“This is stupid,” the Captain mumbled. “Oh, all right. Let me tell Durante.” He went around to the side of the hold and yelled down to the slaves’ quartermaster.
Angelo said, “Everybody’s betting we don’t stay down there more than ten strokes.” He grinned.
Frederick glanced around and saw Corso staring at him from the foredeck. “First one to quit buys the other two wine when we reach port.” He took off his shirt and trousers. After a moment, the others stripped as well. The Captain came back.
“Well, go on down. They’re as ready as they’ll ever be.” He shook his head and stared out to sea.
Frederick went around to the ladder into the hold, the others trailing him. Straining at their oars, chained and bolted down, the slaves turned their heads to stare up. Durante ran over, his whip coiled around his shoulders, and stood bowing while Frederick descended into the moist heat and stench of the hold. He caught his breath, amazed. It was impossible to breathe. The heat wrapped itself around his chest and belly and sweat poured down his back. Another sailor was unlocking the chains from three men at one bench; the slaves gasped, and a few of them stopped rowing and yelled to be let loose. Durante whirled with his whip and they subsided.
“Well?” Enrico said.
“Don’t make me use breath.” His stomach heaved. The sound of the oars working thundered in his ears, drowning the beat of the time-keeper’s hammer. On the backs of the slaves nearest him he saw tremendous sunsores, whip marks like ruts, half healed, and brand-new and years old. Under the slats of the false decking, filth sloshed back and forth. The three slaves who had been freed stepped back and sank down on their hams, leaning against each other, their beards and wild hair crawling with lice.
“Sometimes,” Frederick said, sliding into the bench, “I’m glad I was born properly.” He sat down, stretched his legs out, and laid his arms on the oar. They’d stopped the rowing, and the slaves were all craning around to see. He tossed his hair back.
Enrico yelled, “Durante, one wrong move with that snake of yours and flay you.”
“Eh, Rico,” Durante said, and grinned. Their voices echoed in the hold; the beams of the ship looked like ribs, as if they were inside the belly of a huge animal. Frederick wrapped his fingers around the oar and grinned at Angelo.
“Remember, first one to quit—”
“Ready?” Durante yelled. “One, two, three—”
The hammer picked up the beat, and suddenly all the backs around them were bending in time. Frederick hung onto the oar, thrusting it out—it was balanced so that moving it took less effort than he’d thought. He braced his feet on the boards of the false deck and swung the oar out, brought it back, swung it out, in time—between each thrust there was a tiny lull, a time to rest. He felt Angelo’s hands on the oar, helping, and Enrico’s, slightly off-time for a few strokes. The whip cracked. Wood on wood, the oar grated against the rowlock, shrieking in his ears. At the end of each outward thrust, the breath exploded from the lungs of a hundred slaves with a thud like the hammer.
Enrico shouted, “Happy, Sire?”
“It’s interesting. I’d hate”—thrust—“to spend my life at it.” His palms and the flats of his fingers started to burn. Blisters. Don’t be too energetic, don’t waste strength. Sweat popped out of his skin. The whip flew out over the backs of the slaves two rows ahead of him, and he heard a gasp and saw red blood splat onto the oar next forward. His back hurt down to the bone.
“How many strokes have we gone?” Enrico yelled.
“Eight,” Durante shouted.
Frederick’s hair was in his eyes. He flung it back with a twist of his head and grinned at Enrico. “Ready to quit?”
Enrico’s face was twisted into a grimace. He tugged at the oar, sighed, and yelled, “Yes.”
“One more. Just one. Come on.”
“Sire—” They flung themselves forward. Now Frederick could hear the tiny gurgle of the water past the keel, just the other side of the wood beneath his feet.
“And one more,” he yelled. “This one’s the last.” His hands were bleeding; he saw the trickle of blood along the oar. They heaved the oar back, and he flung up his hands. “Enough.”
Durante screamed for a halt, and the slaves sank down, bent over the oars, panting. Frederick turned his hands over and looked at the palms. Half a dozen huge blisters had opened up on each hand, pulpy raw flesh, leaking blood. He stood up and nudged Angelo, and Enrico got off the bench and sank down, his eyes closed. Frederick slid out into the middle of the hold.
