The Blood of Gods A Novel of Rome - By Conn Iggulden Page 0,118
as Agrippa’s galleys eased out into the black sea. For three nights after finishing the canal, he had waited for perfect conditions to open the final gates, unable to move while a storm whipped the waves too high for his redesigned galleys. Stability had proved the biggest danger, with every one of his innovations adding to the top weight. Time and again, he’d had to abandon some scheme when he found it either slowed the ships or made them a death trap for those inside. The months of building around Lake Avernus had been the most frustrating and fascinating of his life, but he was ready, and even if he had not been, Octavian had sent Maecenas down again to order him out.
For once, his friend was silent as the ships slipped away from the coast. Agrippa sensed Maecenas wanted to be anywhere but there, but his pride had not allowed him to refuse. They would face the enemy fleet together, with just forty-eight galleys. Everything depended on timing and surprise – and luck, which grated on Agrippa when the stakes were so high.
In the darkness, the small fleet communicated with shuttered lamps, sending dim beams across the darkness to mark their positions as they formed up. It had taken most of the afternoon and evening for them to creep down the canal, oars in and silent as men on the ground heaved them forward on ropes. The moment when they were all out on deep water brought a surge of excitement.
Agrippa could not help feeling pride at Roman achievement. His men had built a path to the ocean where none had existed before. They’d crafted immense ships and when ideas had failed or proved too unwieldy, they’d dismantled and begun again without complaint. Agrippa told himself he’d make sure the crews and officers were rewarded, if any of them survived.
The dark swell stretched in all directions, easily capable of hiding a vast host of raptor galleys waiting for them. Agrippa swallowed nervously, clenching and unclenching his big fists as he paced the deck. To the south, the island of Sicily lay across his course, a mass of land and tiny coves that was said to shelter the enemy fleet. His hope was only to come as close as possible before dawn. After that, his new weapons and tactics would succeed or fail. His men had trained continuously, but Agrippa knew they could not yet manoeuvre as easily as veteran crews. He wiped sweat from his forehead as the new ships raised sails into the breeze. His galley eased forward with the rest, the only noise the hiss of water passing under the prow. Sicily cupped the toe of Italy at the far south and they had almost two hundred miles to go. Agrippa continued to pace, picturing his maps in his mind. For all his hopes, he’d been tempted to refuse battle and take his fleet to the east coast where Octavian was crying out for ships. With just a little luck, Agrippa knew he could have beached the fleet further south for a day, then passed the heel of Italy the following night, perhaps before Sextus Pompey even knew he was in those waters. It would have been the right decision if Pompey hadn’t split his fleet and taken a hundred galleys of his own around the heel. The news Maecenas had brought had changed everything.
Under twin blockades, both the major coasts of Italy were closed to trade. Rome was already close to starving and the siege could no longer be endured. It had to be broken. Agrippa felt the responsibility weighing heavily on him. If he failed, Octavian would be bottled up in Rome for years, forced to negotiate or even surrender to the forces of the Liberatores. There was no second chance, Agrippa knew. It all came down to Octavian’s faith in him.
Forty-eight galleys raised sails into the night wind, but Agrippa could hardly see them. The danger of white sails being spotted had led to his men colouring the sheets with the madder herb, dipping them again and again in huge vats until they were a rusty brown that would not reveal their position to anyone with half an eye out to sea. The sails were the colour of dried blood, but they served their purpose.
‘I have a good jug here,’ Maecenas said, clinking it against a clay cup to make his point.
Agrippa shook his head, then realised Maecenas could not see the gesture.