The brazier under the poop was still aglow. A dark figure crossed in front of it, and another and another. Flavius’ party was retiring, too. Being sober, they would have the sense to go below to sleep. One of them had just entered the poop.…
No, what was it he came back with? Torchlight shimmered on iron. A crowbar from the carpenter’s kit? And there were hammers, a drawknife, even a saw. O father Zeus, weapons!
Flavius led them across the deck. The last half-dozen celebrants, seated in a ring about a wine cask, looked up. “Well,” Phryne heard, “who ‘at? c’mere, old frien’, c’mere f’ little drink―”
Flavius struck coldly with his bar. Two hammers beat as one, thock, thock ― like butchers, the three men stunned those who sat. Quintus cackled gleefully and began to saw a throat across. “No need!” snapped Flavius. “This way!”
Phryne threw herself to the planks. What if they had seen her? Her heart beat so wildly she feared it would burst. As though from immensely far off, she heard Flavius break the lock on the hatch and go below.
Phryne caught her lip in her teeth to hold it steady. She could just see one man standing guard on deck while the others were breaking off chains in the rowers’ pit. Could he see her in turn, if she ― but if she lay still, he would find her at sunrise!
Phryne inched to the ladder. Down, now. Moonlight fell on Tjorr, sprawled back against the weapon chest. His mouth was open and he was making private thunder in his nose. Phryne crouched beside him. He was too massive; her hands would not shake him enough. “Tjorr! Tjorr, it is mutiny!” she whispered. “Tjorr, wake up!”
“What’s that?” A ragged, half-frightened cry from the guard. Phryne saw him against the sky, peering about.
“Uh,” mumbled Tjorr. He swatted at her and rolled over.
Phryne drew her knife. The guard shaded his eyes, staring forward. “Is somebody awake there?” he called.
She put her mouth to the Alan’s ear. “Wake, wake,” she whispered. “You sleep yourself into Hades.”
A man’s head rose over the hatch coaming. “Somebody’s astir up there,” chattered the sentry.
“We’ll go see,” said the man. His burst-off chains swung from his wrists; it was the last mutiny all over again. How the gods must be laughing! Another followed him. Phryne recognized Quintus’ ferret body.
“Ummmm,” said Tjorr and resumed his snoring.
Phryne put her dagger point on a buttock and pushed.
“Draush-ni-tchaka-belog!” The Sarmatian came to his feet with a howl. “What muck-swilling misbegotten son of ― Oh!” His gaze wobbled to rest on the man running toward him. The hammer seemed to leap into his hand.
“Up!” he bawled. “Up and fight!”
Phryne dashed past him. Eodan still slept, she thought wildly; they could fall upon him unawares and kill him in his wife’s arms. Behind her she heard a sound like a melon splitting open. “Yuk-hai-saa-saa!” chanted Tjorr. “You’re next, Quintus!”
The youth ran back, almost parallel to Phryne. Men were coming from the hatch, one after the other. He saw her and shrilled: “Get that one too! It’s―” He broke off, swerved and plunged toward her in silence.
Phryne put her foot on the gangway between the ships. It jerked back and forth as they rolled, and she heard ropes rubbing together. She must go all-fours over it or risk being thrown into the water between the hulls. She crouched.
A hand closed on her ankle. She felt herself being yanked back on deck. Moonlight speared through darkness as she sat up. Quintus stood over her, grasping his saw. “Lie there,” he said. “Lie there or I’ll take your head off!”
Phryne whipped to her knees and stabbed at his foot. He danced aside, laughing. The saw blade reached across her arm. It was no deep cut, but she cried out and dropped her knife. He kicked it away, grabbed her shoulder and hurled her onto her back. Kneeling beside her, he laid the saw teeth across her throat. “Be still, now, if you would live,” he said. “I’ve business to finish with you.”
Phryne looked into the downy face. She lifted her arms. “Oh,” she said. “I am conquered.”
Quintus’ chin dropped. Moving carefully, so he could see what she did, she unfastened her belt. “I have never known a man like you,” she breathed. “Let me get this mantle off―” She slid her hands toward the brooch at her throat. The fabric wrinkled up ahead of her arm.
“Quickly!” gasped the boy. He lifted the saw a little, it was shaking so much, and fumbled at his loincloth.
Phryne got the bundled cloak between her throat and the teeth. She stabbed him in the hand with her brooch pin. He yelled, the saw skittered from his grasp. She leaped up and onto the gangway.
Quintus yammered by the rail. A fury lifted in Phryne; she stood up in the moonlight on the bobbing, twisting plank and opened her arms. “Well,” she cried, “are you man enough to follow?”
He stumbled onto the gangway. She kicked, and he fell down between the hulls. They were protected by rope bumpers from grinding together, but one lurching wall struck him as he went past. He rebounded, splashed and did not rise again.
Phryne crawled over the plank. Great Mother of Mercy, she thought, what had she done? But now it was to rouse Eodan. Up on the other ship, Tjorr stabbed and hammered, crying to his drunken followers to waken. Twenty men pressed in upon the Sarmatian, driving him back by sheer weight from the weapon chest.
Phryne beat on the cabin door. “Eodan, Hwicca, come out!” she called. “Come out before they kill you!”
It opened. The Cimbrian stood tall against blackness, armed only with a yard-long sword. Behind him Hwicca still blinked sleep from her eyes. Even in that moment, Phryne saw how fulfillment had made her beautiful.
Iron clanged in the windy moonlight. Phryne’s breath choked. So they had the weapons now! Flavius was already worming over the gangplank, bearing sword and shield. Behind him came two more ― the rest still raged among the befuddled pirates, it was a bestial battle ― one with an ax and one with a spear. Phryne and the Cimbrians were naked.
Eodan sprang forward to meet Flavius before he crossed. The Roman stood up and pounced the last few feet. He could have been thrown into the sea, like Quintus, but the watery gods let him pass. He struck the deck, danced away from Eodan’s slash and smiled.
“Come,” he said, “let us end this Iliad.”
Eodan snarled and moved in. He had more reach, which his blade immensely lengthened. But Flavius’ shield seemed always to be where the Cimbrian blows landed ― over his head, in front of his breast, even down to his knees. The battle banged and roared between those two.
Phryne and Hwicca faced the Roman’s companions. The men grinned and walked in at their leisure. Phryne tried to dart aside, but the Spearman thrust his shaft between her legs. She fell, and her mind seemed to burst. When she regained herself, she was prodded erect. “Over there,” said the man. “Stand against the cabin wall. That’s the way.” He held his pike close to her breasts, ready to drive it home.
Hwicca, a long knife in her hand, circled about with the axman. She spat at him, wildcatlike. Once she tried to rush in with a stab, but his weapon yelled down and she saved herself by falling. He tried to strike again, but she got away too swiftly.
And Eodan and Flavius fought across the deck and back, sword on shield, the Roman boring in behind his shelter and the Cimbrian holding him off with sheer battering force.
A bloody, tattered giant loomed over the rail of the other galley. Tjorr sheathed his sword in one final man, who tumbled down between the hulls. The Alan jumped onto the gangway.