The Navigator (NUMA Files 7)

The captain studied the island. Unlike most of the heavily treed shoreline, the sandy riverbank was flat for a few hundred feet before rising into a low, grassy ridge.

“Very well,” he shouted.

The captain told Tarsa to round up a landing party. Tarsa picked four of his most battle-hardened men. Minutes later, the utility boat nudged up to the riverbank. The Scythians stayed with the boat while the captain strode up the sloping beach.

His half brother stood a hundred feet from the shore with arms crossed. He was dressed in full Phoenician regalia, with a richly patterned two-piece tunic under his purple cloak and a conical cap on his head. A gold collar encircled his neck, and his arms and fingers were adorned with gold.

He was the captain’s equal in height, and his handsome face bore a sharp resemblance to his brother’s, with its prominent nose, dark complexion, wavy hair and beard. There were major differences, however. The captain’s regal bearing came across as imperious and arrogant while his half brother’s features were brutish rather than strong. His dark eyes had no depth or softness. His prominent chin hinted at stubbornness rather than determination.

“How wonderful to see you after all these years, dear brother,” Melqart said, with an engaging smile that had more slyness than charm in it.

The captain was in no mood for insincere niceties. “Why are you here?” he demanded.

“Perhaps our father decided that you needed help on your mission.”

“He would never have trusted you.”

“He obviously entrusted you, and you’re a thief.”

The captain’s cheeks burned at the insult, but he held his anger in check. “You haven’t answered my question.”

His half brother shrugged. “I learned that you were on the move. I tried to intercept you, but your ship was too fast and we fell behind.”

“Why has your ship been fit for war?”

“These are dangerous waters.”

“You defy our father by coming here. This would not be his wish.”

“Our father.” He spit out the words. “Our father was a womanizer who slept with your whore of a mother.”

“And your whore of a mother as well?”

Melqart pulled his purple robe back. His hand started toward the pommel of his sword, but he thought better of it and drew his hand it back. “We are foolish to quarre lover family matters,” he soothed. “Let us go back to my ship. I will serve you refreshments, and we can talk.”

“There is nothing to talk about. You will turn your ship back. We will follow.”

The captain spun on his heel and strode back toward the river. He kept his ear cocked for footfalls, in the unlikely event that his brother found the courage to attack him. But the only sound he heard was Tarsa, who cried out:

“Captain! Behind you!”

The Scythian had seen a dozen or so figures rise from the grassy ridge behind the beach.

The captain wheeled as the men sprinted in his direction. Tattoos decorated their shoulders and chests.

Thracians.

Another fierce-eyed race that hired out its skills with the sword and javelin to the Phoenician navies. The Thracians swept by his half brother, who urged them on:

“Kill him! Kill him!”

The captain drew his short broadsword as the screaming Thracians quickly encircled him.

He pivoted to face his attackers, but he couldn’t guard his back. A Thracian moved in with his javelin in throwing position, only to stop short and drop his weapon. Clutching at the feathered shaft protruding from his throat, he let out a wet cough, sank to his knees, and fell forward face-first into the sand.

Tarsa calmly notched another arrow to his bowstring. With no more effort than taking a breath, he killed a second Thracian. The others scattered.

Tarsa’s bowmen unleashed a deadly rain of arrows that found their mark in the backs of the fleeing Thracians.