‘Runner! Orders to the helmsman, once we clear this bank, turn three points to port.’
The runner disappeared. Atticus tried to estimate their position relative to the vanguard. The Aquila was moving at battle speed, the vanguard at standard speed. He judged the Aquila to be parallel to them … now … now ahead. The longer the fog held, the greater their chances.
It lasted another two thousand yards.
The Aquila burst out into open sunshine like a stallion surging from the confines of a stable. At battle speed she was tearing through the water at seven knots, and Atticus noted with satisfaction that within her time enclosed in the fog she had stolen five hundred yards on the Carthaginian vanguard. He was about to turn to the stern of the galley to signal the course change when the Aquila responded to Gaius’s hand on the rudder. ‘Sharp as ever,’ Atticus smiled as the galley straightened on her new course, running diagonally across the strait. Now the Aquila’s course would take her across the bows of the vanguard, Atticus estimated, at no more than three hundred yards. He gripped the rail of the Aquila, feeling the pulse of the ship as the rhythmical pull of the oars propelled it through the water.
*
‘Ship to starboard … Roman trireme … bearing north.’
With an agility that belied his fifty-two years, Gisco ran to the rigging of the mainmast and began to climb to the masthead. Halfway to the top he glanced up to see the lookout point to the mainland. Following this line, he looked out towards the distant coast. Sure enough, some five hundred yards ahead, a Roman trireme was moving at speed along the coast.
‘Estimate she is moving at battle speed,’ the lookout shouted down after overcoming the shock of seeing the admiral below him. ‘She must have been hiding somewhere along the coastline, invisible behind the fog …’
Gisco stared at the Roman trireme and double-checked his estimate of their course. It puzzled him. ‘That doesn’t make sense,’ he thought, ‘why not run parallel to the coast, why halve their lead on us?’
Gisco clambered down the rigging to the deck twenty feet below. The instant his feet hit the deck he took stock of his surroundings. The crew were frantically clearing the deck for battle. They were good, he noticed, well drilled and efficient.
He could see the captain on the foredeck, no doubt looking for him.
‘Captain!’ he shouted.
The man turned and strode towards him. ‘Yes, Admiral?’
‘What do you make of her, Captain?’
‘Roman for sure, probably coastal patrol, maybe thirty crew and a reduced century of marines. She’s fast, doing battle speed now, and she cuts the water well. She’s lighter than one of our own, maybe a couple of knots faster at her top speed.’
Gisco wondered if the captain had noticed their course. ‘Anything else?’ he asked.
‘Yes, she’s commanded by a fool. If he holds his current course he’s giving us an even chance of catching him.’
Gisco turned away from the captain and spied the Roman galley again. She was ahead, about forty degrees off their starboard bow, but instead of running parallel to the Elissar’s course and maintaining her lead, she was running on a converging course that would take her across the bow of the Elissar at a distance of approximately three hundred yards.
‘Captain, alter your course, two points starboard.’
The captain issued the order to a runner who set off at speed to the helmsman at the stern of the ship. The ship altered course slightly and Gisco nodded with satisfaction when he noted the other two triremes instantly responding to the new heading. He turned again to look ahead. The captain was right on one count – the Roman was a fool; but he was wrong on the other: their odds of catching them were a lot better than evens.
‘Shall I increase to attack speed, Admiral?’
At first Gisco did not hear the question. All his senses focused on the Roman galley, now four hundred yards ahead on his right. ‘He must know he is eating up his advantage with every oar-stroke by now,’ he thought. ‘Where is he running to?’
‘Shall I increase speed?’ the captain asked again.
‘What?’ Gisco answered irritably, his mind replaying the captain’s words that he had heard but not listened to, allowing them to form in his mind.
‘No, maintain course and speed. If we increase, the Roman may alter course and run before us, matching us stroke for stroke. We’ll let him shorten his lead in his own good time. Then we’ll take him.’
Septimus moved towards the foredeck. He had noticed the course correction when they emerged from the fog and had been instantly alarmed. What the hell was Atticus doing? He trusted the captain but their course seemed like madness. Atticus was joined on the foredeck by Lucius, and the two men were deep in conversation. The second-in-command was ten years older than Atticus. He was a small bull of a man, solid and unyielding. A sailor all his life, he too was a native of the Calabrian coast. He was known as a tough disciplinarian, but he was fair, and all the crew, especially Atticus, respected his judgement. As he spoke with the captain, he occasionally pointed ahead to the distant shoreline across the strait.
‘There,’ Septimus could hear him as he approached, ‘about two points off the starboard bow, you can see the breakers now.’
‘Yes, that’s where I thought. Lucius, take command on the steering deck. Have Gaius follow my signals once the Carthaginians fall in behind us. Make sure he doesn’t take his eyes off me. The course corrections need to be immediate.’
‘Yes, Captain,’ Lucius said, and hurried past the approaching centurion.
‘Your men in place, Septimus? Remember, once the Carthaginians get behind us you can expect some incoming fire from their archers. It’s imperative that my helmsman has all his attention on his job, I don’t need him worrying about taking an arrow between his shoulder-blades.’
‘Yes, they are. But why the course change, Atticus? We’re halving our lead.’
Atticus did not immediately answer. He looked back at the approaching galleys, two points off his port stern, a little over three hundred yards behind. Within seconds they would be running dead astern.
‘Septimus, we can’t simply run, they’ll catch us before we breach the mouth of the strait. One ship can’t outrun three.’
‘Why the hell not? They’re all triremes, surely you could match them stroke for stroke. I’ve seen how you run your slave deck. Those men are all fit. With your reserve of forty rowers they could maintain battle speed for at least another hour. The Carthaginians would never have closed a gap of five hundred yards before we reached the mouth of the strait.’
Atticus shook his head. ‘Think it through. If you were one of three men pursuing another and all were evenly matched in stamina, how would you run your prey down?’
Septimus thought for a moment. He turned to face the three galleys astern. One was in the lead with the other two off its port and starboard stern quarters. They were matching the lead ship stroke for stroke, as if they moved as one. But they’re not one, Septimus thought. They’re three. The commander of the vanguard did not need to run his ships at the same pace. Even with two galleys