‘Perhaps Sejanus does succeed in becoming Emperor and the other three are his successors.’
‘Then what relevance would the prophecy have to us in those circumstances? We’d be as dead as these,’ Sabinus said, pointing to the long row of statues that lined the path to the colonnaded walkway.
‘Well, I’m glad to have heard it even though it does seem to make no sense,’ Vespasian muttered.
‘What was that all about then?’ Magnus asked from the shade of the colonnade.
‘Nothing, it seems,’ Sabinus replied.
‘Where’s Rhaskos?’ Vespasian asked.
Magnus grinned and pointed to the sleeping form further along the colonnade. ‘Gone to receive a message.’
Sabinus looked up — and then stared in disbelief. A huge ginger-haired brute of a man, with a missing left eye, was walking towards them.
‘What’s wrong?’ Vespasian asked, ‘you look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
Sabinus turned away as the man passed and waited until he was out of earshot.
‘That’s exactly what I have seen.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Vespasian asked, thinking that his brother was rambling.
‘That man,’ Sabinus replied pointing at the receding figure, heading out of the complex towards the coast. ‘Remember I told you about the pirate attack on my way here?’
Vespasian and Magnus both nodded.
‘Well, he was the trierarchus. He should be dead; the ships were only thirty paces apart, I saw him get an arrow deep in his left eye.’
Magnus was unimpressed. ‘You must’ve been mistaken. Perhaps he had a brother.’
Sabinus shook his head. ‘No, that was him, all right; you saw how his left eye was missing?’
‘He must have survived then,’ Vespasian said, ‘and his crew brought him here for healing.’
‘It couldn’t have been far, I suppose,’ Sabinus conceded, ‘no more than a few days. But even if he did survive the journey I saw enough of those wounds in Africa to know that there is no way that he could have been healed.’
‘Perhaps there is more to this place than we thought,’ Magnus said with a trace of reverence in his voice.
‘More than meets the eye, you mean?’ Vespasian quipped.
‘Don’t laugh, Vespasian,’ Sabinus said quietly. ‘If they can heal a man who should be dead then there must be real power here, a power older than Mithras, and it should be taken seriously.’
CHAPTER VIIII
By the time they got back to the ship it was early evening and too late to sail. Rhaskos had slept most of the afternoon away but had not looked at all refreshed upon waking. He had refused to tell them what reply he had received from Amphiaraos; all he would say was that he had been spoken to in his dream by the Hero and that he was now contemplating the meaning of the message. Whereas that morning they would all have found some amusement in the situation, now even Sabinus was taking Rhaskos seriously; not because they believed in the curse but because they were curious to see if the slave fever would disappear through Amphiaraos’ intervention.
After a mild night lying on the open deck beneath a swathe of stars, thickened by the early setting of the moon, Vespasian awoke to a turquoise dawn sky feeling refreshed. He had been lulled asleep by the gentle sound of water lapping against the hull but now this had been replaced by a more strident sound: waves breaking on the rocky cove. He felt the ship swaying beneath him and sat up immediately; a cool breeze blew in his face.
All around him the ship was coming to life. Half of the forty-man crew were bending the main- and foresails on to their respective yards, then furling them ready to be hauled up the masts, whilst the rest were preparing to weigh the fore and aft anchors. Rhaskos moved around the deck like an excited hound, barking at everyone and baring his teeth and growling at the slightest error or sign of slacking, such was his anxiety to be under way as fast as possible.
‘What do you make of that, sir?’ Magnus asked, giving Vespasian a thick cut of cold pork and a cup of well- watered wine. ‘A fucking wind, eh, who’d have thought it? What a weird place.’
‘That was some strange stuff we saw yesterday,’ Vespasian agreed, biting off a hunk of pork. ‘Where’s Sabinus?’
‘Ah well, he’s a bit too busy to be joining us for breakfast, if you take my meaning,’ Magnus replied, pointing towards the bow.
Vespasian turned to see his brother leaning over the side, convulsing violently.
A series of loud orders from Rhaskos through a speaking-trumpet caused the fore-anchor detail to start to heave on their cable. As the anchor — a small boulder — cleared the water the stroke-master began his monotonous beat and the slaves started to back oars. The ship eased gently away from the cove then, as the aft- anchor cable tautened, began to swing round. The huge quinquereme came parallel to the shore and Rhaskos shouted through his trumpet again. The aft-anchor detail heaved hard on their cable and the anchor lifted from the seabed; below on the oar-deck the slaves, as one man, reversed stroke and the ship started to glide forward. Once the aft anchor had been secured on deck another series of shouts caused the mainsail hands to start hauling on a halyard, raising the yard aloft. When it was in position six men clambered up the rope ladder on the mast and made their way, three on either side, along the footropes of the yard. At another signal from Rhaskos they released the brails, unfurling the sail that flapped in the wind until its sheets were tallied. The wind snapped the sail taut, the drumbeat from the oar-deck accelerated and Vespasian felt the ship lurch forward.
‘Thanks to our Mother Bendis for this wind,’ Rhaskos called to the sky as the crew went forward to deal with the foresail.
‘Shouldn’t it be Amphiaraos you should be thanking?’ Vespasian asked, walking over to him at his position between the steering-oars.
‘No, this is Bendis’ work,’ Rhaskos replied with a grin and shouted another series of orders through his trumpet.
The yard was hauled up the forward-raked foremast and soon the foresail was set and the ship put on another turn of speed.‘What makes you so sure that it wasn’t Amphiaraos?’ Vespasian continued when Rhaskos’ attention was again free from nautical matters.
‘Because the dream that he sent me was so fanciful I can’t understand it and so I haven’t done what he suggested.’
‘You still believe that the ship is cursed then?’
‘Without a doubt.’
‘So why have we got a wind?’
The old trierarchus smiled; there was a self-satisfied glint in his eye. ‘Because whilst I was communing with the Hero yesterday, as insurance I had my crew sacrifice the third ringleader to Bendis, under the mast. They cut his body in two and placed a half on either side of the ship then walked between it with the sails to purify them and themselves. The Macedonians do the same sort of thing with a dog but we find a human much more potent.’
Vespasian raised his eyebrows slightly; Rhaskos’ religious fervour had ceased to amaze him. ‘Well, it seems to have worked,’ he conceded, ‘but what about the slave fever, has that gone?’
‘No, we’re still cursed in that respect; over a quarter of them are suffering from it now.’
‘So why don’t you do whatever Amphiaraos told you in your dream?’
Rhaskos shook his head mournfully. ‘Because it seems so ridiculous, and it would be suicide.’
‘Suicide?’
‘Yes. Perhaps I should have more faith in the Hero but I just can’t bring myself to do what he suggested.’ He looked at Vespasian apologetically. ‘I dreamt that I took a slave by the hand and in return for his oar I gave him a sword.’
The breeze and the stroke-master’s beat remained steady; the day wore on. The extreme heat had diminished with the arrival of the wind and conditions on deck were much improved. On the oar-deck, however, the
