The Traitor of Taurida
A Quintus Paulus Adventure
The captain stood at the prow of his ship, peering into the shimmering sea. The late afternoon sun was hot on his tanned neck, but a cooling breeze had started up, making the water choppy and hampering the last leg of their journey. The Osprey, affectionately called Bone Crusher by its crew, plowed through the water, its painted ram glistening in the sun. The ship was one of the fastest in the fleet: a nimble bireme with a shallow draft and sixty oars. The oars were manned by one hundred twenty seasoned rowers; every man a citizen of Rome. The ship also carried a detachment of thirty marines. Five officers commanded the lot.
Duty brought the young Roman officer beyond the borders of the Republic to patrol the coast of Pontus, and this mission would take him further still. A client of the proconsul had gone missing with his family in the waters off Taurida, after conducting business in the Greek colonies there. Pompey, as patron, would be obligated to investigate, and his subordinates in fleet command knew what he would want done. Consequently, Captain Quintus Paulus was ordered to depart from the fleet where it was hunting pirates along the coast and head north across the Euxine Sea with all haste. Success was expected; Paulus’ career depended on it.
“The Euxine Sea,” thought Paulus. “Hospitable? A sailor must have named it. We sailors love our superstitions.” The sea was anything but hospitable. Storms were unpredictable, often giving the pirates chance to flee. And the coastal tribes ranged from distrustful to hostile.
The Roman captain wiped his brow. He closed his sun-tired steely gray eyes and breathed deeply through his noble aquiline nose. He loved that smell.
“The sea,” he said. “The sea.”
Paulus turned his head abruptly as a cry reached him from atop the mast.
“Land ho!”
A cheer went up from the weary rowers who had been plying their oars since dawn with little rest.
They had sailed non-stop from the fleet headquarters at Sinope, traversing one hundred miles of open water in one long day. Paulus rarely pushed his crew that hard, but time was of the essence. The ship put into port at Chersonesus as the sun was setting. The crew made camp; the rowers falling asleep the instant their heads hit the cot, the marines sharpening and oiling their weapons in preparation for the next day’s hunt. Paulus found his quarters, instructed his orderly to wake him at the start of the fourth watch, and slept the sleep of a man favored of the gods.
The air was cool and heavy when Paulus woke to the lighting of a lamp by his orderly. He wanted to get under way before the other ships in port made for open water or followed the dangerous rocky coastline. Paulus gave the order for the crew to make ready. He also sent for the magistrate.
The magistrate arrived half an hour later. Paulus was groomed and dressed for duty, but the ruler of the port town, Symmachus, clearly looked like he had been roused from bed by Paulus’ marines.
“Good,” Paulus thought. “His dereliction led us here. Why should he rest easy when citizens of Rome are in harm’s way?”
Symmachus entered the chamber and without being bid he slumped down into a chair. He yawned and scratched his beard.
“Wine,” he demanded of Paulus’ attendant.
Well trained, the lad stood still. He looked to Paulus, who gave the barest hint of a nod, sending the youth in motion. Paulus waited in silence until the magistrate had his drink.
“Was this quite necessary, captain?” Setting my dogs to barking and rousing me from slumber ere the rooster crows? I would have gladly convened the assembly and received you with all due honors at a more… respectable hour. What does Rome demand of me that could not wait until I have broken my nightly fast?”
“Three days ago, a Roman citizen, Gnaeus Lavinius, and his family went missing off your shores, and are presumed abducted by local pirates. The Senate and people of Rome require your full cooperation in ensuring their safe return.”
“Three days hence, you say? Word travels quickly. I was only informed of their unfortunate demise yesterday morning. As to cooperation, I am, of course, at your service; however, I cannot imagine what that might be. I fear that your Senate and people have sent you on a fool’s errand.”
Paulus scowled.
“Demise? Do you have new information to report? Were remains discovered?”
The magistrate sipped his wine.
“No, no bodies. Regrettably, people do not return from the brigands safe and sound. They do not return at all. No one in the Assembly can recall survivors escaping, neither has ransom ever been demanded. It is as if the captives fulfill some dark purpose for the captors.”
“If they have not yet been recovered, dead or alive, then my mission remains unchanged. What can you tell me of your local brigands?"
“That would be the Tauri, the namesakes of this peninsula. They have been here longer than we Greeks. Barbarians, all of them. It is said that they engage in human sacrifice and even cannibalism.”
