The drumbeat echoed off the wooden bulkheads, reverberating in a rhythmic staccato of flawless precision. The celeusta rapped methodically at his goatskin drum in a smooth yet mechanical fashion. He could bang for hours without missing a beat — his musical training based more on endurance than harmony. Though there was a recognized value to his steady cadence, his audience of galley rowers simply hoped that the monotonous performance would soon reach an end.

Lucius Arcelian rubbed a sweaty palm across his leggings, then tightened his grip on a heavy oak oar. Pulling the blade through the water in a smooth motion, he quickly matched strokes with the men around him. A young native of Crete, he had joined the Roman Navy six years earlier, attracted by lucrative wages and an opportunity to acquire Roman citizenship at retirement. Physically tested in the years since, he now aspired only to advance to a less laborious position aboard the imperial galley before his arms completely gave out.

Contrary to Hollywood myth, slaves were not used aboard ancient Roman galleys. Paid enlistees propelled the ships, typically recruited from seafaring lands under the empire’s rule. Like their legionary counterparts in the Roman Army, the enlistees endured weeks of grueling training before being put to sea. The oarsmen were lean and strong, capable of rowing twelve hours a day, if need be. But aboard the Liburnian-type bireme galley, a small and light warship that featured just two banks of oars on either side, the oarsmen acted as supplemental propulsion to a large sail rigged above deck.

Arcelian gazed at the celeusta , a minuscule bald man who drummed with a pet monkey tied beside him. He could not help but notice a striking resemblance between the man and the monkey. Both had big ears and round jolly faces. The drummer wore his mug in a constant look of mirth, grinning at the crew with bright wily eyes and chipped yellow teeth. His image somehow made the rowing easier, and Arcelian realized that the galley’s captain had made a wise choice in selecting the man.

“Celeusta,” called out one of the rowers, a dark-skinned man from Syria. “The wind blows fierce and the waters seethe. Why hath we been given the command to row?”

The drummer’s eyes lit up. “It is not for me to question the wisdom of my officers or else I, too, would be pulling an oar,” he replied, laughing heartily.

“I would wager that the monkey could row faster,” the Syrian replied.

The celeusta eyed the monkey curled up beside him. “He is a rather strong little fellow,” he replied, playing along. “But in answer to your question, I know not the answer. Perhaps the captain wishes to exercise his talkative crew. Or perhaps he simply desires to run faster than the wind.”

Standing on the upper deck a few feet above their heads, the galley’s captain gazed fitfully astern at the horizon. A pair of distant blue-gray dots danced on the turbulent waters, gradually increasing in size with each passing minute. He turned and looked at the breeze filling his sail, wishing that he could run much, much faster than the wind.

A deep baritone voice suddenly disrupted his focus.

“Is it the wrath of the sea that weakens your knees, Vitellus?”

The captain turned to find a robust man in an armored tunic staring at him with a derisive gaze. A Roman centurion named Plautius, he commanded a garrison of thirty legionaries stationed aboard the ship.

“Two vessels approach from the south,” Vitellus replied. “Pirates both, I am most certain.”

The centurion casually gazed at the distant ships, then shrugged.

“Mere insects,” he said without concern.

Vitellus knew better. Pirates had been a nemesis to Roman shipping for centuries. Though organized piracy in the Mediterranean had been wiped out by Pompey the Great hundreds of years ago, small groups of independent thieves still preyed on the open waters. Solitary merchant ships were the usual targets, but the pirates knew that the bireme galleys often carried valuable cargo as well. Contemplating his own vessel’s lading, Vitellus wondered whether the sea-borne barbarians had been tipped off after his ship had left port.

“Plautius, I need not remind you of the importance of our cargo,” he stated.

“Yes, of course,” the centurion replied. “Why do you think I am on this wretched vessel? It is I who has been tasked with ensuring its safety until delivery is made to the Emperor in Byzantium.”

“Failure to do so would mean fateful consequences for us and our families,” Vitellus said, thinking of his wife and son in Naples. He scanned the seas off the galley’s bow, noting only rolling waves of slate-colored water.

“There is still no sign of our escort.”

Three days earlier, the galley had departed Judaea with a large trireme warship as escort. But the ships had become separated during a violent squall the night before, and the escort had not been seen since.

“Have no fear of the barbarians,” Plautius spat. “We will turn the sea red with their blood.”

The centurion’s brashness was part of the reason that Vitellus had taken an instant disliking toward him. But there were no doubts about his ability to fight, and for that the captain was thankful to have him near.

Plautius and his contingent of legionaries were members of the Scholae Palatinae , an elite military force normally assigned to protection of the Emperor. Most were battle-hardened veterans who had fought with Constantine the Great on the frontier and in his campaign against Maxentius, a rival Caesar whose defeat led to the unification of the splintered empire. Plautius himself bore a wicked scar along his left bicep, a reminder of a fierce encounter with a Visigoth swordsman that nearly cost him his arm. He proudly wore the scar as a badge of toughness, an attribute that nobody who knew him dared to question.

As the twin pirate ships drew near, Plautius readied his men along the open deck, supplemented by spare galley crewmen. Each was armed with the Roman battle accoutrements of the day — a short fighting sword called a gladius , a round laminated shield, and a throwing lance, or pilum . The centurion quickly divided his soldiers into small fighting groups in order to defend both sides of the ship.

Vitellus kept a fixed eye on their pursuers, who now stood within clear sight. They were smaller sail- and oar-driven vessels of sixty feet in length, roughly half the size of the Roman galley. One displayed pale blue square sails and the other gray, while both hulls were painted a flat pewter to match the sea, an old disguise trick favored by Cilician pirates. Each vessel carried twin sails, which accounted for their superior speed under brisk winds. And the winds were blowing strong, offering the Romans little chance of escape.

A glimmer of hope beckoned when the forward lookout shouted a sighting of land ahead. Squinting toward the bow, Vitellus eyed the faint outline of a rocky shoreline to the north. The captain could only speculate as to what land it was. Sailing primarily by dead reckoning, the galley had been blown well off its original course during the earlier storm. Vitellus silently hoped they were near the coast of Anatolia, where other ships of the Roman fleet might be encountered.

The captain turned to a bulldog-shaped man who wielded the galley’s heavy tiller.