"It is not my pleasure to fight our own men," said Eodan coldly.
"But—but—Well, so be it, my chief."
Eodan turned back to the others. "I agree thus far. You may have the vessel after I have disembarked at my goal. Meanwhile, I advise you to learn better seamanship!"
"But, Master Captain," said Quintus, "we know you and the honored mate are the best fighters aboard. We want you to lead us."
Eodan shook his head.
"Well—will you lead us against any ships we may happen to find before you depart?"
Eodan shrugged. "As you like, provided I think it is safe."
"Oh, indeed, Master, indeed!" The boy spun around to face the men, raising his arms. "Give thanks to the captain!"
"Hoy!" cried Demetrios in dismay. "What about me?"
"You'll do as you're told," said Tjorr.
Demetrios gulped and looked appealingly at Flavius. The Roman smiled, winked and came down the poop ladder. "Your watch," he said.
After a while Eodan began to regret not following Tjorr's counsel. His crew had become still more slatternly. Now they would do nothing but sit about boasting of their future, until he finally kicked them into sullen labor. Quintus sidled up in the afternoon and proposed that the weapons be handed out so the men could practice. Eodan told him they should first practice being sailors. Quintus argued. He would not stop arguing until Eodan finally knocked him to the deck; then he slouched off, muttering, to find his big friend.
Toward evening, Hwicca came on deck. She was supported by Phryne, and her face was pale. Eodan's heart turned over. He went to her and asked, "Do you feel well, my darling?"
"Better," she said dully. "But so tired."
Phryne, who had not followed their Cimbric, said angrily to Eodan: "She shivers with cold.Ihave no warmth to give her!"
He said in the Northern language, "Would you have me stay with you tonight, Hwicca?"
"As you wish," she said. "You are my husband."
Eodan left her, went to the hearth and struck the cook with his fist for a bad supper.
Presently Hwicca returned to the cabin. Phryne sought Eodan. Was it only the sunset that reddened her eyes? She said in a jagged tone, "I do not know what is wrong between you two. I can only guess. But I will sleep no more with her."
"You can have the tent back, then," said Eodan bitterly, "and I will roll a blanket on deck, since it appears we must all be sundered from each other."
"Before Hades, I wonder now if she may not be right!" yelled Phryne. She stamped her foot, whipped about and ran to the tent.
She was still wearing the boy's tunic, bare-legged, for there were no women's garments aboard save Hwicca's dresses, too large for her. Quintus, squatting by the rail with his friend, the big man called Narses, stared after the Greek girl and smacked his lips.
Eodan paced the deck in wrath, wondering what unlucky thing he had done. Well, the night wind take them all! Phryne, who would not help his wife when she needed help, and Hwicca, who had become a Roman's whore, and—by the Bull, no, he would not say that of her! If it were true, the only thing would be to cast her off, and he would not do that.
He raised his hands toward the early stars. "I would pull down the sky if I could," he said between his teeth. "I would make a balefire for the world of all the world's gods, and kindle it, and howl while it burned. And I would tread heaven under my feet, and call up the dead from their graves to hunt stars with me, till nothing was left but the night wind!"
No thunderbolt smote him. The ship ran onward, dropping the dark mass of Sicily astern; the last red clouds in the west smoldered to ash and then to night; the moon stood forth, insolently cool and fair. Eodan had no wish to sleep, but he saw that Demetrios was dangerously worn, so he sent the man aft to rouse Flavius and Tjorr.
"We can hold this course all night, they tell me," he said to the Alan. "The wind is falling, so we won't go too far. Call me if anything seems to threaten."
"Da." Tjorr's small bush-browed eyes went from Eodan to the closed cabin door. He shook his head, and the moonlight showed a bemused compassion on his battered face. "As you will, Captain."
Flavius hung back, well into the shadows. He did not follow Tjorr and the new watch aft until Eodan had departed.
The Cimbrian rolled himself into his blanket forward of the mast, so the sail's shadow would keep the moon from his eyes. He sought sleep, but it would not come. Now and again he heard bare feet slap the planks, a man on watch or one come from below for some air. It was warmer tonight than before; his skin prickled. He cursed wearily, forbade himself to toss about and lay still. If he acted sleep, perhaps he could draw sleep.
It seemed as though many hours went by. Surely the night was old. He opened one eye. The same stars, the same moon—it had only been his thoughts, treading the same barren circle. What use, he thought, was a kingdom, what use even was freedom, when—
There was scuffling, very faint, up in the bow. Eodan opened both eyes. Some noise, mice—no, it was heavier. He glanced aft. He could see Flavius and the helmsman, Tjorr blocky against the Milky Way. They had seen nothing, heard nothing; indeed it was very faint. Up in the crow's-nest, the lookout stood gazing into nowhere.
Well, no matter. The bow lookout would have cried any needful alarm.
Eodan sat up. But where was the man in the bow? He remembered dimly that, yes, the Narses man had traded for that watch about sundown. Narses' hulking shadow did not show above the forecastle. There was only Phryne's tent.
With a cold thought of long-necked monsters raiding ships' decks for their food, Eodan sprang to his feet. Sword out, he glided toward the forecastle. Up the ladder—The struggle was within the tent.
Eodan howled and lifted its flap. Moonlight splashed Quintus' grinning face. He knelt on Phryne's arms, one hand over her mouth and the other on her breast. "No one has to know, my beautiful," he had been whispering. Narses' knees held her thighs apart; he was just lifting her tunic.
Eodan struck. He felt his blade grate along a rib. Narses' hands loosened. He straightened on his knees, plucking at the steel in his side. Eodan pulled it out, and Narses coughed up blood. Eodan struck him again, between the jaws, so that it crashed. The sword came out the back of his neck.
Quintus leaped from the upper deck. "Help!" he wailed. "Help, men, help!"
Phryne struggled from beneath Narses. Her tunic was drenched black under the moon with his blood. "Are you harmed?" croaked Eodan out of horror.
"No," she said in a blind, stunned fashion. "You came soon enough—" She looked at her dripping garment, and a shudder went through her. She undid her belt and flung the tunic over the side. "But I would have bled so much less!" she cried.
"What is it?" bawled Tjorr. "Stand fast!"
The crew boiled from the hatch. Eodan put his foot on Narses' face and tugged the sword free; it took all his strength. He sprang down to the main deck. "Where is Quintus from Saguntum?" he roared. "Bind me that offal before I kill the rest of you!"
They swirled and screamed on deck, blue shadows mingled in the white relentless moonlight. Tjorr went among the crew, striking with the butt of his hammer. Eodan saw Quintus huddled up against the poop, hands raised before his face. "There!" he shouted. "There!"
"Help!" shrieked the boy. "Help me! He has gone mad, shipmates! Hold off that barbarian!"
It was a while before some sort of calm had been restored. Then Eodan stood before Quintus and said, "This creature tried to violate a woman. You have heard the punishment. Nail him up!"
"No, no, no," chattered Quintus, "it isn't so, mates, it isn't so. She lured us herself, she did, she begged us to come to her—look at her there, flaunting herself—" Their eyes all went forward, where Phryne wept as she stood at a water bucket sponging Narses' blood off her skin—"it's just his jealousy!—this barbarian is a worse tyrant than overseer ever was. Are you going to stand for this, mates?"
Tjorr tossed his hammer in the air. "That you are," he said, "or feel my little kissing engine here. Bring us some rope. Up this dog goes!"