“Where can we find them?”
“They mostly infest the mountains, but have a few rocky coves here and there. Sail close enough to shore, and they shall find you.”
“You do not know the locations of their villages?”
“My good man, why would I go looking for trouble?”
“To keep your city safe,” said Paulus, his contempt staining his voice.
“There is more than one way to keep a city safe, captain.”
Paulus narrowed his eyes at the magistrate.
“Very well. I leave at once. You may go.”
The magistrate gulped down his wine to the dregs and stood.
“You sailed from Sinope, yes? Tell me, is there any news of Mithridates? I hear rumors of his return.”
“You know very well that he has fled to Armenia like a dog.”
“A dog! Just because you Romans are bold enough to venture to our city and make demands, do not forget that Mithridates is master here and do not forget what he is capable to doing to Romans.”
“Rome never forgets. And if you need a reminder, I shall inform my master, Pompey, and he will no doubt be pleased to oblige. And should I or any of my crew go missing, he will be here in force.”
Now it was Symmachus’ turn to glare.
“Best of luck to you, captain. Take care.”
When the magistrate was gone, Paulus gave the order to embark. It was time to hunt.
…
A fair wind sped the Osprey out of the harbor and up the coast. The rowers pulled at their oars, their cadence swift and set by the urgent drum beat of the rowing master. Lookouts were posted, their sharp eyes scanning the horizon in all directions for any sign of wreckage or pirates. Paulus guided the warship into every rocky cove and inlet, the banks of which were peppered with fishing villages. The wary women lurked in the shadows of their primitive huts watching the fierce foreigners as they navigated the waterways. Rickety launches stood empty, the boats and their crews at sea in search of a catch.
The day grew late and there was still no sign of the missing Romans or their captors. It was clear that their approach was not going to yield results. Paulus would have to try something else.
The Osprey put in at one of the villages just as the fishermen were returning from their late-afternoon forays. The men unloaded their catch and the women took the fish to be dried or cooked fresh. The Roman captain observed the work as it was done; he also identified which groups were friends and which were rivals. He ordered his marines to detain two men, bitter rivals as it seemed, and had them brought on board the Osprey. On the deck of the ship, he had a table laid out, and on the table he placed a handful of silver coins and a pair of pliers.
“You are both going to tell me where we can find the pirates. The first one to do so will get money; the second, pain. If I get differing answers, you both get these.”
Paulus slammed down a handful of long iron nails.
“Then I try again with two of your kin.”
The offer never failed to work. Today, the savvier of the men was short and balding with scars bearing testimony to a life of dangerous work at sea. He got the silver. The other man got three broken fingers. Paulus got the location of the preferred hunting grounds of the pirates.
The Osprey set anchor in a secluded cove and the crew passed the night aboard the ship, while Paulus and his officers planned for the morning.
…
Armed with the knowledge of where the pirates preferred to ambush their prey, Paulus went about setting a trap of his own. He ordered the ship’s skiff be made to look like a rundown fishing vessel, the likes of which the local fishermen might use. When the disguise was prepared, the vessel was lowered into the water. Paulus took command of the skiff, leaving his navigator in charge of the Osprey in his absence. As his own crew, he selected a rower and two marines. The skiff could accommodate more, but Paulus did not want to invite the suspicion that a larger contingent would draw.
They sailed up the coast, leaving the Osprey to follow at a distance, out of sight. The aim was to lure the pirates in with an easy target, then signal the Osprey with a horn when contact was made. No ship of the barbarian pirates would be a match for a Roman warship.
The early morning fog was thick. There was no sign of the Osprey, but Paulus trusted his officers to keep a steady pace and fulfill their part of the plan with precision.
Tacking close to shore, the skiff drew near the cove that the local fishermen had told them about. Through the haze, Paulus scanned the cliffs and wood lines of the beaches. Someone was out there, watching. There was no sign of them, but Paulus could feel it all the same. So could his men. The marine nearest Paulus fingered the pommel of his sword where it was concealed under his cloak. The rower pulled at his oars, eyes closed and muttering a prayer to the god he hoped would be most sympathetic.
They pressed on into the mist. Paulus turned and with a sharp command ordered the rower to raise oars. He had heard something: a susurrus out of place in the stillness of the morning. Four sets of eyes peered as far as they could into the distance, ears straining to pick up any sound other than the gentle lapping of the water against the bleached boards of the skiff.
