The Golden Slave (19 page)

She wondered drearily if Flavius had meant his offer. It was the best of an evil bargain. And if he lied―well, then she would die, and the shades did not remember this earth.

When Eodan released Flavius, she would go with him to Rome.

The decision brought peace, after so many hours of treading the same round like a blinded ox grinding wheat. Perhaps now she could sleep. It was very late. The revelry had ended. By the light of a sinking moon, glimpsed through clouds, she saw men sprawled across the deck, their cups and their bodies rolling with the ship. A few feeble voices hiccoughed some last song, but, mostly, they were all snoring to match the wind. Phryne stood up, stiff-limbed, to seek her tent on the smaller galley.

The brazier under the poop was still aglow. A dark figure crossed in front of it, and another and another. Flavius’ party was retiring, too. Being sober, they would have the sense to go below to sleep. One of them had just entered the poop.…

No, what was it he came back with? Torchlight shimmered on iron. A crowbar from the carpenter’s kit? And there were hammers, a drawknife, even a saw. O father Zeus, weapons!

Flavius led them across the deck. The last half-dozen celebrants, seated in a ring about a wine cask, looked up. “Well,” Phryne heard, “who ‘at? c’mere, old frien’, c’mere f’ little drink―”

Flavius struck coldly with his bar. Two hammers beat as one,
thock, thock―
like
butchers, the three men stunned those who sat. Quintus cackled gleefully and began to saw a throat across. “No need!” snapped Flavius. “This way!”

Phryne threw herself to the planks. What if they had seen her? Her heart beat so wildly she feared it would burst. As though from immensely far off, she heard Flavius break the lock on the hatch and go below.

Phryne caught her lip in her teeth to hold it steady. She could just see one man standing guard on deck while the others were breaking off chains in the rowers’ pit. Could he see her in turn, if she―but if she lay still, he would find her at sunrise!

Phryne inched to the ladder. Down, now. Moonlight fell on Tjorr, sprawled back against the weapon chest. His mouth was open and he was making private thunder in his nose. Phryne crouched beside him. He was too massive; her hands would not shake him enough. “Tjorr! Tjorr, it is mutiny!” she whispered. “Tjorr, wake up!”

“What’s that?” A ragged, half-frightened cry from the guard. Phryne saw him against the sky, peering about.

“Uh,” mumbled Tjorr. He swatted at her and rolled over.

Phryne drew her knife. The guard shaded his eyes, staring forward. “Is somebody awake there?” he called.

She put her mouth to the Alan’s ear. “Wake, wake,” she whispered. “You sleep yourself into Hades.”

A man’s head rose over the hatch coaming. “Somebody’s astir up there,” chattered the sentry.

“We’ll go see,” said the man. His burst-off chains swung from his wrists; it was the last mutiny all over again. How the gods must be laughing! Another followed him. Phryne recognized Quintus’ ferret body.

“Ummmm,” said Tjorr and resumed his snoring.

Phryne put her dagger point on a buttock and pushed.

“Draush-ni-tchaka-belog!”
The Sarmatian came to his feet with a howl. “What muck-swilling misbegotten son of― Oh!” His gaze wobbled to rest on the man running toward him. The hammer seemed to leap into his hand.

“Up!” he bawled. “Up and fight!”

Phryne dashed past him. Eodan still slept, she thought wildly; they could fall upon him unawares and kill him in his wife’s arms. Behind her she heard a sound like a melon splitting open.
“Yuk-hai-saa-saa!”
chanted Tjorr. “You’re next, Quintus!”

The youth ran back, almost parallel to Phryne. Men were coming from the hatch, one after the other. He saw her and shrilled: “Get that one too! It’s―” He broke off, swerved and plunged toward her in silence.

Phryne put her foot on the gangway between the ships. It jerked back and forth as they rolled, and she heard ropes rubbing together. She must go all-fours over it or risk being thrown into the water between the hulls. She crouched.

A hand closed on her ankle. She felt herself being yanked back on deck. Moonlight speared through darkness as she sat up. Quintus stood over her, grasping his saw. “Lie there,” he said. “Lie there or I’ll take your head off!”

Phryne whipped to her knees and stabbed at his foot. He danced aside, laughing. The saw blade reached across her arm. It was no deep cut, but she cried out and dropped her knife. He kicked it away, grabbed her shoulder and hurled her onto her back. Kneeling beside her, he laid the saw teeth across her throat. “Be still, now, if you would live,” he said. “I’ve business to finish with you.”

