Normally, Bruteddius would have been right: the trireme most likely would have outrun her pursuers. But, despite his reassuring words, the oarsmen of the Armata had been rowing, more on than off, for hours, since shortly after dawn. The Goths seemed fresher. At least, they were keeping station, if not actually gaining a trifle.

Bruteddius spoke. ‘The pilot says that, on this course, there is nothing between us and the Island of Achilles off the mouths of the Danube three hundred miles or more. We could edge to the north. The Crimean Bosphorus is no more than a hundred and sixty-odd miles.’ No one stated the obvious: the Goths would run them down long before they reached either.

Maximus reappeared with his weapons and equipment and that of Ballista. With him were Calgacus and Hippothous, already kitted out. As he armed, Ballista ascertained the number of warriors aboard. Four in his familia. Felix’s four bodyguards. The old man insisted on arming too. Rutilus and Castricius added just themselves. Bruteddius, of course, was a long-service centurion. Twelve men, one rather long in the tooth.

Ballista asked for volunteers from the entourages. Twenty answered the call. Ballista rejected six, among them the youths Wulfstan and Bauto. However, he gave each of the boys one of the many knives in his kit. They would not wish to be enslaved again. The eunuch Mastabates was one of those accepted. There were pikes and boarding axes aboard. These and the warriors’ spare weapons were doled out. Twenty-six men in all, less than half trained. Hopeless.

The sun broke through the haze. Everything was suddenly illuminated. Through the tendrils of mist, nine Gothic vessels astern, two more further behind on the larboard quarter. Say a minimum of thirty warriors in each. Over three hundred armed men against fewer than thirty. No sort of odds. Utterly hopeless.

The sun went in again. Grey wisps of vapour rose again. The grim chase went on.

‘I cannot understand why they would chase a warship,’ said Felix. ‘There must be easier, richer pickings. They do not know we have no marines or engines.’

‘They know everything about us.’ Bruteddius spoke quietly.

‘How?’

‘Someone from Abonouteichos told them.’

‘Never.’ Flat disbelief in Felix’s voice.

‘They are Goths, but to some they are just pirates. All latrones, on land or sea, get information from locals.’ Bruteddius sounded resigned.

‘No citizen would do such a thing!’

Ballista gently intervened. ‘The cases you heard at Amastris, Dominus? You condemned two men to the arena for joining in the barbarians’ depredations.’

The chase ground on. The water still sang down the sides of the Armata, but slower now. The oarsmen were tiring fast. Their open-mouthed faces were masks from a tragedy. Their breathing came in sobs. Their sweat dripped on the men below, puddled in the hold. Individuals were starting to miss their stroke. The banks of oars were becoming ragged, like the damaged wings of a bird. The Goths were coming up hand over fist. No more than three hundred yards of clear water separated the sternpost of the Armata from the ram of the liburnian.

Ballista ran through his pre-battle ritual: the dagger, sword, the healing stone. Wordless, he embraced Calgacus and Maximus. He shook hands with Hippothous, Rutilus and Castricius. The latter hugged him close. The sombre, gathering darkness of the day was fitting. Ballista’s main regret was not seeing his sons grow. Maybe in Valhalla, if there was such a thing or something like it.

Bruteddius had stopped tugging at his beard. The old seaman actually laughed.

Dull witted, everyone at the stern stopped gazing at the Goths and looked at Bruteddius. The trierarch called out loud to his rowers. ‘One last effort, boys. Less than half an hour, pueri, and we are safe.’

Bruteddius turned and pointed ahead. There, curving across the Kindly Sea, was a solid bank of fog.

XVIII

The Armata slipped into the clammy embrace of the fog. Instantly, the temperature dropped. The sweat ran cold between the men’s shoulderblades. Their breath plumed. Wraiths of mist slipped inboard past the bow post, snaked down among the benches. A pall of steam rose from the rowers, adding to the gloom. It was getting hard to see from one end of the boat to the other.

A murmur of tired voices from the oarsmen; the stroke became ragged, desultory. ‘Silence!’ Bruteddius’s voice was pitched to carry, but not far. ‘Not safe yet, pueri, just a little more. Easy pressure.’

The Armata ghosted through an opaque world. The creak and splash of the oars, the soft gurgle of water. The fog pearled on everything: deck, oars, rails. It dripped from the crew’s beards.

Ballista watched Bruteddius staring over the stern into the fog. All the officers, everyone watched Bruteddius. Nothing visible, no sound of pursuit. Neither meant anything.

Bruteddius softly called for the purser. ‘ Pentekontarchos, break out the food and water.’ The officer padded away, the mist swirling behind him. ‘Where is the naupegos?’

