A desperate wailing reached the captain from the slaves still chained to their benches. The water was already slopping about their knees and for them there would be no hope of salvation once the ship foundered. Others might survive a while, clinging to the debris before the cold finished them, but for the slaves, drowning was certain and the captain could well understand their hysteria.

The rain turned to sleet and then to snow. Thick white flakes swirled in on the wind and layered themselves on the captain's tunic. His hands were losing all sensation and he realised he must return to the deck before the cold weakened his grip on the rigging. But just as he took the first step down, he glimpsed the dark loom of a headland over the bow. White spray burst over jagged rocks at the base of the cliff, barely half a mile ahead.

The captain rapidly swung himself to the deck and hurried aft towards the steersman.

'Rocks ahead! Hard over!'

The captain threw himself onto the timber handle and strained with the steersman against the pressure of the sea surging past the broad steering paddle overside. Slowly the trireme responded, and the bowsprit began to turn away from the headland. In the glare of the lightning, they could see the glistening dark teeth of the rocks rising from the crashing waves. The roar of their pounding carried even above the howling of the wind. For a moment the bowsprit refused to swing any further towards the open sea and the captain's heart was seized by dark, cold despair. Then a fluke in the wind carried the bowsprit round, clear of the rocks, barely a hundred feet off the bow.

'That's it! Keep her there!' he screamed at the steersman.

With the small spread of mainsail straining under the pressure of the wind, the trireme surged forward, up and over the wild sea. Past the headland the cliff opened out onto a pebbled shore, behind which the land rose with a scattering of stunted trees. Waves pounded up the beach in great sweeps of white foam.

'There!' The captain pointed. 'We'll beach her there.'

'In that surf?' shouted the steersman. 'That's madness!'

'It's our only chance! Now, on the tiller, with me!'

With the paddle biting in the opposite direction, the trireme swung in towards the shore. For the first time that night the captain allowed himself to believe they might yet emerge from this tempest alive. He even laughed with exultation at having defied the worst of the wrath that great Neptune could hurl at those who ventured into his domain. But with the safety of the shore almost within their reach, the sea finally had its way with them. A great swell rolled in from the dark depths of the ocean and lifted the trireme up and up, until the captain found that he was looking down on the shore. Then the crest passed beneath them and the ship dropped like a stone. With a jarring crash that knocked all the crew off their feet, the bows were impaled on a jagged sliver of rock some distance from the base of the headland. The captain quickly regained his footing, and the firm deck under his boots told him that the ship was no longer afloat. The next wave forced the trireme to pivot round, so that the stern was nearest the beach. A rending crash from forward told of the damage being wreaked. From below came the cries and screams of the slaves as the water cascaded down the length of the trireme. Within moments she would settle, and succeeding waves would dash her and all aboard onto the rocks.

'What's happened?'

The captain turned and saw Prefect Maxentius emerging from the hatch. The dark mass of land close by and the glistening black of spray-soaked rock were explanation enough. The prefect shouted down through the hatch for the passenger to bring her children up on deck. Then he turned back to the captain.

'We must get them off! They must get to the shore!'

While the woman and her children huddled down by the stern rail, Valerius Maxentius and the captain struggled to lash several inflated wineskins together. About them the crew made ready with whatever they could find that might float. The screaming below deck intensified into spine-chilling shrieks of abject terror as the trireme settled further into the dark sea. Abruptly the screams were cut off. One of the crew on deck shouted and pointed to the maindeck hatchway. Not far beneath the grating, seawater glinted. The only thing preventing the ship from slipping beneath the water was the rock on which the bows were pinned. One large wave would finish them now.

'Over here!' Maxentius shouted to the woman and her children. 'Quick!'

As the first waves began to break over the deck, the prefect and the captain lashed their passengers to the wineskins. At first the boy protested and wriggled in panic as Maxentius tried to pass the rope round his waist.

'Stop it!' His mother slapped him. 'Be still.'

The prefect nodded his thanks, and finished tying the boy to the makeshift floats.

'What now?' she asked.

'Wait by the stern. When I tell you, jump. Then kick as hard as you can for the shore.'

The woman paused to look at the two men. 'And you?'

'We'll follow you as soon as we can.' The prefect smiled. 'Now, my lady. If you will?'

She allowed herself to be led to the aft rail, and carefully climbed over, clasping her children to her sides, braving herself to jump.

'Mummy! No!' the boy cried out as he stared wide-eyed at the wild sea beneath his feet. 'Please, Mummy!'

'Aelius, we'll be all right. I swear it!'

'Sir!' the captain yelled. 'There! Look there!'

The prefect turned and through the snow-flecked storm he saw a monstrous wave rushing down on them, white spray whipped off its crest by the terrible wind. He just had time to turn back to the woman and scream out an order to jump. Then the wave crashed over the trireme and rolled it onto the rocks. The crewmen on the maindeck were swept away. As Maxentius threw himself backwards over the stern post, he caught one last glance of the captain gripping the main hatch grating, eyes staring at the doom about to engulf him. Icy darkness closed over the prefect, and before he could shut his mouth salt water filled his nose and throat. He felt himself turned over and over as his lungs burned for want of air. Just when he thought he must surely die, his ears momentarily filled with the din of the storm. Then it was gone for an instant, before his head broke the surface again. The prefect gasped for air, kicking out to stay on the surface. The heaving sea lifted him up, and he saw the beach not far off. There was no sign of the trireme. Nor a single soul of her crew. Not even the woman and her children. The swell swept him a little closer to the rocks, and the prospect of being smashed to pieces caused the prefect to renew his efforts to swim for the shore.

Several times he felt certain that the rocks would claim him. But as he struggled towards the beach with all his failing strength, the headland began to protect him from the wildest waves. At length, exhausted and despairing, he felt his feet brash the shingle bottom. Then the riptide drew him back from the shore and he cried out his rage to the gods that he should be denied salvation at this last moment. Determined that he would not die, not yet, he gritted his teeth and made one last supreme effort to make the shore. Amid the pounding foam of another wave, he swept painfully over the pebbles and braced himself to resist the undertow as the wave receded. Before the next wave could crash down on the shore, Maxentius scrambled up the steeply sloped shingle and then threw himself down, utterly spent and gasping for breath.

Around him the storm raged and fresh flurries of snow swirled through the air. Now that he was safely ashore, the prefect realised just how cold his body had become. He shivered violently as he tried to summon the energy to move. Before he could do so, there was a sudden scattering of stones nearby and someone sat down beside him.