Phryne looked into the downy face. She lifted her arms. “Oh,” she said. “I am conquered.”

Quintus’ chin dropped. Moving carefully, so he could see what she did, she unfastened her belt. “I have never known a man like you,” she breathed. “Let me get this mantle off―” She slid her hands toward the brooch at her throat. The fabric wrinkled up ahead of her arm.

“Quickly!” gasped the boy. He lifted the saw a little, it was shaking so much, and fumbled at his loincloth.

Phryne got the bundled cloak between her throat and the teeth. She stabbed him in the hand with her brooch pin. He yelled, the saw skittered from his grasp. She leaped up and onto the gangway.

Quintus yammered by the rail. A fury lifted in Phryne; she stood up in the moonlight on the bobbing, twisting plank and opened her arms. “Well,” she cried, “are you man enough to follow?”

He stumbled onto the gangway. She kicked, and he fell down between the hulls. They were protected by rope bumpers from grinding together, but one lurching wall struck him as he went past. He rebounded, splashed and did not rise again.

Phryne crawled over the plank. Great Mother of Mercy, she thought, what had she done? But now it was to rouse Eodan. Up on the other ship, Tjorr stabbed and hammered, crying to his drunken followers to waken. Twenty men pressed in upon the Sarmatian, driving him back by sheer weight from the weapon chest.

Phryne beat on the cabin door. “Eodan, Hwicca, come out!” she called. “Come out before they kill you!”

It opened. The Cimbrian stood tall against blackness, armed only with a yard-long sword. Behind him Hwicca still blinked sleep from her eyes. Even in that moment, Phryne saw how fulfillment had made her beautiful.

Iron clanged in the windy moonlight. Phryne’s breath choked. So they had the weapons now! Flavius was already worming over the gangplank, bearing sword and shield. Behind him came two more―the rest still raged among the befuddled pirates, it was a bestial battle―one with an ax and one with a spear. Phryne and the Cimbrians were naked.

Eodan sprang forward to meet Flavius before he crossed. The Roman stood up and pounced the last few feet. He could have been thrown into the sea, like Quintus, but the watery gods let him pass. He struck the deck, danced away from Eodan’s slash and smiled.

“Come,” he said, “let us end this Iliad.”

Eodan snarled and moved in. He had more reach, which his blade immensely lengthened. But Flavius’ shield seemed always to be where the Cimbrian blows landed―over his head, in front of his breast, even down to his knees. The battle banged and roared between those two.

Phryne and Hwicca faced the Roman’s companions. The men grinned and walked in at their leisure. Phryne tried to dart aside, but the Spearman thrust his shaft between her legs. She fell, and her mind seemed to burst. When she regained herself, she was prodded erect. “Over there,” said the man. “Stand against the cabin wall. That’s the way.” He held his pike close to her breasts, ready to drive it home.

Hwicca, a long knife in her hand, circled about with the axman. She spat at him, wildcatlike. Once she tried to rush in with a stab, but his weapon yelled down and she saved herself by falling. He tried to strike again, but she got away too swiftly.

And Eodan and Flavius fought across the deck and back, sword on shield, the Roman boring in behind his shelter and the Cimbrian holding him off with sheer battering force.

A bloody, tattered giant loomed over the rail of the other galley. Tjorr sheathed his sword in one final man, who tumbled down between the hulls. The Alan jumped onto the gangway.

The man who was guarding Phryne saw him coming. “I must deal with him,” he said, not unkindly. “Farewell, girl. We’ll meet beyond the Styx.” He drew back his pike. Phryne had no more will or strength to dodge. She waited.

Tjorr stopped on the middle of the gangplank, braced his legs and whirled the hammer. Phryne did not see it fly; she only saw the pikeman’s eyes bulge out, and when he toppled she saw his head broken open. Her knees deserted her; she sank to the deck and stared emptily at all else.

Tjorr bounded down, fell upon the axman from behind and wrenched the weapon loose. The axman kicked with a shod foot. Tjorr bellowed wrath and pain, dropped the ax and was caught in a wrestler’s grip. He and the sailor went down on the deck like a pair of dogs.

