The Golden Slave

XIII

When Phryne saw Hwicca go in to her husband and close the door behind, she felt this ship would be no place for anyone else tonight. Let her board the other one, then. She made sure that the dagger was safe in her girdle, then climbed the grappling plank.

It surged and chattered on the newly won decks. Tjorr stood huge, bawling out his orders. They had begun to release the slaves; one after another shambled into the sunlight and blinked with dull eyes. Phryne went to the Sarmatian. “Can I be of help?” she asked.

“Ha? Oh, it’s you, little one. Best you keep out of harm’s way. We’ve much to do before sunset.”

“I told you I want to help, you oaf,” she snapped.

Tjorr scratched in his ruddy beard. “I don’t know what with. I’ll not let you scrub the planks nor cook a meal. Sets a bad example, you know, we have to be officer class now. And otherwise―”

“Aqua, aqua.” Croaking came from the pitch-bubbling deck as though men had become frogs.

Phryne looked at one who was trying feebly to stanch blood from a half severed arm. She felt more than a little ill, but she wetted her lips and said, “I know something about the care of hurts. Let me see to the wounded.”

“Waste of time,” said Tjorr. “If they’re not too badly cut, a swathe of rags and maybe a few stitches will save ‘em. The rest it would be kinder to throw overboard.”

Phryne answered slowly: “Some woman bore each of these beneath her heart once. Let me do what I can.”

“As you wish. Find a place down below. I’ll tell off a couple of men to bear them thither for you.”

In the time that followed, Phryne had horror to do. Twice she stopped ― once to cast up at a certain sight and once to change her blood-stiffened gown for a tunic. It was hot and foul in the ‘tween-decks space; the groaning and gasping seemed to fill her cosmos. Her temper began to slip ― having held the hand of one youth and smiled on him, as the only lullaby she could give while he died, she heard a man screaming as though in childbirth, and, seeing he had a mere broken finger, she chased him out at dagger point. Otherwise it was to wash and bandage, cut and sew and swaddle, set and splint and fetch water, with no more help than a ship’s carpenter from Galilee or some such dusty place.

She came out at last, unable to do more ― now Aesculapius and Hermes Psychopompos must divide the souls as they would ― and saw the sun low above a sea growing choppy. Its rays touched ragged mare’s-tails that flew from the west; wind piped on the rigging. She shivered as that air flowed across her bare legs and arms, but made her way over a deck strange in its orderliness. Tjorr was looking down into an open cargo hatch.

He turned and grinned at her through tossing fiery whiskers. “We found our way into the hold,” he said, “and you’d not believe this hulk could carry so much wine and stay afloat. The lads will mutiny if we don’t feast tonight, and I can’t say I blame ‘em!”

Phryne gave the sky an unsure look. “Is that wise?”

“Oh ― the weather, you mean? It’ll blow a bit, but nothing that need worry us. Riding to sea anchors we’ll not go far, and Demetrios says there are no places to run aground hereabouts. You look wearied enough. Go call Eodan, and we’ll all have a stoup.”

“He is with his wife,” she said.

“Hm? Oh. Oh, I see. Well, I’ll just go knock at their door with a bottle, and then they can do as they please.” Tjorr’s small eyes went up and down the slender shape before him. He grinned. “I don’t suppose you’d be pleased to do likewise?”

She shook her head, unoffended.

“Well, I only thought I’d ask. Best stay in earshot of me tonight, though. Not all the men are so honorable as me.”

“I would wash now, and have fresh raiment,” said Phryne.

“Aye. Go in the cabin there. I’ll have someone draw a tubful for you.”

Phryne entered the captain’s room, finding it better furnished than that of the smaller galley. Man’s dress again, she sighed to herself, opening a clothes chest. Well, here was an outsize cloak; with the help of a brooch and belt it could almost reach her ankles, as a sort of gown.

“Hail,” said a voice in the door.

Phryne stepped back with a stab of terror. Master Flavius looked at her. He carried a bucket in either hand.

“I think it amused the redbeard to have me wait on you,” he said. His mouth quirked. “He has not heard that Rome has festivals every year wherein the Roman serves his own household slaves.”

“But I am no more a slave!” said Phryne, as much to herself as to him. She had seen little of this man; she was bought in his absence and served his wife, whom he avoided. But he was a master, and no decent person would ― But I have gone beyond decency, she thought; beyond civilization, at least. I am outlaw not only in Rome but in Rome’s mother Hellas.

The knowledge was a desolation.

