progress.
“It is safe,” he said. “Crawl on the vines. Draw me free!”
As the vines were thick there, it was possible, on one’s belly, half in the water, half out, to reach him.
He was an officer of the ship.
He stood high.
He was much my superior.
In the swell he must have lost his footing and plunged into the foliage, submerged, swam, came to the surface, and found himself feet away from the beams, snagged in the coiling vines.
“Help!” he said, reaching out.
I lowered myself from the nailed beams, and, half swimming, half crawling, muchly supported by the dense growth, came nigh.
“Closer!” he said.
I moved closer.
“Give me your hand!” he said, reaching out.
I extended my hand, but suddenly drew it back.
In a flash of thought I recalled Seremides, from a dozen times and places, images rushing upon me, a goblet lifted, a door opened, a hand gesturing, a pen in hand, signing an order, a sword, reddened, held over an adversary’s throat in the early morning.
“Your hand!” he demanded, angrily.
The hand extended to me, that it might grasp mine was his left hand. His right hand was under the water.
Seremides, former master of the Taurentians, was right-handed.
“Die, Sleen!” he cried, tearing himself upward, out of the vines, the right hand dripping with water, the sun flashing on the wet blade in its grasp.
I had not given him my hand. I had kept back, a little. That meant he must close the gap between us, must move toward me, and this, in the water, given the absence of footing, the presence of the foliage, could not be easily done. He was trying to scramble toward me, half in water, half out, over the raft of vegetation. The knife struck out at me twice, three times. I backed away as I could, slipping, half sinking through the vines, while he, similarly hampered, cursing, pursued me, foot by foot. I, backing away, suddenly slipped downward, through a gap in the vinage, and felt circles of vines about my legs and lower body, through which I had plunged. I was enmeshed. I reached about. I could obtain no purchase. I was held in place. “Noble Callias!” grinned Seremides, moving a hort closer. My only chance would be to grasp his knife wrist, and I thought there was little chance of that. Seremides would not be so foolish as to make a long strike, which might be blocked or intercepted. He would prepare carefully for the kill, feinting, darting, keeping the blade forward of my grasp, but slashing, striking, again and again, at the hand, from which he might sever fingers, or slash a wrist, disabling the hand. I would then, eventually, be as helpless as if bound. I did not think he would finish me quickly. I had seen him finish more than one man slowly, pleasantly. Some had begged to be done with.
“Ho!” we heard. “Is anyone there?”
Seremides turned white.
It must be a search party, in a small boat.
“Yes!” I called, loudly. “Here! Here!”
“Sleen!” hissed Seremides, and, his leisure vanished, he lunged forward, desperately, but the blow was short. He crawled closer and struck again. There was no leverage, no footing. He struck again. I reached for his wrist, but missed it. He struck again, and I managed to grasp his wrist, with two hands, and we turned in the water amidst the vines, struggling, thrashing about. “Here! Here!” I screamed, for there were men somewhere about. I suddenly sensed the blade was no longer in his right hand, and swept backward, water in my eyes, fending myself as I could. The knife cut through my tunic ripping it across the chest. I had not even seen it. Then I saw the knife was again in his right hand. I was then muchly on my back, where I had thrown myself backward, and my arms were tangled in the vines. I saw the glint of delight in his eyes, and saw the knife raised. I could not free my arms, either to block or intercept the blow. In a moment I might work myself free but the moment was not mine. In that moment a tethered tarsk could not have been more helpless. “Now, Sleen!” he whispered.
I saw the sky, a bright blue in the spring afternoon.
“Aiiii!” I heard, a sudden, startled, weird, hideous cry, and the knife arm, and the head, and the torso of Seremides suddenly disappeared beneath the water, which churned, rocking the mat of vines, lifting and scattering the broad blue and yellow blossoms amongst the foliage.
“Where are you?” called a voice.
“Here, here!” I said.
I was not thinking clearly.
It was a moment before I understood what had happened.
I saw Seremides emerge then from amidst the vines and blossoms. He was alive. He was some eleven feet away. He no longer held the knife. He grasped at the vines. I had never seen the eyes of a man look so. I had never seen such an expression on a human face, one of such horror.
“Callias!” he whispered, holding out a hand to me.
I made my way to him, a bit before he lost consciousness. I turned him on his back, and drew him through the water, and over the vines, to where I had departed the small vessel of nailed beams. Behind us there was a trail of blood, in the water, over the vines.
I drew him onto the makeshift vessel.
The shark had taken the left leg, from above the knee.
I heard the dip of oars in the water.
“Here!” I called, standing up, lifting my hand.
In moments I, and two oarsmen, had put Seremides in the ship’s boat.
“You have saved the life of Rutilius of Ar, well done,” said the rudderman.
“He is a high officer,” observed one of the oarsmen.
“You will be commended for this,” said another.
“Why did you not let him die?” asked an armsman.
“He will bleed to death,” said another armsman.
I tore away part of my tunic and thrust it against the part of the leg left.
“Let him die,” said a fellow.
“Put him overboard, kill him,” suggested an oarsman.
“Have you twine, rope, a belt?” I asked.
“Use this,” said the rudderman, tossing me a length of knotted rope, which bore some reddish stains.
“We found it floating nearby,” said an armsman.
I fastened the rope about the stump of the leg, and tightened it. The blood slowed, and then stopped.
“He needs care,” I said, “the attention of physicians.”
“Back to the ship,” said the rudderman.
“There is no hurry,” said an armsman.
“He is going to die,” said an oarsman, looking at the prostrate figure between the thwarts.
“No,” I said, “he is Seremides, he is strong.”
“He will wish he was dead,” said an oarsman.
“He is an officer,” said an armsman.
“No longer,” said another armsman. “There are no crippled officers.”
We began to make our way, largely through open water, to the great ship.
Seremides opened his eyes. They did not seem the eyes of the Seremides I knew. He looked up at me. “Do not hurt me,” he said.
Chapter Fifteen
