Cato 03 - When the Eagle Hunts Read Free

finished them, but for the slaves, drowning was certain and the captain could well understand their hysteria.
    The rain turned to sleet and then to snow. Thick white flakes swirled in on the wind and layered themselves on the captain's tunic. His hands were losing all sensation and he realised he must return to the deck before the cold weakened his grip on the rigging. But just as he took the first step down, he glimpsed the dark loom of a headland over the bow. White spray burst over jagged rocks at the base of the cliff, barely half a mile ahead.
    The captain rapidly swung himself to the deck and hurried aft towards the steersman.
    'Rocks ahead! Hard over!'
    The captain threw himself onto the timber handle and strained with the steersman against the pressure of the sea surging past the broad steering paddle overside. Slowly the trireme responded, and the bowsprit began to turn away from the headland. In the glare of the lightning, they could see the glistening dark teeth of the rocks rising from the crashing waves. The roar of their pounding carried even above the howling of the wind. For a moment the bowsprit refused to swing any further towards the open sea and the captain's heart was seized by dark, cold despair. Then a fluke in the wind carried the bowsprit round, clear of the rocks, barely a hundred feet off the bow.
    'That's it! Keep her there!' he screamed at the steersman.
    With the small spread of mainsail straining under the pressure of the wind, the trireme surged forward, up and over the wild sea. Past the headland the cliff opened out onto a pebbled shore, behind which the land rose with a scattering of stunted trees. Waves pounded up the beach in great sweeps of white foam.
    'There!' The captain pointed. 'We'll beach her there.'
    'In that surf?' shouted the steersman. 'That's madness!'
    'It's our only chance! Now, on the tiller, with me!'
    With the paddle biting in the opposite direction, the trireme swung in towards the shore. For the first time that night the captain allowed himself to believe they might yet emerge from this tempest alive. He even laughed with exultation at having defied the worst of the wrath that great Neptune could hurl at those who ventured into his domain. But with the safety of the shore almost within their reach, the sea finally had its way with them. A great swell rolled in from the dark depths of the ocean and lifted the trireme up and up, until the captain found that he was looking down on the shore. Then the crest passed beneath them and the ship dropped like a stone. With a jarring crash that knocked all the crew off their feet, the bows were impaled on a jagged sliver of rock some distance from the base of the headland. The captain quickly regained his footing, and the firm deck under his boots told him that the ship was no longer afloat. The next wave forced the trireme to pivot round, so that the stern was nearest the beach. A rending crash from forward told of the damage being wreaked. From below came the cries and screams of the slaves as the water cascaded down the length of the trireme. Within moments she would settle, and succeeding waves would dash her and all aboard onto the rocks.
    'What's happened?'
    The captain turned and saw Prefect Maxentius emerging from the hatch. The dark mass of land close by and the glistening black of spray-soaked rock were explanation enough. The prefect shouted down through the hatch for the passenger to bring her children up on deck. Then he turned back to the captain.
    'We must get them off! They must get to the shore!'
    While the woman and her children huddled down by the stern rail, Valerius Maxentius and the captain struggled to lash several inflated wineskins together. About them the crew made ready with whatever they could find that might float. The screaming below deck intensified into spine-chilling shrieks of abject terror as the trireme settled further into the dark sea. Abruptly the screams were cut off. One of the crew on deck