The Caspian Gates by Harry Sidebottom

Author:Harry Sidebottom
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
ISBN: 9780141935249
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 2011-07-06T14:00:00+00:00

XVII

At dawn on the fifth day, Boreas finally gave over. High above, ragged dark clouds still scudded south, vanishing inland over the mountains. Yet down in the port of Heraclea all was calm. Ballista watched a pale, washed-out sun glitter in the puddles on the dockside.

The crew of the Armata were sullenly preparing her for sea. Great sluices of water fell unexpectedly from the storm canvas as it was removed. Fat drops fell from the rigging on to the oarsmen as they settled themselves on their benches. If only, some muttered, she were a fully decked trireme. ‘Bugger that,’ others replied. ‘Easier to get trapped when she goes down.’ ‘Silence, fore and aft,’ roared her officers.

Felix made the libation to Apollo, protector of travellers. Bruteddius ran his eye over all. The bow officer, rowing master and helmsman were at their stations: prow, midships and stern. They indicated they were ready. Bruteddius gave the order. The cables slipped, the Armata was heaved off from the wharf. Oars outboard. Ready? Light pressure. Row! Slowly, the vessel gathered her way, turned, and pointed her bronze ram out to the Kindly Sea.

The storm had left the surface of the sea muddy, with a quantity of flotsam. There was a swell. It demanded a shorter than usual stroke from the rowers. They were slow to make the adjustment, poor at keeping time. A run of four days ashore had done them no good. Bruteddius had considered attempting the passage to Sinope in one sailing. He had talked to local skippers. It would be a long day, very long and very hard; from well before dawn to after dark, if not to the next dawn. Yet he was told it was not impossible. He had settled on Amastris instead, just sixty or so miles. There was but one good harbour in the long stretch between Amastris and Sinope, and his men were not in good condition. What could you expect? Volunteers they might be, soldiers notionally, but in origin they were nothing but a bunch of soft freedmen and easterners; Greeks and Egyptians. A few days’ drinking and whoring in a backwater town, and they were all out of sorts and as weak as women.

The voyage to Amastris passed without incident. No wind got up, so the men had to row all the way. No bad thing to knock them together again. They laboured hard past the tomb of Sthenelos. They took no more notice of the mouth of the river Kallichoros, where the god Dionysus danced, or that of the Parthenios, where the goddess Artemis bathed. They were unaware when they hauled the ship from the territory of the Bithynian Thracians to that of the Paphlagonians. And all the while the enormity of the sluggish sea stretched on their left.

Not long after the time for the midday meal, the Armata pulled into the neat, sheltered oval of the galley harbour at Amastris; pulled in most gladly. No one appeared happier to disembark than Felix. Ballista followed him down the boarding ladder.

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