The sail was lowered and belled full-out; the lower spar was secured by taut lines to cleats along either wale to the stern. The sail was yellow-dyed hemp fortified with belts of leather to prevent rips. The Lion moved through the calm water with a pace swift enough to send a gentle ripple of foam over the ram.
Caroline, with Praxus beside her, toured the boat with enthusiasm. The crew was mostly indifferent to the captives. They were no longer a mystery, just another pair of Romans. Who cared? But Dwayne caught a couple of surly mothers eye-fucking him. Maybe they were cousins or friends of the ones he waxed, back on the island. He’d have to watch his back and Caroline’s ass until they could get clear of this crowd. The captain believed they were valuable as slaves and probably told the crew to lay off of them. That didn’t mean one of them wouldn’t get a wild hair up his ass and take a shot.
The garlic smell was no longer overwhelming all the other odors on the boat, Caroline noted. It was because their diet was laced with the stuff to the point where they were immune to how bad the others stank. They shared that stink. Now she could smell the sea and the tar and the clean scent of cedar.
The entire ship was constructed of cedar from the famed forests of Lebanon. Stout and water-resistant, the dense wood made Phoenician craft superior to any other vessel on the ancient seas. The hull would be copper-bottomed, and the structure from the keel upward fortified with iron bands. These early oared vessels were unique for the single keel board running beneath them. The whole structure was further strengthened by a three-inch-thick length of twisted hemp that ran from stanchions mounted at stern and bow. It was thickly tarred, and taut as a piano wire. It prevented the keel from bowing in the wrong direction in rough seas.
Caroline followed Praxus sternward past a brick oven set up on the deck. A crewman was heating irons in glowing coals within the oven. A trail of smoke drifted along in the ship’s wake. They followed the cloud of soot to the aft deck where the helmsman stood above them on the raised tiller deck. A skinny black Nubian sat dozing with his back against the aphlaston, a tall structure carved with relief images of fish and shells that rose from the stern and curved back over the deck like a scorpion’s tail. Put a t-shirt and khaki pants on the sleeping man, and he might have been a crewman aboard the Ocean Raj.
In the shadow of the towering tail, the helmsman worked the iron-banded tiller set to starboard. He was tanned deep walnut, and at five feet nine inches, he had been the tallest man on the Lion until Dwayne showed up. The helmsman was all shoulders and arms from years of working the tiller. Like many of the crew, he was buck-naked. Caroline reminded herself neither to stare nor look away. The helmsman leaned now, elbows resting on the tiller handle, keeping one eye on the sun rising off the port bow.
“His name is Yadaba’al,” Praxus told her, his Latin improving the more they spoke.
“Is everyone on board named Ba’al?” she asked.
“Ba’al is their god. Yadaba’al means ‘known to god.’ Most of them shorten the name.”
“So, we call him Yada.”
“Yes. That is so.”
“Yada-yada,” she said and smiled. Praxus regarded her blankly.
“Sorry. Roman joke,” she said.
Crewmen were dipping bowls into an open barrel resting on the deck and bound to the mast with hemp lines. Amber liquid sloshed inside. A guy with a toothless grin elbowed Dwayne and offered him a wooden bowl. Dwayne took the bowl and smiled back, and the man’s eyes widened. The guy reached out tar-smeared fingers and stuck them in Dwayne’s mouth.
Dwayne reared back, but the guy persisted. He separated Dwayne’s lips with his fingers and called to others nearby. Crewman stepped up and stared in open wonder, making ooh and ahh noises. None of them had all their teeth, and the ones they did have were stained dark. They’d never seen the marvels of modern dentistry and had probably never met anyone who had all their teeth. Some of Dwayne’s were implants from when he face-planted against the dash of a MRAP, propelled there by a mortar blast in Helmand Province. Still, his mouthful of pearly-whites was a miracle to these guys that they’d be talking about for the rest of their lives.
The toothless guy nodded toward the barrel and Dwayne dipped the bowl in the contents. The men smiled at him, and Dwayne tipped the cup to his mouth. It was bitter and gritty and brackish and warm, but the aftertaste left no doubt.
It was beer, the nastiest, skunkiest, funkiest beer he’d ever had. But when in Rome, you did as the Romans did, especially if you were pretending to be a Roman. He dipped in for seconds, and the guys around him nodded approval. He was one of the boys now.
Caroline stood by the high prow and looked past the tarnished bronze head of the ferocious lion to see the water streaming up in geysers of foam between the ram’s extended claws.
“I see no scars on the backs of the men,” Caroline said.
“Scars?” Praxus said. He was seated precariously on a railing at ease, unmindful of the water gurgling past below him.
“Scars from beatings. With whips. Some of these men are slaves, are they not?”
“No one aboard this boat is a slave but me,” Praxus
