Neptune's Fury Read online

  “Are you part of the crew?” Alerio asked.

  “Yes sir. Forward rowing section,” the teen replied.

  “Carry on and watch your sealing technique,” Alerio advised while walking around the aft of the warship.

  On the port side, he found another group of too young and too old applying hemp and tar to the spaces between the hull boards.

  “Has anybody seen Senior Centurion Invitus?” he inquired.

  Several hands pointed towards the front of the ship. Following their lead, Alerio finished circling the trireme and he arrived back at the bronze ram.

  “Dilato Invitus?” Alerio questioned.

  The old man lifted his face and flashed a crooked grim.

  “That’s me, former cavalry officer and now senior Centurion of Furor’s Face,” the man polishing the ram replied. “And who are you?”

  ***

  Alerio and Dilato crawled out of the bilge by placing their knees on the benches used by the lower oarsmen. Then they crawled to the center of the trireme and placed their other feet on the rower’s walk.

  “The leaking is why we only patrol up and down the coast. Never traveling far from Ostia,” Invitus explained with a grunt and a hesitation while he pushed up and stood on the lower walkway. “And why we don’t have a shed? Praetor Sudoris wants the Empire to see the Republic’s Navy as being made up of aging warships.”

  “No offense, sir,” Alerio remarked. “But from the look of your hull, it is an aging warship.”

  “It’s a winter vessel, Sisera,” Invitus remarked.

  “Because it’s in the twilight years of its life?” Alerio questioned. “Like winter marks the end of a year?”

  “No. Because the Furor's Face only lasts for a short day,” Dilato Invitus replied. “and needs a long night to recover.”

  “Perhaps we could sacrifice to the Goddess Angerona,” Alerio suggested. “Maybe she can help.”

  “Sisera. It’ll take more than the goddess who helps men get through the dull days of winter. A lot more to heal these old bones,” Centurion Invitus said. Alerio wasn’t sure if the ship’s Centurion was speaking about himself or the trireme as being old. “The best we could hope from the goddess would be her breaking up the vessel and burning the wood to keep warm.”

  “I don’t believe Praetor Zelare Sudoris would appreciate that,” Alerio commented.

  Then, as if the commander of the Republic’s Navy heard his name, a messenger arrived. Invitus left for a meeting with the Praetor and Alerio walked to the foredeck. Standing looking out at the beach and the horizon, he pondered what life would be like simply patrolling the same stretch of water, day after day.

  Chapter 30 - Winter Vessel

  Invitus came back from the meeting just before night fall. Even in the fading light, Alerio could tell something had the ship’s Centurion excited. There was a spring in his steps while his arms swung in exaggerated arcs and, he had a manic smile plastered across his face.

  “We’re going to sea, Sisera,” he informed Alerio while still climbing the ladder to the deck.

  “I assumed we were, Centurion.”

  “Yes, yes we were after a week of maintenance,” Invitus replied. Then, he brought his hands together and began clenching and unclenching them. “My other two deck officers and the ship’s NCO are away. As are our most experience oarsmen. And we need supplies. And…”

  “Centurion Invitus?” Alerio said interrupting the frantic officer. “When do we leave?”

  “Praetor Sudoris wants, no, let me amend that. He needs us in Syracuse as soon as possible,” Invitus answered.

  “What positions do we need to fill before we row out?” Alerio inquired. Then he thought for a moment and clarified. “Every infantry officer wants a complete unit before he marches to war. But we know it’s a rare case to fill every slot. Tell me your bare minimum.”

  “We have ninety-five, I’d like to have twenty-five more rowers,” Invitus answered. A calm came over him when he realized he didn’t have to do all the preparation for launching himself. Then the Senior Centurion’s eye got glassy and he declared. “That’ll leave us short about fifty. We can row with that, unless we come across an Empire quinquereme. Then we’ll rake its side, destroying their sea worthiness, and snap their oars. It’ll be a glorious to send it to the bottom of the sea. Oh, where was I? That’s right, I’ve got you as a deck officer so we’ll stay with one deck Centurion but we do need an NCO.”

