Tyrant: King of the Bosporus Read Free Page B

wedge.
    Whatever the odds, it was well carried out, and despite some spacing issues created by the size of the
Glory of Demeter
, they were formed in a wedge before the enemy could react. Ahead, Leon’s better-trained column had angled in to cover them and then formed a wedge themselves, so that
Golden Lotus
was the centre of the first line and
Black Falcon
was the centre of the second wedge, all rowing east against the flank of the enemy line.
    The enemy ships were caught broadside-on, strung out over a stade of quiet sea in the morning light. Moments before, they had been the horns of a giant envelopment, hunters of the doomed prey. Suddenly they were the target, and the opposite horn was six stadesaway – hopelessly far to take part in the sort of
diekplous
head-to-head engagement that the Alexandrians were forcing.
    Diokles grinned. ‘That was something worth seeing,’ he announced.
    A stade to go, and the enemy ships were turning to face them. The enemy centre, now more than two stades off to the east, was still tangled.
    Another signal from the
Lotus
and the first line picked up speed.
Fennel
took up the stroke in the second line, advancing at battle speed until his helmsman realized his error. The second line was there to take advantage of the chaos caused by the first. They continued to move at cruising speed, and
Fennel
coasted back to his spot.
    ‘Don’t board unless we’re sinking,’ Satyrus said to Abraham. ‘Understand?’
    Abraham gave his sarcastic smile. ‘All too well, brother.’
    They embraced briefly, and then Abraham buckled the cheekpieces on his high-ridged Thracian helmet and ran down the catwalk to the marines that he commanded.
    Satyrus had time to gulp a few lungfuls of air and to feel the flutter in his chest and the cringing in his bowels – the fear that never seemed to change for him when danger came. He spat over the side and prayed to Herakles, his ancestor and patron, for courage.
    Half a stade ahead,
Golden Lotus
seemed to dance, a swift quarter-turn and then back to his course, his oars suddenly in.
Lotus
was the point of the wedge, the first ship to hit the enemy line, and he was ramming an enemy trireme head to head, the most dangerous manoeuvre in war at sea and the most likely to cripple the attacking ship.
    There was a sound not unlike that of two phalanxes crashing into each other – or like a lightning storm ripping through the woods on the slopes of a mountain – and the engagement was over, the
Lotus
already getting his oars out and coasting free, the enemy ship half-turned to starboard and showing his flank to the
Falcon
because the
Lotus
had ripped his starboard oar gallery and mangled his oarsmen on that side.
    ‘Ramming speed,’ Satyrus said.
    Diokles made a face in the stern. The oar master called the new speed and the ship leaped forward.
    ‘What?’ Satyrus asked.
    ‘We’re supposed to break free, not kill ships,’ Diokles said.
    ‘I’m not afraid to fight,’ Satyrus said.
    Diokles shrugged and said nothing.
    ‘Ready for impact!’ Abraham bellowed from the bow.
    ‘Oars in!’ Neiron called.
    Satyrus braced himself against the stern and Diokles crossed his arms over the steering oars.
    As they crashed together, the ram went in, and there was resistance – and then something gave. Men on the deck crew were thrown flat, despite their best efforts, and Satyrus only just kept his feet.
    ‘Reverse oars! Cross your benches!’ Neiron called.
    Satyrus ran forward. The enemy ship, caught almost broadside-on, was turning turtle, his shallow side crushed amidships, so that he was filling with water. But the upper strakes of his well-built hull were caught on the
Falcon
’s ram.
    ‘Back water!’ Satyrus called. ‘We’re caught!’
    The oarsmen had to get under their oars and sit on the opposite bench to put their full strength into backing water. It took precious time.
    Falcon
’s bow began to sink. The strain on the bow timbers was immense, and there