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by catapults on the beach, splashed in the water nearby. Giant arrows roared
overhead. Propelled by three banks of oarsmen, the two
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Robert Weinberg
enemy vessels bore down on them from both sides. On shore, thousands
screamed in excitement.
"Roman triremes," said Isaac, anger clouding his usually despondent features.
Clad in dragonfish leather and armed with two short swords, he no longer looked
the man of peace. "Their ships are much heavier than ours. And legionnaires are
no sailors. If we can steer free, they won't catch us. Beware, though," he said
ominously, "if they get close enough to send on boarding parties. On land or sea,
the soldiers of Rome fight like cornered tigers."
"Sounds like you admire them," said Bowie, his gaze fixed on the approaching
warships.
"I spent most of my life with the legions," answered Isaac, pride ringing in his
words. Then his voice grew harsh. "But then, one day, I recognized the error of
my ways."
The big man turned away before Bowie could follow with another question. After
that, it was time for action.
"Surrender!" bellowed the captain of one of the triremes, now less than a hundred
yards away. "Surrender and you won't be harmed."
"The hell we won't," said Bowie with a snort. He looked over at Bill Mason,
waiting for orders by the ballista. The history teacher, to everyone's surprise, was
an excellent shot with the giant crossbow. He attributed his skill to a cryptic
organization named the SCA. Bowie assumed the group was related in some way
to TV, the AM A, and IRS, all mentioned in passing by the often unintelligible
man from the future.
"You ready, Bill?" he asked, a terrible calmness descending upon him. Bowie
recognized the feeling. It was the same icy madness that possessed him back on
Earth during his many duels. Rezin, his brother, called it a killing rage. "Let's
burn those bastards out of the water. Fire!"
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Mason fired. With a shriek, a fiery crossbow bolt hurtled across the water at the
nearest boat. The historian had added several unique touches to the giant arrow.
Hollow chambers made it scream, while a mixture of grease, mulch, and
gunpowder set it ablaze with an explosive fire. Mason called his special arrows
"Molotov cocktails," and he promised deadly results.
The first arrow missed. It flew over the nearer trireme's sail and landed
harmlessly in the water. Still, it alerted the ship's captain of the potential deadly
danger to his ship. On the deck of the Unfinished Business, they could see the
Roman sailors scrambling to the mast. But not in time.
With a roar, the second ballista bolt slammed into the pirate's sail. Instantly, a
dozen tongues of fire licked at the wood frame and dragonfish membrane. Black
smoke billowed as the ship's deck ignited.
Screaming in fear, the Roman sailors dove off the burning boat and into the
River. Valiantly, a few men remained and tried to fight the fire, but with little
success. The trireme drifted helplessly out of control, no longer a threat.
" 'Ware the second ship!" yelled Crockett, clambering down from the mast. "It's
moving up fast."
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Masked by the black smoke from the first trireme, the other ship hurtled forward
over the water like a shark sensing blood. It was less than a hundred feet from the
Unfinished Business and closing fast, its bow headed directly at theirs. They were
on a collision course that would destroy both boats. "
"Pull in your oars!" Lysander shouted to the Spartans. "Before they are snapped
to kindling!"
Grunting with effort, Thorberg wrenched at the rudder with all of his strength.
Shuddering, the longboat swerved
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Robert Weinberg
to the right. At the same time, the captain of the trireme angled his boat to the
left.
With a crunch of colliding wood, the bows of the two ships met, sending the crews
of both tumbling to the deck. But the force of the blow had been muted by the
sudden shifts in direction. Neither boat was badly damaged. Instead, they floated
only yards away from each other, as the sailors on board scrambled for their
weapons.
The Romans recovered first. With a roar of triumph, they slammed a portable
bridge onto the deck of the Unfinished Business. A metal spike embedded in the
far end of the gangplank held the ships together. In seconds, troops poured over
the plank and onto the longboat.
The first two soldiers died as their feet touched the deck. Socrates, his face devoid
of emotion, thrust his sword into one man's eye, killing him instantly. Without
pausing, the Greek whirled about and caught the second boarder with a backhand
blow to the head. The man staggered off balance, letting down his guard.
Socrates' blade caught him in the throat, ripping it to shreds. For all of his
reputation as a philosopher, the Athenian had served in three campaigns and was
known throughout Greece as a ruthless, deadly fighter.
Other attackers fared little better. By now, Lysander had rallied his warriors with
the cry of "Spartans, forward!" The Greeks responded with a flurry of action that
cleared the deck of invaders. But there were hundreds more Romans, ready to
take their place. They crowded onto the portable gangplank linking the two ships.
Unless that bridge was destroyed, the Unfinished Business was doomed.
Two swords flashing, Isaac leapt onto the narrow platform. Eyes wild, features
contorted with anger, he made no effort to protect himself from his enemy's
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attacks. Instead he fought with an insane rage to match that of a Norse Berserker.
Slashing left and right, he killed a man with each blow. The narrow width of the
gangplank made it impossible for more than one to confront him at one time.
And no one man could stop him.
Soldiers tried, and soldiers died. Others, seeing their death in his eyes, scrambled
back to the safety of their own ship. Single-handed, Isaac cleared the boarding
ramp and held it. Blood spurting from a dozen wounds, he glared at the crew of
the trireme, as if daring them to do their worst. Then, before any could respond,
he leaped back onto the deck of the Unfinished Business.
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"Pull us free," yelled Bowie unnecessarily. Already, a dozen Spartans struggled
with the grappling hook that held the boarding ramp in place. Oak panels
shrieked in protest as the metal claws tore free. Cheering wildly, the Greeks
shoved the platform off the longboat and into the River.
"Spartans, to your oars," commanded Lysander. It was time for a quick getaway.
Casually, Davy Crockett lifted a small bag made of leaves and dried clay from a
storage box on the poop deck. A short vine fuse dangled from its side. Balancing
the object in one hand, he lit the fuse with the firestarter he held in the other.
Shrugging his shoulders, he tossed it over the gap separating the two boats. It
exploded a second later. Surprised Romans screamed in pain as hundreds of
small fragments of quartz and flint filled the air.
"Darned things work pretty good," commented Crockett, lighting a second
grenade. Unconcerned, he watched the fuse sputter. "Short fuses, though."
With a flick of the wrist, he lobbed it at the trireme. Bowie sighed in relief as the
bomb exploded among their
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enemies. Crockett was a bit too casual about death and destruction. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]