  “Why the rush, senior Centurion?” Alerio questioned. He realized neither the Furor’s Face nor the naval post were equipped rush a launch on short notice.

  “The Qart Hadasht landed a second force at Agrigento,” Invitus reported. “The Legions beat them back but not before they destroyed the main supply depot.”

  “We have allies on Sicilia,” Alerio suggested. “I expect they’ll send resupplies.”

  “King Hiero II of Syracuse has the grain but is afraid to send it over land,” Invitus replied. “He’s demanding escorts from the Republic for his grain transports. That’s where we come in. The Furor’s Face is part of a squadron being sent to Syracuse to shepherd the grain ships to Agrigento.”

  “I’m going to roam Ostia and try to find us personnel,” Alerio informed his Senior Centurion. “If you’ll procure our supplies and travel funds.”

  “Travel funds,” Invitus cried. “I forgot about the ship’s funds. How could I forget that?”

  “You have a lot on your platter, sir,” Alerio remarked. “It’s understandable.”

  “Yes. Of course, I do,” the ship’s commander agreed. “Run along and get me people, Centurion Sisera.”

  “Yes sir,” Alerio said.

  He went to the ladder and climbed to the ground. Rather than go directly to the main part of the naval Post of Ostia, Alerio hooked around the back of the trireme. The Furor’s Face needed oarsmen, and the best source of leads for them was from the ninety-five rowers camped on the port side.

  As he rounded the aft section of the warship, a question occurred to Alerio. Was the compact patrol area usually ordered for the trireme based on the limitations of an old warship or because of the ship’s senior Centurion? It was a mute inquiry. They would launch in the morning on a long journey and there was nothing a junior Centurion could do about it.

  “We need oarsmen,” Alerio announced as he walked into the rowers’ camp. “Who can you get me by morning?”

  ***

  A table rested in the shadow of the ship’s hull. Its location had nothing to do with finding shade from the morning light. Being in the sunlight would be preferable, except for the stiff breeze blowing from the north. If unblocked the wind would scatter the stacks of parchment from the table.

  “Keep the line in order,” Sergeant Adamo Florian instructed the massed rowers. Then he reminded them. “These are your pay records. Don’t get listed, and you don’t get paid. Anyone here want to donate a few months for the glory of the Republic?”

  He stood and eyed the groups of men. All of them held waterskins, bags of grain, and small bundles of personal gear. None of the rowers volunteered to forgo pay during the voyage.

  “I didn’t think so,” Florian stated. “Form a line and keep it straight. Bending around to watch me work will not make the line move faster.”

  The NCO sat, picked up a quill with one hand and signaled a man to step up to the table with the other.

  “Returning crewmember or new?” he asked.

  “Returning,” the next oarsman in line replied.

  Florian’ hand snatched the correct document and positioned it below the pen.

  “Name.”

  On the other side of the hull, Alerio stood in the breeze, holding a wooden plank checking off supplies on a different set of documents.

  “Sail lines, salted pork, two extra hypozomatas,” he said while marking off items as porters wheeled carts from Ostia’s supply depot to the Furor’s Face.

  The ten Legion sailors assigned to the trireme carried or hoi
sted the supplies to the upper deck of the warship. On the deck, the ship’s quartermaster rechecked then sent the items off to be stored in every nook and unused space in the trireme.

  While the rowers were signed on and the supplies loaded, Senior Centurion Dilato Invitus stood with his navigator and his helmsman.

  “Twelve days to Messina,” the navigator offered. “That’s if we don’t hit heavy seas or too much rain. It’s another two days from Messina to Syracuse.”

  “The steerage along the route is not a problem,” the helmsman added. “We’ll trek along the coast virtually the entire way.”

  “Where is Sisera?” the ship’s Centurion asked.

  “Your First Principale is still checking in supplies,” the navigator replied. “Do you want me to call him up?”

  “No. I’m going to inspect the ship,” Invitus announced. “We need to be off or we’ll lose the day.”

  “Yes sir,” both the navigator and the helmsmen responded.

