"Where does it lead?"
He wanted to keep his gaze riveted on the widening crack, but glanced at Collins just as the other man's answer reached his ears.
"To the year 1883. The island of Krakatoa."
Charlie realized just how accurate Sibyl's knowledge had been when they approached the wave-battered harbor at Stabiae. The Imperial Navy rode at anchor well beyond the outermost pier, all but blocking the harbor's entrance. Decius Martis cursed and fought the tiller, but they swung inexorably toward the main harbor and the looming warships.
"Shall I try and rig the spare sail to what's left of the mast?" Charlie offered.
"No, it was too late for that five minutes ago, before we could even see the harbor. We'll just have to ride it out and pray the gods are smiling on us!"
Charlie nodded and strained to see past the pitching bow. Long, narrow, and low-slung, deadly warships rose out of the volcanic gloom like misshapen, breaching whales on some insane National Geographic Special. Massive bronze battering rams, normally hidden beneath the waterline, reared up out of the swells with each wild pitch of the triremes. The rams looked for all the world like oversized beaks on the biggest swordfish ever hooked by a Sunday afternoon sportsman. Charlie's best guess put each ram's weight at something over a couple of tons. If one of those things so much as brushed against the little fishing boat's hull...
Decius made his crippled way toward open beachfront near the edge of town. The little boat slid past the warships, crept between them. Charlie held his breath and prayed.
Almost through, almost...
A seismic jolt rocked a pier which Charlie could just make out through the gloom. The sea shook and sloshed against the beach, then sucked back again. The nearest trireme broke loose from her anchor line and swung around—
"Look out!"
Charlie yelled, stupidly, in English. The warning was too late, in any case. The trireme rose out of the swells right above their boat. Charlie heard Phillipa's high, ragged scream—
The immense bronze ram smashed downward. The rolling swells pitched them to port. The ram missed their starboard gunwale by inches. The monstrous splash all but swamped them. They rolled back to starboard, even as the trireme began its return, upward swing. Phillipa was frantically tying her son to her breast. Lucania, bewildered and crying in terror, sat in the bottom of the fishing boat. Charlie dove toward her.
The ram impaled them. For an instant, they were lifted clear of the water. Wood splintered. Charlie was hurled violently against the starboard gunwale. Pain exploded through his torso. Lucania tumbled like a doll. Charlie managed to grab the back of her tunica just as she arced out over the gunwale. He held on. Decius yelled and toppled completely out of the boat, vanishing over the stern.
Then they were plunging down again, toward the sea and death. Phillipa was thrown clear of the boat. Charlie gripped Lucania's tunica tighter and tried to jump overboard. His bad leg twisted under him. Then the boat was splintering all around him, breaking up and falling away from the ram. He fell... Tons of water closed over his head. Charlie held his breath and thrashed for the surface. He reached it, sucked down air, thrust Lucania's face above water. She coughed, choked, coughed again. Then wailed like a half-drowned kitten.
Charlie gripped the back of her tunica, keeping her head above water, and struck out for the nearby shore. He tried to find Phillipa or Decius Martis in the darkness, but saw no trace of them. "Decius! Decius Martis! Phillipa!"
No answering cry reached him.
Grief caught him. Most Romans couldn't swim. They'd come through so much, had come so close to safety... . Then heavy surf caught and hurled him forward. For a moment, all he knew was blackness and stars before his eyes and excruciating pain through his ribcage. Foaming seawater smashed across them. Charlie clung to his daughter. Pain caught his ribs again. He floundered in the surf, rolled beneath another wave and felt a treacherous undertow pull at his legs. Another breaker lifted and flung him forward. Charlie lost his grip. Lucania slid away.
"Lucania!"
Charlie smashed forward into the beach like a basketball slamdunked against concrete.
He didn't bounce nearly as well.
Charlie clung to abrasive sand with his fingers. Undertow sucked greedily at his legs. Laboriously, inch by tiny inch, he crawled forward, clear of the surf. Charlie collapsed, scarcely able to breathe against pain in his chest.
When he craned his neck around to look, he saw Lucania in the breakers. She bobbed awkwardly on a wave crest and was thrown forward. Charlie dove toward her. Undertow sucked her out of reach. She went under.
"Lucania!"
Charlie's leg brace splintered and dumped him headlong into the receding undertow. He peered through the blackness, but couldn't see anything of her.
Then...
There!
A breaker sent her tumbling toward him.
He lunged forward on hands and knees and grabbed her hair. Then he dug in, leaned backwards, and held on. The backwash sucked sand out from beneath his knees and feet. Charlie toppled backwards, dragged toward the sea on his back. Pain tore through the welts, but he held his grip on his daughter. The moment the undertow released its deadly grip, he scrambled backwards like a crab stranded at high tide.
Lucania wasn't breathing.
For one gut-wrenching moment, Charlie didn't know what to do. Rescue breathing, his training whispered, when his brain couldn't formulate a plan of action.
He bent over her, got the baby onto her back. Charlie pressed sharply upward on her abdomen. Seawater trickled from her mouth. He tilted her head back, checked for obstructions in her throat, found none. He picked her up by the ankles and pounded her back hard enough she threw up seawater.
Breathe... Breathe, dammit! Please, Lucky, breathe... She stirred, then, under the pounding of his hand against her back; she coughed and threw up more seawater. Charlie pressed up under her ribcage, forcing the tiny diaphragm up against her lungs. The little girl coughed violently, then vomited yet more seawater. Then she drew in a shuddering gasp... and another... .
Charlie sank down beside her. He discovered his hands were shaking. Her eyelids fluttered open and she mewled, a baby sound without sense. Charlie snatched her to his aching chest and held her close. She stirred against him, hiccoughing a little, then put baby arms around his neck. Oh, honey....
He touched Lucania's ash-streaked hair, just sitting on the beach, not even thinking yet about what would happen when he was discovered with a damaged collar, a fugitive brand, and no master to speak for him. Bad as slavery to Decius would have been... there had been practical aspects to it.
He stared emptily at the sea. Three more deaths. Decius Martis had been a fair man. Charlie was sorry he and his little family had died so close to safety. Sorrier than he'd believed possible. Eventually he realized he couldn't just sit on the open beach all night. Volcanic bombs were dropping from black skies with frightening regularity. He needed to find shelter, some food for his child. Maybe, if Decius' body were recovered, the authorities would believe Charlie's story and spare his life... .
Charlie struggled down the beach toward town, dragging his bad leg awkwardly and straining to maintain his balance. Lucania gradually stopped crying against his scarred neck. Her head drooped. She stuffed a fist into her mouth and grew quiet. It was only then, as the adrenaline surge died away and left him almost too weary to move, that Charlie made a startling discovery.