By now Flavius and Demetrios had joined the crowded, frightened band. The Roman stepped forth, raising an arm. Moonlight outlined him white and clean as some marble god. He said in easy tones:
"Of course I was taken prisoner, so perhaps I've no right to speak. But I do still think of myself as a shipmate, I'm a sailor, too, for pleasure, and we're all on this same keel together. So if you would hear my words—"
"Be still!" said Eodan. "This is nothing worth talking about."
Hwicca came from her cabin. "What is it?" she asked. "What has happened?"
She looked so young and alone that a Power seized upon Eodan. Willy-nilly, he must go to reassure her. And meanwhile Flavius waved an angry Tjorr aside, casually, and went on:
"I understand you turned pirate to escape Rome's crosses. But have you gained much, when your own captain begins to crucify you, one by one? Why, this youth was the spokesman of your liberty. Will you listen to him cry in his agony tomorrow? If so, you will deserve the cross yourselves. And you will get it! What does the captain care? He is only going to Egypt. It is nothing to him if he kills one of you outright and hangs up another to keep you awake with dying groans. So you, already undermanned, are overcome at your first battle. What of it, says your captain, safely ashore—"
"Now that's muck-bespattered enough!" growled Tjorr. "One more word from anybody and I'll spray his brains on deck."
"Hail, free companions of the sea," declaimed Flavius, and stepped aside.
Phryne left the pail, her body glistened wet as she ran, and when she caught Eodan's hands her own were like some river nymph's. He remembered again cool forest becks in the North, when he was small and the world a wonder. "Eodan," she cried. "You'll not do any such thing!"
"But he would have—"
"He did not succeed. And even if he had, would it restore what I lost? Eodan, I am the one wronged, and I should give judgment."
He felt himself suddenly exhausted—O great dark Bull, breathe sleep upon me! He said to her: "Well ... thus did we Cimbri set blood price. What would you have me do to this animal?"
Phryne looked into the boy's liquid eyes and saw how his thin chest went up and down, up and down with terror. "Let him go," she said. "He will not harm me again."
Quintus fell to his knees. "I am your slave, bright goddess of mercy," he sobbed.
Eodan snapped, "Had you kept still, I would have let you go wholly free. You jabber too much. Ten lashes!"
Hwicca's lips thinned. "You are too soft, Eodan," she said. "I would have put him on the yardarm."
He checked a cruel retort and walked from her.
While the needful work was being done, he heard Flavius speak low by the rail with a crewman. "It is true—a violently rebelling slave may not live. However, this case is unusual. I have influence, and of course it is always possible in case of mutiny ... Hm, shall we say a few loyal souls had been manumitted beforehand and thus did not come under the law? Much would depend on the testimony of any Roman citizen."
Eodan thought that trouble was being cooked for him. But he could only stop such mumbles by cutting out every tongue on board. Fire burn them all! He would do what he could, and the rest lay with that weird he had called down upon himself.
In the morning they turned east. The wind had shifted enough to give them some help, though it was necessary to break out the spare oars and put ten men back on them. Eodan thought of making Flavius go into the pit for a while. He glanced at Phryne, who sat pensively looking out toward Egypt, and decided she would think it an unworthy deed.
Hwicca came out some time close to noon. She had put on a fresh gown and a blue palla; it set off her sunlight-colored braids. She looked out over the sea, which glittered blue and green in a hundred hues, foamed, cried out and snorted under a sky of pale crystal. The wind whooped over the world's rim and drew blood to her cheeks. Eodan had not seen her so fair since they crossed the Alpine snows.
He went to her and said, striving to be calm, "I hope you feel yourself again."
"Oh, yes. I am used to the movement now." Hwicca smiled at him, shy as a child, and he remembered that she was after all no more than eighteen winters. "Indeed this is a lovely way of faring, as if we rode on a great bird."
Hope kindled him. He rubbed his chin weightily—let him not urge himself too fast—and answered: "Yes, I could become as much a shipwright as a horse tamer, I think. When we return to the North, we shall begin making some real ships. I only remember boats from my boyhood. Already I think I could teach their builders some new arts."
Her pleasure faded a little. "Are you indeed bound to return to Cimberland?" she asked.
"If not to the same place, somewhere near," he said. "I remember my father speaking of tribes not far eastward, Goths and Sueones, strong wealthy folk who speak a tongue we could understand. But I would at least be among my own folk again."
She lowered her face and murmured, "They have a saying here, that nothing human is alien to them."
"Would you liefer stay in Rome?" he asked, stabbed.
"Let us not talk of that," she begged. Her hand stole up to his chin, bristly after the past few unshaven days. When she touched him, it seemed almost pain. "You look so funny," she smiled. "Black hair and yellow whiskers."
"Hm, thanks," he said, gripping his temper tight. "Since the dye will linger, Phryne told me, I'd best shave myself."
"How did it happen Phryne came with you?" asked Hwicca, a little too lightly.
"She attended a matron at the farm, Flavius' wife. We came to know each other."
"How well?" Hwicca arched her brows.
"She is my friend," he fumbled. "Nothing else."
"Cordelia is a bitch," said Hwicca, flushed, "but her maids have an easy enough life. What drove this Phryne to forsake it?"
Eodan bridled. "She wanted freedom for herself. She has a man's soul."
"Oh," purred Hwicca. "One of those."
He said in a rage, "You learned too much filth in Rome. I'll speak to you again when you have curbed your tongue."
He left her staring after him and went forward. "Heat me some water!" he barked. The cook, a deckhand told off to this task among all others, gave him a surly glance and obeyed. Eodan crouched by the hearth with a mirror and scraped the stubble off his face. He cut himself several times.
When he walked aft again, he saw that Flavius had come from the forecastle and stood where he himself had been, talking to Hwicca. Her face was bent from Eodan, but he saw woe in her twining hands. The Roman did not smile this time; he spoke gravely.
Eodan clapped a wild hand to his sword haft. By all the hounds on hellroad! No. It was beneath him. If she chose to betray him with a greasy Southlander, let her—and wolves eat them both.
When he looked again he saw that Hwicca had gone back inside. Flavius stood looking out to sea. The eagle face was unreadable; then it firmed and his fist struck the rail. Thereupon Flavius went quickly to the poop, where Quintus of Saguntum squatted on standby duty with a red-streaked back. Those two fell into talk.
The day passed. There were many ships. Now and again a man asked the captain if they should not take one. Eodan dismissed the question with scorn—this galley was armed, that one in plain sight of two others.... The man would go off muttering. Tjorr said nothing, but took the carpenter's tools and worked on a boarding plank.
Toward sundown, Phryne, who had spent the day making herself a dress from some man-garments—no easy task with only a sail-maker's equipment—came to get her food. She found Eodan standing alone, chewing a heel of bread and watching two or three crewmen whisper beneath the mast. "We must be far from land now," she remarked.
He nodded. "Far enough so we might safely attack some lone ship."
"Would you indeed fall upon men who never harmed you, to steal their goods?" she asked. It was not deeply reproachful, but he felt he must justify himself to her and thought he was belike the first Cimbrian that ever saw robbery as anything but a simple fact of life.
"I would welcome a fight," he said. Then, feeling he had shown too much, he made his tones cool: "If nothing else, the money we could gain will help mightily in Egypt. And, if you dislike the idea, we need not slaughter any captives—and we would be setting the galley slaves free."
"Then I suppose it is no worse than any other war," she said. But she left him.
And the night passed.