Flavius poured the water into a tub screwed to the floor. It slapped about with the rocking of the ship. He glanced at her, sideways. Finally he said, with a tone of smothered merriment, in flawless Greek: “My dear, you will always be a slave. Do you think because that white skin was never branded your soul escaped?”

“My fathers were free men in their own city when yours were Etruscan vassals!” she cried, stamping her foot in anger.

Flavius shrugged. “Indeed. But we are neither of us our fathers.” His voice became deep, and he regarded her levelly. “I say to you, though, the slave-brand is on you. It was burned in with … fair words on fine parchment; white columns against a summer sky; a bronze-beaked ship seen over blue waters; grave men with clean bodies and Plato on their tongues; a marching legion, where a thousand boots smite the earth as one; a lyre and a song, a jest and a kiss, among blowing roses. Oh, if the gods I do not believe in are cruel enough to grant your wish, you could give your body to some North-dweller — you could learn his hog-language and pick the lice from his hair and bear him another squalling brat every year, till they bury you toothless at forty years of age in a peat bog where it always rains. That could happen. But your soul would forever be chained by the Midworld Sea.”

She said, shaking, “If you twist words about thus, then you, too, are a slave.”

“Of course,” he said quietly. “There are no free and unfree; we are all whirled on our way like dead leaves, from an unlikely beginning to a ludicrous end. I do not speak to you now, the sounds that come from my mouth are made by chance, flickering within the bounds of causation and natural law. Truly, we are all slaves. The sole difference lies between the noble and the ignoble.”

He folded his arms and leaned back against the jamb. “What you have done proves you are of the noble,” he said. “I would manumit you if we came back to Rome ― give the Senate some perjured story, if need be, to save you from the law. I would give you money and a house of your own in Greece.”

“Are you trying to bribe me?” she flared.

“Perhaps. But that comes later. What I have just offered is a free gift, whether you stand by the Cimbrian or not, provided only of course that we both get back to Rome somehow. It will be a thing I do of my own accord, because we are the same kind, you and I, and it is a cursedly lonely breed of animal.”

His grin flashed. “Now, to be sure, if you would like to help assure―”

She drew her knife. “Get out!” she screamed.

Flavius raised his brows, but left. Phryne slammed the door after him. A while she smote her hands together. Then, viciously, she tore off her tunic and washed herself.

Wrapped in the mantle, she emerged again. She felt calmer ― on the surface; underneath was a dark clamor in an unknown language. Sundown blazed among restless clouds; the mast swayed back and forth in heaven. Tjorr sat on a barrel under the forecastle, drumming his heels as he raised a stolen chalice. Elsewhere men crowded shrieking about lashed casks, and the deck that had been bloodied was now stained purple. Phryne shivered and drew the wool closer about her. This was going to be a night where Circe reigned.

She looked aft. A small cluster of men stood together around Flavius’ tall form. She recognized Demetrios, the youth Quintus, two or three others. Briefly, she was afraid. But ― a few unarmed malcontents? she asked herself scornfully.

She walked forward. A locked hatch cover muffled some weird noises ― what was that? Oh, to be sure, the free crew and the more timid slaves of this galley had been chained to the rowers’ benches down there.

Tjorr boomed at her, “Hoy, shield maiden! Come drink with me! You’ve earned it!”

Phryne joined him. One man snatched after her. Tjorr tossed his hammer, casually. The man screamed and hopped about, clutching his bare toes. “Next one insults my girl gets it in the brisket,” said Tjorr without rancor. “Now bring me back that maul.”

Phryne accepted the cup he sloshed into the barrel for her. She held it two-handed, bracing herself against the ship’s long swinging. Barbarous to drink it undiluted, she thought; but fresh water was too begrudged at sea. She looked at the hairy, squatting shapes that ringed her in and asked, “Will there not be fights that disable men we need?”

Tjorr pointed to a chest behind the barrel. “All arms save our own are in there,” he said. “And here I’ll sit all night. I’m not unaware of that Flavius cockroach, little one. Were I the chief, he’d have been fish food long ago.”

“Is your life so much more to you than your honor?” she bridled.

“Well, I suppose not. But I’ve three small sons at home. The youngest was just starting to walk on his little bandy legs when I went off. And then there’s my woman, too, if she’s not wed another by now, and ― Well, anyhow, it would be bitter to die without drinking of the Don again.” Tjorr tossed off his cup and dipped it in once more.

“Where would you yourself go?” he asked.

Phryne stared eastward, where night came striding into the wind. “I do not know,” she said.

