Foolish Paul waved from the boat. I waved back, though my first sight of the vessel that would, I hoped, carry me to the land of the Bulgars made me wonder how it had sailed from Kherson to Symbolon, let alone from Kherson to Phanagoria bringing me news of Apsimaros's move against me.
I also cast aside some of my dismay at the failure of more Khersonites to rally to my standard. Moropaulos's boat was crowded with him and Theophilos, Stephen and Barisbakourios in it. Adding Myakes and me would make it very crowded. It did not look as if it had much room for provisions aboard, either. I shrugged. Other supplies failing, we could, I supposed, catch fish.
Moropaulos waved again. "Come on, Emperor," he called. "The sooner we leave, the sooner we get there." A broad, foolish grin spread over his broad, foolish face.
Two or three of the dockside loungers any harbor in the civilized world attracts turned curious eyes my way. I wished Moropaulos had not chosen that exact moment to address me by my imperial title. If searchers from Kherson or Phanagoria came to Symbolon, they would have no trouble learning I had been there. I consoled myself with the thought that they were unlikely to be able to find out whither I was bound.
Stooping on the edge of the pier, I scrambled down into Moropaulos's boat. The fisherman steadied first me and then Myakes. After undoing the lines holding the boat to the pier, Moropaulos and Theophilos plied a couple of long oars to get us out into open water. Once we were there, Foolish Paul, who struck me as being far less foolish now that I encountered him in his proper element, raised the sail, turned it to the best angle to take advantage of what wind we had, and sent us heading northwards.
When we sailed past the lighthouse with which Kherson feebly imitates fabled Alexandria, I shook my fist at the town. "May I never see you again!" I called across the water, a wish that has come true. "And may I punish you as you have tried to punish me!" I am still fulfilling that wish even as I write these words.
Above Kherson, the coast of the peninsula on which it lies curves up to the north and west. We stayed in sight of land at all times. As I had guessed, between tacks Moropaulos let his nets down into the water. The catch was small, but enough to keep us fed, each of us taking turns roasting his fish above a tiny brazier. A bucket of seawater always stood close by, lest a sudden great wave overturn the brazier and spill burning coals onto the deck.
Being small and lighter than the dromons in which I had previously traveled, the fishing boat had a motion on the water different from theirs. I felt every movement of the sea, and proved myself a man able to take such motions as they came. Poor Stephen, being less fortunate in that regard, ate little and spent a lot of time hanging over the leeward rail.
We traveled past the headland marking the westernmost extension of the peninsula on which Kherson lies, past the mouth of the Danapris, and then past that of the Danastris. Most nights, we simply beached the fishing boat, keeping watch alongside it till dawn. A couple of times, we put up in little trading towns by the edge of the sea. They were to Doros as Doros is to Constantinople; having said so much, I shall draw a veil of merciful silence over any further description of them.
From the mouth of the Danapris to that of the Danube, where the Bulgars live, is not a long voyage, and seemed all the shorter in comparison to the distance we had already come. Up to that time, the weather had been good. Oh, the winds for the most part blew from the northwest, requiring a good many tedious tacks if we were to beat our way westward, but they were not violent, and the sea, Stephen's opinion to the contrary notwithstanding, remained gentle.
All that changed two days after our sailing past the mouth of the Danapris. Clouds filled the sky, clouds so black and thick and roiling, I at first took them for the smoke of a great fire somewhere. The wind freshened and began to howl. The light chop in which the fishing boat bobbed turned into waves that first buffeted the boat and then began to toss it about the sea.
The storm blew up almost as fast as I can record its coming. Less than half an hour after I spied the clouds on the western horizon, rain started drenching us. The day went black as midnight. Every so often, a lightning bolt split the sky overhead, giving us all momentary, purple-tinged glimpses of the heaving sea. The roar of the thunder put me in mind of God's voice summoning us to judgment.
"Can you steer for shore?" I screamed to Moropaulos.
He shook his head. "No," he shouted back. "I don't even know which way the shore is, not for sure. Sea's doing the steering now, not me- s ea and the wind." He brailed up the sail. "I think the wind's still out of the west. Don't want to get blown too far away from land."
I shook my fist at the heavens, as I had at Kherson. Leontios had not been able to keep me down, not for good. The rich traders in Kherson had not been able to make away with me. When Apsimaros tried to move against me, he could not do so without my learning of it. When Ibouzeros Gliabanos sought to betray me, I learned of that, too, and struck first. Having escaped so much, having achieved so much, was I now to perish at God's hands?
"No!" I shouted, loud as I could, and shook my fist again.
The storm grew ever worse, despite my defiance. The fishing boat spun like a top, waves smiting it from every direction. The lightning showed those waves tall as hills, tall as mountains. Soon one would surely strike us wrong and capsize us, and then everything would be over.
After we went sliding down from yet another wavecrest deep into the trough behind, someone clutched the soaked sleeve of my tunic: Myakes. He had been fearless for so long, but now a flash of lightning showed the terror on his face. "We're going to die, Emperor!"
"No," I said, thinking him right. But then, the boat wallowing out of the trough, my spirits rose with it. I raised a defiant shout: "No!"
A wave broke over the bow, drenching both of us and almost sweeping me over the side. "We're going to die," Myakes insisted, spitting out saltwater. "I beg, you, Emperor, on my knees I beg you"- and he did fall to his knees-"promise God that if He spares you here, you'll have mercy on your enemies."
"What? Mercy?" I shook my fist at the heavens for a third time. "If I have mercy on even one of them, may God drown me now!"
And the storm stopped.
MYAKES
A miracle, Brother Elpidios? I don't know if it was a miracle, or if we'd come out the other side of the squall line or whatever it is sailors call those sudden storms that blow up out of nowhere, or what. I do know it happened just the way he writes it, though. He's right. I was frightened to death. You can fight a man. How do you go about fighting the sea? One minute I was certain sure we were sunk and drowned and food for the mackerel and the squid and the tunny that had been feeding us for so long up in Kherson. The next-
The next minute, Brother Elpidios, the clouds were flying away to the east, and the rain went from sheets to spatters and then stopped, and all at once when we were in the trough of a wave the crest of the next one wasn't higher than the top of our mast, and the sun came out, and-
It sounds like a miracle to you? If you think I'm going to argue very hard, you can bloody well think again.
From that moment forward, I knew I should prevail, God having by sparing me given an indubitable sign He approved of my purposes.
All of us, working with buckets and cups and a small bronze cooking pot, bailed as much of the sea as we could from the fishing boat. By the time the long, weary task was done, we stood ankle deep in water. Having been knee deep before, we reckoned that great progress.
By God's providence, the rigging had survived the storm. Like our tunics, it flapped wetly. But the sail filled with the gentle breezes following the storm, and let us sail slowly toward the west, the direction in which the sun was now setting. We were out of sight of land, and spent a chilly night on the sea. Making sail again the next morning, though, we spied the shore no later than the third hour.