In the morning, Eodan saw that Flavius was again talking to Hwicca. She showed more life than the last time—by all cruel gods, but she was fair!—and once mirth crossed her face. He stayed in the poop with Demetrios until his watch ended.
There had been nothing to see but water for many hours. The wind dropped till the sail hung half empty; the creaking oars rubbed men's nerves. As noon passed it grew hotter, until the crew shed their clothes. Eodan kept his tunic. Hwicca came from her cabin and sat in its shade, alone, but he did not go to her.
The sun was so brazen off the sea that the other galley had come well over the horizon before the lookout cried its presence. It was also eastbound. Eodan grew tense. "Stand by to come about!" he said.
"Row down there, you clotheads!" bellowed Tjorr. "You may be rowing to your fortunes!"
Eodan took the steering oar himself. It was maddeningly slow, the way they crept over miles. He thought, once, that if he built himself a galley in the North it would not be so heavy and round as these—yes, open decks, so a man could pull his oar beneath the sky....
"She's a big one," said Demetrios. "Too big for the likes of you." Sweat glistened on his nose; his eyes rolled in unease.
Eodan felt the old captain was right. The ship he neared had half again the length of his, and its freeboard towered over his deck. Nonetheless, it had no ram, no war engines at all that he could see, though he only knew such by description. And he had eaten too much rage the last few days. It must out somehow.
"We will go nearer," he said. "We have decided nothing yet."
"We'll decide to slink off again, that's what we'll do," muttered Quintus, down on the main deck. "A coward as well as a tyrant, that's our skipper."
One or two nodded furtively.
Still they edged closer. The captain of the other galley hailed: "Ho, there! This is theBona Deaof Puteoli, bound for Miletus with a cargo of wine! Who are you?"
Eodan repeated his old lie. "Well," replied the stranger, "give us some sea room, then."
"I sail where I please!" yelled Eodan.
"Come closer and I'll think you're a pirate."
"Think what you want!"
The ships converged. Eodan waited, coldly, until he heard the alarms and the running feet. Then he gave a crewman the steering oar, ran to the shrouds and swarmed to the crow's-nest. He was high enough and close enough now to look down upon the other deck. He counted the sailors as they scurried about getting their weapons from the captain. Fifteen. And, with himself, this one still carried sixteen!
Of course, that meant he would have to arm all his rowers, but—He threw a leg around the mast and slid down, shouting, "Hau-hau-hau!Break out the blades!"
The men on deck roared. Tjorr had to knock one over-eager rower back down the hatch before the oars would move again. Eodan called two men to him, pointing out Flavius and Demetrios. "Bind them," he said.
Flavius held out his wrists. "Are you afraid we two will attack your gang from the rear?" he asked mildly.
"I would not trust you with the women," said Eodan. He slipped Demetrios' helmet pad on his head. The helmet itself followed. O wild war-gods, he bore a helmet once more!
"Over here!" cried Tjorr. "This way, you moth-eaten monkeys!" The deck planks grated beneath the heavy, grapneled boarding plank he had fashioned.
Spears gleamed along the other ship's rail. Its captain stood in plumed helmet and polished breastplate, laughing down at the handful on Eodan's deck. "So you had a slave mutiny, did you?" he said. "Well, come on, come on! We'll put you to work here, on your way to the arena!"
Eodan looked bleakly over his few, and thought of the ten oarsmen beneath his feet. They were not the stuff of a good fighting force. See that skinny graybeard snivel over there—this pirating had never been any idea of his. Narses was the best of a bad lot, and Narses lay on the sea bottom. Well, Eodan and Tjorr had to do what they could, for it was too late now. Even if they turned tail, the other galley would pursue, and it had more rowers.
He saw Hwicca and Phryne by the cabin. They held each other's hands, unspeaking, in that mystery of woe whose initiates are all womankind. He strode to them, buckling on his helmet. "Stay behind that door," he said. "If the fight goes against us, you must do what seems best."
He looked into Hwicca's eyes, and a smile he had not known was within his strength crossed face and soul. "But it will be well," he said in their own tongue. "You were ever my luck."
She lifted a fist and bit her knuckles, and Phryne led her into the cabin.
Eodan went below with an armful of weapons. He cried into the grunting, clashing, sweating gloom: "Here is what you asked me for. If you would stay alive, do not disobey me. Remain at your oars until I blow my trumpet. Then pull them in, lest they break your ribs when we strike! And come up and fight!"
No use to wonder if his scummy followers had even understood. He sped back up the ladder, shield on arm and sword in hand. TheBona Dealoomed like a cliff above him. He saw sunlight blink on shields and blades up on her deck.
Tjorr had spiked the boarding plank to the deck. It was elevated by two men with ropes, its claws poised to grab. Tjorr held his hammer up as he gauged the distance. "Now!" he shouted, and swung the mallet down. The two men let go, and Eodan sounded Demetrios' trumpet. The plank fell as their bow slashed across the other galley's oars. Wood crackled; a pirate looked at a foot-long splinter hurled into his thigh and wailed. The grapple struck. Its sharpened iron bit deep. The two ships shuddered to a halt.
"Hau!" yelled Eodan, and went up the plank.
Two shields glided into place before him and locked. From behind the men, two pikes reached after his guts. Eodan shoved one spear aside with his own shield. The other withdrew, poised and probed in again. He battered at it with his sword. For one black instant he knew there was no way for him to get past.
"Beware,disa!"
Eodan heard the angry bee-buzz and ducked his head. Tjorr's whirling hammer was released. It struck a face behind one of the shields. The shield went down, its man upon it.
Eodan sprang between the two spears, into the gap. Over the rail! He stood upon the fallen man and thrust at a pike wielder. The sailor, with no metal to ward his belly, fell backward to escape. Eodan stabbed his mate. The other shield-bearer turned and attacked from the right. Tjorr reached around Eodan and put a sword in the man's neck.
Then Eodan and Tjorr were back to back upon the high deck, holding off the crew. A tall blond man, a German of some kind, ran at Eodan with a longsword uplifted. "I want that blade!" said the Cimbrian. He fell to one knee, holding the shield over his head. The German's glaive smashed down on it. Eodan cut at the German's legs, and the man staggered back. Eodan got up again and battered loose. It was no way to use a shortsword. The German limped out of reach and swung his great weapon up for a cleaving. Eodan raised his own, faster, and threw it. The German sat down, holding death in himself. Eodan darted forward, snatched up the longsword and came back to Tjorr.
The Alan, shieldless, had picked up his hammer again. He smote right-handed with it, a ringing and belling and sundering, while his left wielded his Roman blade. "Ha!" he bellowed down the boarding plank. "Are you never coming? Must I do all the work here?"
His crew hung back, seeing how whetted steel flashed around those two and blood dripped into the sea. Eodan shrieked at them over the din: "If we lose this fight, you will all go to Rome!"
A man down there hefted an ax, set his teeth and ran up the plank. The others poured after him. Quintus alone remained, with a spear. When two of the former slaves turned back, he grinned and prodded them. Only when all his shipmates were caught up in the battle did he himself come.
Eodan, looking over a wall of helmets, considered the youth's face. By the Bull, he had just made himself second mate!
Their line split, the galley's crew surged away in clumps of men. The pirates yelped about, rushed in and out, broke past the defenders here or were hurled back there. Eodan struck down a man with a disabling blow—it was good to have a sword he really understood—and looked over the combat. It was fiercest near the mast. "There we must go, Tjorr," he said.
