Raiders were extremely pragmatic people. They came not to die, but to kill. And that was somewhat different.
As soon as their chiefs understood the price of victory was too high, they'd dismantle the camp and from its remains build a huge funeral pyre where they'd burn those who'd fallen in the last battle.
After that they'd drag the ships into the water and wave goodbye with a guilty look. Didn't work out, they'd say, sorry, see you next time.
That's what happened this time, and the Achaean chiefs were completely calm.
There was no tradition here of pursuing an enemy fleeing to sea after defeat. The bastards left, wonderful, we'd bring grateful sacrifices to the gods.
And to think that people who didn't have proper ships would pursue those who did—nobody could even imagine that. It seemed like some kind of madness.
At least both my father and his brother were quite sober-minded guys, and they listened to me.
Though there was a small subtlety here. Happiness in this world wasn't simple chance, it was divine providence. Here a person who had luck was considered a favorite of the gods, and all smart thoughts weren't his own—the gods had whispered them to him.
And if so, it didn't hurt to listen to the will of higher beings.
Seems like some kind of nonsense? No, Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar lived exactly like that, getting blind support from the army.
No wonder every Roman emperor had a mandatory word in his title: Felix, fortunate.
The Strait here was quite wide, twenty to twenty-five stadia, so we left in the evening, then spent half the night making our way along the forest-covered Thracian shore to the Achaeans' anchorage.
Finding them wasn't difficult—the glow of burning villages had painted the darkness of the summer night crimson.
The villages stood empty, people had left and driven off the livestock. But the Achaeans would definitely go inland. They'd come for loot, and they'd take it.
I rowed along with everyone, because a stone that hit my chest wasn't a valid reason for idleness.
We lowered the oars into the water again and again, listening to the quiet rustle of waves.
The sea was calm today, not like yesterday, and the wind was a bit quieter too.
The smell of smoke drifted over the water.
Warriors were fanning coals in pots that they hid under wet hides with all possible care. If they saw us—we were done for. All our efforts would be in vain.
"Damn!" cursed Abaris, a mighty fellow about twenty-five who could lift a horse on a bet.
He looked over his shoulder and waved his oar with some furious frenzy. "The ships are at anchor. Shit!"
Yeah, that was really bad, because our plan was simply brilliant.
Approach the ships at night, pelt them with pots of coals, then get the hell out. If even one ship stayed afloat, they'd catch us and drown us like kittens.
You couldn't escape an Achaean moneres in a merchant tub.
"We're going," I said, and everyone nodded in agreement.
Of course we were going—no way we were turning back for such a trifle.
Abaris passed his oar to a comrade, fanned the fire in the pot and grinned, satisfied.
He'd do the throwing. The noblest warriors had nearly fought over this honor and now envied me with the blackest envy.
Of course, a kid who'd come to his first war had accomplished a feat you could tell your grandchildren about in the evenings.
So my participation in this action wasn't even discussed. I sat and rowed silently.
"Arma, please, close your eye! If you do, I'll sacrifice a sheep to you!" Abaris whispered, raising his face to the moon, which perversely didn't want to hide behind clouds.
It shone with all its might, not even thinking of helping us. Probably the night god had also gotten curious how this whole thing would end.
"Well, suit yourself!" the warrior said angrily and proudly turned away from the night luminary. "Look, I made you an offer! A sheep is a good sacrifice! I'm not giving you a bull for this!"
A hundred paces! Fifty!
The Achaean camp was to our right, a stone's throw away, and now it was the "dog watch," the time before dawn when sleep was deepest.
Yeah... But someone forgot to tell that to somebody.
A tall warrior had untied his loincloth and was thoughtfully holding in his hands the most precious thing a man has, returning excess moisture to the sea god.
"What the hell is that?" he didn't understand, asking sleepily when he saw unfamiliar ships that appeared in the moonlight.
"What the hell indeed!" I hissed angrily and put an arrow in his belly. "Die, bastard!"
The Achaean language was understandable to us—we traded with them, fought them, and took their women as wives.
Many here had second Greek names, received from their mothers.
The Achaean groaned, then started wailing at the top of his lungs, waking both the camp and the sentries who'd been nodding off.
"Go to hell!" Abaris yelled and threw the pot, spinning it properly.
"Steer for the ships!" I shouted. "They can't reach us there! Replace me on the oar!"
The advice turned out to be useful, and we moved away from shore, but the archers on the ships weren't sleeping either.
Still, the Achaeans weren't complete idiots and had drawn some conclusions.
Arrows whistled, and the first wounded and killed appeared among the Dardanians.
I also took aim and shot down an archer on the stern of a moneres, and Abaris threw another pot there.
You know what sailors don't have? Shoes.
They don't need them and they're even harmful, because a leather sandal has much worse grip on the deck.
But there's a significant downside to this. Try stomping out smoldering coals with a bare foot and you'll understand how easy it is to put out a fire on an ancient ship where there's no felt, no fire extinguisher, not even a shield with a permanently attached hook, axe and idiotic red cone-shaped bucket.
None of that exists, but there are sails, coils of ropes, a tarred hull and even oakum soaked in that same tar, which caulked the seams between boards.
And all of it burned beautifully.