“Durante.”
The quartermaster jogged up, grinning, and bowed. “We’re very pleased to have your company, Sire—”
“Good. The next time we have wind, clean this place out. You can use the slaves to do it.”
Durante’s mouth fell open. “But—”
Frederick turned and went toward the ladder. The slaves stared at him, dull and bovine, astonished. When he took hold of the rungs of the ladder, his hands hurt so badly he cried out. Scrambling up onto the deck, he stood and breathed the clean, fresh air; his head swam. Angelo and Enrico came up beside him, breathing hard.
“Why clean it out?” Angelo said, “It’ll just get dirty again.”
“Keep cleaning it out. I’ll grant they’re slaves, but they’ll live longer if they get fresh air every once in a while.” He looked at his hands again. Corso ran up with clean cloths and a bucket of water.
“Is that salt?” Enrico said.
Corso nodded. “It’s supposed to be good for—”
“Right.” Enrico plunged his hands into the bucket. “It’s been a long time since I did that.”
Frederick thrust his hands into the water, clenching his jaws at the sting of the salt. “It’s good practice, I think. For what I don’t know, but it’s good.” He held out his hands, and Corso dried them carefully, murmuring over the blisters. The furious, monotonous action down there stayed with him—the sound of the oars and the whip and the hammer. Corso wrapped linen around his hands and helped him back into his clothes, and he went to the rail and leaned on it and looked out, wondering.
“Land,” Corso said. He trotted down to the afterdeck, skirting two men fixing the lead. “Sire, there’s land.”
“Cephalonia,” Frederick said. “Saw it this morning. Pico, roll.”
Corso made a small, exasperated noise, and Frederick bent his head to hide a grin. Pico, the first mate, cupped the dice in his hands and blew on them for luck. Bracing himself on the railing, Corso bounced up and down, murmuring, his eyes on the faint gray outline of the land to the north. In the hold a slave shouted hoarsely, and Frederick lifted his head.
“Hah!” Pico flung the dice down. “Oh, Jesus.” His face collapsed, and the rest of the sailors laughed. Angelo slapped down a brass coin and snatched up the dice and shook them.
“Any bets on the side?”
Frederick leaned back on his elbows. Pico had rolled a two, and nobody would put up a wager on it. The fresh, salt air brushed his face; when he shut his eyes he saw bright orange-red from the sun. He felt immensely strong, like an animal. The sailors around him cheered absently—Angelo had made his cast and beaten Pico. Frederick opened his eyes and stared into the blazing sky.
“Your turn, Emperor.”
That was Miklos, the wicked-minded little Greek. Frederick shut his eyes. Pretty soon he’d have to impress the hell out of Miklos, who alone of all the sailors treated him with less than respect, but this wasn’t the moment; the touch of the wind on his cheek was too intriguing. “I’ll pass.”
“Awww.”
Frederick stood up. They all got to their feet, Miklos last, and he glared at Miklos and saw him start to grin and turned his back, walking over to the rail near Corso. Behind him, Angelo’s voice grated, just low enough that he couldn’t hear the words.
“Wind’s changing,” Frederick said. “We’ll have to make sail soon.”
Corso shot him a glance of unmitigated awe, and Frederick
struggled to keep his face noncommittal. O the sailor’s life. Such simple pleasures: stunning pages with new knowledge. The oars screamed in the rowlocks, swayed across the choppy waves, dipped, and heaved the galley forward. The chop broke some of the waves into curls of foam, and far down the sea Cephalonia showed like a thickness of the air.
“How long now, Sire?” Corso said.
“I don’t know. Ask Enrico.”
The rest of the fleet bobbed around them, bright, painted ships on a bright, driving sea. A trickle of sweat ran down between his shoulder blades, and he reached one hand up behind his back to scratch his spine. Corso’s eyes watched him, shy.
“When we get there, what will it be like?”
“Hunh.” Frederick slacked his weight against the railing. “The same as in Sicily. Don’t remind me.”
Corso wrinkled up his nose, and Frederick laughed. The boy’s hair was shades lighter than when they’d left Sicily, and his skin tanned dark and rich—unlike Frederick he’d never burned. But he was darker than Corso, because he never wore a shirt. Corso is more respectable than I am. He glanced down at his body, dressed in the short leather trousers the sailors wore, the red hairs bleached pale gold and gleaming on his dark skin.