"Aye." The Alan trotted after him. They faced shields and edges. A few near-naked pirates yammered and waved their weapons, careful to stay beyond reach. "Follow me, you dogs!" cried Eodan. His sword whined and thundered. An Italian sailor thrust at him from behind a shield. Eodan slewed his iron around and cut the man's wrist. The metal was too blunted already to cut deep, but the bones cracked. The Italian bayed his anguish and dropped from the line. Eodan slashed at the legs of the man beside him. That one stumbled, fell and rolled from the pursuing sword. Tjorr stepped into the widening gap and struck with his hammer. The pirates, heartened, moved in. The defensive force broke up into single men.
Panting, Eodan swung himself into the shrouds. There were more wounded and slain among the ill-equipped pirates than among the merchant crew; nonetheless, fighting stayed brisk, since neither side knew how matters stood. Eodan put the trumpet to his lips and blew. Again and again he blew, until much of the battle died. An arrow grazed his arm, another thunked in his shield, but he stayed where he was and shouted:
"Hear me! Lay down your arms and your lives shall be spared. You will be set free without ransom. May Jupiter or someone strike me dead if I lie! Hear me!"
After he had harangued them a while, a shaken voice called: "How do we know you will do this, if we yield?"
"You know it will be to the death if you don't!" said Eodan. "Lay down your arms and live!"
As he returned to the deck, he heard the fight resume uncertainly. Neither side pressed too hard, now that a truce might be close. Eodan saw the graybearded pirate cutting the throat of a wounded man, in the shelter of a bollard. The oldster shrank back from him, afraid. Eodan said: "Throw that knife against my shield, as noisily as you can, and cry that you surrender to the freebooter captain."
The fellow obeyed, given a kick to add urgency to his recital. A moment afterward, Eodan heard from across the deck: "Stop, I yield me!"
It spread like a plague. Within minutes, a disarmed crew huddled gloomily under the pikes of a few crowing pirates.
Eodan took off his helmet and wiped reddened hands on a fallen man's cloak. His tunic was plastered to him with sweat. It came as a dull surprise that the blood painting him was not his own. Just a few scratches and bruises. Well, the Powers which took all else from him gave him victory in war, a miser's payment.... He looked at the sun above the yardarm. The battle had lasted perhaps an hour. And now he held two ships.
He walked over planks grisly with the dead and the hurt. There were more of the latter, there always were, but many of them would die, too, from bleeding or inflammation. The still air quivered with their groans. He counted up. Besides himself and Tjorr, eight pirates were hale. Eleven merchant crewmen stood on their feet; but their captain had quit the world bravely. "This should cool our lads off," said the Cimbrian. "I scarcely think they will want to try piracy again."
"They can raise their numbers,disa," Tjorr reminded him. "There must be forty slaves below decks, at least."
"True—indeed—Well, so be it. If we can come to Egypt, I care not." Eodan looked glumly down the boarding plank to the smaller craft. "I am sick of blood. Can you set matters to rights here?"
"Da.I'll try not to bother you." The redbeard's look was so gentle that Eodan wondered how much he understood—surely not a great deal; it was growing upon Eodan what a reach of darkness each human soul holds for all others.
He returned to the lesser galley and cut the bonds of Flavius and Demetrios. "You can go look about," he said listlessly.
Flavius stood up. He searched Eodan's face for a long while. "It was badly done of the fates not to make you a Roman," he said at last, and left. Demetrios followed him.
Eodan sighed and went to the cabin. Hwicca and Phryne stood there. The Cimbrian girl was flushed; her breast rose and fell and she ran forward to take his hands. "I thought I saw all our folk come back in you!" she cried.
Eodan looked across her shoulder at Phryne, who stood white in the doorway. "I begin to grasp your meaning," he said with a crooked smile. "This was no more unjust than any other war."
"Would you wash yourself?" asked the Greek girl.
He nodded. "That, and sleep."
Hwicca stepped back, her face hurt and bewildered. Eodan went past her into the cabin. Phryne brought him a sponge and a bucket of salt water. He cleansed himself and lay down on one of the mattresses. Sleep came like a blow....
He woke suddenly. Lamplight met his eyes. The air had cooled, and the ship was rocking. He heard singing and the stamp of feet, but remotely. He sat up.
Hwicca sat beside him. Her hair was loose, rushing over her shoulders so he did not at first see she wore her best gown. She hugged her knees and regarded him with troubled eyes.
"Is it night?" he asked in the Cimbric.
"Yes," she answered, very quietly. "Tjorr said not to waken you. He said he had brought order on the new ship. They released the slaves and locked up the crewmen and such of the rowers as did not want to join us. He got the wounded below decks over there—and everything—" She held out a leather bottle. "He said to give you this."
Eodan ignored it. He stepped to the door and glanced out. The grappling plank was taken down, and only ropes and a single lashed gangway joined the two vessels; the hulls rocked enough to break any stiff bridge. It was dark and empty on this ship. Torches flared on the other, bobbing in a crazy dance, hoarse voices chanted and laughter went raw under a sky of reborn wind and hurried clouds.
"What is that foolishness?" he snapped.
Hwicca came to stand at his side and look, almost frightened, at the Tartarus-view. A naked black outline, hair and beard one mane, capered against fire-glow. You could just glimpse a circle of others, leaping and kicking with hands joined around the ship's hearth.
"There was wine on board," said Hwicca.
"Oh ... oh, yes. I remember now. And Tjorr let them have the cargo?"
"He told me he could not stop them. It seemed best to grant them this night's drinking. Then tomorrow we could all take the big galley—"
"And let the crew of that one have this. Hm. It is not such a bad thought."
"You would let them go?" asked Hwicca, astonished.
"I gave them my word," he said. "And what good would it do to kill them?"
He closed the door again, muffling the racket. He picked up the leather bottle and drank thirstily. "Ah! But did they also have some food fit to eat on that ship?"
"I do not know. I prepared what I could from the stores here." Hwicca pointed to a bowl of stew. "I fear it got cold while you slept."
Eodan lowered the bottle. The roof was so low his head had to bow down to hers. "Why are you here?" he asked.
"You should not sleep unguarded." She touched the knife in her girdle. His longsword lay drawn by the wall. He realized that he was unclothed.
"Phryne could have guarded me," he said.
Hwicca reddened. "Is Phryne your wife?"
"Are you?"
She gasped and turned her back. "Well, I will go!" she cried. "If you do not wish me here, I will go!"
"Halt!" he said as she caught at the door's bolt. She stopped as though speared and turned about until she stood against the door facing him. Tears whipped down her face, and the breath rattled in her throat.
Eodan felt inwardly gouged, but he stalked to her and took her by the shoulders. "I have had enough of this," he said. "Tonight you shall decide who your man is."
"I told you I do not know!" she screamed.
Eodan slipped his hands down over her arms until he had her wrists. "You shall decide," he repeated. "And you are going to choose me."
She tried to pull free, but he dragged her to him and laid his mouth upon hers. She writhed her face away. He held her, one-handed about the waist, while his free hand drew her knife and stabbed it into the wall. Then he grasped her hair and forced her lips back where he wanted them.
Suddenly she shivered. He let her go, and she sank to her knees, holding his. He sat down and laid an arm about her waist. She came to him, weeping and laughing. "It is you," she said. "It is you, Eodan."
Long afterward, when the lamp had gone out of itself, she whispered, "I think it must always, really, have been you."
