Indavara pulled the blanket up to his chin. He’d found a nice little space for himself next to the stack of twig bales. It would be noisy and busy by the hatch, but he preferred to be close to it in case anything happened. His bags were neatly arranged behind him and to his left, leaving just enough space for his blanket and hardly enough room to turn over. That was how he liked it; the bed in his cell under the arena at Pietas Julia had been narrow and he found he still barely moved during the night.
The last person he’d seen on the steps was Korinth. Like the others who’d come past, the sailor hadn’t even noticed he was lying there. Indavara wasn’t too worried about him. He’d handled him once, he could handle him again. Even so, he would sleep with his right hand resting on his dagger hilt — but then he usually did that anyway.
With all that had happened since they’d arrived on Rhodes, he was surprised to find it was the young lady Annia who kept forcing her way into his thoughts. That happened with women. You saw one, perhaps only for a few moments, and then you just kept thinking about her. Like Galla, that girl back in Antioch. He’d only seen her twice — and she took money so it was hard to know if she’d really liked him — but he thought about her a lot too.
But this Annia. She really was pretty. You could tell because she’d been through a terrible shock and she wasn’t trying to look good, but she still did. She was probably almost as tall as him but he didn’t mind that. She was so graceful, so feminine.
Indavara didn’t think he could go and talk to her. That would be difficult. She had lost her father. He didn’t know what to say to women at the best of times and this certainly wasn’t that. Perhaps if they saw each other on deck she might talk to him.
He had managed a good wash before they left the way station and now reminded himself to keep putting on that scent Simo had given him. He’d hated the smell at first but now he quite liked it. Simo was always on at him about that sort of thing. Must get clean when you have the chance, must use soap, must wash your clothes.
But he was a good man, Simo, and a patient teacher. Indavara didn’t understand why he himself could do some things without even thinking about it, yet found words and numbers so difficult. He had to do his sums hundreds of times just to remember them and even then it wasn’t that satisfying. Not like writing. Writing was incredible. He could make his name look the same almost every time now. To think people wrote whole books!
Corbulo said he was planning to write several. Indavara was sure he could do it. He was annoying at times — most of the time actually — but he was clever. There was no doubt about that.
And he did seem to know a bit about women. He’d been a bastard that night in Karanda though, telling Indavara he had the manners of a — what was it? — Thracian muck-chucker; that he’d never get any girls if he couldn’t learn how to behave. The woman had laughed along with him until Indavara had walked away.
That was when he hated Corbulo the most. When he made him feel a fool. Because it was as if he’d forgotten what Indavara had done for him — not once, but twice.
Saved him. Saved his life. Corbulo had done the same for him of course, that day at the river, but Indavara had thought a thing like that might bring two men together; make them friends. But it hardly ever felt like that. Perhaps when Corbulo had bought him the silver-plated figurine of the goddess Fortuna. Perhaps then. Indavara still had the gift, though he made a point of keeping it hidden when Corbulo was around. He preferred the old, small marble figurine he was holding in his hand.
His fingers had worn the stone smooth and he knew every edge, every contour. He imagined that the woman who’d thrown it to him at the end of his tenth fight had looked like Annia.
Indavara gripped the figurine tight and tried to focus on his prayer. Prayers weren’t easy. He’d memorised a few bits he’d heard other people say but he couldn’t ask Simo about it because he didn’t want to seem stupid. He could at least usually find a way to say what he wanted to now.
‘Fair Fortuna,’ he whispered, ‘Goddess Most High …’
The galley of the Fortuna Redux was noisy, smelly and smoky. The noise was a combination of shouted conversation, rattling pots and pans, and a bubbling iron cauldron. The smell was an exotic mix of spices, barley and charcoal smoke. Cassius was surprised to see the cauldron was mounted on a metal grill in the middle of a hearth that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a farmhouse. All around it were tiles covering the timber walls to reduce the risk of fire. Cut into the ceiling was a smoke hole that opened up behind the deckhouse.
‘Check that barley!’ Opilio yelled over his shoulder. He was standing over a wooden counter, chopping vegetables with a cleaver.
Desenna — the Jew — was kneeling by the hearth, rearranging the coals beneath the grill with a poker. ‘Just checked it!’
‘Check again.’
Shaking his head, Desenna stood up and dipped a long-handled spoon into the cauldron.
‘They’re missing the pail!’ snapped Opilio. ‘Wake up, Tarkel.’
The third member of the galley crew was a skinny lad of thirteen or fourteen. He was squatting by the counter, trying to catch the vegetable offcuts coming his way.
Simo, who was standing in front of a huge water barrel, suddenly noticed his master. ‘Sorry, sir, won’t be a moment.’
Opilio turned round. ‘Ah, sir’s getting impatient for his wine.’
Cassius stepped inside the doorway. ‘Seems to help with my stomach.’
Opilio took a mug from Simo and went over to the hearth, then picked up a small pan of wine next to the cauldron. ‘You’ll be all right for the moment, sir. We’ve a calm sea. That’s why we’ve got to cook up as much as we can now. The captain likes a proper hot meal.’
Being stuck in this tiny space, preparing food in bad weather, was about as appalling a job of work as Cassius could imagine.
Having filled the mug, Opilio handed it to him. ‘I’ll keep that pan warm for you, sir. In case you’d like a bit more later.’
‘Much appreciated.’
Cassius and Simo left the galley. Even though the sea was indeed calm, it was generally necessary to keep a steadying hand on something solid. As they reached the cabin, the young maid Clara came down the steps, looking pale and anxious. Clutched over her impressive chest was a leather case. ‘Master Corbulo, sir?’
‘Yes? Ah — that will be those documents.’
Before Annia had returned to Amyndios to prepare for the journey, Cassius had asked her to collect the papers from her father’s study.
The maid gave him the case.
‘Clara, isn’t it?’ asked Cassius, smiling.
‘Yes, sir.’
The ship suddenly pitched and she reached for the wall.
Cassius took hold of her arm and steadied her. ‘Careful there. Your mistress is all right?’
Clara was trying hard not to look at him. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well,’ Cassius said, ‘a difficult time for her. You too, I expect.’
‘Yes, sir.’
She pushed some strands of hair away from her face.
Despite his reservations, Cassius suddenly felt glad she was on the ship (purely from an aesthetic point of view). There was nothing worse than not having any women to look at — another occupational hazard of army life.
‘Well. You’d best get back to her.’
One more ‘Yes, sir’ and off she went.
‘Curvy little thing,’ said Opilio as Clara’s sandals disappeared up the steps.
Cassius turned round and saw that all three of the galley crew had gathered by the doorway.
‘I like a woman with a bit of meat on her bones.’
Cassius found the comment rather distasteful but couldn’t help laughing as Opilio gleefully rubbed his hands together then led the others back to work.