Retribution by John Stack

Author:John Stack [Stack, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Endeavour Quill
Published: 2019-06-05T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 5

The Orcus left the protective confines of Carthage harbour under leaden skies. She was running before the wind, and the mainsail creaked against the strain of the sheets. The swell increased, lifting the hull over the crests, and the drumbeat slowed to allow the rowers to steady their pull through the draw. Behind her, the ten galleys of the Roman fleet were spread out in loose arrow formation, the captains taking full advantage of the sea room. The broad hulled galleys were creatures of calmer waters, and the helmsmen were heavily tested as they countered every fluke in the wind to maintain their line of sail.

Atticus breathed deeply as he allowed the spray to bedew his face. Gulls cried overhead. They trailed behind the stern of the Orcus, their heads traversing, searching for the offal and detritus that their instinct associated with every vessel. The years fell away from Atticus as his every sense was given over to the rhythm of the oars, the smell of the sea and the pounding of the hull. He had been too long away from the freedom of his own command, too long guarding his every word and deed in the lair of his enemy.

‘Coming up three points to port!’ Vibius called as he leaned into the tiller to bring the Orcus onto a broad reach and a direct course to the port of Karaly on Sardinia.

Atticus checked the line of the other galleys as they made the same course adjustment. The order was given across the fleet to strike the oars forward of the mainmast. They were quickly withdrawn into the hulls, resting the rowers while the wind took the lion’s share of propelling the galleys onward.

‘Estimate eight knots, Prefect,’ Vibius called to Atticus, answering the question before it was asked of him. ‘If the wind holds we’ll make landfall in the fourth watch.’

‘A dawn approach,’ Atticus thought, ‘if the wind holds…’ and he tried to interpret the changing colour of the sky as another gust howled through the sheets.

Over the years Atticus had built up an intimate knowledge of the prevailing winds and currents around Sicily, and he could accurately predict an impending change in the weather when there was even a tiny shift in its pattern. But here, off the coast of Africa, where the weather was born of a vast unknown land, and the currents were known only to local seaman, it was all but impossible for Atticus to accurately anticipate how the weather would develop over the coming hours. The Carthaginian, Batnoam, was at the far rail, and Atticus approached him. He was engrossed in a study of the Roman formation and was clearly taking in every detail as his eyes darted from one vessel to another.

‘Well?’ Atticus asked, indicating his fleet.

Batnoam was startled by the interruption, and he paused before replying. One of his eyes was permanently clouded milky white, giving his other eye an almost manic expression as he focused on Atticus.

‘They sail well, Greek,’ he replied.

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