When Phryne saw Hwicca go in to her husband and close the door behind, she felt this ship would be no place for anyone else tonight. Let her board the other one, then. She made sure that the dagger was safe in her girdle, then climbed the grappling plank.
It surged and chattered on the newly won decks. Tjorr stood huge, bawling out his orders. They had begun to release the slaves; one after another shambled into the sunlight and blinked with dull eyes. Phryne went to the Sarmatian. "Can I be of help?" she asked.
"Ha? Oh, it's you, little one. Best you keep out of harm's way. We've much to do before sunset."
"I told you I want to help, you oaf," she snapped.
Tjorr scratched in his ruddy beard. "I don't know what with. I'll not let you scrub the planks nor cook a meal. Sets a bad example, you know, we have to be officer class now. And otherwise—"
"Aqua, aqua." Croaking came from the pitch-bubbling deck as though men had become frogs.
Phryne looked at one who was trying feebly to stanch blood from a half severed arm. She felt more than a little ill, but she wetted her lips and said, "I know something about the care of hurts. Let me see to the wounded."
"Waste of time," said Tjorr. "If they're not too badly cut, a swathe of rags and maybe a few stitches will save 'em. The rest it would be kinder to throw overboard."
Phryne answered slowly: "Some woman bore each of these beneath her heart once. Let me do what I can."
"As you wish. Find a place down below. I'll tell off a couple of men to bear them thither for you."
In the time that followed, Phryne had horror to do. Twice she stopped—once to cast up at a certain sight and once to change her blood-stiffened gown for a tunic. It was hot and foul in the 'tween-decks space; the groaning and gasping seemed to fill her cosmos. Her temper began to slip—having held the hand of one youth and smiled on him, as the only lullaby she could give while he died, she heard a man screaming as though in childbirth, and, seeing he had a mere broken finger, she chased him out at dagger point. Otherwise it was to wash and bandage, cut and sew and swaddle, set and splint and fetch water, with no more help than a ship's carpenter from Galilee or some such dusty place.
She came out at last, unable to do more—now Aesculapius and Hermes Psychopompos must divide the souls as they would—and saw the sun low above a sea growing choppy. Its rays touched ragged mare's-tails that flew from the west; wind piped on the rigging. She shivered as that air flowed across her bare legs and arms, but made her way over a deck strange in its orderliness. Tjorr was looking down into an open cargo hatch.
He turned and grinned at her through tossing fiery whiskers. "We found our way into the hold," he said, "and you'd not believe this hulk could carry so much wine and stay afloat. The lads will mutiny if we don't feast tonight, and I can't say I blame 'em!"
Phryne gave the sky an unsure look. "Is that wise?"
"Oh—the weather, you mean? It'll blow a bit, but nothing that need worry us. Riding to sea anchors we'll not go far, and Demetrios says there are no places to run aground hereabouts. You look wearied enough. Go call Eodan, and we'll all have a stoup."
"He is with his wife," she said.
"Hm? Oh. Oh, I see. Well, I'll just go knock at their door with a bottle, and then they can do as they please." Tjorr's small eyes went up and down the slender shape before him. He grinned. "I don't suppose you'd be pleased to do likewise?"
She shook her head, unoffended.
"Well, I only thought I'd ask. Best stay in earshot of me tonight, though. Not all the men are so honorable as me."
"I would wash now, and have fresh raiment," said Phryne.
"Aye. Go in the cabin there. I'll have someone draw a tubful for you."
Phryne entered the captain's room, finding it better furnished than that of the smaller galley. Man's dress again, she sighed to herself, opening a clothes chest. Well, here was an outsize cloak; with the help of a brooch and belt it could almost reach her ankles, as a sort of gown.
"Hail," said a voice in the door.
Phryne stepped back with a stab of terror. Master Flavius looked at her. He carried a bucket in either hand.
"I think it amused the redbeard to have me wait on you," he said. His mouth quirked. "He has not heard that Rome has festivals every year wherein the Roman serves his own household slaves."
"But I am no more a slave!" said Phryne, as much to herself as to him. She had seen little of this man; she was bought in his absence and served his wife, whom he avoided. But he was a master, and no decent person would—But I have gone beyond decency, she thought; beyond civilization, at least. I am outlaw not only in Rome but in Rome's mother Hellas.
The knowledge was a desolation.
Flavius poured the water into a tub screwed to the floor. It slapped about with the rocking of the ship. He glanced at her, sideways. Finally he said, with a tone of smothered merriment, in flawless Greek: "My dear, you will always be a slave. Do you think because that white skin was never branded your soul escaped?"
"My fathers were free men in their own city when yours were Etruscan vassals!" she cried, stamping her foot in anger.
Flavius shrugged. "Indeed. But we are neither of us our fathers." His voice became deep, and he regarded her levelly. "I say to you, though, the slave-brand is on you. It was burned in with ... fair words on fine parchment; white columns against a summer sky; a bronze-beaked ship seen over blue waters; grave men with clean bodies and Plato on their tongues; a marching legion, where a thousand boots smite the earth as one; a lyre and a song, a jest and a kiss, among blowing roses. Oh, if the gods I do not believe in are cruel enough to grant your wish, you could give your body to some North-dweller—you could learn his hog-language and pick the lice from his hair and bear him another squalling brat every year, till they bury you toothless at forty years of age in a peat bog where it always rains. That could happen. But your soul would forever be chained by the Midworld Sea."
She said, shaking, "If you twist words about thus, then you, too, are a slave."
"Of course," he said quietly. "There are no free and unfree; we are all whirled on our way like dead leaves, from an unlikely beginning to a ludicrous end. I do not speak to you now, the sounds that come from my mouth are made by chance, flickering within the bounds of causation and natural law. Truly, we are all slaves. The sole difference lies between the noble and the ignoble."
He folded his arms and leaned back against the jamb. "What you have done proves you are of the noble," he said. "I would manumit you if we came back to Rome—give the Senate some perjured story, if need be, to save you from the law. I would give you money and a house of your own in Greece."
"Are you trying to bribe me?" she flared.
"Perhaps. But that comes later. What I have just offered is a free gift, whether you stand by the Cimbrian or not, provided only of course that we both get back to Rome somehow. It will be a thing I do of my own accord, because we are the same kind, you and I, and it is a cursedly lonely breed of animal."
His grin flashed. "Now, to be sure, if you would like to help assure—"
She drew her knife. "Get out!" she screamed.
Flavius raised his brows, but left. Phryne slammed the door after him. A while she smote her hands together. Then, viciously, she tore off her tunic and washed herself.
Wrapped in the mantle, she emerged again. She felt calmer—on the surface; underneath was a dark clamor in an unknown language. Sundown blazed among restless clouds; the mast swayed back and forth in heaven. Tjorr sat on a barrel under the forecastle, drumming his heels as he raised a stolen chalice. Elsewhere men crowded shrieking about lashed casks, and the deck that had been bloodied was now stained purple. Phryne shivered and drew the wool closer about her. This was going to be a night where Circe reigned.
She looked aft. A small cluster of men stood together around Flavius' tall form. She recognized Demetrios, the youth Quintus, two or three others. Briefly, she was afraid. But—a few unarmed malcontents? she asked herself scornfully.
She walked forward. A locked hatch cover muffled some weird noises—what was that? Oh, to be sure, the free crew and the more timid slaves of this galley had been chained to the rowers' benches down there.