‘Here, Dominus,’ said the shipwright.

‘Bring up the thin papyrus rope and all the tallow.’ Bruteddius did not glance at the man, never looked inboard.

‘ Dominus.’

Under the eye of the pentekontarchos, the rear watch of the deck crew was piling wrapped bundles and amphorae on the quarterdeck.

Bruteddius turned to survey his ship. ‘ Thalamians, cease rowing, oars inboard.’ Gratefully, the rowers on the lowest level obeyed. ‘ Pentekontarchos, feed the thalamians first.’ Bruteddius turned back to the wall of fog beyond the sternpost.

Bread, both soggy and slightly stale, a lump of cheese, a raw onion, and a long drink of heavily watered wine; not having eaten since dawn, the thalamians wolfed it down. It was gone in seconds.

‘ Zygians, cease rowing, oars inboard.’ The procedure was repeated with the middle level, leaving the top level, the elite thranites, rowing the boat on their own.

The naupegos announced the things were to hand.

‘Good, shipwright,’ Bruteddius said. ‘ Zygians and thalmians, strip.’

Ballista and the other passengers watched, bemused, as the two lower levels of rowers stripped off their things with no question or complaint. The hundred or so men sat naked or in undergarments, most shivering with cold and exhaustion. Bruteddius glanced over his shoulder and smiled. ‘Good, pueri. Now muffle your oars with your tunics; tie them tight with bits of rope. Grease the oarports.’

The cloying smell of rancid mutton fat wafted as the men began to rub the tallow into the leather sleeves which kept the water out of the oarports. It mingled with the stench from the bilges: stale water and sweat, human waste. No oarsman had left his bench for hours. They had had to relieve themselves where they sat. It had not been good for the men on the lower levels. They reeked of piss and shit. Ballista felt sick in the choking miasma.

‘ Thalamians, oars out. Gentle pressure. Row. Thranites, oars inboard; eat, then do the other things.’

‘What do we do?’ Ballista addressed the question to Bruteddius’s back.

The trierarch tipped his head to one side, took his time answering. When he did, he did not look round. ‘We could continue on our present course: three hundred miles of sea room to the Island of Achilles or the mouths of the Danube. It has the advantage that the Goths will not think we will do that. It has the disadvantage that, unless an easterly wind gets up, we would never get there. We have no more food, only enough water to last until the morning.’

Bruteddius paused, tipped his head to the other side. ‘We could head north: a long day’s row to the Crimea. But what sort of reception would we get?’

‘Come.’ Felix broke in. ‘It is not the heroic age. They do not sacrifice strangers there any more. The king of the Crimean Bosphorus is a loyal client of Rome.’

‘The Goths got the liburnian somewhere,’ said Bruteddius thoughtfully.

Before Felix could reply, Ballista spoke. ‘When the Borani first raided into the Black Sea, the time Successianus defended Pityus, they forced the cities of the north-west and the king… some of the subjects of the king of the Crimean Bosphorus to provide them with ships.’

‘Or we could run south,’ Bruteddius continued. ‘We might run into the two Goths who were off to larboard. If we got there, would we be safe? The nearest detachment of auxiliaries is in Heraclea, and precious few of them. It depends how badly the Goths want us.’

Again, Bruteddius paused. Ballista leant on the stern rail next to him. The trierarch’s face was very still, but his eyes did not stop moving, probing the impenetrable fog. ‘We could stay here, sit quiet,’ Bruteddius continued. ‘Hope that either the Goths pass us in the fog or give up when they see it. The men are exhausted. They could rest. But, if the Goths came on us, with no way on the boat, we would be a sitting target.’

This time Bruteddius was silent for longer.

‘And our final option? Ballista asked.

‘Our final option is to turn back, try to run silently through them in the fog and the night, get to a safe harbour in Sinope, or even all the way to Trapezus. Best to try and take on water and food somewhere along the coast and then press on to Trapezus. There are troops there.’

‘And that is what we will do?’ said Ballista.

‘That is what we will do,’ said Bruteddius.

Half an hour, and the Armata was facing east again. During this time, the thranites had rested, but now they had to return to their work. The top level consisted of the chosen men, the best oarsmen in the boat. Hard men, nut brown; it was said they could row from dawn to dawn with just a sip or two of water. Now that claim would be put to the test. Their hard, callused hands played out the long, smooth shafts of fir. One rank of blades would make less noise. The thranites would row with more control, more quietly than the zygians or thalamians. It had to be them. They took pride in it. A soft word from the rowing master and they began. Slowly, the Armata got under way.