Blood Red Tide (Bad Times Book 2)

by Chuck Dixon

  The top tier of oarsmen hauled in their oars and stood to stretch aching legs and backs before lying down on the benches and floor planks to catch what sleep they could. The bottom rank kept up the sweep of their oars through the water at a reduced pace. The rowing boss climbed down to the lower oar deck. He sat down cross-legged on the center planks and kept the metronomic rhythm by tapping his staff on the board before him.

  Dwayne startled Caroline by stepping out of the dark and touching her arm. He jerked his head toward the lower decks. She followed him down between dozing oarsman and stowed oars on the second deck then past the lower rowing deck where the banks of men leaned forward and back in a mechanical rhythm. She could see now that most of the work was done with their legs. They braced their bare feet against blocks mounted on the deck. The surfaces of the blocks were worn smooth by the friction and stained dark with sweat. A boy, who could not be more than ten years old, moved nimbly among them with a bucket under his arm. He stopped each time a man grunted to him and held a ladle to the man’s lip. It looked to Caroline like an oily gruel of some kind. Protein for fuel. Salt to restore them.

  They reached the sand floor of the hold and Dwayne moved to where the mast rested in the sand, footed into a gravel-filled box. Caroline followed him into the darkest shadows toward the stern. There were puddles in the sand along either hull. She sniffed the air and gagged audibly. The stench of urine was overwhelming.

  “Yeah, no bathroom breaks on this ride.” Dwayne laughed where he knelt in a patch of dry sand. He was pulling off his t-shirt.

  “What are you doing?” she said. “Get your shirt off,” he said.

  “Are you serious? Is this some kind, of gladiator fantasy of yours?”

  “I like the way you think. But I had something else in mind. We need to do more to hide your girl parts. I saw some of the guys checking you out. Maybe they’re not so sure you’re one of the boys. That ass looks fine no matter which way they swing.” Dwayne had a small knife he picked up somewhere and was cutting the NRA t-shirt along the seam.

  “Okay. I get it.” She pulled off the soccer jersey to reveal a sweat-soaked sports bra.

  Dwayne cut the shirt to create a broad sheet of cloth. He sliced a pair of strips from the hem, then folded the main body of the shirt in half. Caroline took it and wrapped it twice around her chest, then helped Dwayne loop the strips torn from the hem over her breasts. He pulled them tight behind her and knotted them. The effect was good. Her breasts were flattened against her chest to reduce her feminine profile.

  “Too tight?”

  “I can stand it.” She slipped the jersey back on. She laughed when she looked up to see Dwayne tying a remaining strip of the t-shirt in a headband around his forehead.

  “Going Roman on me?”

  “I am Spartacus,” he said.

  She knitted her brows at that and tilted her head.

  “Man, you really need to watch more movies,” he said.

  They climbed out of the stinking hold into the cool night air. The oar crews had changed while they were below. The lower tier now rested with oars drawn inboard. The upper rank was back at work with a new man keeping the rhythm. He was a leather-skinned guy with a white beard and shaved head who squatted and tapped the deck boards with an iron-headed cudgel. One tap. Two taps. One tap. Two taps.

  Praxus found Caroline when she went to the mast to fill a cup with water.

  “I know your secret,” he said to her, gripping her arm as he spoke.

  She looked about them at the fighting men sleeping along the gunwales.

  “They cannot understand. Only you and I speak the Roman language,” he hissed.

  “What secret can I have? I told you the truth,” she said and pulled her arm from his grasp.

  “Your master. The Gaul. He is in the hire of Carthage. They have many Gauls in their army. You are spies. Both of you.”

  “That is madness,” Caroline said and turned to walk away but could only move slowly over the dark, rocking deck. Praxus leaped the leg of a sleeping man to draw in front of her.

  “I will not reveal this.” Praxus had a wheedling tone in his voice.

  “I do not know what you’re talking about,” she said in annoyance. With everything else going on, she had to deal with this pain-in-the-ass kid. He and his stupid memoir were the reasons they were in this mess in the first place. She shoved him aside, but he grabbed her arm again and would not let go.