Tjorr boomed at her, "Hoy, shield maiden! Come drink with me! You've earned it!"
Phryne joined him. One man snatched after her. Tjorr tossed his hammer, casually. The man screamed and hopped about, clutching his bare toes. "Next one insults my girl gets it in the brisket," said Tjorr without rancor. "Now bring me back that maul."
Phryne accepted the cup he sloshed into the barrel for her. She held it two-handed, bracing herself against the ship's long swinging. Barbarous to drink it undiluted, she thought; but fresh water was too begrudged at sea. She looked at the hairy, squatting shapes that ringed her in and asked, "Will there not be fights that disable men we need?"
Tjorr pointed to a chest behind the barrel. "All arms save our own are in there," he said. "And here I'll sit all night. I'm not unaware of that Flavius cockroach, little one. Were I the chief, he'd have been fish food long ago."
"Is your life so much more to you than your honor?" she bridled.
"Well, I suppose not. But I've three small sons at home. The youngest was just starting to walk on his little bandy legs when I went off. And then there's my woman, too, if she's not wed another by now, and—Well, anyhow, it would be bitter to die without drinking of the Don again." Tjorr tossed off his cup and dipped it in once more.
"Where would you yourself go?" he asked.
Phryne stared eastward, where night came striding into the wind. "I do not know," she said.
"Hm? But surely—you spoke of Egypt—"
"It may be. Perhaps in Alexandria.... Leave me alone!" Phryne went from him, up the ladder and into the bow.
She huddled there a long time. No one ventured past Tjorr; she could be by herself. Down on the main deck the scene grew more wild and noisy each hour; by torch and hearth-light she glimpsed revels as though Pan the terrible had put to sea. One small corner of civilization remained, far aft below the poop, where Flavius and his comrades warmed their hands over a brazier and drank so slowly she was not certain they drank at all.
The moon seemed to fly through heaven, pale among great driving clouds. It showed fleetingly how the waters surged from the west—not very high as yet, but with foam on black waves. And the wind droned louder than before.
Phryne sat under the bulwarks and nursed her beaker, letting the wine warm her only a little. This was no time to flee her trouble. She must choose a road.
And what was there for her?
Briefly, when they had planned where to go on their newly won ship, it had flamed up—perhaps Antinous was in Alexandria, perhaps she could find him again! Too long had he kissed her only in dreams. She hearkened back to the last time when she awoke crying his name.... She knew, then, suddenly, that she had not really seen his face in the dream. She had not done so for months. She could not even call it to mind now—it was a blur; he had had a straight nose and gray eyes and so on, but she only remembered thewords.
Well, Time devoured all things at last, but it might have spared the ghost she bore of Antinous.
Nevertheless, she thought, she could stay in Alexandria.... No, what hope had a woman without friends? There were only the brothels; better to seek the sea's decency this very night. She could follow Eodan toward his barbarian goal, most likely to his death along the way, but suppose they did get back to this Cimberland, what then? Eodan would house her, but she would not be a useless leech on any man. And so she would merely exist, alone on the marches of the world, until finally in her need she let some brainless red youth tumble her in his hut.
She wondered drearily if Flavius had meant his offer. It was the best of an evil bargain. And if he lied—well, then she would die, and the shades did not remember this earth.
When Eodan released Flavius, she would go with him to Rome.
The decision brought peace, after so many hours of treading the same round like a blinded ox grinding wheat. Perhaps now she could sleep. It was very late. The revelry had ended. By the light of a sinking moon, glimpsed through clouds, she saw men sprawled across the deck, their cups and their bodies rolling with the ship. A few feeble voices hiccoughed some last song, but, mostly, they were all snoring to match the wind. Phryne stood up, stiff-limbed, to seek her tent on the smaller galley.
The brazier under the poop was still aglow. A dark figure crossed in front of it, and another and another. Flavius' party was retiring, too. Being sober, they would have the sense to go below to sleep. One of them had just entered the poop....
No, what was it he came back with? Torchlight shimmered on iron. A crowbar from the carpenter's kit? And there were hammers, a drawknife, even a saw. O father Zeus, weapons!
Flavius led them across the deck. The last half-dozen celebrants, seated in a ring about a wine cask, looked up. "Well," Phryne heard, "who 'at? c'mere, old frien', c'mere f' little drink—"
Flavius struck coldly with his bar. Two hammers beat as one,thock, thock—like butchers, the three men stunned those who sat. Quintus cackled gleefully and began to saw a throat across. "No need!" snapped Flavius. "This way!"
Phryne threw herself to the planks. What if they had seen her? Her heart beat so wildly she feared it would burst. As though from immensely far off, she heard Flavius break the lock on the hatch and go below.
Phryne caught her lip in her teeth to hold it steady. She could just see one man standing guard on deck while the others were breaking off chains in the rowers' pit. Could he see her in turn, if she—but if she lay still, he would find her at sunrise!
Phryne inched to the ladder. Down, now. Moonlight fell on Tjorr, sprawled back against the weapon chest. His mouth was open and he was making private thunder in his nose. Phryne crouched beside him. He was too massive; her hands would not shake him enough. "Tjorr! Tjorr, it is mutiny!" she whispered. "Tjorr, wake up!"
"What's that?" A ragged, half-frightened cry from the guard. Phryne saw him against the sky, peering about.
"Uh," mumbled Tjorr. He swatted at her and rolled over.
Phryne drew her knife. The guard shaded his eyes, staring forward. "Is somebody awake there?" he called.
She put her mouth to the Alan's ear. "Wake, wake," she whispered. "You sleep yourself into Hades."
A man's head rose over the hatch coaming. "Somebody's astir up there," chattered the sentry.
"We'll go see," said the man. His burst-off chains swung from his wrists; it was the last mutiny all over again. How the gods must be laughing! Another followed him. Phryne recognized Quintus' ferret body.
"Ummmm," said Tjorr and resumed his snoring.
Phryne put her dagger point on a buttock and pushed.
"Draush-ni-tchaka-belog!" The Sarmatian came to his feet with a howl. "What muck-swilling misbegotten son of—Oh!" His gaze wobbled to rest on the man running toward him. The hammer seemed to leap into his hand.
"Up!" he bawled. "Up and fight!"
Phryne dashed past him. Eodan still slept, she thought wildly; they could fall upon him unawares and kill him in his wife's arms. Behind her she heard a sound like a melon splitting open. "Yuk-hai-saa-saa!" chanted Tjorr. "You're next, Quintus!"
The youth ran back, almost parallel to Phryne. Men were coming from the hatch, one after the other. He saw her and shrilled: "Get that one too! It's—" He broke off, swerved and plunged toward her in silence.
Phryne put her foot on the gangway between the ships. It jerked back and forth as they rolled, and she heard ropes rubbing together. She must go all-fours over it or risk being thrown into the water between the hulls. She crouched.
A hand closed on her ankle. She felt herself being yanked back on deck. Moonlight speared through darkness as she sat up. Quintus stood over her, grasping his saw. "Lie there," he said. "Lie there or I'll take your head off!"
Phryne whipped to her knees and stabbed at his foot. He danced aside, laughing. The saw blade reached across her arm. It was no deep cut, but she cried out and dropped her knife. He kicked it away, grabbed her shoulder and hurled her onto her back. Kneeling beside her, he laid the saw teeth across her throat. "Be still, now, if you would live," he said. "I've business to finish with you."