“Sire?” Angelo yelled, and held up the dice.
“Wait.” He lifted one hand. “Corso, go down and get me something to eat. And some wine, ah?”
Corso bowed and ran off, and Frederick went back to the clump of sailors and hunkered. “What’s the bet?”
“You’re first throw,” Pico said.
“Unless you want to pass again,” Miklos said softly, and snickered.
Frederick took the dice in the palm of his hand. “You must admit that the stakes aren’t too exciting, Miklos.” Looking up, he smiled.
Pico shifted his feet. “We’ll have to go aloft pretty soon, now, don’t—”
Miklos was staring at Frederick, his eyes narrowed. “Oh?”
“The game pales,” Frederick murmured. “Distinctly.”
“I didn’t know we were hired on to entertain you.”
“If you were they’d never sign up shaggy little Greeks.”
Miklos’ jaw tightened. Angelo inched closer to him, his eyes darting from his face to Frederick’s. Miklos said, “What will you play for, Emperor?”
Frederick clenched his fist. “Something closer than money, maybe?”
Corso trotted up with a little basket of bread and a jug of wine and a cup. While he laid out a napkin and poured the wine, Miklos’ eyes followed his hands, and Frederick’s skin prickled up with excitement: there were rumors about Miklos, interesting and exotic rumors. Frederick picked up the filled wine cup and drank half of it, rolling the wine around his mouth.
“Do you like wine, Miklos? Good wine?”
“Hunh?”
Miklos’ eyes narrowed. The others frowned, looking around, bewildered; Frederick held out the cup. “This wine, for example.”
The little man’s dark hand shot out and snatched away the cup. “Hunh.” He threw the wine down his throat in a quick motion, his eyes never leaving Frederick’s face. For a moment he said nothing and only looked fierce, but suddenly he grinned.
“That’s good wine, Emperor, yes. How much?”
“Full cask. You can stay drunk from here to Acre.”
Miklos’ face split ear to ear in a white, mirthless grin. “Except the Captain would pitch me overboard.”
“I’ll tell him to leave you alone,” Frederick said. He tore a chunk of bread from the white, soft loaf and ate it.
Pico’s feet shifted on the deck. “ Jeeee-sus.”
Miklos still wore the wide grin. “Against it, I put up—what?”
“How much hashish do you have?”
Angelo roared. Pico whispered, “My sweet Jesus Christ.”
“Enough,” Miklos said. The grin vanished; two hard red spots appeared on his cheekbones, under his tan. “Enough to keep you dreaming from here to Acre, Emperor.”
Frederick threw the dice. They rattled across the deck and bounced off Pico’s foot; up on the afterdeck Enrico shouted. The word came down the galley—“Make sail—”
“Ten,” Pico said, and Miklos swore.
Frederick stood up. “Make sail.” He nudged the dice with his bare toes and ran up the deck toward the mast. Angelo jogged along with him; they parted in the middle, just past the hatch into the slaves’ hold, and Frederick went to the lubboard rigging. A ten would be hard to beat. If Miklos didn’t have enough hashish to make the bet worthwhile he’d take it in skin. The fine, clear tingle rippled through his body again. Hand over hand, he climbed the rigging, upside down. Pico and Miklos would man the braces. Maybe he’d take something else out of Miklos’ skin. I love being a sailor but being Emperor is fun too. He scurried the last few feet to the yardarm and climbed awkwardly onto it. Angelo already stood casually on the swaying round of wood, pulling the lashings free.
This was the hard part. Frederick got to his knees, tested his balance, and reached for the lines strung over his head. True sailors never used them. He stood up and giddiness filled his head and stomach. The yard swung under his feet as if it meant to buck him off. He held his breath. Don’t look down. The glistening sea looked flat from here, hard as the deck. He bent and pulled the lashings loose from this end of the sail and slid his feet along the yard, still hanging onto the line. Angelo was finished, leaning up against the mast, grinning. Frederick stared at him, took a deep breath, and let go of the line. He hunkered, swayed, lost his balance, caught it again, and unlashed another ten feet of the sail.
