The fisherman was waiting. Parvati handed over the fistful of rupees and the three of them pushed the boat down the beach and into the placid early-morning waters of the Arabian Sea. Ashoka clambered on board as the fisherman settled into long, slow strokes of his oar.
“This is so cool,” he said. If only he’d had a commando or two in his past lives, he’d be sorted. Coils of knotted rope lay at his feet, a grappling hook with its steel flukes covered in cloth to muffle the noise, and alongside Parvati’s urumi was his bow and a quiver with a dozen brand-new steel-tipped arrows. The shafts were made of some lightweight compound and could fly for miles and still punch through sheet steel.
But Parvati’s gaze was on the distant ship. “We’ll be there in ten minutes. I want you to stick close behind me, understood?”
“But, Parvati—”
“Close behind or wait in the boat, understood?”
Ashoka folded his arms. “Fine. Understood.”
The ship loomed over them, far bigger than it had appeared from the shore. The deck was about ten metres above the small rowboat and the outward curve of the bows trapped them in darkness, hidden from the casual gaze of any crew members.
The shore was two miles back. The sea mist rested upon the water, letting their boat close in unobserved.
The Lazarus was quiet but for the waves lapping against it. A deep, low rumble echoed from within the idling engines, and the links of the anchor chain occasionally clunked together as the ship rose and sank with the swell of the sea.
“Stand back,” said Parvati. She stood up on the rowing bench, took the rope and grappling hook and began to swing it in a slow circle, gently lengthening the rope enough so it just scraped the surface of the water. Then she did a sharp, swift single spin and hurled the hook upwards, the knotted rope trailing behind it.
The hook sailed over their heads and on to the deck where it thunked hard on the metal. It sounded like a dinner gong.
Parvati winced and Ashoka grimaced. That must have woken the whole crew.
The rowboat bobbed, the fisherman ready to paddle away at the first sound of an alarm.
But nothing. It was an old ship and it creaked and moaned and made a hundred different noises over the day and the crew couldn’t inspect every single strange sound. After waiting a minute, Parvati slowly pulled the rope until it caught. She gave a sharp tug and locked the other end around her waist. “Up you go.”
“Me? Shouldn’t you go first?”
Parvati steadied the rope, holding it taut so it was as straight as a pole. “Unless I weigh down this end you’ll end up swinging from side to side as you climb. Now up you go. When you get to the top, keep your head down and stay quiet. I’ll be right behind you.”
Ashoka inspected the rope. It was thick damp hemp and every metre there was a knot. It looked doable.
“Remember to use your legs and feet to support your weight. Don’t pull with your arms, it’ll tire you out.”
“Feet. Right.” Ashoka took hold, hugging the rope as the boat bobbed up and down. He kicked off his shoes. This would be easier barefoot. He checked his arrows were fixed to the bow clip, then slung it over his shoulder. The steel bowstring dug into his shoulders, but he felt safer having it already prepped.
And up he went.
He clung on, scrabbling with his feet to try to get some purchase on the wet and slimy rope, hunched against it like some frog. It was harder than it looked, and despite Parvati’s efforts the rope swung in all directions, dragged this way by the ship, that way by the movement of the rowboat, and another way because of his shifting weight. Halfway up and his arms and shoulders ached.
He hated climbing. It was the worst part of gym. True, he hated cross-country more, but at least he knew how to run, albeit slowly. He might be last, but he would finish. But climbing was a nonstarter. He looked down. Maybe he should just wait in the boat. But Parvati glared back at him. “Don’t stop,” she hissed.
Halfway there. I’m halfway there.
Ashoka shuffled his feet up to the next knot, then pushed with his legs and slid another metre higher. The deck railings were visible above him. Not far to go.
He heard voices and froze. A couple of men, just chatting. But what if they saw the grappling hook? It was probably right by their feet. He curled up and hung on. A cigarette stub, still alight, flew over the edge and sailed past him and into the dark sea. The voices receded.