Phryne looked into the downy face. She lifted her arms. "Oh," she said. "I am conquered."
Quintus' chin dropped. Moving carefully, so he could see what she did, she unfastened her belt. "I have never known a man like you," she breathed. "Let me get this mantle off—" She slid her hands toward the brooch at her throat. The fabric wrinkled up ahead of her arm.
"Quickly!" gasped the boy. He lifted the saw a little, it was shaking so much, and fumbled at his loincloth.
Phryne got the bundled cloak between her throat and the teeth. She stabbed him in the hand with her brooch pin. He yelled, the saw skittered from his grasp. She leaped up and onto the gangway.
Quintus yammered by the rail. A fury lifted in Phryne; she stood up in the moonlight on the bobbing, twisting plank and opened her arms. "Well," she cried, "are you man enough to follow?"
He stumbled onto the gangway. She kicked, and he fell down between the hulls. They were protected by rope bumpers from grinding together, but one lurching wall struck him as he went past. He rebounded, splashed and did not rise again.
Phryne crawled over the plank. Great Mother of Mercy, she thought, what had she done? But now it was to rouse Eodan. Up on the other ship, Tjorr stabbed and hammered, crying to his drunken followers to waken. Twenty men pressed in upon the Sarmatian, driving him back by sheer weight from the weapon chest.
Phryne beat on the cabin door. "Eodan, Hwicca, come out!" she called. "Come out before they kill you!"
It opened. The Cimbrian stood tall against blackness, armed only with a yard-long sword. Behind him Hwicca still blinked sleep from her eyes. Even in that moment, Phryne saw how fulfillment had made her beautiful.
Iron clanged in the windy moonlight. Phryne's breath choked. So they had the weapons now! Flavius was already worming over the gangplank, bearing sword and shield. Behind him came two more—the rest still raged among the befuddled pirates, it was a bestial battle—one with an ax and one with a spear. Phryne and the Cimbrians were naked.
Eodan sprang forward to meet Flavius before he crossed. The Roman stood up and pounced the last few feet. He could have been thrown into the sea, like Quintus, but the watery gods let him pass. He struck the deck, danced away from Eodan's slash and smiled.
"Come," he said, "let us end this Iliad."
Eodan snarled and moved in. He had more reach, which his blade immensely lengthened. But Flavius' shield seemed always to be where the Cimbrian blows landed—over his head, in front of his breast, even down to his knees. The battle banged and roared between those two.
Phryne and Hwicca faced the Roman's companions. The men grinned and walked in at their leisure. Phryne tried to dart aside, but the spearman thrust his shaft between her legs. She fell, and her mind seemed to burst. When she regained herself, she was prodded erect. "Over there," said the man. "Stand against the cabin wall. That's the way." He held his pike close to her breasts, ready to drive it home.
Hwicca, a long knife in her hand, circled about with the axman. She spat at him, wildcatlike. Once she tried to rush in with a stab, but his weapon yelled down and she saved herself by falling. He tried to strike again, but she got away too swiftly.
And Eodan and Flavius fought across the deck and back, sword on shield, the Roman boring in behind his shelter and the Cimbrian holding him off with sheer battering force.
A bloody, tattered giant loomed over the rail of the other galley. Tjorr sheathed his sword in one final man, who tumbled down between the hulls. The Alan jumped onto the gangway.
The man who was guarding Phryne saw him coming. "I must deal with him," he said, not unkindly. "Farewell, girl. We'll meet beyond the Styx." He drew back his pike. Phryne had no more will or strength to dodge. She waited.
Tjorr stopped on the middle of the gangplank, braced his legs and whirled the hammer. Phryne did not see it fly; she only saw the pikeman's eyes bulge out, and when he toppled she saw his head broken open. Her knees deserted her; she sank to the deck and stared emptily at all else.
Tjorr bounded down, fell upon the axman from behind and wrenched the weapon loose. The axman kicked with a shod foot. Tjorr bellowed wrath and pain, dropped the ax and was caught in a wrestler's grip. He and the sailor went down on the deck like a pair of dogs.
Hwicca sped toward Eodan. She called out something—Phryne did not know the rough word, but surely no voice had ever held more love. As Eodan's gaze shifted toward her, Flavius stepped in close and brought the upper edge of his shield beneath Eodan's jaw. The Cimbrian lurched back, and his sword clattered from his hand. He leaned his back against the rail and shook his head like a stunned bull.
Flavius poised his blade. Hwicca flung herself across Eodan's body—and the sword struck home.
Flavius stared stupidly as she went to her knees. Eodan caught her and eased her to the deck. He did not seem aware of the Roman any longer.
Tjorr broke his opponent's neck, picked up the fallen ax and thundered toward Flavius. The Roman bounded away, up onto the gangplank. He reached the other ship and faced back; but he was masked by shadow.
Tjorr paused at the plank's foot, saw spears bristle and stayed where he was. His ax chopped and the plank's ropes parted. Now it dangled free from the higher bulwark. Tjorr ran along the rail, cleaving lines. A few arrows fell near him as he cranked the anchor windlass. The gale caught the two ships and drove them apart.
Tjorr came back to Phryne. "If we set our canvas we can run away from 'em while they kill the last pirates," he croaked. "I see no other chance. Do you think you and I can unfurl the sail alone?"
Arpad of Trapezus, who had served ably on the warships of the King, was rewarded with a pleasant commission—to carry an ambassador and certain dispatches to Egypt. He took a lean black penteconter and a picked crew, not only to impress on his master's behalf but to return with men not hopelessly slack after a few weeks in the subtle stews of Alexandria. They passed the Bosporus with no trouble, Byzantium having recently become subject to the Kingdom of Pontus. There was a halt at the Hellespont to show diplomatic passports, for that strait was controlled by the Bithynians, who favored Rome. But since Rome was still uneasily at peace with the Pontines, who dominated the Black Sea, Arpad was obsequiously sent on his way.
Thereafter he bore south between the Aegean islands, pausing here and there to admire some temple crowning a high ridge, until he saw pirate-haunted Crete. Beyond lay open sea, but it was not excessively far to the Nile's mouths.
The Pharaoh of Egypt, who was a Macedonian by ancestry, received the captain from Pontus, who was half Persian and half Anatolian, graciously. Like all cultivated people, they spoke together in Attic Greek. During his stay Arpad found himself much in demand among the learned class; this city swarmed with as many philosophers and geographers as it did with gods and prostitutes. Pontus itself was exotic enough for several evenings' discussion—Graeco-Persian-Asiatic on the Black Sea coast, a source of timber, minerals and the fantastically lovely murrhine glass. And one had heard of its king, the great Mithradates, enthroned in his twelfth year, forced to flee the usurping schemes of mother and brother, living for years a hunter in the mountains, until he returned to wrest back his heritage. But this Mithradates Eupator had not been satisfied with one throne—no, it seemed he must have all the Orient. He skirmished and intrigued among the Cappadocians, Galatians, Armenians, until no neighbor king sat easy. He fought his way up the eastern coast and took Colchis of the Golden Fleece for his own. He hurled back the wild Scythians in the north so that the Greeks of the Cimmerian Bosporus acknowledged their rescuer as their overlord. That kingdom lay near the dark edge of the world, on a peninsula thrusting past Lake Maeotis or the Azov Sea or whatever it was called. Northward was only barbarism till you reached the night and glaciers of Ultima Thule! What could the excellent Captain Arpad tell us of his lord's Tauric provinces? Did Colchis hold any relics of Jason's visit? Did he think war with Rome, which now held much of Asia's Aegean coast and looked greedily east, would be to the death; or would it be a civilized war where boundaries were adjusted and prisoners taken for the slave market?