  ***

  Three days later, Invitus finished the morning prayer then signaled a sailor standing on the beach. One hundred of the trireme’s oarsmen shoved the trireme off the beach. Alerio and two of the sailors stood on the foredeck and watched for obstacles. After the ram dipped and scraped the sea bed, it swung up to just below the surface of the water. As the Furor’s Face leveled and floated into the narrow inlet of Procida Island, the rowers scrambled up the sides and onto the warship.

  “Clear,” Alerio shouted down to Sergeant Adamo Florian.

  The Optio standing on the rowers walk, spun and called back to a sailor also on the lower level. “Clear.”

  That sailor called up to the aft deck to alert the ship’s commander, “Clear.”

  “Run them out,” Dilato Invitus ordered.

  “Run them out,” the sailor passed on the command to the Optio who in turn repeated the instructions for the oarsmen in the forward section.

  In response only sixty of the one hundred and twenty oarsmen extended their oars through the oar holes, fixed the oarlocks to prevent the oars from falling completely through, and held the long poles with the blades above the water.

  A sailor on the port side and another on the starboard side watched for late or fouled oars. Once all of them were hovering above the water, the sailors signaled to the commander.

  “Dip oars and stroke,” Invitus instructed. “Stroke, Stroke.”

  The message was passed to the rower’s walk. Oars entered the water, stroked, and the trireme surged ahead, gliding out of the inlet.

  “Musician, pipe us a medium rate,” Invitus directed.

  The ship’s musician picked up his instrument and began playing.

  Alerio turned around and studied the split top deck and the oars entering the water as far back as he could see.

  ‘A winter vessel,’ he thought.

  Every morning the ship started out dry and responsive. Light enough they only needed half the oarsmen to row. This was important because the other half were soon busy bailing water from the bilge. The process wouldn’t last long. Soon the old hull boards would swell and seal the leaks.

  Shortly after launch, the sails were raised and wind power propelled the trireme across the waves. When the hull began to settle by early afternoon, rowers would be added to help maintain the speed of the ship-of-war.

  As the ship settled lower in the sea from the old boards absorbing more water, all the rowers were required. That marked the end of the day. The sails got rolled and the navigator began looking for a place to beach.

  Just as a winter’s day, the old trireme was good for a short day, about forty miles, before needing a long night to dry out. Everyday mirrored the last and they were still nine days from Messina and twelve days from Syracuse.

  ***

  Nine days into the trip, they launched before daylight from the beach at Tonicello. At about forty miles from Messina, they were entering contested waters. Qart Hadasht warships patrolled the strait and along either coasts. Hopefully the Furor’s Face would reach the port of Messina without making contact. An early arrival was the reason for the early departure.

  While Alerio and the crew dreaded coming across one of the enemy’s quinqueremes, the ship’s Senior Centurion felt differently.

  “When I was leading my Century of cavalry,” he announced while quick marching to the foredeck. “We didn’t shy away from a fight. Right at them, I always told my Legionaries. Go right at them and your foe will break, every time. There’s no reason to believe the same isn’t true for warships.”

  Alerio stood watch at the bow, peering into the black before dawn, and listening to Invitus rant. If he thought it would do any good, Alerio would speak to the ship’s Centurion about the reality of taking an aging trireme into combat. And the foolishness of fighting a quinquereme with Furor’s Face. That would be the definition of mad rage.

  When Invitus arrived, he scowled into the gloom as if he could will an enemy warship to emerge out of the darkness. But when the sun rose and no challenger appeared, the Senior Centurion made his way back to the steering platform.

  At mid-day, the coastline split and the helmsmen threw the rear oar to the left and allowed the trireme to circle. Also tracing circles in the waters were two merchantmen waiting to enter the Strait of Messina.

  “What’s the situation?” the navigator shouted to one of the transports.

  “There’s still no driftwood or brown water along the shoreline,” the merchantman called back. “It shouldn’t be long.”