Parvati gave the rope a twitch and Ashoka climbed the last few metres and a moment later was pressing against the hull. He reached out with one hand and grabbed hold of the railing, then a second later slithered off the rope and on to the deck of the Lazarus.
Wow, his gym teacher would have been impressed. But now his limbs really did ache. His arms felt as if they were water, he could barely make a fist, and he was bathed in sweat. The steel deck was warm with residual heat and his bare soles felt the engines tremble below. Spotlights shone on the roof of the bridge, but Ashoka was well hidden behind a stack of wooden boxes.
Crates and barrels and other small cargo and equipment had been lined up against the railings, held in place with ropes and webbing. Vast sheets of waterproof tarpaulin covered the deck itself, obscuring what lay underneath.
A chain clattered behind him and he turned.
Three sailors stood watching him. Dressed in oily, stained patchwork clothing, they stared at him, their stubble-dark faces grim and highly unfriendly. One had a baton, another a net of webbing, the third a long chain, each link two centimetres thick.
He needed to think of something quick, something to put them at ease and give Parvati time to get up here and save his butt. Ashoka smiled. “Er … hello?”
“What are you doing here, boy?” said the guy with the big wooden baton.
Come on, Ashoka. A witty quip would be perfect right about now.
“Er …?”
“You thinking to stow away, boy?” said the one with the net.
“Savage doesn’t like stowaways,” said the man with the chain. “We find any, we feed them to the sharks.”
I am sooo dead.
The man slammed the baton down on Ashoka. The blow clanged and he shuddered. He clutched his head, expecting it to shatter like an egg, but it was all in one piece, no brains leaking from his ears.
The baton had struck the railings instead of his skull. Lucky break. He wasn’t going to get another one.
No time to draw his bow, he shoved out, knocking the man away. The baton clattered on the steel deck.
The man shook the numbness from his fingers as Ashoka picked up the wooden stick. Then the man grinned and drew a big, big knife from the back of his belt. “Gonna carve you up for the fishes, boy.”
Scratch that. I’m totally mega-dead.
Ashoka curled his fingers tighter around the stick. It was about half a metre long, thick and skull-crunchingly heavy. It felt right in his palm. Ashoka slowly rose to his feet.
Salute them, boy. And say the words.
Words came to him. Words that had been dust for over a thousand years. Ashoka didn’t know Latin, but the phrase had been drummed into him. In the training camp. In the arena. On the sands that had soaked up his blood, all those lifetimes past.
Ashoka raised the baton and said the words: “Nos morituri te salutamus.”
The guy with the machete frowned. “What?”
We who are about to die salute you.
Chapter Thirty-nine
He adjusts his grip on the gladius. His shield is lost and there are three against him.
I’ve fought worse odds.
The baying of the crowd fades until all he hears is his own breath, low, slow and deep. He watches and waits, saving his energy. Let them come to him.
Three against him. The first a retiarius, a net fighter, swings his net over his head, preparing for the throw. His trident is missing; no doubt he hopes to snare him and have his two companions finish him off. Spartacus edges to the side, keeping the man to his right and
between him and the second gladiator, a thraex. He wields the curved sica sword with confidence, an experienced warrior. Spartacus will need to watch out for him.
The third opponent is a laquearius, but instead of a rope he carries a steel chain. He will hope to entangle Spartacus’s own weapon and pull it from his grasp.
Let him try. I’ve not survived so long relying just on my sword.
The eyes betray intent. And with a glimpse Spartacus knows. Fear, inexperience, lack of training. These things can decide the victor as much as skill at arms.
The retiarius throws his net too soon.
Spartacus ducks and surges forward, the net sails over him. The retiarius backs away, now weaponless, eyes darting to his companions for aid. He opens his mouth to scream …
Spartacus shoves the man back with his shoulder and down he goes, flipping over the railings. There is a cry and a splash.
Gladius and sica clash, the blades a finger’s width from his throat. The thraex is bigger and heavier than him, and uses his weight to press down. He glares, spittle drooling from between his clenched teeth. Spartacus, pushed to the railings, feels them bite into his back. His feet slide to the edge.