Thus Arpad's stay became delightful, and he left with regret. But it was now early summer, and soon the etesian winds would make eastward sea traffic all but impossible.
By some quirk—by the ill wind of Ahriman, mumbled his sailors—they encountered a powerful west wind, a veritable gale. It blew steadily, hour upon hour and day upon day; as they wallowed north on bare poles and oars, striving to hold course and not be blown clear to Syria, the skies turned to an unseasonable overcast with chill gusts of rain. When at last he recognized the island of Rhodes, smoky blue through the squalls, Arpad decided to put in and wait out this weather.
Beating through rain and spindrift, he saw another galley. It had a sail up, recklessly, no oars out at all, the ports shuttered.... Arpad steered closer. That fool of a captain would smash himself on the beach!
Something about the stranger's unruly course told him it was badly undermanned. It had an Italian look, not much of a galley, an old trading scow but even so—Arpad sent a man up to speak with the lookout in the crow's-nest. Only three crewfolk were seen on the other deck. Two of them fought their yardarm, trying to pull it about so they would not be blown so directly toward the island. The third stood by a lashed steering oar. The ship was sluggish, low in the water, now and then a wave breaking over the side; it was slowly foundering.
Arpad considered various matters, such as the rescue of distressed mariners and the salvage rights on their vessel. "Stand by to board!" he called.
Even in these high seas, a naval crew had small trouble laying alongside and grappling fast. An armed party surrounded the three and conducted them aboard the Pontine galley. Arpad had them led to his cabin, where they stood dripping on a carpet while he removed his own wet cloak. Only then did he regard them closely.
They stood with a sort of exhausted defiance between four drawn swords. The lamp, swinging from its chains, revealed them clad in rags. But they were no ordinary sailors. There was a burly redbearded fellow, his broad battered face speaking of Sarmatian plains. There was a young woman whose figure would have been good, in the skinny Greek manner, had she not lost so much weight; her hair was cut like a boy's and her hands were bloodied from ropes and levers. The strangest was a barbarian with yellow hair dyed a fading black and a sun symbol etched on his brow. He looked like a wild king, and yet he stood gloomily withdrawn as any desert eremite, showing no interest in who had taken him or what his fate would be.
The backs of both men had been whipped; the red one bore permanent manacle scars. Slaves, then. And doubtless the woman was, too. Their captured weapons had been laid at Arpad's feet—a rusty longsword, an ax and an iron-headed maul.
"Do you speak Greek?" asked Arpad. His Latin was limited.
"I do," said the girl. Her eyes—you didn't see violet eyes very often, and especially not with such long sooty lashes; really, it was her best feature—were hollow from weariness and wide from anxiety, but she looked on him without wavering. "What ship is this, and who are you?"
"What a way for fugitive slaves to address a Pontine noble!" exclaimed Arpad lightly. "Down on your knees and beg for your lives; that would be more in keeping."
"These men are not slaves," she said. "They are chieftains returning home."
"And you? Come, now, do not anger me. When a ship is found with only three slaves aboard, I can guess the tale for myself. Tell me your names and how it all came to be."
She said with a pride at which her exhaustion dragged: "I am merely Phryne, but I stand between Eodan of Cimberland and Tjorr of the Rukh-Ansa."
"I knowthem!" said Arpad.
"It is a long story. They were war prisoners, who regained their freedom by conquering the Roman crew—and even I have heard the King of Pontus is no friend to Rome, so is he not a friend to Rome's enemies? But the upshot was that we three alone remained on this vessel. We could do little more than set sail and run before the wind, hoping to strike a land, Crete or Cyprus or wherever the gods willed, whence we might make our way to Cimmeria. But we found two men and one woman cannot even keep a ship bailed out in such weather." She smiled tiredly. "We were debating whether to try and make landfall on that island ahead, risking shipwreck and capture if it is Roman-held, or steer past—if we could. Now you have changed the situation, Master Captain, and we throw ourselves upon your hospitality."
"What slave may claim hospitality?" asked Arpad. "And when he has mutinied, probably murdered, as well.... Would you feel bound to consider a wolf your guest?" He stroked his chin. The ship, he calculated, would surely be considered salvaged by him; the Rhodesian authorities had to have their share, but he would get something. If he did not dispute possession of the two men—the port governor could put them to work, or kill them, or give them to the Romans, whatever the law said—then the governor in turn would doubtless ignore the girl. There was a good mind under that tip-tilted face, and a hot spirit in that small thin body; she would make the rest of this voyage most interesting to Captain Arpad, and he could get a fair price at home after he had fattened her up enough for the Oriental taste.
Her pale, wet cheeks had darkened as he spoke, more with anger than fear. She rattled off a few harsh Latin words. The Alan growled and looked about. A guard's sword pricked his hairy flank; he would never cross the two yards to Arpad's throat. He said something to the tall blank-faced man, who shrugged. Mithras! Didn't that one care at all? Well, men did go crazy sometimes when the fetters were clinched.
Arpad listened more closely, interested. He heard the redbeard: "But Eodan,disa, they'll flay us!"
"Then thus the Powers will it," said the tall one in a dead voice.
The girl, Phryne, stamped her foot and shouted:
"I thought I followed a man! I see now it is a child! You sit like a wooden toad and will not stir a hand, even for your comrades—"
A wan wrath flickered in the cold green eyes. The one called Eodan said: "You lie. I worked my share during these past few days, to keep the ship afloat. If I did not care whether we sank or not, that is my concern."
She put her fists on her hips, glared up at him and said: "But you make it the world's concern! I understood you had suffered loss when Hwicca fell. Do you think I cannot imagine it, how it would be for me, too, did the one I cared for die in my arms? I said nothing when you made a raft for her, though we needed your help even that first day; when you laid her on it with the Roman sword and her dagger, though we needed both; when you drenched it with oil that might have nourished us; when you risked your own life to launch it and set the torch to it; and when you howled while it fell burning behind. A man must obey his own inward law, or be no man at all. But since then? I tell you, it has ceased to be your private mourning. Now you call upon the world and all the gods, by your silence and your indifference, to witness howyouare suffering!
"You overgrown brat! If you want to sacrifice your comrades to her ghost, do it with your hands like a man!"
Arpad signaled his guards. "Take them out and give them food and dry garments," he said. "Bind the men and bring the girl back to me."
A hand closed on Eodan's shoulder. He pushed it off, impatiently, and made a huge stride toward the captain. His lean face was taut with fury.
"Do you dare treat a Cimbrian like a slave?" he said.
"Hoy!" The guards closed in. Eodan's fist jumped out. One man lurched back with a smashed mouth. Another circled, unsure. Tjorr growled and reached for the hammer on the floor. The remaining two men forced him away, but had no help to spare with Eodan.
A hand gripped Arpad's tunic so he choked. The long head bent down toward his. "You little spitlicker," said Eodan, "I do not know whether to string you to the mast myself or ask your king to do it for me. But I think I shall let him have the pleasure."
Arpad shuddered and gestured his guards back, for he had seen monarchs enough, and there was no mistaking the royal manner. A king born did not act as if it were possible men could fail to knock their heads on the ground before his boots. Eodan stood unarmed, nearly naked, and shook him back and forth very slowly, in time with the words: