The Golden Slave (12 page)

Finally Eodan turned to his wife. She would not meet his look. When he took her hand, it lay slack on his palm.

“Hwicca,” he said, burred Cimbric low and unsure in his throat. “Pay him no heed. We shall be free.”

“Yes,” she said, so he could scarcely hear it.

“That ‘yes’ was not meant,” he told her. His heart lay a lump in his breast.

She said in a torn voice: “There is no freedom from that which was.”

“Little Othrik,” said Eodan. He looked at his wife’s hand and remembered how his son’s baby fingers had curled about his thumb. He shook his head and smiled. “No―him we shall always mourn.… But it would be worse if we sailed off leaving him to grow up a Roman’s beaten beast. You could not have done otherwise. There will come more children to us, and some of them will die of this or that; so it has ever been. But some will live, Hwicca.”

She shook her head, still averting herself. “I am dishonored.”

“Not so!” he said harshly. “If you would―” He glanced at Flavius, who raised brows and smiled. Then he put his lips by Hwicca’s ear to breathe: “I gave him no true oath. We can sacrifice him in Gaul; that will remove all stain from you.”

“No!” She cried it aloud, pulling free of him. The face he looked upon was filled with terror.

“As you like,” he floundered. “Whatever you wish. But remember, I am your husband. It is for me to say if you are guilty, and I say you are not.”

“Let me alone,” she pleaded. “Let me alone.”

Eodan sat listening to her dry sobs. He hefted his sword, dully thinking about its use. He had never fought with such a weapon; the Cimbrian blades were for hewing, and this was for stabbing.…

Phryne crept over the narrow space and touched his arm. “Wait,” she whispered. He saw a helpless look in her eyes, as if she sat watching a child being burned out by fever. “Give her time, Eodan. I know not what the Cimbrian law is―I suppose your women were chaste―it means more to her, what has happened, than you can know.”

“I do not understand,” he said. “There is some witchcraft here. I do not understand her any longer.”

“Wait, Eodan. Only wait.”

He squatted into his own corner, under the low roof, and looked across to Flavius. The Roman had closed his eyes and stretched out; could he really sleep now?

At last the noise ended. Eodan saw Hwicca fall asleep herself, curled like a child. There was that much to thank the dark Powers for. Phryne and he seemed too weary to rest, or too taut. Yet no thoughts ran in his head; it felt hollowed out, and time did not flow for him. When a new clamor began, and he felt the ship move, it was a jarring surprise. Already!

He opened the door and looked out. The deckhands had cast loose, the oars were walking, he heard rowlocks creak and the muffled gonging of the stroke-setter beneath his shoes. They slipped through a channel between many hulls still one dark mysterious mass. Ostia and Italy behind her lay misty under the, first saffron clouds; ahead, the Tyrrhenian Sea caught a few wan gleams. There were stars in the west.

The sailors, shivering in tunics or mere loincloths, scurried over the deck doing things unknown to Eodan. They were a ruffianly-looking lot, swept from many ports of the Midworld Sea―a hairy Pamphylian, a brown Libyan, a big-nosed Thracian, a brawny red-faced Gaul, another two or three whom Eodan could only guess about. Captain Demetrios walked among them, a sword at his waist, a light whip in his hand. He saw Eodan and came over, beaming snag-toothed in his beard.

“Good morning,” he said. “You had a―hah!--pleasant night with your woman and your boy?”

Eodan grunted. “How long to Massilia?”

“Oh, perhaps five days, maybe more, maybe less. Much depends on the wind. I’ve a fear it will turn against us.” Demetrios cocked his head. “Where are you from? I thought I’d seen ‘em all, till you turned up.”

Eodan said in Cimbric, “You Southland swine!”

“And where’s that?” asked Demetrios. But Eodan had closed the door again. The cabin was smoky and foul after the deck. He wondered if he could really smell the human agony that seeped up from the rowers’ pit.

Flavius opened an eye. “Have you foreseen you might get sick from the waves?” he asked amiably.

“I have foreseen kicking your ribs in!” grated Eodan.

