‘What do you make of that, sir?’ Magnus asked, giving Vespasian a thick cut of cold pork and a cup of well-watered wine. ‘A fucking wind, eh, who’d have thought it? What a weird place.’
‘That was some strange stuff we saw yesterday,’ Vespasian agreed, biting off a hunk of pork. ‘Where’s Sabinus?’
‘Ah well, he’s a bit too busy to be joining us for breakfast, if you take my meaning,’ Magnus replied, pointing towards the bow.
Vespasian turned to see his brother leaning over the side, convulsing violently.
A series of loud orders from Rhaskos through a speaking-trumpet caused the fore-anchor detail to start to heave on their cable. As the anchor — a small boulder — cleared the water the stroke-master began his monotonous beat and the slaves started to back oars. The ship eased gently away from the cove then, as the aft-anchor cable tautened, began to swing round. The huge quinquereme came parallel to the shore and Rhaskos shouted through his trumpet again. The aft-anchor detail heaved hard on their cable and the anchor lifted from the seabed; below on the oar-deck the slaves, as one man, reversed stroke and the ship started to glide forward. Once the aft anchor had been secured on deck another series of shouts caused the mainsail hands to start hauling on a halyard, raising the yard aloft. When it was in position six men clambered up the rope ladder on the mast and made their way, three on either side, along the footropes of the yard. At another signal from Rhaskos they released the brails, unfurling the sail that flapped in the wind until its sheets were tallied. The wind snapped the sail taut, the drumbeat from the oar-deck accelerated and Vespasian felt the ship lurch forward.
‘Thanks to our Mother Bendis for this wind,’ Rhaskos called to the sky as the crew went forward to deal with the foresail.
‘Shouldn’t it be Amphiaraos you should be thanking?’ Vespasian asked, walking over to him at his position between the steering-oars.
‘No, this is Bendis’ work,’ Rhaskos replied with a grin and shouted another series of orders through his trumpet.
The yard was hauled up the forward-raked foremast and soon the foresail was set and the ship put on another turn of speed.‘What makes you so sure that it wasn’t Amphiaraos?’ Vespasian continued when Rhaskos’ attention was again free from nautical matters.
‘Because the dream that he sent me was so fanciful I can’t understand it and so I haven’t done what he suggested.’
‘You still believe that the ship is cursed then?’
‘Without a doubt.’
‘So why have we got a wind?’
The old trierarchus smiled; there was a self-satisfied glint in his eye. ‘Because whilst I was communing with the Hero yesterday, as insurance I had my crew sacrifice the third ringleader to Bendis, under the mast. They cut his body in two and placed a half on either side of the ship then walked between it with the sails to purify them and themselves. The Macedonians do the same sort of thing with a dog but we find a human much more potent.’
Vespasian raised his eyebrows slightly; Rhaskos’ religious fervour had ceased to amaze him. ‘Well, it seems to have worked,’ he conceded, ‘but what about the slave fever, has that gone?’
‘No, we’re still cursed in that respect; over a quarter of them are suffering from it now.’
‘So why don’t you do whatever Amphiaraos told you in your dream?’
Rhaskos shook his head mournfully. ‘Because it seems so ridiculous, and it would be suicide.’
‘Suicide?’
‘Yes. Perhaps I should have more faith in the Hero but I just can’t bring myself to do what he suggested.’ He looked at Vespasian apologetically. ‘I dreamt that I took a slave by the hand and in return for his oar I gave him a sword.’
The breeze and the stroke-master’s beat remained steady; the day wore on. The extreme heat had diminished with the arrival of the wind and conditions on deck were much improved. On the oar-deck, however, the fever was spreading gradually and the slave-master had been forced to abandon the lowest level of thirty oars on each side, operated by single slaves, leaving just the middle and top rows working, both operated by pairs of slaves. The resulting loss of speed irked Rhaskos, who kept up a constant stream of entreaties to his various gods.
Keeping a mile or so out to sea, the ship slid past the bay of Marathon and on down the Attic coast. After two days they crossed the Saronic Gulf to the Peloponnese, weaving through the numerous trading vessels making their way to and from the port of Piraeus in one of the busiest shipping lanes in the world.
Early in the morning on the fifth day they approached the strait between the southern tip of the Peloponnese and the island of Cythera. Vespasian and Magnus were leaning on the bow-rail watching the dry coastline pass by, so clear through the pure air that, even at a distance, individual trees could be picked out on its hills. Sabinus joined them, looking pale and none too steady on his feet although he had not been sick for a couple of days now.
‘We’ll be making the crossing to Italia soon,’ Vespasian said, idly turning his attention to a couple of distant trading ships some three miles ahead. ‘What happens when we get to Ostia?’
‘We’ve got to get the priest to Antonia,’ Sabinus replied weakly, leaning against the rail, ‘and then we wait.’
‘For what?’ Magnus asked.
‘For Macro to tell us how and when to get Rhoteces to Capreae.’
Magnus looked alarmed. ‘Hold on a moment, there’re two things in that sentence that I don’t like the sound of: Macro and Capreae. Why’s this the first that I’ve heard mention of them?’
‘Yes, Sabinus,’ Vespasian said, equally as alarmed, ‘why haven’t you told me about Macro’s involvement before?’
‘Oh, so he’s told you about taking Rhoteces to Capreae then, but you just didn’t bother to mention it to me, did you?’ Magnus sounded aggrieved.
‘That’s because you don’t have to come.’
‘Are you going?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well then, so am I. And what’s Macro got to do with this?’
‘Antonia’s using him as our route to Tiberius,’ Sabinus replied. ‘In return she’ll commend his loyalty to the Emperor and recommend that he uses him to replace Sejanus. It’s an alliance of convenience.’
‘Well, it don’t sound too convenient to me,’ Magnus grumbled. ‘The last time we saw Macro he was trying to prevent us getting out of Rome; I tried to take his head off and he left a dagger in Vespasian’s leg.’
‘Magnus is right, Sabinus; and he would have got a good look at us both.’
‘Yes, and I don’t suppose he’ll be too pleased when he gets a good look at the two of us again, if you take my meaning.’
‘Well, I doubt that Antonia’s going to change her plans just because you’ve had a difference of opinion with Macro,’ Sabinus said dismissively. ‘Anyway, he’s working with us now so I’m sure that he’ll be happy to put the past behind him — if you ask him nicely and give him his dagger back, that is,’ he added with a thin smile.
‘Very funny, Sabinus,’ Vespasian snapped, ‘but I don’t intend to get that close to him.’
‘You might not have a choice,’ Magnus said darkly and stomped off to the other end of the ship to where Sitalces was sitting with Artebudz and Drenis under the awning.
Vespasian swallowed hard; he did not fancy coming face to face with Macro but it seemed that it was going to be unavoidable. Contemplating the problem, he turned his attention back to the two distant ships and watched with interest how they were forced to tack with the wind, zigzagging to negotiate the narrow strait between the island and mainland. Even at its reduced speed the quinquereme was slowly overhauling them as it made the passage on a straight course, under oars.
‘Do you have any more surprises in store for me, Sabinus?’ Vespasian asked after a while. ‘It would be nice to know now whilst there’s still time to think about them.’