  A big arm snaked around Praxus’ throat and lifted him off the deck. His fingers released Caroline’s arm. He made a rasping sound and his tongue stuck between his teeth.

  “Why’s he pestering you?” Dwayne said, easily dangling the boy from his encircling arm. Praxus’ feet kicked wildly, but no sound escaped his mouth.

  “He says he knows we’re spies,” Caroline said.

  “Should I throw him overboard?”

  “No. Let’s hear what he’s up to.”

  Praxus gulped in air when released. Dwayne took him by the hair and frog-walked him to the prow and sat him on his ass. Caroline prodded his chest with a finger.

  “Tell us what you want,” she hissed.

  “If we are captured, you will speak for me? The Carthaginians will hang all aboard and worse. A word from one of their own would stay their hand. I would be spared.”

  “Why are the Carthaginians after the Lion?”

  “The gold and silver!” Praxus said, some of his wiseass attitude returning. “You know this. Why should I tell you what you know already?”

  She slapped his face with an open hand. Dwayne snorted in surprise.

  “You want to dance on a rope, fool? You are the one asking me for mercy. I want to know what you know. Then Maximus and I will decide your fate.”

  “The box we buried on the island where we found you. That is why they quarter the seas to find us. We captured and boarded a trader bound for Cyrene maybe ten days ago. Hidden in its hold was the chest filled with coins from Carthage.”

  “Why was so much coin being shipped?”

  “It was payment for mercenaries. A Gilgamae general is threatening revolt unless they are paid. That is what the master of the trader told Ahinadab after they blinded him.”

  “Why was the trader unguarded?” she asked. “It lost its escort in a storm,” Praxus said.

  Probably the same storm Dwayne and Jimbo ran into on their initial manifestation. And it was certainly one of those escort ships that was following them now.

  “What happened to the crew of the trader?”

  “They were thrown into the sea to die and their ship set afire.”

  “Not all of them died, Praxus.” He tilted his head like a dog might.

  “Someone survived to identify the Lion. You can never put into a port again without someone reporting you to Carthage,” Caroline said. “They will look for this ship to the ends of the Earth, and their justice will be terrible.”

  A hint of a conspiratorial smile crossed Praxus’ lips.

  “Will you speak for me? I have been a friend to you, have I not?”

  “I promise. You’ll come to no harm,” she lied. How the hell could she know what was going to happen? They were in undiscovered country here with history being rewritten as they went along. “What about your master, the old man?”

  “I do not care. Let him die. I tire of being buggered by him.” Praxus sniffed.

  “Get out of my sight and stay out,” she said. “Jesus,” Caroline sighed as the boy scuttled away toward the creaking mast.

  “What was that all about?” Dwayne said.

  “He’ll keep his mouth shut,” she said. “But Praxus told me what’s going on. Well, what he knows anyway. The gold and silver they buried was meant for mercenaries in Libya. As you and I both know, it never got to them. The check was in the mail for two thousand years. And the Libyans and Celts and the other soldiers of fortune did revolt until a Carthaginian general named Hamilcar Barca put them down in a series of battles over the following year. Thi
s year and next. This slowed the expansion of Carthage’s power in the Mediterranean, and another power grew to fill the vacuum.”

  “Rome,” Dwayne said.

  “Yeah. These assholes caused the Mercenary War and bought the Romans time to build a fighting navy for the first time. Is this getting too deep for you?” she said.

  “I’m only worried about tomorrow. That’s all I can handle right now.” He shrugged.

  When tomorrow came, the sun revealed the sail of the pursuing warship catching the light farther to their stern than it had been when last seen the day before but still bearing on them. Behind it, a second sail followed in its wake.

  42

  Rhodes

  Lee Hammond was dealing with jet lag at the hotel’s pool bar by nursing a second Crazy Donkey ale from an ice bucket by his lounger. The whole pool area was empty but for him and a solitary swimmer. Chaz was up in the room, trying to sleep himself right with the clock. Lee had his own cure.

