“I advise you to assert your authority without delay.” Flavius folded his arms and leaned against the poop, amused of face. “You have an unruly band there.”
By now the remaining oarsmen had come on deck. Eodan counted them. All told, he had sixteen alive, including Tjorr, though several of these had suffered wounds. He mounted halfway up the ladder. “Hear me!” he cried.
They moved about, stripping the fallen sailors, shaking weapons they had taken, chattering in a dozen tongues. Several edged close to Hwicca. “Hear me!” roared Eodan. Tjorr took Demetrios’ helmet and banged on it with his hammer till ears hurt from the noise. “Heed me now or I throw you overboard!” shouted Eodan.
When he had them standing, squatting or sitting beneath him, he began to talk. There was little art of oratory among the Northern folk, but he knew coldly that he must learn for himself this day if he wanted to live.
“I am Eodan who freed you,” he said. “I am a Cimbrian. Last year, having destroyed many Roman armies, we entered Italy. There our luck turned, we were beaten and I was taken for a slave. But my luck has turned again, for you see that I captured this ship and struck the irons off you. And I give you your own freedom back!” He played for a while on the thought of no more manacles or whips, sailing to a land where they could find homes and wives or start out for their own countries. When he had them shouting for him ― he was astonished how easy that was ― he grew stern.
“A ship without a captain is a ship for the sea to eat. Now I am the captain. For the good of all, I must be obeyed. For the good of all, those who do not obey must suffer death or the lash. Hear me! It may well be needful for you to row again, but you will row as free men. He who will not pull his oar is not chained; he is welcome to leave us over the side. He whose gluttony takes more than his ration shall be cut into fish bait to make up for it. Hear me! I show you two women. They are mine. I know you have been long without women, but he who touches them, he who so much as makes a lewd remark to them, will be nailed to the yardarm. For I am your captain. I am he who will lead you to freedom and safety. I am the captain!”
A moment’s stillness, then Tjorr whooped. And then they all shouted themselves raw, clapped, danced and held their weapons aloft. “Captain, captain!” Eodan leaned on the ladder while the cheering beat in his face. Now, he thought drunkenly, now I can forgive Marius that he made a triumph!
But the ship was bucking, drifting before the wind. While Tjorr went among the men, binding hurts and learning what skills they might have, Eodan conferred. Beside him were Hwicca, who held his arm and looked gravely at him, and Phryne, who stood with feet braced wide against the roll and fists defiantly on her hips. Demetrios, red with throttled anger, faced Eodan; Flavius sat on a coil of rope, his chiseled features gone blank.
“First we must know where to betake us,” said Eodan. “I do not think we could sail unquestioned into Massilia harbor as we are! Could we put in elsewhere on the shore of Gaul, unseen?”
“It’s a tricky coast for a lubber crew,” said Demetrios.
“Narbonensis is thickly settled,” added Phryne. “Even if we landed in some cove, I doubt we would get far on foot before some prefect tracked us down.” Her gaze went west, toward the sun. “Indeed, nearly all the Midworld seacoasts of Europe are Roman.”
“There is Africa,” said Flavius.
Phryne nodded thoughtfully. It struck Eodan (why had he never noticed it before, with her hair so short?) that the shape of her head was beautiful.
“Mauretania,” she murmured. “No, that is well west of us. A long way to go across open sea, with so tiny and awkward a crew. Numidia must be nearly south … but so is Carthage, where Romans dwell. Then I hear Tripolis and Cyrenaica are desert in many places, down to the very sea―”
Eodan said, “By the Bull, we could sail around Gaul to Jutland!”
Flavius laughed noiselessly. Demetrios rumbled like some fire mountain before he achieved words: “Would you not rather bore a hole in the ship? That would be an easier way to drown!”
Phryne smiled at the Cimbrian. “I should have awaited such a plan from you,” she said. “But he is right. It is too long a voyage, and the Ocean is too rough for the likes of us.”
“Well, then,” he snapped, “where can we go?”
“I would say toward Egypt.” Eodan started; he had not often seen Phryne redden. She lowered her eyes but went on, hurriedly: “Oh, we could not sail into Alexandria like any mariners. The King of Egypt has no more desire to encourage slave revolt than the Roman Senate. But there should be smaller harbors, or we could run into the Nile delta after dark, or ― It is a world-city, Alexandria, even more than Rome. Let us once enter it afoot, a few at a time, with just a little money, and surely we can be better hidden than in the wildest desert. And those who would go further can find berths with eastbound ships or caravans. You could go as far as the Cimmerian Boworus, Eodan, Hwicca, and thence make your own way north through the barbarian lands to your home!”
Eodan looked at Demetrios. The captain grunted. “I suppose it might be done, this time of year,” he said. “You’ll let me off unhurt, won’t you now? The gods will hate you if you break your word to me.”
Flavius said calmly: “Chance abets your scheme, Phryne. This wind is right for doubling around Sicily.”
Eodan whipped his sword up, threw it so it stuck in the bulkhead, toning, and laughed. “Then we sail!”
He found much to do in the next few hours. He had to organize the crew, giving duties to all the men; he had to visit the whole ship; he had to count the stores and guess what ration of moldy hardtack, wormy meat, sour wine and scummed water could be handed out each day. His crew elected to sleep below, in the pit; most of them feared sea monsters would snatch an unconscious man off the deck, yarn often spun galley slaves to keep them docile. A cleared space in the forecastle peak was turned over to Tjorr, Flavius and Demetrios, who must always be on call. The prisoner-officers would stand watch and watch the whole journey, supervised by captain or mate. Not trusting himself, Eodan said Tjorr would guard Flavius.
Having cleaned the decks and gotten rid of the dead ― they promised Neptune a bull when they came ashore, to pay for polluting his waters ― the crew made some shambling attempt to become human. It was almost a merry scene. Tjorr dragged a forge out on deck; iron roared as his hammer and chisel struck off men’s fetters. Beyond him stood a black Ethiopian, who hacked off as much hair and beard as shears would take; a tub of sea water and a sponge waited; and they could put on the tunics or loincloths of the fallen sailors ― shabby indeed, but more than a benched slave had. And a stewpot bubbled on the hearth forward of the mast, and an extra dole of wine was there to pour for the gods or drink oneself. Overhead strained the single square sail, patched and mildewed but carrying them south from Rome.
A thought reached Eodan. He said, dismayed, “But Phryne, I have not found any quarters for you!”
She looked at the cabin, then back at him and Hwicca. Sunset burned yellow behind her slight form. “I can use that canvas shelter up on the forecastle deck,” she said.
“It seems wrong,” he muttered. “Without you, I would be dead a hundred times over … or still a slave. You should have the cabin, and we―”
“You could not be alone enough in a tent on deck,” she said.
He heard Hwicca’s breath stumble, but she uttered no word.
The sun went down, somewhere beyond the Pillars of Hercules. The moon, approaching the full, rose out of Asia. The men yawned their way to sleep; Eodan overheard one young fellow say it had been a trying day. Presently only the watch was above decks ― a lookout in the bows and one in the crow’s-nest, a steersman and Demetrios on the poop, two standbys dozing under the taffrail.