The Golden Slave (13 page)

He trumpeted at the darkness: “Hear me! You had courage enough to kill one stunned man, tossed down to you. Now you’ve no hope for your flea-bitten lives but to fight. Whether you touched the overseer or not, d’you think the Romans would spare a man of us after this? They’ll grind you up for pig-mash! Follow us, beat in a few heads―after all the beatings you’ve taken, it’s your turn―and we’ll have the ship!”

Whirling on Eodan, he said with a wolfish glee, “Come, let’s at ‘em―the rest will trail us!”

“There’s a spear somewhere,” said the Cimbrian.

“Ha! I have my chains!” The big man whirled the links still hanging on his wrists.

Eodan thought of Hwicca, of his son and his father, and of Marius’ triumphal parade. He swung up the ladder.

The crew were gathered nearby on guard. One of them shouted as Eodan’s head emerged and ran forward, holding a pike. Eodan braced himself. As the metal thrust at him, he caught its shaft and forced it up. He jerked back while he took the last few rungs. The sailor fell to one knee. Eodan came out on deck, yanked the pike away and tossed it under the legs of the two nearest men approaching him. They went down.

“Haw, well cast!” bawled Redbeard.

A man was going up the ladder to the poop deck. Over the heads of two or three sailors, Eodan saw that he had a bow. “See up there!” he cried, as he danced back from the Gaul’s sword-thrust. Redbeard grunted, whirled his chain and let fly. The Thracian deckhand screamed as the staple end smashed across his face, and dropped his ax. The redbeard picked it up, took aim and threw it. There was a gleam in the air and a meaty whack. The bowman fell off the ladder, wailing, the ax standing in his shoulder.

“Back to back,” snapped Eodan. The crew were circling him, looking for a chance to rush in. He counted four―the Gaul, the Greek, the Pamphylian, and a stocky fellow with a leather apron, belike a carpenter. The Thracian, who rolled about moaning, and the archer, who lay bleeding to death, were out of the fight.

And here, from around the cabin, leaving their hot-water kettle, came Demetrios and Flavius!

Redbeard wrapped a chain about his right hand―the links on his left he kept dangling―and twirled it. “Hoy, down there in the pit!” he shouted. “Get off your moldy butts and come crack some bones!”

The Pamphylian and the Greek moved in side by side, facing Eodan. The first of them leaped about, thrusting lightly with his sword, not trying to do more than hold the Cimbrian’s eyes. Then the Greek worked in from the left. Eodan’s blade clanged against his. At once the Pamphylian darted close. Eodan could just whip his sword around in time to wound him and drive him back. It gave the Greek an opening. Eodan saw that assault from the edge of an eye; he got his cloak-shielded arm in the way. The Greek struck for his hip, but the thrust only furrowed Eodan’s flesh. Then Redbeard swatted his chain-clad hand around, and the Greek reeled back. Eodan thrust savagely at the Pamphylian, who retreated. Redbeard batted the carpenter’s pike aside with his right hand. The chain on his left wrist snapped forth and coiled around the Pamphylian’s neck. Redbeard pulled him close, took him by an arm and kicked him down the hatch.

“You puking brats!” he roared into the pit, as the sailor fell. “Do I have to send ‘em to you?”

Demetrios and Flavius were among their men now―only the Gaul, the Greek, and the carpenter! Eodan screamed and shook his sword at them.
“Hau-hau-hau-hau-hoo!”

“Form ranks!” barked Flavius.

“Best we get back under the poop,” panted Redbeard.

Eodan drifted aft across the deck, growling. Five men left, no more. But they marched in a line, their timidity gone. Two could not hope to stop them for long

The slaves came out.

Not all had so much courage, perhaps ten. But those fell upon the crew with broken oars, chains, and bare hands. Eodan saw Flavius turn coolly, lift his sword, and sheathe it in a throat; pull it free and gouge the next man open. The sailors fell into a ring, the yelping slaves recoiled.

“Hau-hau-hee-yi!”
shrieked Eodan, and charged.

It was Flavius’ head he wanted, but the Greek’s he got. The sailor, his face puffy from the chain-blow it had taken, stabbed. Eodan went to one knee and let the point tear his wadded cloak. He thrust upward. Blood ran from the Greek’s thigh, but the man stood firm. Eodan jumped to his feet, got two hands on the Greek’s sword wrist and put his weight behind them. He heard the arm leave the socket, and the Greek went down. Eodan saw that the fight had departed this place; the slaves were clubbing loose. He followed. A rower emerged from below, saw the Greek and the Thracian lying helpless and battered them to death.

Eodan glimpsed Redbeard across the ship, locked barehanded with the carpenter. Those were two strong men. The carpenter broke free and ran, pursued by Redbeard. Under the forecastle stood a rack of tools. As the carpenter picked up a hammer, Redbeard smote him with a chain, and the hammer dropped. Redbeard caught it in midair, roared and struck the carpenter.

But now the battle had ended. The Gaul had fallen, pounded to ruin. Only Flavius and the captain still lived. They fought their way aft, to the poop; half a dozen wounded slaves and three dead lay behind them. When they stood on the upper deck and defended the way with their swords, the mutineers fell back.

For a while there was silence. The ship rolled easily, waves clapped the strakes, wind hummed in the rigging. The hurt men moaned, the dead men and the wreckage rolled about. But those were not loud noises, under so high a heaven.

Redbeard went to the foot of the poop and shook his hammer. “Will you come down, or must I fetch you?” he cried.

“Come if you will,” said Flavius. “It would be a service to rid the earth of Latin as atrocious as yours.”

