“Enter!”
Raestes entered the room. “When I got to the telegraph station, this message was waiting for you.” He handed over a tightly folded piece of paper. “I also sent off your telegram requesting further clarification on the appointment of Minnicus.” He gave a slight bow, and moved to withdraw.
Octavia had already opened the telegram, the seal making a satisfying rip as it fell apart under impatient fingers. “Sit, sit,” she murmured as her eyes darted over the short message.
Raestes shifted uncomfortably, following ages-old rigid protocol in the august presence of a Roman senator.
Octavia read the message twice, her heart dropping as she took in the words. Eyes misting with tears, she looked up at the messenger. “Senator Ignatios is dead. Two days ago. Senator Cralus was just appointed committee chairperson in a nearly unanimous vote.” Those other senators are craven lizards without someone strong to lead them. Cralus? No wonder Minnicus got approved so rapidly. I bet they were tripping over each other to support his candidate. It was all coming together now.
She studied Raestes. Could he be trusted? He had only been with her staff for about two months. No, not yet. Mustering herself, Octavia stood and turned. She would not allow her underling to see her cry. No one had seen her cry since her father had died. “You may leave.”
Raestes bowed again and left.
Adjusting her long tunic and senatorial sash, Octavia poured herself a glass of wine and sat again, her mind feverishly working at this new problem. Cralus was probably moving fast, by ignoring the long-held Senate proscription on appointing officers within the “mourning week” after a member’s death. It makes sense he’d want to put his crony in charge of this expedition. But is it simply for the glory? Or is there something deeper?
Eyebrows furrowing, she tugged at a lock of her curly hair, fingers braiding and unbraiding as she thought. The strands twisted through her long fingers, delicate and narrow. It was a habit she’d had since she was a small child. The callousness of the situation appalled her.
And to think, I left Rome to get away from the politics!
Several days later, those problems had been subsumed beneath a series of other, more urgent issues. Like when she was going to be able to keep food down.
The salt spray from the Mare Balticum misted over the tubby transport vessel Tiber as the ship forged through moderate swells. With each dip and jolt, her stomach fought to empty itself for the umpteenth time.
Gritting her teeth, the senatora gingerly walked about her cabin, watching the wake behind the Tiber. She could see the sails and wakes of the multitude of ships in the expedition to each side, shadowed by the oblong bulbs of the air fleet above.
As a senatora, she had the privilege of retaining the captain’s personal cabin. Normally, she was fairly demure about the powers of her position, but in this case, she was glad her staff had insisted. She had just about settled down onto a fairly comfortable chair, hoping to stomach the first morsels of food for the day, when a knock came at the door. She quickly shoved a bit of bread into her mouth, only to discover it was slightly stale when she struggled to chew it quickly. The knock came again. Clearing her throat, she called, “Come in!”
A sailor entered and performed a sketchy bow. “The captain would like to see you as soon as you are available.” Half bowing again, he backed up, turned at the door, and left the cabin.
When she had agreed to take her official position, the one thing she hadn’t been expecting was how much bowing and scraping she would get from the common folk. Yet she knew that this deference had been drilled into the heads of the working class from the time they were born until they breathed their last breath.
Leaving those thoughts behind, she brushed the few crumbs off the heavy woolen jacket she wore over a thinner tunic and long trousers. The pants might be a bit risqué, but she couldn’t care less about the impression she made on the lackluster crew of the Tiber. Even the captain would probably fail to notice her bold choice. Besides, they were comfortable-and more suitable for the awkward climb through tight spaces and up narrow stairs to reach the upper deck.
A stiff breeze greeted her, driving cold sea spray that made her pull on her coat. She joined the captain on the stern quarterdeck. He doffed his cap, revealing a bald head that he bobbed at her in greeting. It’s probably an honor for him to have me ride aboard his vessel, since all he usually transports is grain and other supplies, she thought dismissively. “Captain Wendrix,” she said evenly.
Wendrix flashed a jack-o-lantern grin at her. Octavia recoiled internally at the missing teeth, but kept her face an emotionless mask. Cool, calm, collected: the three Cs of being a senator, just as Ignatios taught me.
“I thought you might want to see this.” He pointed westward toward the smudge on the horizon. “That’s what the Nortlanders call Vulcan’s Island. It controls the center of the sea here, and pirates like to use it as a base from which to attack shipping.” His accent was cutting the a’s out of most of the words, forcing Octavia to focus hard to understand his explanation.
“I see.”
“Well, we just learned that the expedition launched a raid there and is burning out the pirates as we speak.”
“How did you learn this? Did a message come from the flagship?”
Flashing another broken-toothed grin, the captain shrugged nonchalantly. “There isn’t much wood on the island anymore-the natives have cut most of it down. But somehow half the island is on fire. No attack-no fire.”
The man may sound like a bowl full of mush, but he’s pretty smart. I wouldn’t be able to tell the gray haze of the sky from the black smoke of fires at this distance.
She borrowed the captain’s spyglass and tried to steady it along the horizon. After a few floundering moments, Octavia was inwardly cursing her unsteadiness.
By this time, Raestes had appeared on deck, bringing a metal thermos of warm mulled wine up to the quarterdeck. He poured Octavia a cup, then screwed the top on tightly. Juggling the spyglass and cup, she managed to take a sip. The warmth soaking into her bones from the steaming liquid made her whole body relax.
The wind continued to snatch at the hair she’d pulled tightly into a bun at the nape of her neck. A loose strand fluttered about until she caught it and tucked it behind her ear, the awkward movement nearly poking out her eyeball with the spyglass. She continued to observe the smoke billowing into the air, although she couldn’t tell much from this distance, even after she was able to zero in on the gray streamers. “Is there any ‘official’ word?” she asked.
Wendrix shrugged. “Nothing over the semaphore system. Sending the request via flags would take too long. We’re not big enough to have a wireless. But we’ll paddle over to the Pyrenne and ask her to send a message to the flagship.” Turning, the captain barked orders at one of the seamen hurrying about the deck.
To Octavia’s untrained eye, they seemed very much like ants scurrying to and fro on a small piece of wood. The large paddlewheel on the right side of the ship began to churn faster, throwing foam up onto the deck as the ship’s course curved and the deck tilted slightly.
“Starboard. Not right side. You’re on a ship; don’t act like the landlubber that you are,” the captain muttered, appearing from nowhere to stand beside her.
Octavia was flabbergasted. “What. . how?”
Wendrix studied her. “You talked out loud. I was merely correcting you.” He reached out and placed his hands around the mug clasped in her fingers. The last wisps of steam rose from between them. “You might want to go below, Senatora. We’ll be crossing the waves and it will likely get choppy.”