“All the way,” said Uri. “Down the Dalmatian coast, by the Greek islands, with only a halt in Crete en route to the Syrian coast.”
There was a brief silence while Plotius and Matthew gazed out at the shore. Uri regretted having spoken.
“But that’s an immense detour!” exclaimed Iustus. “Why aren’t we going by the African coast via Malta?”
“That’s the usual way with a bireme,” said Matthew.
They left Italia at Hydris, and with a favorable wind they crossed the Adriatic in a day and a half. Uri’s mind was set at rest that they would again be navigating close to the safe shore.
He could see that Matthew and Plotius had warmed to each other; they spoke at length. He could also see that the others regarded them with jealousy and whenever possible would step up to them to have a word. They wanted to suck up and form a triumvirate with Matthew and Plotius, Uri reflected as he stroked the dog.
The storm caught them by the Greek islands. Uri was standing on the deck and was amazed because the clouds were as yet a long way off when the captain began bawling, and Matthew yelled in turn, ordering him to get down quick into the rowing area.
Brawny slaves shimmied up the ladder onto the upper rowing bank on the command of the drivers, who quickly unchained them. It seemed all men became equal in a storm, and there was no reason to fear escapes. The slaves’ places were taken by the members of the delegation and a few sailors who were not needed to furl the sails, as the others were taking care of that. Alexandros was the only one of the delegation who went up to the upper bank, saying that he was a good oarsman. Uri was astonished, but on looking at Alexandros’s gigantic back, he must have been telling the truth. Might it be that he was an escaped slave rather than a real merchant?
Uri was given a right-hand oar, Iustus beside him a left-hand one. Before them the huge backs of slaves strained; behind them were seated Hilarus and Plotius. The slave driver who had been supervising the rowing up till then also clambered up onto the upper bank of oarsmen and Matthew took over directing the rhythm. He started in good voice and at a good tempo; the oars were still in the slaves’ hands for a brief moment, after which they immediately followed his commands.
“Let’s change places,” Uri panted to Iustus after the first few pulls.
“No way,” said Iustus determinedly, even though he was right-handed and the change would have been welcome for him as well. Uri did not try again.
He felt something warm hit against his feet. He looked, and it was Remus, the dog. It was whimpering, but Uri could not stroke it; he needed both hands to hold the oar.
The handle of the oar was slippery with the sweat of one of the slaves who had clambered into the upper bank. The oar was pushed through a gap in the hull left expressly for this purpose and dipped into the sea; a thick leather strap was threaded through a hole drilled through the oar close to the handle, with the strap fastened to a beam in the rowing chamber so that it would not fall into the water if the rower lost his grip.
Uri tried to row in the same rhythm as the others, but it was more than likely that he was just paddling air (he was unable to see the blade of the oar, there being no porthole in the rowing chamber), as it went remarkably easily. Then all of a sudden he felt a huge wrench on his arms, shoulders, and neck; a wave had caught the oar, and the oar slipped out of his grip, obliging him to stand up in the pitching boat to retrieve it. Shamefaced, he sat back down in his place. Matthew said nothing, having other things to think of: he was in command.
Over the next hour and a half the squall lasted, the oar was wrenched out of his hands more than a few times, but Hilarus and Iustus were not much better oarsmen. Valerius fared better than them; his only trouble was that he was sick.
Uri was barely able to dip his oar in the water, just threshing with it, and yet he was soon dog-tired nonetheless. When the squall had blown through and the boat was rocking peacefully, allowing the slaves to take a rest, Uri lay flat out on the floor. The boat rolled in one place, the sails having yet to be hoisted; the slaves and sailors on the upper bank were also resting; at that moment moving on was not the important thing; what mattered was for them to recover. They finally clambered down from the upper level, and Uri ought to have gotten up, but he was unable to move. His companions left him to climb the ladder to the deck, but Uri did not have the strength and simply lay on his side. Matthew leaned over him.
“You weren’t rowing,” he informed him scathingly. “I was watching.”
Matthew also climbed up the ladder.
They’re going to pull the ladder up, and I’ll be left here among the slaves, it passed through Uri’s head.
And indeed, on reaching the top Matthew pulled the ladder up. He was laughing mischievously, Uri could see.
The slaves were going to tear him limb from limb, devour him.
Then the ladder was let down again, though not by Matthew: the head slave driver had to climb down.
“Wait!” Uri bawled, gathered all his strength to pick himself to his feet and, limbs trembling, struggled up to the deck.
Once there he almost tumbled back down into the depths when he looked back for the dog; it was nowhere to be seen.
He retched a sour liquid onto the slippery deck. The skin over his whole body ached; his heart was pounding at a horrifying rate.
Down below, the slaves were being shackled to one another again.
“You stood your ground just great,” he heard Matthew’s derisive voice. “All of you.”
Why does he hate me so much? Uri asked himself disconsolately.
He scoured the wet, slippery deck forlornly; it would soon dry if the sun continued to shine this brightly. He noticed an opening between the planks, a hatch cover of some sort, which had been completely lifted back; up till then everything had been shut. He stopped, bent down, and took a look into the small cabin.
He saw the captain from above, recognizing him from the big bald head; he knelt and bent over. Peering into the dimness, he could make out a gleaming statuette about three feet in height standing on a little table, with the captain bowing to it.
Uri was stupefied: what was a Jewish captain doing praying to an idol?
He held his breath and tried to bend closer in such a way that he did not block the sunlight. The captain sensed that someone was watching and glanced up. Uri was aghast and slid back, but the captain was in an extremely good mood that the ship had pulled through, and he shouted out, “Come down, whoever you are!”
Uri scrambled down the ladder.
“He saved us,” the captain said, indicating the statuette.
A snake was wrapped seven times around a standing male body, his head reminiscent of a lion’s. Wings sprouted from the man’s shoulders, his left hand held a globe on which ran two intersecting lines, and his right hand held a knife.
“The Celestial Lord,” said the captain. “He saved us. Twenty times or more he has saved me; my father, more than fifty times!”
He offered Uri a drink, which was strong and stung his throat. The captain, just glad to have someone to talk to, didn’t look to see who it was.
That was how Uri learned about Mithras, who killed the bull and whom pirates and astronomers on Rhodes and in Tarsus worshiped as the Celestial Lord.
The captain was from Tarsus, and his father had been a pirate, or rather not so much a pirate as a sailor, except that the Cilician king’s regular navy was considered by the Romans to be a pirate fleet, and anything that could be plundered, they plundered, just the same as the Roman pirates with whom they competed and, every now and then, would come into conflict. In the end they were taken over by the Romans when they conquered their land, and from then onward they had been valued as commercial seamen.