“Don’t look down,” Angelo hissed. “How did you know he has that gunk?”
Frederick straightened, his spine rigid, and walked to the mast. With each step his confidence swelled, and abruptly the breath exploded from his lungs and he sighed. He bent down and jerked the last of the line free. “That would be telling.” He was close enough to Angelo to hear his low laugh; he kicked the sail off the yard.
“Heave,” the Captain roared, down on the afterdeck, and on the braces Pico and Miklos hauled away. The sail slid away from the yard and cracked out flat on the wind. Frederick stood up straight, his blood hammering in his ears. He was standing up on the yard, holding onto nothing. Glancing over at Angelo, he saw the sailor’s wide grin and grinned back.
“Good going,” Angelo said. “I still want to know—”
“Oh, shut up, I won’t tell you.”
They’d braced the sail taut and trimmed it, down there, and there was no reason to stay up here anymore, even though the wind raking his hair and cooling his body tasted sweet. Angelo turned and walked down the yard to the shrouds and slid lightly down the line to the deck. I would like to be the lookout. He lifted his head and felt his body adjust automatically to the new problem in balance; up there, in the well at the top of the mast, Aste was dozing. I want to be the lookout. But he couldn’t tell on Aste either. He sauntered down the yard to the line, hooked one arm and one leg around it, and stepped out into space. The long, controlled swoop to the deck finished it off, like a decrescendo. Just above the deck he let go, landed with a bounce, and walked almost strutting toward the dice game.
Before he reached it, he glanced toward Enrico on the afterdeck, expecting him to be laughing. Enrico was standing rigid, his head back, looking somewhere else. Frederick paused, surprised. He hadn’t considered before—Enrico probably watched in terror every move he made. If the Emperor playing sailor fell from the mast . . . With a jerk like a marionette Enrico pulled himself around to put his back to Frederick. Frederick sank down on his heels, his eyes on Pico’s face, curious. But Pico didn’t look upset.
“Bets still holding?” Angelo said.
“Give me those dice.” Miklos reached out his hand. “By God, I’ll . . .” He cuddled the dice in his hands and whispered to them.
Angelo said, “This wind will hold until dawn. Bet on it.
“Naw.”
Angelo said things like that
all the time, and he was invariably right. He’d sailed this part of the Mediterranean all his life. Knowledge hidden in his eyes, his ears, his skin. Miklos was still crooning to the dice, but with a swing of his arm he flung them down so hard they bounced up and hit Angelo in the chest.
Pico slapped his big hand down over the dice; he shouted, “Do you want it or not?” At the crash of his voice, Frederick jumped a little, startled.
“Yes,” Miklos shouted. “Show them—I want my wine.”
His hand still hiding the dice, Pico looked at Frederick. “Do you want it?”
Frederick nodded. He thought, Cheat—loaded dice? Pico lifted his hand slowly from the deck. Miklos bent, his mouth half open, peering. Frederick’s mouth had gone dry with excitement; he refused to stare, even to look—let them tell him.
“Shit,” Miklos said, and Frederick sighed. He looked at Pico, who grinned.
“Seven. Fair win.”
“No fair,” Miklos said. “He put up a cask of wine when he has dozens, and I put up all the hash I have in the whole world. I say—”
Angelo shoved him. “Bring it up. But watch the Captain.”
Miklos said, “I won’t. If he wants it, let him go find it.”
Frederick stood up; Miklos immediately scrabbled like a crab across the deck away from him his eyes shiny. Murmuring, the others backed out of the way. In the striped shadow of the railing, Miklos curled his legs under him, and his hand slid toward the knife in his belt.
“Sire,” Enrico said. “May I be of service?” He walked straight in between Frederick and Miklos. His voice, even and dull, fell like a mallet, but the look he gave Frederick burned with rage.
“Not at all,” Frederick said. “Leave me.”
“Sire—”
Frederick smiled. “Leave me.”
Enrico turned on his heel and marched off, glowering. Behind Frederick someone sighed, and Miklos under the railing licked his lips and watched Enrico go. Frederick hooked his thumbs inside the waistband of his trousers.
Antichrist Page 9