  Rhodes was a beautiful old-world town with some amazing scenery. But Lee was eyeing the only scenery that interested him at, the moment.

  She was doing laps in the crystal water of the pool. She swam easy, her lean, tanned form gliding along with barely a ripple. Aside from her swimmer’s body and raven black hair, Lee’s attention was drawn to the C-shaped scar on her back at the left shoulder. He watched her climb the ladder from the water, and the matching puckered scar was visible just above her bikinied breast.

  He waited until she’d slipped on a robe and took a seat at one of the umbrella tables. He walked over and set two frosty bottles on the table before her. Lee said something in halting Greek. He either asked her if she was thirsty or if she was sleepy. He wasn’t really, sure. She laughed.

  “Yeah, my Greek sucks.” He shrugged.

  “I’m not Greek. I’m from Israel,” she said in English.

  “You don’t have an accent.”

  “My family emigrated from Chicago when I was ten.”

  “Ah.”

  “Little early for beer, isn’t it?”

  “My clock’s all off. Flew in last night. Tony.” He stuck his hand out and she took it.

  “Bathsheba,” she said.

  It was his turn to laugh. She arched an eyebrow. “You’re not messing with me?” he said.

  “Call me Beth.” The smile came back.

  “I like Bat better. You here on vacation, Bat?”

  “Celebrating my retirement.” She took a pull from the beer.

  “Israeli Defense Force, right?” She looked mildly surprised.

  “Did my compulsory two years and stayed in five more. I can see you’re a vet by your ink.” She nodded at Lee’s arm. His forearm tats were visible below the sleeves of his camp shirt. A red arrow below the word FORWARD in black; a set of paratrooper wings with a grinning skull.

  “I could see your history by that in-and-out wound. AK?” he said.

  “Lebanon.” She nodded. “Funny thing is, getting shot was what made me stay in.”

  “I can relate. You should get some ink yourself.”

  “The Torah would not approve. What are you doing in Rhodes, Tony?”

  “I won the Powerball. Two hundred million after taxes. Now I travel the world meeting interesting people from other cultures and, for a change, not killing them.”

  “You’re full of shit.” She smiled with her eyes this time.

  “You’d really think that if I told you the truth. I’m here waiting on some friends of mine coming into port today,” he said.

  “Your friends have a yacht?” she said.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Great big one.”

  Chaz shambled up and sat down heavily in the empty chair between them. He looked drowsily from the girl to Lee.

  “Six hours in-country and you’ve already made friends.”

  “Damn straight, Tyrone. Meet Bat,” Lee said and tilted his beer back.

  “Tony and Tyrone?” Bat grinned.

  “I guess so.” Chaz shot a glance at Lee. His eyes narrowed as he looked past Lee to the lobby opening across the pool patio.

  “What is it?” Lee said, turning. “Someone we know,” Chaz said.

  Two figures stepped from the shadows of the lobby into the clean Aegean sun.

  43

  The Captain’s Course

  The kid perched on the spar atop the mast had eyesight like Ted Williams. He shaded his eyes to watch the pursuing ships and called down details to the captain. To Dwayne, they were just bobbing rectangles visible now and again in the copper glare off the sea. Praxus translated to Caroline who relayed it to Dwayne.

  “They’re both, Carthaginian. The boy says he can tell by the sails. The lead ship has two stylized dolphins on its sail, the symbol of Yamm, god of the sea. The ship following has sails of white with red stripes. They’re both triremes with all oars in the water.”

  “These odds suck,” Dwayne said.

  “Six to one would be my guess,” Caroline said. “All trained soldiers. They’ll likely have catapults or ballista on board.”

  “Faster ships. Outnumbered. Outgunned. Nowhere to run.”

  “What are our options, Dwayne?”

  “Limited. We could slip overboard. Or take a chance of becoming slaves to a better class of bastard. I’d rather fight than give in or drown.”

  “You mean this is your chance to play Hercules,” she said.

  “I was thinking Conan,” he said.