Hwicca sped toward Eodan. She called out something—Phryne did not know the rough word, but surely no voice had ever held more love. As Eodan’s gaze shifted toward her, Flavius stepped in close and brought the upper edge of his shield beneath Eodan’s jaw. The Cimbrian lurched back, and his sword clattered from his hand. He leaned his back against the rail and shook his head like a stunned bull.

Flavius poised his blade. Hwicca flung herself across Eodan’s body―and the sword struck home.

Flavius stared stupidly as she went to her knees. Eodan caught her and eased her to the deck. He did not seem aware of the Roman any longer.

Tjorr broke his opponent’s neck, picked up the fallen ax and thundered toward Flavius. The Roman bounded away, up onto the gangplank. He reached the other ship and faced back; but he was masked by shadow.

Tjorr paused at the plank’s foot, saw spears bristle and stayed where he was. His ax chopped and the plank’s ropes parted. Now it dangled free from the higher bulwark. Tjorr ran along the rail, cleaving lines. A few arrows fell near him as he cranked the anchor windlass. The gale caught the two ships and drove them apart.

Tjorr came back to Phryne. “If we set our canvas we can run away from ‘em while they kill the last pirates,” he croaked. “I see no other chance. Do you think you and I can unfurl the sail alone?”

 
XIV

Arpad of Trapezus, who had served ably on the warships of the King, was rewarded with a pleasant commission―to carry an ambassador and certain dispatches to Egypt. He took a lean black penteconter and a picked crew, not only to impress on his master’s behalf but to return with men not hopelessly slack after a few weeks in the subtle stews of Alexandria. They passed the Bosporus with no trouble, Byzantium having recently become subject to the Kingdom of Pontus. There was a halt at the Hellespont to show diplomatic passports, for that strait was controlled by the Bithynians, who favored Rome. But since Rome was still uneasily at peace with the Pontines, who dominated the Black Sea, Arpad was obsequiously sent on his way.

Thereafter he bore south between the Aegean islands, pausing here and there to admire some temple crowning a high ridge, until he saw pirate-haunted Crete. Beyond lay open sea, but it was not excessively far to the Nile’s mouths.

The Pharaoh of Egypt, who was a Macedonian by ancestry, received the captain from Pontus, who was half Persian and half Anatolian, graciously. Like all cultivated people, they spoke together in Attic Greek. During his stay Arpad found himself much in demand among the learned class; this city swarmed with as many philosophers and geographers as it did with gods and prostitutes. Pontus itself was exotic enough for several evenings’ discussion―Graeco-Persian-Asiatic on the Black Sea coast, a source of timber, minerals and the fantastically lovely murrhine glass. And one had heard of its king, the great Mithradates, enthroned in his twelfth year, forced to flee the usurping schemes of mother and brother, living for years a hunter in the mountains, until he returned to wrest back his heritage. But this Mithradates Eupator had not been satisfied with one throne―no, it seemed he must have all the Orient. He skirmished and intrigued among the Cappadocians, Galatians, Armenians, until no neighbor king sat easy. He fought his way up the eastern coast and took Colchis of the Golden Fleece for his own. He hurled back the wild Scythians in the north so that the Greeks of the Cimmerian Bosporus acknowledged their rescuer as their overlord. That kingdom lay near the dark edge of the world, on a peninsula thrusting past Lake Maeotis or the Azov Sea or whatever it was called. Northward was only barbarism till you reached the night and glaciers of Ultima Thule! What could the excellent Captain Arpad tell us of his lord’s Tauric provinces? Did Colchis hold any relics of Jason’s visit? Did he think war with Rome, which now held much of Asia’s Aegean coast and looked greedily east, would be to the death; or would it be a civilized war where boundaries were adjusted and prisoners taken for the slave market?

Thus Arpad’s stay became delightful, and he left with regret. But it was now early summer, and soon the etesian winds would make eastward sea traffic all but impossible.

By some quirk―by the ill wind of Ahriman, mumbled his sailors―they encountered a powerful west wind, a veritable gale. It blew steadily, hour upon hour and day upon day; as they wallowed north on bare poles and oars, striving to hold course and not be blown clear to Syria, the skies turned to an unseasonable overcast with chill gusts of rain. When at last he recognized the island of Rhodes, smoky blue through the squalls, Arpad decided to put in and wait out this weather.