“Hm? But surely ― you spoke of Egypt―”

“It may be. Perhaps in Alexandria.… Leave me alone!” Phryne went from him, up the ladder and into the bow.

She huddled there a long time. No one ventured past Tjorr; she could be by herself. Down on the main deck the scene grew more wild and noisy each hour; by torch and hearth-light she glimpsed revels as though Pan the terrible had put to sea. One small corner of civilization remained, far aft below the poop, where Flavius and his comrades warmed their hands over a brazier and drank so slowly she was not certain they drank at all.

The moon seemed to fly through heaven, pale among great driving clouds. It showed fleetingly how the waters surged from the west ― not very high as yet, but with foam on black waves. And the wind droned louder than before.

Phryne sat under the bulwarks and nursed her beaker, letting the wine warm her only a little. This was no time to flee her trouble. She must choose a road.

And what was there for her?

Briefly, when they had planned where to go on their newly won ship, it had flamed up ― perhaps Antinous was in Alexandria, perhaps she could find him again! Too long had he kissed her only in dreams. She hearkened back to the last time when she awoke crying his name.… She knew, then, suddenly, that she had not really seen his face in the dream. She had not done so for months. She could not even call it to mind now ― it was a blur; he had had a straight nose and gray eyes and so on, but she only remembered the words.

Well, Time devoured all things at last, but it might have spared the ghost she bore of Antinous.

Nevertheless, she thought, she could stay in Alexandria.… No, what hope had a woman without friends? There were only the brothels; better to seek the sea’s decency this very night. She could follow Eodan toward his barbarian goal, most likely to his death along the way, but suppose they did get back to this Cimberland, what then? Eodan would house her, but she would not be a useless leech on any man. And so she would merely exist, alone on the marches of the world, until finally in her need she let some brainless red youth tumble her in his hut.

She wondered drearily if Flavius had meant his offer. It was the best of an evil bargain. And if he lied ― well, then she would die, and the shades did not remember this earth.

When Eodan released Flavius, she would go with him to Rome.

The decision brought peace, after so many hours of treading the same round like a blinded ox grinding wheat. Perhaps now she could sleep. It was very late. The revelry had ended. By the light of a sinking moon, glimpsed through clouds, she saw men sprawled across the deck, their cups and their bodies rolling with the ship. A few feeble voices hiccoughed some last song, but, mostly, they were all snoring to match the wind. Phryne stood up, stiff-limbed, to seek her tent on the smaller galley.

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.

The man who was guarding Phryne saw him coming. “I must deal with him,” he said, not unkindly. “Farewell, girl. We’ll meet beyond the Styx.” He drew back his pike. Phryne had no more will or strength to dodge. She waited.

Tjorr stopped on the middle of the gangplank, braced his legs and whirled the hammer. Phryne did not see it fly; she only saw the pikeman’s eyes bulge out, and when he toppled she saw his head broken open. Her knees deserted her; she sank to the deck and stared emptily at all else.

Tjorr bounded down, fell upon the axman from behind and wrenched the weapon loose. The axman kicked with a shod foot. Tjorr bellowed wrath and pain, dropped the ax and was caught in a wrestler’s grip. He and the sailor went down on the deck like a pair of dogs.

Hwicca sped toward Eodan. She called out something — Phryne did not know the rough word, but surely no voice had ever held more love. As Eodan’s gaze shifted toward her, Flavius stepped in close and brought the upper edge of his shield beneath Eodan’s jaw. The Cimbrian lurched back, and his sword clattered from his hand. He leaned his back against the rail and shook his head like a stunned bull.

Flavius poised his blade. Hwicca flung herself across Eodan’s body ― and the sword struck home.

Flavius stared stupidly as she went to her knees. Eodan caught her and eased her to the deck. He did not seem aware of the Roman any longer.

Tjorr broke his opponent’s neck, picked up the fallen ax and thundered toward Flavius. The Roman bounded away, up onto the gangplank. He reached the other ship and faced back; but he was masked by shadow.

Tjorr paused at the plank’s foot, saw spears bristle and stayed where he was. His ax chopped and the plank’s ropes parted. Now it dangled free from the higher bulwark. Tjorr ran along the rail, cleaving lines. A few arrows fell near him as he cranked the anchor windlass. The gale caught the two ships and drove them apart.

Tjorr came back to Phryne. “If we set our canvas we can run away from ‘em while they kill the last pirates,” he croaked. “I see no other chance. Do you think you and I can unfurl the sail alone?”