  “The talk-show guy?” Her brows knit.

  Dwayne moved from the crowd of fighting men around the mast and Caroline followed. He leaned over the gunwale to watch the twin rows of oars driving them forward. Both teams were pulling full out. They couldn’t keep it up long after twenty hours of rowing with only short rests.

  “We’ll be in a fight before the day is over,” Dwayne said, eyes locked on the foamy wake created by the blades slicing through the chop.

  “What will we do?” Caroline’s voice was small. “Get yourself a spear and keep your back to the mast. When the fighting gets closer, you move away. The reach of the spear will help. Use both hands and maintain a solid stance. You get pulled off your feet, and you’re finished.”

  She digested those bleak instructions. “Where will you be?”

  “Wherever the fight is thickest. They’ll need me. You’ll be able to keep me in sight. I’m taller than any of these guys. Remember, when you stab someone, make sure you twist the blade so you can pull it out.”

  “You get in much spear fighting in the Rangers?”

  “I’ve been in my share of knife fights. Blades are blades. The principle is the same.”

  “This is hopeless, isn’t it?” She pressed closer to him, and he put an arm around her shoulders.

  “I won’t lie to you. We’re probably fucked from the start,” he said, his chin in her hair. “But battles are funny things. You can’t give up. Sometimes the math turns on its head, or an unexpected variable changes everything.”

  “Example, please,” she said. She wanted him to keep talking about anything to get her mind off what might lie ahead.

  “Like Napoleon’s hemorrhoids.”

  “What?”

  “Napoleon had ’roids the size of grapefruit the morning of Waterloo. Couldn’t get on his horse. Sat in his tent on one of those donuts all day. Had to rely on his generals to tell him what was going on. He got bad intel and went all-in when he should have withdrawn.”

  “Is that true?” She laughed.

  “One tube of Preparation H and we’d be speaking French now,” he said gravely.

  She laughed hard enough to make some of the crew turn their heads.

  “Maybe we should make that our next trip,” he said. “A little butt cream for the little corporal.”

  She collapsed against him, helpless with laughter that turned to sobs.

  Ahinadab was at the stern, pacing back and forth, with an ear cocked for any new word from the hawkeyed boy atop the mast. Xin was conscious once more and
in a foul mood. His ruined nose was covered by a bloody cloth tied around his face. It might have looked comical if not for the glare of Xin’s angry eyes blazing from his bruised face. He stood by watching his captain muttering and pacing.

  The sail was down with the wind dying as the sun rose. The sail masters moved the lines back and forth along the gunwales to catch each breath of air. Soon the sail became a liability as a backing breeze blew across the prow. The sail was acting as a brake now, so it was hauled up and secured.

  The captain climbed the ladder to the tiller deck and called to the boy atop the mast. The boy turned from the frightening vision of the pair of ships looming closer. He scanned the sea before the bow. Ahinadab spoke to Yada and pointed his fist toward the lion’s head and opened his hand, fingers splayed, at an angle to starboard. The helmsman shoved the tiller to bring the bow about. Ahinadab clapped a hand to his shoulder and called down to Xin.

  Xin marched across the deck and growled orders to the rowing boss who set a new rhythm half again as fast. Groans rose from the rowers below, causing Xin to stomp and spit and howl a stream of invective down at the exhausted men. The oars creaked and rose to match the new pace set by the regular thump of the staff on the boards. Boys filled buckets with seawater and threw them in a shower down on the overheated rowers. It was a race against time and exhaustion now.

  Ahinadab called orders to the fighting men who were standing idle at the starboard freeboard staring at the sails closing the gap behind them. A score of them rushed aft where the Nubian helm mate handed out wooden mallets and pry bars.

  Caroline moved to watch, fascinated as the men, under the direction of the captain, removed the tall structure that rose from the stern to curve high over the helm deck. The thick truss rope was undone and dropped to the deck where crewmen stood holding the slack. Men at the prow undid the truss rope at that end and made it fast to a ringbolt set a meter above the deck.