Emperor: The Gates of Rome E#1 (25 page)

"Now, you all know I broke Firstmate's arm, so I'm not going to deny it. We had a difference of opinion and we fought over it, that's the end of the story. I don't know why he hasn't told the captain who it was, but I respect him a bit more for it. I'll do his job as best I'm able, but I'm no sailor and you know that too. You work with me and I won't mind if you tell me when I'm wrong. But
if
you tell me I'm wrong, you'd better be right. Fair enough?"

There was a mutter from the assembled men.

"If you're no sailor, you ain't going to know what you're doing. What use is a farmer on a trade ship?" called a heavily tattooed sailor. He was sneering and Marcus responded quickly, coloring in anger.

"First thing is for me to walk the ship and speak to each one of you. You tell me exactly what your job is and I'll do it. If I can't do it, I'll go back to the captain and tell him I'm not up to the job. Anyone object?"

There was silence. A few of them looked interested at the challenge, but most faces were bluntly hostile. Marcus clenched his jaw and felt the loose tooth grate.

He pulled his dagger from his belt and held it up. It was a well-crafted weapon, given to him by Marius as a parting gift. Not lavishly decorated, it was nonetheless an expensive piece, with a bronze wire handle.

"If any man can do something I can't do, I will give him this, presented to me by General Marius of the Primigenia. Dismissed."

This time, there was much more interest in the faces, and a number of the sailors looked at the blade he still held as they went back to their tasks.

Marcus turned to Renius and the gladiator shook his head slowly in disbelief.

"Gods, you're green. That's too good a blade to throw away," he said.

"I won't lose it. If I have to prove myself to the crew, that's what I'll do. I'm fit enough. How hard can these jobs be?"

CHAPTER 19

Marcus clung to the mast crosspiece with a knuckle-whitening grip. At this, the highest point of the
Lucidae,
it seemed as if he were swinging with the mast from one horizon to the other. The sea below was spattered gray with choppy white waves, no danger to the sturdy little vessel. His stomach heaved and every part of him responded with discomfort. All his bruises had stiffened by noon and now he found it hard to turn his head to the right without pain sending black and white spots into his vision.

Above him, barefoot and standing without support on the spar, was a sailor, the first to try to win the dagger. The man grinned without malice, but the challenge was clear—Marcus had to join him and risk falling into the sea or, worse, onto the deck far below.

"These masts didn't look so tall from below," Marcus grunted through clenched teeth.

The sailor walked over to him, perfectly balanced and adjusting his weight all the time to the roll and pitch of the ship.

"Tall enough to kill you. Firstmate could walk the spar, though, so I think you'll just have to make your choice."

He waited patiently, occasionally checking knots and ropes for tautness out of habit. Marcus gritted his teeth and heaved himself over the crosspiece, resting his unruly stomach on it. He could see the other men below and noted that a few of the faces were turned upward to see him succeed, or perhaps to be sure of getting out of the way if he fell—he didn't know.

The tip of the mast, festooned with ropes, lay within his reach, and he grabbed it and used it to pull himself up enough to get one foot on the cross-spar. The other leg hung below and for a few moments he used its swing to steady himself. Another grunt of effort against his tortured muscles and he was crouching on the spar, gripping the mast tip with both hands, his knees almost higher than his chin. He watched the horizon move and suddenly felt as if the ship were still and the world spun around him. He felt dizzy and closed his eyes, which helped only a little.

"Come on now," he muttered to himself. "Good balance you've got."

His hands shook as he released the mast, using the muscles in his legs to counteract the great swing. Then he uncrouched like an old man, ready to grab at the mast again as soon as he felt his balance fail. He brought himself up from a low bow to a round-shouldered standing position, his eyes fixed on the mast. He flexed his knees a little and began to adjust to the movement through the air.

"There isn't much wind, of course," the sailor said equably. "I've been up here in a storm trying to tie down a ripped sail. This is nothing."

Marcus suppressed a retort. He didn't want to anger a man who could stand so comfortably with his arms folded, sixty feet above the deck. He looked at him, his eyes leaving the mast for the first time since he reached that height.

The sailor nodded. "You have to walk the length. From your end to mine. Then you can go down. If your nerve goes, just hand me the dagger before you climb down. It won't be too easy to get if you hit the planks."