Flavius nodded at Hwicca, who had also awakened. She sat up with chin on knees and shivered. “Do you see, my dear, it is too much to expect that I should be released if we ever get into Aquitania,” he murmured. “It would be asking more of your husband than one may even ask of a god.”

Hwicca gave Eodan a forlorn glance. He laid himself upon a mattress near her. “You will swear he shall have his life, will you not?” she asked fearfully.

He said, out of his bitterness: “You are loyal to your owner, Hwicca!”

She shrank back with a little whimper.

“No more of that,” said Phryne sharply. “We are certain not to outlive this trip if we quarrel among ourselves.” She regarded Hwicca closely. “You look strong,” she said, “and I daresay you have some knowledge of weapons.”

The Cimbrian girl nodded, wordless.

“Well, then,” said Phryne, “Eodan and I can do no more without rest. You have slept a while, now watch Flavius for us. It is simple enough. Hold this sword. Stay out of his reach. If he makes a suspicious move, call us. If it looks as if he might escape, stab!”

Hwicca took the heavy blade. “That much … yes,” she said in the Cimbric.

Eodan laughed, without mirth, but not uncomforted. He curled on his side to face her. The last sight he had, before sleep smote, was the unsure smile with which she looked at him.…

Her scream wakened Eodan.

He sprang to a crouch. He had a moment’s glimpse of Flavius’ tall form stooped beneath the roof. The Roman was at the door, and Hwicca was plunging toward him. Flavius kicked out. He got her swordbearing arm. She cried aloud, fell and tried to seize his feet. He fumbled with the latch, kicking her again.

Eodan roared and sprang, but it was too narrow a space. He stumbled over Hwicca. Phryne had just come awake. Sleep spilled from her, and she grabbed for her knife. Eodan picked himself up from his entanglement with Hwicca as Flavius got the door open. Eodan rushed for him.

They went backwards out on the deck. Eodan reached after Flavius’ throat. The Roman’s knees were doubled up before his stomach. He straightened them enough to fend off the Cimbrian, rolled over and shouted.

“Help! Captain! Slave mutiny! Help!”

Eodan grasped for him, missed again and saw the Libyan sailor’s legs pounding up. The Libyan was swinging a club. Eodan scrambled back from the blow and bounced to his feet. The Libyan yelled and raised the club high. Eodan’s fist leaped, and he felt bone and flesh crunch under his knuckles. The Libyan choked and sat down.

Wildly, Eodan looked toward the bow. He had a glimpse of sea that sparkled blue beneath a sun close to noon. The ship rolled gently, but to an opposing wind; they were still only oar-powered. The land was a thin streak to starboard. Flavius stood in a knot of men under the forecastle, pointing back to the cabin and yelling.

“Give me that sword!” bawled Eodan.

Phryne came out with it. The wind rumpled her short dark hair, the sun blinked on her knife blade. Her tilted face looked forward in the calm of―hopelessness? No, Hwicca sobbed behind her, saying, “There are worse endings. Kill me, Eodan.”

“No!” he cried. “Come, follow me!
By the Bull―”

He lifted his sword and ran aft. The sailors in the bow milled, unsure. Demetrios exhorted them. Up on the poop, the steersman gaped and let go his oar. The ship heeled as the wind brought it about. Eodan stumbled, regained his feet and reached the hatch he wanted.

It stood open. The stench of the grave boiled from it. Even in that moment he was close to retching. But― “Down in there!” he rapped, and sprang first, ignoring the ladder.

He struck a platform where the gong-beater stood, staring, mouth open like a fish. Eodan stabbed once. The gong-beater screamed, caught at his belly and sank to his knees.

Eodan looked down the length of the pit. Overhead was the main deck. Before him was an oblong well, with ten benches on either side and a man chained to each. He could not see them as more than a blur―here a bleached face, there a tangle of hair. A catwalk ran down the middle, above the seats. Light came in shafts through the hatch and the oar-ports. As the ship rolled, a sunbeam would sickle up and down, touching a rib or a strake or a human face, and then flee onward. It was noisy here―timbers groaned, waves slapped the hull, rowlocks creaked, chains rattled.

The overseer came at a run along the catwalk. He was a big man with a smashed, hating face. He was bearing a whip with leaded thongs and a trident for prodding or killing. “Pirates!” he whooped. “Pirates!”