A bolt of steel rattles overhead and Spartacus twists. The heavy chain smashes the thraex across the shoulders and he grunts, his grip weakening for a fraction of a second.
That is a lifetime in this game of death.
Gladius slips free and strikes the thraex’s head, once, twice and a third time across the jaw and the man loses his teeth and his consciousness.
The chain flicks and traps Spartacus’s sword arm.
Mistake.
Spartacus throws his gladius in the air, catches it with his left hand and rams the tip into the laquearius’s belly. The man yelps and curls up, knees knocking the ground. Spartacus turns in a swift, powerful circle and the blow to his chin lifts the man back up to his feet and back down, flat on his back.
The arena erupts in celebration. Spartacus points his gladius at the editor of the games, in acknowledgement, in defiance, as the mob chants his name to the heavens.
Chapter Forty
“Ashoka?” Parvati nudged his back. “What have you done?”
Ashoka stared at the two unconscious men. His baton dripped blood and a tooth was embedded in the wood. The machete lay at his foot. He kicked it over the edge. Parvati just stood there, dumbstruck. She blinked, as if her eyes must be deceiving her. “I … That was amazing.”
The roar of the crowd still echoed in his head. Chanting his name.
Spartacus.
Parvati nudged one of the unconscious crew with her toe. “Past life, yes?”
Ashoka nodded. He sank down on a crate. His head swirled with images and memories, the blur of faces in the arena, the smell of the sweat and the dust and sand in the air. The relish he felt as he struck, the drunkenness of victory. He felt euphoric. He felt sick. “What’s happening?”
“Aftershock. Get used to it.”
“I’m not sure I want to.” Ashoka dropped the baton and clutched his head, trying to breathe more slowly, trying to calm down. Now he was terrified. “Those men were going to kill me!”
Parvati patted his back. “Shall we toss them overboard?”
“They’ll drown. They’ll die.”
“And that is bad because …?”
“Parvati, no. We’ll tie them up and dump them in that lifeboat. No one will see them there.” Ashoka stood up. “What happened to the other one?”
Parvati peered over the edge. “Swimming back to shore, I think.”
There. He was up and not shaking. Wow. That had been weird, but already the memories of the gladiator were fading away. He picked up his baton, but it felt different, uncomfortable, less familiar. Not a weapon but a piece of clumsy wood. He didn’t know how to fight with this. Not any more.
It took a couple of minutes, but eventually they had hauled the two men into the lifeboats, tied and gagged.
Parvati sounded a low whistle as she looked under a corner of one of the tarpaulin sheets covering the cargo. “Savage doesn’t do things by halves, does he.”
It was a missile. Sleek, narrow, black and shiny and just under two metres tall. The guidance fins were bright red and the surface decorated with strange symbols. Engraved on the warhead, which was made of glass and filled with green liquid, was some Hindi lettering.
“The Ravan-aastra. Tasteless and blasphemous,” said Parvati. “There must be hundreds.”
Ashoka peered under another sheet. She was right. The deck was covered with the missiles, all standing rank upon rank, metal and glass soldiers ready to bring death and horror to India. He tapped the cylinder and looked at the exhausts. “These are short-range rockets. Not enough fuel to get them across the country from here. Savage would need to fire them pretty close to the target city to be effective, but there are enough here to take out twenty cities at least.”
“Hire a convoy of lorries and spread them out over the country. Thank God we found them now. Once distributed, we’d never have tracked them all down.”
Ashoka took out one of the jars. “Let’s get busy. I’ll go down the right—”
“Starboard.”
“Whatever. You go down the left—”
“Port.”
“Whatever. Save one each for the bridge, OK?”
“That wasn’t the plan, Ashoka. We stick together. Remember?”
Ashoka grinned. “Things have changed. I kick butt now.”
“Fine. Let’s hope the next past life you summon isn’t Charlie Chaplin.” Parvati gave a mock salute and went on her way.