This was more like the sort of thing Marcus understood. The man was trying to make him nervous and achieved the opposite. He knew he could trust his reflexes. If he fell, there would be time to grab something. He would just ignore the height and the movement and take the risk. He stood up fully and shuffled back to the edge, leaning forward as the mast seemed determined to take him down as far as the sea for a moment before coming upright and over again. Then he found himself looking down a mountain slope, blocked only by the relaxed sailor.

"Right," he said, holding his arms out for balance. "Right."

He began to shuffle, never taking the soles of his bare feet from the wood. He knew the sailor could walk along it with careless ease, but he wasn't going to try to match years of experience in a few breathtaking steps. He inched along and his confidence grew mightily, until he was almost enjoying the swing, leaning into and away from it and chuckling at the movement.

The sailor looked unperturbed as Marcus reached him.

"Is that it?" Marcus asked.

The man shook his head. "To the end, I said. There's a good three feet to go yet."

Marcus looked at him in annoyance. "You're in my way, man!" Surely he wasn't expected to get round him on a piece of wood no wider than his thigh?

"I'll see you down there then," the man said, and stepped off the crosspiece.

Marcus gaped as the figure shot past him. In the same moment as he saw the hand gripping the spar and the face grinning up at him, he lost balance and swayed in panic, suddenly knowing he would be smashed onto the deck. More faces below swam into his vision. They all seemed to be looking up, pale blurs and pointing fingers. Marcus waved his arms frantically and arched back and forth in whiplike spasms as he fought to save himself. Then he steadied and concentrated on the spar, ignoring the drop below and trying to find the rhythm of muscle he had so enjoyed only moments before.

"You nearly went there," the sailor said, still casually hanging from the spar by one arm, seemingly oblivious to the drop. It had been a clever trick and had nearly worked. Chuckling and shaking his head, the man started to reach out to a rope when Marcus trod on the fingers that were wrapped around the crosspiece.

"Hey!" the man shouted, but Marcus ignored him, putting all his weight on his heel as he shifted with the movement of the
Lucidae.
Suddenly he was enjoying it again and took a deep, cleansing breath. The fingers squirmed beneath him and there was an edge of panic in the sailors voice as he found he couldn't quite reach the nearest rope, even bringing his legs up. With his hand free, he would have swung and released without any difficulty, but, held fast, he could only dangle and shout curses.

Without warning, Marcus moved his foot to take the last step to the end of the spar and was cheered by the scrambling sounds below him as the sailor, caught by surprise, slid and gripped furiously to save himself. Marcus looked down and saw the angry stare as the sailor began to climb back up to the crosspiece. There was murder in his expression and Marcus moved quickly to sit down in the center of the spar, gripping the mast top firmly between his thighs. Still feeling unsafe, he wrapped his left leg around the mast below to hold himself steady. He took out Marius's dagger and began to whittle his initials into the wood at the very top.

The sailor almost sprang onto the crosspiece and stood at the end, glaring. Marcus ignored him, but he could practically hear the train of thought as the man realized he had no weapons and that his superior balance was canceled by the firm grip Marcus had on the mast. To get close enough to shove Marcus off, he would have to risk getting the dagger in his throat. The seconds ticked by.

"All right, then. You keep the knife. Time to get down."

"You first," Marcus said, without looking up.

He listened to the dwindling sounds of the sailors descent and finished carving his initials into the hard wood. In all, he was disappointed. If he carried on making enemies at this rate, there really would be a knife in the dark one night.

Diplomacy was, he decided, a lot harder than it looked.

* * *

Renius was not around to congratulate him on his safe return from the high rigging, so Marcus continued his round of the ship on his own. After the initial excitement at the thought of winning the dagger, the stares he received were either uninterested or openly malevolent. Marcus clasped his hands behind his back to stop the involuntary shaking that had hit them as his feet touched the safe wood of the deck. He nodded to every glance as if it were a word of greeting, and to his surprise, one or two nodded back, perhaps only from habit, but it reassured him a little.

One sailor, his long hair tied back with a strip of blue cloth, was clearly trying to meet Marcus's eye. He seemed friendly enough, so Marcus stopped.

"What do you do here?" he asked, a little warily.

"Come to the stern... First Mate," said the man, and strode off, gesturing him to follow. Marcus walked with him to stand by the two steering oars.