  While the ships circled, Centurion Dilato Invitus went to the rower’s walk. There, he sat with each section of oarsmen. Alerio approved of a commander who cared about his men. It was commendable to interrupt his day to keep the crew motivated with compassionate words. Alerio couldn’t hear the ship’s commander until the Senior Centurion reached the forward gang of rowers.

  “When we go at a quinquereme, it’s all about the angle of attack and closing speed,” Invitus described. “That means I need your backs and hearts into each stroke. Even if we sink afterward, it’ll be worth it to take down one of their big warships.”

  ‘It’s not very motivating to tell a man that he must row his heart out for the privilege of dying,’ Alerio thought.

  The ship’s commander seemed oblivious to the sideways looks he received from the oarsmen when he walked back along the passageway.

  The three ships rotated around an invisible axis until brown water, tree limbs, and leaves began to flow into view along the banks of the Messina strait. With the outer edges displaying the change to a northern flow, the transports and warship straightened and headed south. They would ride the center current, which now flowed in a southernly direction, into the strait.

  While the transports definitely needed help, earlier in the day, the Furor’s Face could have fought the current and rowed against the flow. But it was in the afternoon of a winter vessel’s short day, and the warship required the current in the strait to travel the final ten miles to Messina harbor.

  Chapter 31 - Ship Escorts

  Fires flared to life on the beach. Most were for cooking with long tripods suspending pots high over the flames. A designated chef at each camp poured in grain and water or, the ingredients for stew. Several of the fires close to the hull had old, stained iron crocks on smaller stands. The bottoms of those pots hung just above the embers which allowed the black chunks dropped in by the sailors to be heated and melted. And unlike food, there was little fear of burning the tar sealant.

  “We’ll wait in Messina for a couple of days,” Dilato Invitus informed Alerio. The ship’s senior Centurion ran a hand over the hull boards as he walked. “Praetor Sudoris wants a show of force when we row into Syracuse. Said we should have at least three of our warships to display our resolve to King Hiero.”

  “Resolve for what?” Alerio inquired.

  “That we have the determination and will to go against the Qart Hadasht,” Invitus answered. “both on land and afloat.”

&
nbsp; “It’ll give us time to pack in extra caulking,” Alerio exclaimed. His mind turned over a question. One he pondered broaching since he reported to the Furor’s Face. Deciding this wasn’t the right conversation in which to bring it up, he offered instead. “Although three days or four days would be better for repairs.”

  The two Centurions strolled between the campfires while inspecting the ship. They had completed a circuit and stopped at the forward keel. The senior Centurion lifted a foot and rested it against the beam that supported the ram.

  “I’m looking forward to facing the enemy,” Invitus declared while looking towards the entrance to the harbor. He bent at the waist and patted the bronze ram as if it was a valued mount. “The Empire has quite the reputation. It’ll be good to test myself against them.”

  And there was the opening Alerio needed.

  “Senior Centurion, have you ever been in a battle at sea?” Alerio asked.

  “I have, as yet, not had the privilege of going ram to ram with the Empire,” Invitus replied. “I came close when three of their warships approached the mouth of the Tiber. At the time, my trireme was part of a blockade to stop them.”

  “But you have fought pirates?” Alerio asked hopefully.

  “To my great disappointment,” ship’s officer Dilato Invitus answered. “There are few brigands along the coast flanking Ostia and the Tiber. Much to my dismay, I have not challenged bronze against bronze and delivered Republic justice to any pirates. Why do you ask?”

  “Those are pirate ships,” Alerio offered with a wave of his hand in the direction of beached biremes. “They belong to the Sons of Mars. Each carries one hundred and twenty oarsmen plus men-at-arms. On the east coast of Republic territory, our warships encounter Illyrians. Those pirates are sanctioned by their government. They row triremes and practice the same shock and awe tactics as our heavy infantry.”

  “Yes, yes, I’ve heard the tales,” Invitus blustered. “Whatever is your point?”

  “The Empire deploys neither biremes or triremes,” Alerio told him. “They float quinqueremes. Expertly handled, towering four feet over us with bolt throwers, archers, infantrymen, and three hundred oarsmen. Senior Centurion, it is an entirely different class of warship.”