Killer of Men - Christian Cameron [167]
I thought that the Nubian would collapse – he’d been between the steering oars for twelve straight hours, dawn to dusk – but instead, he ran forward.
The oars rose and fell to the beat, but the men were barely moving them. The wind was doing the work, and it would soon bring about our ruin. I reckoned that at roughly the time the sun finally set, we’d touch the rocks. No beach at all, there at the foot of the Olympus of Asia.
I poured another cup of wine and drank it. I would die with my oath redeemed, doing my best. What more can the gods ask?
Paramanos came back aft and the grey fatigue was gone from his face. I handed him the wine cup and he drank off the rest.
‘If you served out wine,’ he said, ‘we might get another water-clock of strong rowing. And I think we might – might – save the ship.’
We traded places again while he explained. I didn’t think his wine would work. I thought that words would, and I ran forward to the command platform and raised my voice over the rain.
‘Listen, you bastards!’ I shouted into the wind. ‘We’ll be on a beach cooking hot food and drinking wine before the sun sets if you’ll put your backs into it. What a bunch of shits we’ll look in Hades if we drown a horse-length from a safe beach!’
It was my first battle speech. It worked.
They all thought that they were dead men, and the merest glimpse of hope was enough to fire them. I walked up and down the central plank, and I told them exactly what Paramanos planned. Over and over again.
‘We’re going to thread the needle between the Chelidon and Korydela,’ I said. ‘And then we’ll be in the lee of the greatest mountain in Asia – calm water and rest. Our Nubian says we can beach at Melanippian, even in the dark, with this wind, and I believe him.’
It’s easy to believe, when the only other choices are extinction and black death, and they rowed with their guts and their hope of life. Sunset – not that we’d ever seen the sun – gave way to a horrible grey light and then to full night, and still we lived, and I knew that our bow was due west now. The storm was full at the stern and the motion of the ship was easier; the only rowing we needed was to keep her stern on to the wind.
But I knew that we were still in a race with time, and I got my three Aeolians and Lekthe and Idomeneus and two men they seemed to know, and we raised the boatsail. I’d seen it done by Hipponax’s trained mariners – you lash the furled boatsail to the mast, then raise the mast, secure it ten times, and then you cut the lashings on the sail and it spreads itself. The Ephesians did it to show off, but Hipponax had said once that it was a life-saver in a storm.
It is one thing to lash a boatsail to its mast on an autumn day in a brisk breeze, with the warm sun burning your shoulders, surrounded by men who love you, and another to do it in driving rain with your hands so cold that you can’t tell whether you have rope between your fingers or not.
We managed to tie the boatsail eight times with hemp rope, and then we found that we didn’t have the strength to raise the mast. The wind caught it and hurled it over the side, and only the luck of the gods kept the pole from holing us as it went over.
But damn it, we were close to making it through the strait. I could see the cliffs rising on either side.
The rowers were finished. Even hope can’t make spent muscles move an oar.
I wasn’t finished. I got the spar from the mainsail and let the wind take the mainsail over the side like a hundred-handed monster – twenty silver owls of linen lost in two heartbeats, and I didn’t give a damn. The spar was only three men tall, much smaller than the boatsail mast. But we carried a spare boatsail and we bent it to the spar and tied it down, and then I stripped the upper deck of rowers – the oars were in all along the deck, with only the middle men pretending to row, and we were beginning to fall off and broach. Time was running out, we had cliffs on both sides and even Paramanos was out of – of whatever drove him.
They thought I was mad. We