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Authors: Richard Blake
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asked. He’d been going up or coming down the ladder that led to the rowing decks. He now clambered easily up beside me and went through the motions of a bow. He’d taken off his boots, but still wore the fussy uniform he must have put on for his trip ashore. ‘It was the black rower with woollen hair,’ he explained with evident relish. ‘His dream of a supernatural origin for the storms has continued to disturb the other men.’
I nodded. Just as the biggest of the storms was hitting us, I’d pulled rank on the Captain and ordered all the rowers to be unchained. Since then, rowing had been impossible, and the men had been lounging about on the lower decks with nothing to do but compete at scaring each other.
I cleared my throat and tried to look haughty. ‘My secretary will need to discuss what slaves will come ashore with us,’ I said.
The Captain arched his eyebrows and somehow managed not to laugh. ‘I must inform Your Lordship,’ he said very softly indeed, ‘that my orders are to put you ashore without slaves. The local authorities will provide such assistance as may be required.’ I stared back without blinking. I’d finally learned something of the Captain’s own orders. Priscus and I had watched him receive these in a sealed packet. For all the questions he’d put, Priscus would have got better answers out of the Sphinx than from this shifty little Egyptian.
‘Very well,’ I said with a forced lightness of tone. ‘Be so good as to inform my secretary of this.’
The Captain bowed again, and asked if it would please me to see the flogging.
Without bothering to answer, I turned and continued along the corridor.
Bearing in mind its natural colour on this voyage, I failed to see why Priscus had taken the trouble to paint his face green. He sat alone in his cabin, looking down at his booted feet. ‘Fucking noise!’ he snarled with a look upwards. Now the flogging was over, the only sound from outside was a third or fourth repeat of the shanty. ‘Can’t these sailors ever keep their mouths shut?’ He pushed a glass cup against his chattering teeth and took a longish sip. He burped and pushed a hand under his ceremonial chain mail for a scratch. ‘So, dear boy, what’s the news?’ he finally asked with the ghost of a smile.
I stared up at the polished timbers of the ceiling and wondered if there was any suitable answer. Unlike Martin, Priscus had lost weight on the voyage. He’d been padded out when put into his uniform. But there was no hiding the bony wrists or the sagging wrinkles under his chin. This was my first sight of him in five days. Though the great storm had finally ended, his reaction to it hadn’t. His groans and the regular bowls of vomit carried from his cabin had told me he was alive. Now, if he was up and about, he still didn’t look more than the shadow of the grinning fiend who’d taken his farewell of the few persons of quality he’d somehow managed not to impale in Alexandria.
‘Shall we go up on the main deck?’ I asked. ‘There may be sod all to look at. But I fancy some last impression of liberty.’
Beneath an awning that caught most of the rain, I looked into a wall of grey mist. Unless I’d lost all sense of direction, I was looking towards Salamis. It was now more than eleven hundred and twenty years since the Athenians had fought their decisive battle there. While he was still up to any pretence of conversation, Priscus had assured me that the figure of three million given by Herodotus was impossible. But, if you divided all his numbers by ten, they began to make sense. The Spartans had held the pass at Thermopylae longer than anyone could think possible. Even so, the Persians had come on like a charging elephant. Nothing could have kept them from eventually sweeping through the pass. Their single weakness had been the long lines of communication back to Asia. By a stroke of genius, Themistocles had got the Athenians to abandon their city and
I nodded. Just as the biggest of the storms was hitting us, I’d pulled rank on the Captain and ordered all the rowers to be unchained. Since then, rowing had been impossible, and the men had been lounging about on the lower decks with nothing to do but compete at scaring each other.
I cleared my throat and tried to look haughty. ‘My secretary will need to discuss what slaves will come ashore with us,’ I said.
The Captain arched his eyebrows and somehow managed not to laugh. ‘I must inform Your Lordship,’ he said very softly indeed, ‘that my orders are to put you ashore without slaves. The local authorities will provide such assistance as may be required.’ I stared back without blinking. I’d finally learned something of the Captain’s own orders. Priscus and I had watched him receive these in a sealed packet. For all the questions he’d put, Priscus would have got better answers out of the Sphinx than from this shifty little Egyptian.
‘Very well,’ I said with a forced lightness of tone. ‘Be so good as to inform my secretary of this.’
The Captain bowed again, and asked if it would please me to see the flogging.
Without bothering to answer, I turned and continued along the corridor.
Bearing in mind its natural colour on this voyage, I failed to see why Priscus had taken the trouble to paint his face green. He sat alone in his cabin, looking down at his booted feet. ‘Fucking noise!’ he snarled with a look upwards. Now the flogging was over, the only sound from outside was a third or fourth repeat of the shanty. ‘Can’t these sailors ever keep their mouths shut?’ He pushed a glass cup against his chattering teeth and took a longish sip. He burped and pushed a hand under his ceremonial chain mail for a scratch. ‘So, dear boy, what’s the news?’ he finally asked with the ghost of a smile.
I stared up at the polished timbers of the ceiling and wondered if there was any suitable answer. Unlike Martin, Priscus had lost weight on the voyage. He’d been padded out when put into his uniform. But there was no hiding the bony wrists or the sagging wrinkles under his chin. This was my first sight of him in five days. Though the great storm had finally ended, his reaction to it hadn’t. His groans and the regular bowls of vomit carried from his cabin had told me he was alive. Now, if he was up and about, he still didn’t look more than the shadow of the grinning fiend who’d taken his farewell of the few persons of quality he’d somehow managed not to impale in Alexandria.
‘Shall we go up on the main deck?’ I asked. ‘There may be sod all to look at. But I fancy some last impression of liberty.’
Beneath an awning that caught most of the rain, I looked into a wall of grey mist. Unless I’d lost all sense of direction, I was looking towards Salamis. It was now more than eleven hundred and twenty years since the Athenians had fought their decisive battle there. While he was still up to any pretence of conversation, Priscus had assured me that the figure of three million given by Herodotus was impossible. But, if you divided all his numbers by ten, they began to make sense. The Spartans had held the pass at Thermopylae longer than anyone could think possible. Even so, the Persians had come on like a charging elephant. Nothing could have kept them from eventually sweeping through the pass. Their single weakness had been the long lines of communication back to Asia. By a stroke of genius, Themistocles had got the Athenians to abandon their city and
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