, a Roman this time. The oarsmen anxiously watched the sky. It was affecting their timing. With each stroke, one or more missed the surface or caught the bed of the creek, their wake streamed grey with silt.

Maximus peeped around the shield. The scowling Bronding figurehead was only a heavy javelin throw behind; twenty-five paces at most. An arrow came straight at Maximus. He ducked back. It whickered past.

The Warig shivered the length of her hull. The speed dropped off her. There was a slithering, sucking sound. Her keel was grounding.

‘Pull! Pull, like never before!’

Maximus jumped to the nearest bench, added his weight to the next stroke. As they brought the oars back, the Warig was almost stationary, almost held by the mud. The oars fought to keep her momentum. For a moment the opposed forces seemed in balance. Then, with a surge, like wine out of an upended amphora, the Warig was free, rushing ahead.

‘Get back in time.’

Maximus was not listening to Ballista’s orders; none of them were. They were all gazing with wonder over the Angle commander’s shoulders. The Bronding ship had come to a shuddering stop. Her mast swayed — once, twice, a third time — then, ropes cracking, went by the board. Warriors threw themselves clear, splashing into the shallow, muddy water. Not all made it in time; screams came from the inboard.

A ragged, exhausted cheer. The crew of the Warig held their arms aloft in relief. Oars skewed this way and that.

‘Keep rowing. Bend those oars, you lazy bastards. That longship will be here a time, but there are other Brondings out there.’ Despite trying to sound fierce, Ballista was grinning in almost disbelieving delight. They had won free. The Suebian Sea lay before them: the way north was open.