Redbeard hung back, glowering. One by one, the rowers drifted up to join him. Flavius arched his brows at them and grinned. His hair was flung disarrayed by the breeze, his tunic was ripped and a bruise purpled one calf, but he stood as though in Rome’s Forum. Beside him, Demetrios mouthed threats and brandished his blade.

Eodan went to the hatch. He heard the remaining slaves clamor down there, and a sickness choked him. By the Bull, he thought, if those creatures have so much as spoken to Hwicca or Phryne, the fish will get them―cooked!

“Hoy!” he shouted. “Come up, we have won!”

Something stirred on the ladder. And then the sun caught Hwicca’s bright blowing hair. She trod forth, dropping the trident in an unaware gesture. One leg showed through a rent in her gown. Her broad snub-nosed face was still bewildered; the blue eyes were hazed, as though she had not fully awakened.

“Hwicca,” croaked Eodan. “Are you hurt?”

“No.…”

He flung his sword to the deck and drew her to him. “We have the ship,” he said. “We are free.”

A moment only, her fingers tightened on his arms. Then she pulled away and looked over the blood-smeared deck. “Flavius?” she whispered.

“Up there.” Eodan pointed with a stabbing motion. “We’ll soon snatch him down!”

Hwicca stepped aside. She shivered. “It does not seem real,” she said in a child’s high, thin voice.

Phryne’s boy-figure emerged. She was holding a dripping dagger. She looked at it, shook her head, flung it from her and bent shut eyes down upon clenched fists.

Eodan laid a hand on her shoulder. He had been wild at thinking of harm to Hwicca; now a strange tenderness rose in him, and he asked very gently, “What happened, Phryne?”

She raised a blind violet stare. “I killed a man,” she said.

“Oh. No more than that?” Thankfulness sang within Eodan.

“It was not so little.” She rubbed a wrist across her forehead. “I think I will have evil dreams for a long time.”

“But men are killed daily!”

“He was a slave,” said Phryne without tone. “Hwicca and I went among them. She pulled out the staples, and I guarded her. This one man shouted and seized her dress. He would have had her down under the bench. I struck him. I struck him twice in the neck. He slumped back, but it took him a while to die. A sunbeam came in. I saw that he did not understand. He was only a man―a young man―what did he know of us? Of our purpose down there? Of anything but bench and chains and whip and one niggard piece of sky? And now he is among the shades, and he will never know!”

She turned away, went to the rail and stared out at the horizon.

Eodan thought for a moment. He would have given blood of his own to comfort her, though this seemed only some female craziness. At last: “Well, do you think it would have been better for him to dishonor the woman that wanted to free him?”

Phryne paused before answering. “No. That is true. But give me a while to myself.”

Eodan picked up his sword and went to the poop ladder. The slaves milled about, grumbling. Their bodies were mushroom-colored, and they blinked in the bright day; they had not been starved, for their strength was worth money, but sores festered on them and their hair and beards were crusted. Only the big red man seemed altogether human. Belike he had not been long at the oars.

He turned about, bobbed his head awkwardly and rumbled: “I lay my life at your feet. You gave me back myself.”

Eodan grinned. “I had small freedom to choose! It was get help or be cut down.”

“Nonetheless, there is fate in you,” said Redbeard. He lifted his hammer between both hands. “I take you for
disa—
for chieftain. I am your hound and horse, bow and quiver, son and grandson, until the sky is broken.”

Eodan said, moved to see tears on a giant’s face, “Who are you?”

“I am called Tjorr the Sarmatian,
disa.
My folk are the Rukh-Ansa, a confederation among the Alanic peoples. We dwell on the western side of the Don River, north of the Azov Sea. I carry
disa
blood myself, being a son of the clan chief Beli. The Cimmerian Greeks caught me in battle a few years ago. I went from hand to hand, being too quick of temper to make a good slave, until at last they pegged me into this floating sty. And now you have freed me!” Tjorr blew his nose and wiped his eyes.

“Well, I am Eodan, Boierik’s son, of the Cimbri. We can trade stories later. How shall we dislodge those two up there?”

“A bow would be easiest,” said Tjorr, brightening, “but I’d liefer throw things at them.”

Flavius went to the deck’s edge and looked down. “Eodan,” he called. “Will you speak with me?”

The Cimbrian bristled. “What can you say to talk back your life?”

“Only this.” Flavius’ tone remained cool. “Do you really think to man a ship with these apes? They know how to row. Can they lay a course, hold a rudder, set a sail or splice a line? Do you, yourself, even know where to aim, to reach some certain country? Now Captain Demetrios has mastered all these arts, and I, who own a small pleasure craft, have some skill. Eodan, you can kill us if you wish, but then you will be wrecked in a day!”

There was buzzing among the slaves. The ship heeled sharply, under a gust, and Eodan felt spray sting his face.

Phryne left the rail and came to him. “I have not seen much of the sea,” she said, “but I fear Flavius is right.”

Eodan looked back along the deck, toward Hwicca. She stood watching the Roman in a way he did not know, save that it was not hate. Eodan raised his sword until it trembled before his eyes. The blood running down the blade made the haft slippery. I had no real quarrel with any of the men whose blood this was, he thought.

Then he regarded the sea, where it curled white on restless greenish blue, and the sky, and the far dim line that was Italy. He spat on the planks and called, “Very well! Lay down your arms and be our deck officers. You shall not be harmed.”

“What proof do you have?” snorted Demetrios.

“None, except that he wants to reach land again with his wife,” said Flavius. “Come.” He led the way down the ladder. The rowers muttered obscenity. Two of them moved close, their pieces of oar lifted. Tjorr waved them back with his sledge. Flavius handed his sword to Eodan, who pitched it down so it rang.

“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.