Killer of Men - Christian Cameron [166]
‘Unless we row south,’ Paramanos said, ‘we’re dead men.’
I agreed, so I had all three decks rowing – well, at least the two I could man – in the grey rain, and we had the sea broadside on, pouring through the oar ports and pushing us steadily west for all the southing that we made, which was precious little.
Some time in that endless grey day, I sent the deck crew to row, and even gave orders for the handful of armed Aeolians who still stood by to serve wine to every man, strip their armour and take up an oar.
My left arm was still numb, and even in the rain I could see a bruise as black as the darkest night where the oar had hit me, but I knew that I had to row. Leadership is an odd thing – sometimes you want your men to fear you as they fear the gods, at others you need them to love you like a long-lost brother. So I settled to an upper-deck bench, and for the first time I could see how much water was swirling down in the hold below me.
My stomach clenched. We were a third full of water, and if the Phoenicians had still been manning the lower benches, they’d have been drowning.
I called to the Nubian and told him that we were full of water. I could see him smile at my ignorance. He was conning the ship – of course he would know just how sluggish we were. Truly, I was a piss-poor commander. I had too much to learn.
It was a Phoenician ship, and it had tackle I didn’t understand. It had pumps – sliding wooden pumps that rigged to the top strakes and allowed a strong man to shoot water up and over the side, straight up from the bilges. The Nubian got them rigged and shooting water while I rowed on in a haze of pain, because now that I was active, my left arm hurt like fire with every stroke, and the whole thing seemed pointless.
Every rower harbours a secret fear in a storm – that by rowing for the safety of all, he is losing his own strength to swim, if the ship founders. I was a strong swimmer – I’d learned in Ephesus and swum every day on Crete, and now I knew that if we wrecked, I would drown, dragged under by a weak left arm and a hundred cuts and bruises.
‘What’d you do?’ the man below me asked out of nowhere. ‘Weren’t you deck crew?’
‘Everyone rows,’ I said, gritting my teeth.
‘Trierarch’s a madman, ain’t he?’ the man asked. ‘A killer, that’s what I hear.’
I laughed. ‘I am the trierarch,’ I said.
He twitched and almost lost the stroke, and I felt better. ‘Listen, boy,’ I said, using the Ionian phrase for a slave, or a man of no value. ‘If we live, you owe me an apology. And if we all die, you’ll have the satisfaction that I’ll be as dead as you.’
That was the end of conversation with my rowers. I don’t think they loved me. They thought I was insane.
Another nightfall found us still at sea. We were resting fifteen men at a time, and I was relieved eventually by another shift of reserve rowers, and I could see that if there was no less water in the bilges, at least there was no more. But I also knew that our rowers were almost finished. I knew because I was as strong as an ox, injury or no injury, and my arms were like wet rawhide.
I went aft, cold now that I wasn’t rowing, and pulled my dry cloak from under the bench and put it around me.
Paramanos was still in the steering rig.
‘Can you take the helm?’ he asked.
‘Give me cup of wine and a hundred heartbeats and I’ll do my best.’ I shrugged. Lekthes and Idomeneus were both rowing, and there wasn’t another man on deck. ‘It’s a miracle we’ve made it this far, isn’t it?’ I said.
He nodded. ‘I’m good,’ he said. He pointed aft. ‘When the rowers fade, I put the sea behind us for a few minutes.’ His grey-black face had a ghost of a grin. ‘Not my first storm.’
I knocked back a cup of neat wine. It flowed like warm honey through my veins, and I was alive. ‘Give me the oars,’ I said.
He handed them over, and the moment I took them I felt the strain. I looked to starboard, and I could see the coast passing in the fading light. The combination of wind and oar was