"My name's Crixus. I do a lot of things when they needs doing, but my special job is to free the rudders when they get fouled. It could be weed, but it's usually fishing nets."

"How do you free them?"

Marcus could guess at the answer, but he asked anyway, trying to sound light and cheerfully interested. He had never been a strong swimmer, but this man's chest expanded to ridiculous proportions when he took a breath.

"You should find it easy after your little walk on the mast. I just dive off the side, swim down to the rudders, and use my knife to cut off whatever is fouling them."

"That sounds like a dangerous job," Marcus replied, pleased at the easy grin he received in return.

"It is, if there are sharks down there. They follow
Lucidae,
see, in case we throw any scraps off."

Marcus rubbed his chin, trying to remember what a shark was. "Big, are they, these sharks?"

Crixus nodded with energy. "Gods, yes. Some of them could swallow a man whole! One washed up near my village once and it had half a man inside. Bit him in two, it must have done."

Marcus looked at him and thought he had another one trying to scare him off. "What do you do when you meet these sharks down there, then?" he said.

Crixus laughed. "You punch them on the nose. It puts them off having you for a meal."

"Right," Marcus said dubiously, looking into the dark, cold waters. He wondered if he should put this one off until the following day. The climb down from the mast top had loosened most of his muscles, but every movement still made him wince and the weather wasn't warm enough to make swimming attractive.

He looked at Crixus and could see the man expected him to refuse. Inwardly, he sighed. Nothing was working out the way he'd intended.

"There isn't anything fouling the rudders today, is there?" he said, and Crixus's smile widened as he thought Marcus was trying to find excuses not to try it.

"Not in clear sea, no. Just scrape a barnacle off the bottom of one—it's a shell, a little animal that attaches to ships. Bring one back and I'll buy you a drink. Come back empty-handed and that pretty little blade belongs to me, all right?"

Marcus agreed reluctantly and began to remove his tunic and sandals, leaving him standing in just the undercloth that protected his modesty. Under Crixus's amused eye, he began to stretch his legs, using the wooden rail as a brace. He took his time, knowing from Crixus's enthusiasm that the man thought he'd never manage it.

Finally, he was loose and ready. Taking his knife, he stepped up onto the flat wooden section around the stern, readying himself for the dive. It was a good twenty feet, even in such a low-slung vessel as the
Lucidae,
which fairly wallowed in the water. He tensed, trying to remember the few dives he had managed on a trip to a lake with Gaius's parents when he was eight or nine. Hands together.

"You'd better put this on." Crixus interrupted his thoughts. The man was holding the tar-sealed end of a slim rope. "It goes around your waist to stop you being left behind by
Lucidae.
She doesn't look fast, but you couldn't catch her by swimming."

"Thanks," Marcus said suspiciously, wondering if Crixus had meant to let him dive without it, changing his mind at the last moment. He tied the rope securely and looked at the cold water below, scythed into plough lines by the rudders. A thought struck him.

"Where's the other end?"

Crixus had the grace to look embarrassed and confirmed Marcus's earlier suspicions. Mutely, he pointed to where the rope was made fast, and Marcus nodded, returning to his inspection of the waves.

Then he dived, turning slightly in the air to hit the gray water with a hard smacking sound.

Marcus held his breath as he plunged under the surface, jerking as the rope stopped his descent. He could still feel movement as the ship started to tow him. He fought to reach the surface and gasped in relief as he broke through the waves near the rudders.

He could see their dark flanks cutting the waves and tried to find a handhold on the slippery surface above the waterline. It was impossible and he found he had to swim strongly just to stay near them. As soon as he slowed his hands and legs, he drifted out until the rope was taut again.

The cold was cramping his muscles and Marcus realized he had only a short time before he was useless in the water. Gripping his dagger tightly in his right fist, he gulped breath and dived below, using his hands to guide him down the slippery green underside of the nearest rudder.

At the base, his lungs were bursting. He was able to hold himself for a few seconds while his fingers scrabbled around in the slime, but he could feel nothing that felt like the sort of shell Crixus had told him to expect. Cursing, he kicked his legs back to the surface. As he couldn't hold the rudders to rest, he felt his strength slipping away.

He pulled in another breath and disappeared down into the darkness once more.