Ashoka entered the ranks of the Ravan-aastras. He worked his way along the deadly cylinders towards the centre of the deck. He tore off the paper seal and settled the first jar gently on the floor. Out came his pocket knife and off came the wax plug. He’d leave them like this, then throw the last one from the bridge. That would burst into flame and set off the ones on deck in a chain reaction. He hoped that would give the crew enough time to abandon ship. He put two more deep among the missiles and emerged at the prow of the ship. A large covered mechanism stood at the very front of the deck, supported by a thick steel column and connected to power cables running along the rusty steel floor.
Ashoka pulled the sheeting off.
Four Ravan-aastras sat loaded in a missile launcher, each missile garlanded with marigolds. The launcher had been bolted in place and was so new Ashoka could smell the paint. It was military hardware, designed to be fired from warships at targets onshore. It confirmed his guess that the missiles were all short-range: Kampani was just a couple of miles away.
There was no obvious ‘fire’ button so Ashoka guessed that it would have to be launched remotely, probably by the captain on the bridge. He needed to disable it, but there was no way he could lift one of those missiles off by himself. He looked around and found a toolbox. He quickly grabbed a couple of screwdrivers and rammed them into the gears so the launcher couldn’t move or change its aim, then he set to work uncoupling the power cables from the driver motor. He whacked the receiver box with a large spanner until it fell to pieces on the deck. He kicked the pieces off into the sea and slung the sheeting back over.
Those missiles weren’t going anywhere.
The backpack was a lot lighter now he’d got rid of three of his four jars so he jogged back and found Parvati waiting at the foot of the steps leading up to the bridge. She put her finger to her lips and then signalled ‘four’, pointing up.
Four crew up there. Ashoka nodded and let her lead the way.
This James Bond stuff was easier than he’d thought. Maybe he should apply for a work placement at MI6 during his holidays.
The bridge overlooked the deck and was raised about six metres above it. The windows were thick, tilted downwards, and gave the crew an almost 180-degree view. A small array of radio and satellite equipment hung off brackets on the front and the roof. The steel structure had seen better decades, but was still stu
rdy, despite the pockmarks of rust, and the door was heavy with a watertight seal.
Parvati sneaked a peek through the porthole window in the door, then crunched down and whispered, “I’ll go in. Keep this door closed in case one of them tries to make a break for it. I’ll give you the all-clear when I’m done.”
“Don’t kill anyone,” said Ashoka.
She pouted. “You’re no fun.” Then she changed into a cobra and slithered into a run-off pipe just under the door threshold. Ashoka grabbed hold of the door handle with both hands.
There’d be a drain, a gulley, in the bridge to allow any water to drain out. Ashoka could imagine Parvati sliding along the steel pipe, through the bends and slopes and up the drain into the room. He reckoned she’d be out about—
A man yelled.
About now, in fact.
A loud, terrifying hiss followed and the door jolted as someone tried to open it. Ashoka braced himself against it, gazing at the petrified face yelling at him from the other side of the glass. The man, cap askew and face white, banged on the door. “Open the door! Please! Please!” His breath steamed up the porthole window. Then he screamed again as he was dragged away.
Something smashed. Something heavy, a body maybe, thumped against the door. The window overlooking the deck cracked as one of the crew was hurled against it. Hisses, screams, cries and thumps, and the sound of things cracking, breaking and bruising broke out, and someone rattled the door handle desperately, sobbing on the other side. There was a pitiful whimper. “Please, oh God, please …”
Then a single, long, high-pitched scream. Then all was silent.
The weight on the door handle dropped away.
“All clear,” said Parvati from the other side.
Ashoka turned the handle, dreading to see the carnage. It sounded as if she’d torn them limb from limb. The walls were probably drenched in blood and internal organs. The bile was rising up his throat in anticipation. He opened the door.
The bridge was cramped with screens and controls and there was a rack of very new and shiny gas masks hanging on a wall. In case of any leaks of RAVN-1, Ashoka supposed.
Ash Mistry and the World of Darkness Page 21
