They sank back into the torpor that they had become accustomed to, their minds dulled by the monotonous beat of the stroke-master’s drum, and stared blankly at the mountains of Euboia as the ship followed the curve of the island and began to head east towards Cape Caphereas.
A shout from one of the slave-masters appearing out of the hatchway at the bow of the ship brought them out of their slow thoughts.
‘Trierarchus, look at this one,’ the man shouted, hauling a limp body out of the oar-deck.
The slave-master dragged the body the length of the ship and then turned it over for his trierarchus’ inspection.
His face was barely visible beneath the matted, long, black hair and beard but his torso was covered in dark red rashes.
‘The gods above,’ Rhaskos cried, ‘slave fever. How many more are there down there with the symptoms?’
‘Three, trierarchus, but they are still able to row.’
‘Get them overboard now.’
The slave-master ran off to do as he was ordered whilst two crewmen heaved the infected slave over the side. Moments later shouts erupted from the hatchway and three struggling creatures were hauled out and dragged kicking and screaming to the bow. As they were still very much alive a heavy chain was attached to each of them before they were thrown overboard to disappear into the sea churning beneath the ship’s hull.
‘That’s the final proof of it,’ Rhaskos announced. ‘We are under a curse and I’ve no doubt it’s because of the priest. We’ve offended the gods by taking him on board.’
Vespasian moved closer to Magnus and Sabinus. ‘I think that we should tell him,’ he whispered.
‘What’s the point?’ Sabinus questioned. ‘You don’t believe all that bollocks, do you?’
Before Vespasian could answer there was a clatter of oars and the ship lurched to the right, knocking the men on each steeringoar to the deck.
‘On your feet, steersmen, pull her round,’ Rhaskos barked, hauling the men back up to their feet.
Beneath them, on the oar-deck, shouting broke out accompanied by the crack of whips and the rattle of chains.
The slave-master came pelting out of the hatchway and ran the length of the deck to Rhaskos.
‘Trierarchus, the slaves have fouled the oars and are refusing to row,’ he puffed.
‘Well, whip them until they do,’ Rhaskos shouted, his voice rising in pitch.
‘We are, but it’s not doing any good.’
‘Then throw a couple of them overboard as a lesson to the rest.’
‘That’s just the point, sir, they’re saying that now that the slave fever has broken out they’re all going to get thrown over anyway so what’s the point of rowing any more?’
‘For the love of the earth mother Bendis, they can’t hold us to ransom like that,’ Rhaskos roared. ‘Get three of the ringleaders and secure one of them in the bilge and take the eyes of the other two out in front of the rest; they’ll soon realise that they don’t need to see to row.’
‘Yes, sir, that’s a good idea,’ the slave-master said, turning to go.
‘And tell them that no one else with slave fever will be thrown overboard, unless they’re already dead,’ Rhaskos called after him.
‘Is that wise?’ Sabinus asked. ‘Won’t it just spread through them all until there’s no one left to row?’
‘Not in two days it won’t,’ Rhaskos snapped, ‘and that’s what we need to get to the oracle of Amphiaraos, at Oropos on the coast of Attica.’
‘What’s that?’ Vespasian asked.
‘It’s a sanctuary dedicated to healing and foretelling,’ Rhaskos replied with awe in his voice. ‘I’ve been there before for healing and to ask about the outcome of a voyage. There I will get guidance on how to counter the curse on this ship and how stop the slave fever, I’m sure of it.’
A series of loud shrieks from below halted the conversation. The stroke-master’s drum restarted and the ship got under way.
‘Who’s this Amphiaraos then?’ Magnus asked Rhaskos as they walked up a steep track from their anchorage in the glittering cove below. ‘If he’s a god I’ve never heard of him.’
‘He’s not a god; he’s a demi-god, one of the Heroes,’ Rhaskos replied, removing his floppy straw hat and rubbing the sweat from his freshly shaven head. ‘He was the king of Argos and greatly favoured by the Greek god Zeus, who some say is our Zbelthurdos; he gave him oracular powers. He was persuaded to take part in a raid against Thebes led by Polynices, one of the sons of Oedipus, in an attempt to wrest the kingdom from his brother, Eteocles, who had gone back on his word and refused to share the crown with him after their father had killed himself. Amphiaraos went despite the fact that he foresaw his own death. During the battle, when Periclymenus, the son of Poseidon, tried to kill him, Zeus threw his thunderbolt and the earth opened up, swallowing Amphiaraos and his chariot, saving him from a mortal death so that he would be forever able to use the power that Zeus had given him.’
‘How’s telling the future going to remove this curse?’ Vespasian asked.
‘So you agree that there is a curse?’ Rhaskos replied.
Vespasian glanced at Sabinus beside him, who shrugged. ‘It can’t do any harm telling him now if he wants to believe all that bollocks.’
‘Tell me what?’
‘Rhoteces did pronounce a curse on the voyage when we brought him on board,’ Vespasian admitted.
‘Why in the name of all the gods didn’t you tell me?’ Rhaskos exclaimed indignantly. ‘I could have got a priest to come and counter it when we were at Tomi.’
‘Because it’s rubbish, that’s why,’ Sabinus replied forcefully.
‘Rubbish! Have you not noticed all the misfortune that has happened to us on the voyage? That’s the proof that it’s not rubbish.’
‘We weren’t the only ones to be affected,’ Vespasian pointed out. ‘Every ship in the Euxine was affected by those storms and every ship in the Aegeum is affected by this calm. What makes you think that the weather is directed solely at us?’
‘Because we’re carrying a priest; he has great influence with the gods and can call on their help.’
‘Well, I have some sway with my god, Mithras, and so far his influence has been the most powerful,’ Sabinus said. ‘Before we left Tomi I prayed to him and he answered; he’s kept the sea calm for me and I haven’t been sick once.’
‘Believe what you like,’ Rhaskos said dismissively, ‘but if you heard that priest utter a curse I can promise you that we are cursed, and I intend to put an end to it.’
‘Well, it can’t do any harm, can it?’ Magnus said, looking from one to the other, clearly confused by the argument. ‘I mean, if there is a curse we’ll get rid of it and if there isn’t we’ll just have to do some more praying or whatever.’
‘If you start praying for wind and I’m sick all the way back to Ostia I shall personally see to it that you are cursed by every god that you hold sacred,’ Sabinus warned as the track entered a resin-scented cedar wood.
After a couple of miles of steady uphill walking in the pleasant shade of the sweet-smelling trees the wood suddenly ended and they found themselves in a ravine between two steep hills. Before them, on the west bank, was the sanctuary of Amphiaraos. It was a long thin complex overlooked by a theatre cut into the hillside above. There was a soporific quality about the atmosphere; the few people that Vespasian could see were either walking very slowly or lying in the shade of a colonnaded, covered walkway leading away from the temple just ahead of him. The only sounds were the ubiquitous cicadas and the mournful bleating of a dozen rams in a pen just behind the temple. The rich smell of cooking mutton filled the air.