“Make ready,” whispered Paulus, gripping his own sword, while keeping his gaze fixed in the direction of his concern.
Paulus’ heart pounded in his chest. He could not remember the last time he had been afraid going into an engagement; now he just felt the impatience of waiting for combat to commence. He hated waiting. When his ship was on a ramming course, or he was jumping into the melee, sword and dagger in hand, he was confined to that moment, to the strike and counterstrike. There was nothing more thrilling than testing his mettle against other warriors and coming out victorious when everything was at stake.
The captain whipped his head to the right, seaward. There was a new sound, approaching quickly.
“Turn hard to starboard,” he shouted. “Make for shore!”
Before the rower could dip his oars in the water, a massive form emerged from the swirling mist. Riding before it, a terrible gorgon’s head cut through the water, its eyes wide and glistening: the painted ram of a warship. A moment later the ram crashed into the skiff amidships. The perfect blow. Planks shattered, and Paulus was thrown into the sea.
…
Paulus awoke back on land. He opened his eyes to darkness. His feet were bound, as were his hands behind his back. The ground beneath him was hard, and rocks dug into his body painfully. He sat up taking a deep breath. The air was damp and filled with the scent of human filth and panicked sweat. To his left someone coughed.
“Who’s there?” he called out, his voice resonating off of the walls and ceiling of what he determined to be a cavern.
“Marcus, sir. Legionary.”
“Very good,” said Paulus. “What of the other men, Titus and Numa?”
“Present, sir. Legionary Titus. Numa was lost at sea.”
“Have you gathered any information on our captors? Any sense of their strength or disposition?”
“Armed well enough, but not armored. Weapons must just be taken from captives. The force that took us was easily fifty strong, not counting rowers. Their language was strange to me.”
Paulus looked around, his eyes were adjusting to the dark and he could see light around a bend in the cavern. He could also see his men.
“Sir, you should also know, we are not alone in the cave.”
Paulus spoke into the darkness.
“Gnaeus Lavinius, are you here, sir?”
The captain heard only crying from across the cave.
“Sir,” said Marcus quietly, “only the lad, Publius, and the girl, Lavinia. They don’t talk much, but from what I could gather the mother didn’t survive capture and Gnaeus Lavinius was taken away the first night and never returned. Lots of drums and chanting, they said.”
As if on cue, drums started pounding from without the cavern. Paulus groaned, rising to his unsteady feet. His head throbbed. He hopped and shuffled toward the entrance to the cave. It was blocked by a rough wooden door, but there were enough gaps in the planks to look outside. Two armed men stood guard, backs to the door. Beyond them a torch-lit path curved around the rocks toward the sound of the drums.
The guards spoke to each other in a strange language. They snapped to attention as three more men walked around the bend. Paulus hopped back to his men.
“Someone is coming. Help me with these bonds.”
Back-to-back, the captive Romans struggled with their bonds, but they were unable to loosen them before the door to the cavern swung open and the three men entered. Cast in shadow by the torches carried in behind him, the man at the lead pushed Paulus and Marcus roughly to the ground.
“That is quite enough of that, Roman,” said the man in impeccable Latin. “What is your name, centurion?”
Paulus looked at the man in puzzlement. Among these savage bandits he would have been surprised to hear passable Greek, let alone Latin. Who was this man? Paulus strained to see his face, but he kept it concealed in shadow.
“I would have your name first,” said Paulus.
The man laughed.
“You are wondering how I know of your ways. Well, I have plenty of experience with your people. The sword we took off you when we plucked you from the sea was finer than that of a common soldier, but not so fine that you are a noble or a knight.”
“I demand that you release us and return Gnaeus Lavinius. In the name of the Senate.”
Another laugh, this one born of genuine surprise.
“No, I will not. If your Senate wanted my compliance, they should have sent more men. As it is, you will all die tonight, and your heads can join Lavinius’ as ornaments on my lodge.”
The man pointed at Marcus where he lay.
“Starting with you.”
Paulus snarled and tried to get to his feet, but he received a vicious kick that knocked the air from his lungs and left him gasping. Before he could try again, the two guards rushed in, picked up Marcus by the arms and dragged him kicking and cursing out of the cave.
“Pray to your gods now, Roman, for you will soon be meeting ours.”