Companions (The Parthian Chronicles) (55 page)

‘Have a care,’ Athineos shouted, ‘enemy archers.’

‘They will pick off the rowers first,’ I said, ‘leaving us dead in the water.’

Athineos began steering the ship away from the left-hand breakwater where the Romans and archers were positioned, but he had limited room for manoeuvre if he wanted to avoid a collision with the other breakwater.

‘Get those men in the rowboats back to the ship,’ I told him.

Athineos shouted to his second-in-command, a filthy wretch with a lice-infested beard, to get the rowers out of the water as he called to his men on the rigging to get down on deck.

‘Everyone should get below deck,’ he said. ‘I can steer on the other side of the boat so the cabin will be a shield. What are you going to do?’

‘Show these Romans what a Parthian can do with a bow.’

Actually there was only one Parthian – me – the others being a Gaul and a Ma’adan as I lined up with Gallia and Surena near the prow and the rowers returned to the ship clambering up the sides. Everyone was despatched to the hold, including Hippo and Anca from the cabin, because scorpion bolts could go straight through the cabin’s walls. Not that I intended to allow them to shoot.

Domitus, Drenis, Arminius and Cleon held Roman shields at the gunwale, with enough space between them to allow us to shoot our bows from the gaps between them.

‘A choice bit of foresight on your part,’ Domitus said to me, ‘leading that charge to capture more arrows. I suppose you knew they would try to cut us off at the breakwater.’

In truth I did not. ‘Of course, Domitus. That is why I am a king and you are a mere general.’

We had dumped the quivers on the deck behind us and now Gallia and Surena were nocking arrows in their bowstrings.

‘Hit the crews of the scorpions first,’ I said. ‘Those weapons can cause us real damage. We can withstand their arrows.’

The
Cretan
was still drifting towards the open sea, though at an agonisingly slow pace now that it was no longer being towed. The scorpion crews were siting their weapons, which were around three hundred paces away. Well within range. They appeared to be more focused on ensuring deadly accuracy rather than a high rate of fire, for which I thanked Shamash. I nocked an arrow, raised my bow and pulled the bowstring back to full draw. Time slowed to almost nothing and I was taken back to my youth, to my first ‘baby bow’ that I was given at the age of eight. I remembered my tutors: frail, white-haired men who made shooting a bow seem like a sport of the immortals.

‘You may be a pampered little prince,’ I had been told, ‘but only constant practice will make you a competent archer. In this you are no different from the poorest farmer.’

They had told my father that I was not an instinctive archer, though I had had no idea at the time what that meant. But they said that I could become a good bowman as long as I trained every day and listened closely to my tutors. And that is what I did. Hours spent honing hand/eye coordination, ensuring no more than four inches of arrow stuck out in front of my bow hand when the bowstring was at full draw. After my hand had been thwacked by a cane held by my instructor the old goat explained why.

‘It produces inconsistent accuracy in the flight of your arrows and also adversely affects trajectory and penetration.’

‘Concentration, that is the key,’ another instructor had informed me during my teenage years. ‘If an archer cannot concentrate on his shooting he will never be able to master the skill.’

Years spent on shooting ranges loosing arrows from the saddle when even riding at speed did not spare me their admonishments.

‘Keep the shaft as close to your eye as possible without distorting your vision and breathe correctly.’

‘How can you tell if I am breathing correctly when I am riding by you in the saddle?’

My impertinent questions were invariably answered by cane strikes on my knuckles. But for all their pettiness and sadistic indulgences they taught me the art of shooting a bow until it became second nature. As I pulled back the bowstring to full draw I took a deep breath, let out some air from my lungs to dispel any tension and then held my breath until I released the bowstring.

‘A quiet mind cannot exist in a tense body.’

The arrow flew through the air, arching slightly upwards and then falling as it spun towards its target. I saw the iron tip strike one of the Roman soldiers, knocking him to the ground. The arrows of Gallia and Surena also found flesh as we stooped to retrieve more arrows.

How I would have liked Gafarn to be standing with me. My adopted brother was one of the finest archers in Hatra and probably among the best in the whole Parthian Empire. He was that rarest of things: an instinctive archer. When he shot a bow he used only his sight and instincts to hit the target. He practised, of course, but as my instructors informed my father after Gafarn had picked up a spare bow on a shooting range one day and proceeded to out-perform all the other boys, including myself, the gods had blessed him with a rare talent.

Some masters would have had Gafarn’s hand cut off for his insolence but my father, perhaps thinking it would encourage me, indulged his abilities. The sons of Hatra’s nobles hated Gafarn because despite his lowly status he was more skilled with a bow than they. And skill with a bow was one of the things that defined a Parthian lord; indeed, defined him as a man.

‘A true instinctive archer can snuff out a candle with an arrow in total darkness,’ my last instructor had told me when I had reached my twenty-first year, ‘when he cannot see his arrow, his hand or anything else except the candle’s flame.’

I had laughed aloud when he told me this. But my derision was silenced two days later when Gafarn did this in a blacked-out room in the palace.

We shot slowly, methodically, as the Cretans replied, their missiles slamming into the shields held up by our comrades. But the Romans and Cretans had no shields and as our arrows began to cut them down their volleys became less accurate and more irregular. We each selected our targets before releasing our bowstrings. It is better to shoot a dozen arrows well than a hundred poorly.

An arrow hissed over my head and slammed into the mast, another two struck the gunwale and five more sliced through the mainsail. But neither of the scorpions shot a bolt at us as
The
Cretan
eased past the breakwaters and drifted into the blue waters of the Aegean. The wind caught the
artemon
and mainsail and propelled the vessel to the right. Athineos struggled with the steering oars to restore its course and prevent us from careering into the right-hand breakwater. The Cretans loosed a last volley that sent arrows skidding dangerously across the deck, two lodging in one of my quivers and splintering several shafts, but fortunately causing no casualties.

