‘Lord? Valerius?’ His heart quickened further at Serpentius’s shout. ‘Now.’
A hail of spears arced over his head into the crowded passage in front of him and the pirate crew hesitated for a precious moment.
With a twist of his wrist the shield dropped free and he ran.
X
With the pirates so close behind that he could feel their breath on his neck, Valerius sprinted towards the galley’s bow. The crew of the Golden Cygnet had cast off the grapnels and the big merchant ship was already five feet away, with the gap widening every second. He glanced up to see a row of anxious, wide-eyed faces and registered the ropes hanging from the bigger vessel’s side.
Still travelling full pelt, he mounted the low platform in the bow and dived for the ropes, reaching out with his left hand. Even carrying the weight of his armour he would have done it. He was certain he would have done it. But, as he launched himself, a callused pirate hand clipped his heel and turned the leap into a sprawling tumble that smashed him against the ship’s side. His helmet struck the seasoned oak with a clang and the impact knocked the breath from his body, before he plummeted into the blue-black void under the Cygnet ’s rail.
The shock of the freezing waters seemed to stop his heart and for a fleeting moment he had no idea what was happening. His bewildered mind registered the ship’s weed-streaming timbers through the opaque curtain of blue water and silver bubbles as the light above him faded to a tiny window. As he sank, the fingers of his left hand scrabbled for the straps of the armour that was carrying him to his death, but he knew it was useless. He had drowned before, trapped in the narrow aqueduct tunnel below the Viminal Hill, but that had been a terrible, violent drowning, while this was almost dreamlike by comparison. He made no conscious decision to hold his breath. His body’s natural inclination to survive was automatic. But he could only hold it for so long. Gradually, the pressure grew in his chest and his nose and throat began to fill. He looked up at the wooden hull for the last time before a convulsive jerk made him choke and the darkness closed in.
‘I’ve seen it done before.’
The words seemed to come from very far away.
‘Put him on his stomach and pump his back.’
He felt himself being turned over and the pressure of strong hands on his ribs. At first nothing happened; then he felt a burning sensation in his chest and throat.
‘One of the steersmen fell overboard in the harbour at Alexandria. We thought he was gone, but his bunkmate who was sweet on him lay on top of the body and gave him a good squeeze. Suddenly all the water came out and he was good as new.’
Valerius noisily vomited what seemed like gallons of salty water. His eyes opened and he watched the contents of his lungs and stomach slowly spreading across the smooth planks of the deck. Good as new? He tried to raise his head, but it seemed terribly difficult. Someone turned him over so that he was looking up into a patch of darkening sky circled by a ring of inquisitive, concerned faces. Rough hands pulled him into a sitting position and his head spun as if he was on his third jug of wine.
‘Tribune?’ Tiberius stared at him as if he were a ghost, which he supposed, in a way, he was. How many deaths must one man endure? He tried to speak, but the drowning and the vomiting had torn his throat.
‘How…?’ It was a sound really, not a word, but Tiberius seemed to understand.
‘Your slave is a man of some resource,’ he said cheerfully. ‘When you ordered him away he tied a rope to your waist. The sailors were able to haul you in like a fish after you fell, but it took so long we thought you must be dead.’
Someone — Serpentius? — placed a cup in his hand. He looked at the clear liquid suspiciously, but other hands raised it to his lips and the water was cool and soothing as it ran down his ravaged throat.
He nodded his thanks. ‘The pirates?’ The water seemed to have helped his voice.
‘They are gone. Our axe men must have done their work well — the galley foundered. The others ran, not even attempting to rescue their friends.’
For the first time Valerius realized that the deck was pitching much more wildly than when he had left it. He looked up at the big mainsail, taut and straining at its stays, the wind whistling through the ropes. Tiberius pulled him to his feet and Serpentius wrapped a cloak around him. Not for the first time, he owed the Spaniard his life. It was only then that he noticed the other little group huddled over a bundle by the ship’s side.
Tiberius saw the question in his eyes and shook his head. ‘Aurelius. He wanted to help and picked up a spear. It was just bad luck really.’
Valerius pushed his way through the crowd and knelt by Aurelius’s side. The captain’s face had taken on the colour of old parchment and already bore the unmistakable stamp of death. He saw immediately what had happened. Aurelius must have been lifting the spear to throw when the arrow pierced his lower right chest, angling its way up towards the heart. They had torn away his tunic and there was very little blood, but the point was buried deep, with only a short span of shaft and the feathered fletching showing above the bruised flesh. Each laboured breath was accompanied by a hoarse groan and small frothy bubbles of red that clicked as they burst on his lips.
The captain opened his eyes and beckoned Valerius nearer. His voice was the merest whisper and the Roman had to lean close to hear what was said.
‘East,’ Aurelius gasped. ‘You must go east. Judaea. Settlements by shore. Plenty of them. Cronos is a good seaman, but a poor sailor. He will want to go south for Egypt, because it is easier to run before the wind and a storm is coming. But by the time you get there water will be short, and unless Fortuna favours you, all you will find is desert.’ He closed his eyes and drew in a long, agonized breath. For a moment Valerius thought he was dead, but even though the captain was drowning in his own blood he had one last message to impart.
‘Good crew, but keep the women out of the way. Shouldn’t allow women on ships. Bad luck. Pour a libation for Poseidon and give his knee a rub for me. He has never let me down.’ A smile flickered on his lips, he sighed once, and was gone.
No funeral oration dispatched Claudius Aelius Aurelius to join his beloved sea god. Four sailors carried him to the side and weighted the body before consigning it to the depths as was their custom. In the nervous silence that followed, Valerius called Tiberius and Cronos to the steering platform. By now the wind had risen to a low howl and the sky was dark, though it could only be mid-afternoon. He addressed the helmsman. ‘With Aurelius gone, you are the man we depend on for our knowledge of the sea, Cronos. What is your understanding of our situation?’
Cronos frowned. He was a heavily built man with well-muscled shoulders from working the big steering oars, but he had a petulant mouth and a truculent, almost dismissive demeanour. Valerius had had little contact with him during the voyage, but he seemed capable enough. Perhaps the sullen attitude could be explained by the sudden change in his responsibilities. A fine seaman, but no sailor, Aurelius had said.
The man looked up at the brooding sky as if measuring their chances. ‘We were a day’s sailing from Cyprus when we first sighted the pirates, but we have been driven far south off our course. By now we are at least two days from land and must keep the wind at our back. This,’ he gestured at the sky, ‘is Poseidon’s punishment for taking women on board without sacrificing to him first. If we do not placate him, the god will whip up a storm above and below and when the time is right he will rise from the depths and drag us all to his lair.’
Valerius felt Tiberius’s eyes on him. ‘Then we will make a libation to him at the appropriate hour and ask his forgiveness.’
‘A few drops of olive oil or wine will not be enough to placate the god for this insult.’ Cronos glowered. ‘If we are to survive we must make a suitable gesture. I have spoken to the crew. We should make a gift of one of the women.’
Tiberius stiffened and his hand strayed towards his sword, but Valerius only nodded, as if he understood the crew’s concerns. He lowered his voice and laid his hand on the seaman’s shoulder. The physical gesture was reassuring, almost friendly, but the fingers closed like a claw, digging into the flesh, and the words that accompanied it held all the threat of a drawn blade. ‘I want you to understand, Cronos, that whatever you and your friends believe, I command here and I would sacrifice every one of the crew before I would allow harm to come to the general’s daughter or her women. Let it be known that if there is to be a sacrifice I plan to be generous, and