A beast-howl lifted from the benches. Oars clattered in their locks; the men stood up and barked, grunted, yammered. Eodan could not tell whether it was fear or wrath. And his life depended on which it was.

As the overseer reached him, Eodan crouched. The overseer stabbed. Eodan swayed his body aside, as though this were a bull’s horn in the Cimbrian springtime games. He should have thrust in his turn, but habit was too strong. He struck downward with his sword. The overseer’s trident was wrenched loose and went ringing to the platform.

The man’s mouth opened. Perhaps he cursed, but Eodan could not hear above the slave-racket. His fingers clawed for a hold, to wrestle the Cimbrian. Eodan got him by belt and throat, heaved him up over his head, and roared aloud.

“Here! He’s yours!”

And hurled the overseer into darkness.

“Eodan,” cried Hwicca. Her hands fell frantic upon his body. He looked into wild eyes. “What would you do?”

“No time to hunt for keys to the locks,” he rapped. “Pick up that trident. Pry the shackles off these men!”

Hwicca stood back, staring. The slaves hooted and jumped about. A swift sunbeam caught bared teeth down in the murk. They could hear the overseer being ripped apart.

“Can you hold the crew off long enough?” called Phryne.

“I had better!” said Eodan.

He pulled off his cloak and whirled it around his left arm. The gong-beater caught feebly at his heels. He stamped down the hand and bounded up the ladder.

The sailors were nearing. All of them had weapons, such as were kept against pirates. Demetrios was bearing a shield and helmet as well. Flavius was walking beside him.

“There he is!” bellowed the captain, and feet thudded on the planks. Eodan went down again and waited.

There was grunting and cursing at his back. Once the girls had a man or two free, it would go faster.… But if I were a slave, he thought, with the mind beaten out of me, I might not use a sudden woman for anything but―Here is a man to fight!

It was the Libyan, with a broken nose to avenge. He came down the ladder quickly, facing forward in sailor fashion, bearing a short spear. In the shifting gloom he was not much more than another shadow. Eodan poised himself. The spear punched at his stomach. He caught the point in his wadded cloak, shoved it aside and stepped in. The Libyan howled, but was scarcely heard above the howling of the galley slaves. Eodan slid the sword into him. The sailor did not seem to feel it. He backed against the ladder, pulled his spear free and struck. Eodan did not quite sidestep it. The edge raked his shoulder. As the Libyan moved in, Eodan chopped at the wooden handle of his enemy’s weapon. Roman iron bit; he caught it. The Libyan wrestled him for the shaft. Eodan jerked. The Libyan lost his balance, slipped in his own pouring blood and fell into the pit.

Eodan glanced up. The sky in the hatch blinded him. He could only see that someone was looking down. As if from far away, he heard Demetrios: “Throw a kettle of boiling water. He cannot withstand that!”

“He can retreat onto the catwalk,” said Flavius, “and come back to meet the next man we send. No, let one sailor carry that kettle down the ladder. The barbarian cannot attack him without being scalded. Two or three others can come directly behind―”

Gasping, Eodan turned toward the benches. It had quieted a little. He heard links clash in the darkness. A staple screamed as it was torn out of a timber.

“Follow me!” shouted Eodan. “Break your oars for clubs! There are no more than six or seven men up there! You can be free!”

They shuffled and mumbled in the dark. He glimpsed a few who had been released holding up their dangling chains in a dull, wondering way. They were loathsome with sores and scars.

A voice yelled back to him: “We can be crucified, no more!”

“They have swords,” another whispered. “They are masters.” Eodan shook his red blade high and yelled in rage: “Is there even one man among you?”

A moment longer, then a booming from the foul night before him: “Get these god-rotted irons off me, boy, and you’ll have at least two more hands!”

 
X

The man who sprang up onto the catwalk and joined Eodan was huge―not as tall as the Cimbrian, but with a breadth of shoulder that made him look almost square. His arms, hanging down toward his knees, were cabled with muscle. His hair and beard were matted filth, but they still had the color of fire. Small blue eyes crackled under bony brows; the dented nose dilated, sucking air into a shaggy bow-legged frame clad only in its chains.