Athineos bellowed to us to get the hatches open to release the crew to retrieve the rowboats as the sails billowed and we began to pick up speed. The shield bearers placed their missile-peppered
scuta
against the gunwale and smiled boyishly at each other and us. I embraced Gallia as the others ran to the hatches and shouted to those below that we had escaped Ephesus.

Alcaeus stayed with the wounded sailors in the hold but the others came on deck and raised their heads to the heavens and thanked their gods for their delivery. Anca was crying tears of joy as she and Burebista embraced each other, both looking deliriously happy. Cleon, still clearly disappointed at having been forced to flee from Ephesus, at least managed a smile as the gorgeous Hippo dazzled him with the most beautiful smile and kissed him tenderly on the lips. I saw Surena go to work with his dagger on the main mast, carefully prising an enemy arrow from the wood and slipping it into a quiver. I soon was doing the same. We had shot off a good deal of the arrows we had captured on the wharf so it would be wise to retrieve as many as we could.

The sailors went back to their tasks after first hauling the two rowboats back on board and securing them to the deck. It was late afternoon now and the sea resembled a dazzling shimmering lake as the sun sank low on the western horizon. The breeze was pleasant, the day still warm and I raised my arms and thanked Shamash for His mercy in allowing us to escape from Ephesus. The Lord of the Sun had certainly smiled on this day.

Gallia was chatting to Hippo and Cleon, showing the former how to hold a bow and pull back the drawstring. The high priestess was delighted to be able to hold the bow of the Queen of the Amazons. Surena was slipping off the bowstring from his bow and counting the number of arrows in his quiver. Domitus sauntered over, holding his shield that resembled a pincushion.

‘Let’s hope that old witch we met on Cyprus was right,’ he said.

‘She is a seer,’ I told him, ‘someone who can see the future. Of course she is right.’

He placed the shield against the gunwale. ‘I have just been talking to one of the sailors and he is mystified as to why we are sailing north instead of south.’

‘We go to seek the lions of Lemnos,’ I said.

He rolled his eyes. ‘You sure you didn’t get a knock on the head back in Ephesus? The sailor said that there is nothing north except trouble.’

‘If we went back to Syria then we definitely would be asking for trouble,’ I said.

‘So where are we heading?’

I had no idea, only that we had to get to Lemnos. And after that? I shrugged vacantly.

‘Very reassuring,’ he muttered.

He looked around at those on deck, his eyes resting on Cleon and Hippo who resembled love-struck teenagers.

‘What are you going to do with them?’

I gave him another shrug. ‘I don’t intend to do anything with them.’

He drew his
gladius
from its scabbard and began examining the blade for signs of any chips along the edges.

‘Well, let us assume we get back to Dura, a big assumption. If the Romans find out you are harbouring a man wanted for inciting a riot at Ephesus they will either demand him back or march an army into your kingdom to take him back. Then there is the high priest.’

‘Kallias? I think we can handle his army of over-dressed temple guards.’

He raised an eyebrow at me. ‘He will want his high priestess back so he can burn her for her sacrilege and will be using all his influence to persuade the Romans to send an army to get her back.’

‘And what would my general’s advice be?’ I asked.

He looked at the land on our starboard side. ‘Dump them on the nearest island we come to.’

‘I will think on the matter.’

He picked up the
scutum
. ‘Meaning you will ignore it. I despair, Pacorus, I really do.’

He marched off to complain to Drenis and Arminius about me, shouting at Surena to stop playing with his dagger and do something useful. I smiled. It was good to see him happy. I walked over to where Burebista and Anca were both staring out to sea.

‘A fine view,’ I said.

They both turned, Anca sheepishly avoiding my eyes as she stared at the deck.

‘In all the excitement of this day I have not had chance to speak to you, Anca. I apologise for my bad manners.

She still averted my eyes. ‘No apologies are needed,
dominus
.’

I smiled and reached out to hold her arm. ‘I am not your
dominus
but would be your friend. Please, be at ease.’

She looked at me, her eyes brown and bright. She looked as though a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

‘What part of Dacia do you come from, Anca?’

‘I have never seen Dacia, lord,’ she replied, her eyes filled with sadness. ‘I am the daughter and granddaughter of slaves.’

‘I promised to take her back to our homeland, lord,’ said Burebista, ‘though until today I had no idea how I would do so.’

‘Parthia always has room for excellent commanders, Burebista,’ I told him. ‘I cannot promise you long life but I can guarantee prosperity and a life of freedom.’

Anca looked concerned. I smiled at her.

‘The decision would rest with both of you, naturally.’

‘Dacia calls us, lord,’ replied Burebista. ‘We go back to raise the standard of resistance against the Romans.’

Still the same old Burebista: reckless and headstrong. Just the type of leader Dacia would need if it was going to withstand the might of Rome. Anca looked alarmed. I turned to see Athineos’ unkempt second-in-command whose eyes settled on Anca’s ample bosom.

‘Skipper wants to see you,’ he uttered to me as the corner of his mouth curled up to form a leer as he continued to stare at Anca’s chest.

Burebista placed himself between his woman and the lecherous sea dog.

‘You have delivered your message.’

The sailor looked at the muscled Dacian before him, picked something out of his nostril and wandered off. I made my excuses and walked to where Athineos stood steering the vessel. Veins bulged on his thick forearms as he gripped the rudder to steer
The
Cretan
north. He looked even fiercer than usual as the dipping sun turned the sky orange and the wind continued to drop.

‘How good are your eyes?’ he snapped.