"Wake up! The captain wants to see you."
Marcus groaned. His face and upper body were a mass of heavy bruises. Renius whistled softly as he stood up and, wincing, began to dress. Using his tongue, Marcus found a loose tooth and pulled out the water pot under his bed to spit bloody phlegm into it.
With the part of his mind that was active, he was pleased to notice that Renius was wearing his iron breastplate and had his sword strapped on. The stump of his arm was bound with clean bandages, and the depression that had kept him in his cabin for the first weeks seemed to have disappeared. When Marcus had pulled on his tunic and wrapped a cloak against the cold morning breeze, Renius held the door open.
"Someone beat the first mate into the ground last night, and another man with him," Renius said cheerfully.
Marcus put his hand up to his face and felt a ridge of split skin on his cheek. "Did he say who did it?" he muttered.
"He says he was jumped from behind, in the dark. He has a broken shoulder, you know." Renius had definitely lost his depression, but Marcus decided that the new, chuckling Renius was not really an improvement.
The captain was a Greek named Epides. He was a short, energetic man with a beard that looked as if it were pasted on, without a troublesome hair out of place on his face. He stood up as Marcus and Renius entered, and rested his hands on his desk, which was held to the floor against the rocking of the ship with heavy iron manacles. Each finger had a valuable stone set into gold on it, and they glittered with every movement. The rest of the room was simple, as befitted a working trader. There was no luxury and nowhere to look but at the man himself, who glared at both of them.
"Let's not try the protestations of innocence," he said. "My first mate has a broken shoulder and collarbone and you did it."
Marcus tried to speak, but the captain interrupted.
"He won't identify you, Zeus himself knows why. If he did, I'd have you flogged raw on the decks. As it is, you will take up his duties for the remainder of this trip, and I will be sending a letter to your legion commander about the sort of ill-disciplined lout he is taking on. You are hereby signed on as crew for this voyage, as is my right as captain of Lucidae. If I discover you are shirking your duties in any way, I will flog you. Do you understand?"
Marcus again began to answer, but this time Renius stopped him, speaking quietly and reasonably.
"Captain. When the lad accepted his position in the Fourth Macedonia, he became, from that moment, a member of that legion. As you are in a difficult position, he will volunteer to replace the first mate until we make land in Greece. However, it will be I who makes sure he does not shirk his duties. If he is flogged by your order, I will come up here and rip your heart out. Do we understand each other?" His voice remained calm, almost friendly, right to the end.
Epides paled slightly and raised a hand to smooth his beard in a nervous gesture. "Just make sure he does the job. Now get out and report to the second mate for work."
Renius looked at him for a long moment and then nodded slowly, turning to the door and allowing Marcus to walk through first before following.
Left alone, Epides sank into his chair and dipped a hand into a bowl of rosewater, dabbing it onto his neck. Then he composed himself and smiled grimly as he gathered his writing materials. For a while, he mused over the clever, sharp retorts he should have made. Threatened by Renius, by all the gods! When he returned home, the story he would tell would include the blistering ripostes, but at the actual moment, something naked and violent in the man's eyes had stopped his mouth.
The second mate was a dour man from northern Italy called Parus. He said very little as Marcus and Renius reported to him, just outlined the daily tasks for a first mate of a trader, ending with the stint on the rudder at around midnight.
"Won't seem right, calling you first mate, with him still belowdecks."
"I'll be doing his job for him. You'll call me by his name while I'm doing it," Marcus replied.
The man stiffened. "What are you, sixteen? The men won't like it either," he said.
"Seventeen," Marcus lied smoothly. "The men will get used to it. Maybe we'd better see them now."
"Have you sailed before?" Parus asked.
"First trip, but you tell me what needs doing and I'll get it done. All right?"
Puffing out his cheeks in obvious disgust, Parus nodded. "I'll get the men on deck."
"I'll get the men on deck, First Mate," Marcus said clearly through his swollen lips. His eyes glinted dangerously, and Parus wondered how he'd beaten Firstmate in a fight and why the man wouldn't identify him to the captain when any fool could see who it had been.
"First Mate," he agreed sullenly, and left them.
Marcus turned to Renius, who was looking askance at him.
"What are you thinking?" Marcus asked.
"I'm thinking you'd better watch your back, or you won't ever see Greece," Renius replied seriously.
All the crew who weren't actively working gathered on the small deck. Marcus counted fifteen sailors, with another five on the rudders and sail rigging around.
Parus cleared his throat for their attention.
"Since Firstmate's arm is broken, the captain says the job belongs to this one for the rest of the trip. Get back to work."
The men turned to go and Marcus took a step forward, furious.
"Stay where you are," he bellowed, surprising himself with the strength of his voice. He had their attention for a moment and he didn't intend to waste it.
"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 cl
ear—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."
The Gates of Rome Page 22
