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full, enough for two or three hours running. He opened
the valve at its bottom and waited to see if anything
around the engine started dripping. So far so good.
The lifter bar was up. Better leave it that way until
the engine was spinning. What shape were the bat-
teries in? Would it start?
He looked about the tiny compartment and breathed
a silent prayer of thanks. The can of starting ether was
still there, one of the few things the Romans hadn't
pilfered. Nothing was dripping so he decided to leave
all valves open. Was everything right now? Water valve
open, exhaust gate valve open, lifter bar up . . . The
engine should roar into life as soon as he switched in
the starting batteries and dropped the lifter. Forgetting
anything?
Holy hell! Abruptly, he realized what was wrong.
They would have made good their escape this morning
if line hadn't fouled the screw. No wonder the galley
hadn't been able to tow the Alice! How many hundred
feet of line draped in tangled festoons from the yawl's
screw?
A tuba blatted and he felt the Alice lose way. Moments
later they tied to the pinnacle and the Alice was warped
up alongside. The korax was lowered to her deck again
and a working party started transferring the loot back.
Joe spent the next couple of hours frantically sorting
and directing packers to deposit things somewhere near
their proper place. It would take weeks to get things
where they belonged. He suspected the Romans were
holding out everything small enough to hide.
Eventually the double column ceased flowing back
and forth across the korax. Joe snatched a mattress and
a couple of blankets and stuffed them into his cubicle.
He was thinking guiltily about the Alice's men still
chained to oars.
Morning came and his problems were still there.
Nautae munched round loaves of bread. "Where's mine?"
Joe asked. They started to give him the stupid treat-
ment again but something about the young man's stance
made the mangle-nosed one reconsider. He produced
Joe's loaf from the folds of his himation. Joe wolfed
down his bun much harder than he'd expected and
wondered if one was all the others had eaten. Probably.
Roman efficiency would make a galley slave's breakfast
indivisible and as small as the difference between life
and death.
He had to do something soon or he would be back
pulling an oar without another chance. No use teaching
Romans the fine points of sailing into the wind. The
Roman captain expected a miracle that could be ac-
complished only with the diesel. He turned abruptly
to the nautae and stopped. He wanted to ask if there
was a diver among them but couldn't remember the
Greek. Come to think of it, he didn't remember the
word in Latin either. "Scitisne nature?" he finally asked.
They looked Greek and Greeks used to skindive for
sponges. The man whose nose he'd flattened seemed
to be some kind of a leader. "You," Joe said. "Down to
the bottom and bring me a rock."
He was given the stupid act again. It worried Joe.
Maybe they really didn't understand Latin. But sweet
reasonableness was not characteristic to commanders
of this period. Joe pushed the man overboard.
The nauta hit the water with arms and legs going like
windmills. A second later he came up gasping. "Swim,
damn it!" Joe growled. The nauta was putting on a
good act. He choked and swallowed water before go-
ing down again. Several seconds passed this time before
his head broke water and the Greek's pasty complexion
finally convinced Joe. Disgustedly, Joe tossed a line.
The Greek was too far gone to grab it.
"Everything happens to me," he growled, and jumped
in. A moment later he had the line secured around the
unconscious nauta and those aboard dropped their stu-
pid act long enough to pull them in.
It took several minutes of Holger-Nielsen pumping
before the Greek finally coughed and vomited a half
gallon of water along with his breakfast. "Go back
aboard the galley," Joe said when the Greek sat up.
"Stay there and tell the skipper to send me a " Damn
it, what was the word for diver? " someone who
hunted sponge." The nauta nodded sickly and vomited
once more before crossing the korax.
Joe waited but there was no sign of a replacement
for the waterlogged nauta. "Damn them all," he grunted
and went to sorting the Alice's stores. Somewhere there
had been a diving outfit. The air tanks were long since
empty but with the faceplate Joe might be able to
hack away a few strands of nylon between breaths.
But where was the faceplate?
He found the tanks and regulator buried in a pile
of gear dumped in the Alice's cockpit, but the face
mask was still gone.
The more Joe thought about it the madder he got.
He swung himself onto the korax and marched across,
down the catwalk and aft to the quinquereme's poop-
deck. "Where's the magister of this bucket?" he roared.
The oarmaster appeared and rasped something in
Greek. Joe stiffened his arms to keep from killing the
man who'd whipped him. "I defecate on your meta-
physical tongue," he said. "Can't you speak Latin?"
"Somewhat better than you," the oarmaster said sharp-
ly. "And what's the idea of using up my men? You
think they're cheap?"
The Roman captain erupted from the stem castle.
"I'll castrate the next man who awakens me!" he prom-
ised, then caught sight of Joe.
"Why doesn't a Roman keep his word?" Joe grated.
"And what do you mean by that?"
"I mean everything small enough to hide is hidden.
If you want that ship to run, give it back!"
"What specifically do you want?"
"Everything. At the moment I'm looking for a face-
plate."
"A what?"
Joe tried to describe it. The Latin for glass didn't
mean the kind you could see through. What had they
called mica? Lapis specularis! "If I don't get it your
thieving thugs have stolen a ship from you."
The Roman captain sighed. The marines were Ro-
mans; if he couldn't keep them in hand he might as
well open an artery. "Fall in!" he trumpeted.
Seconds later he scowled at them. "One article of
loot is missing. You will fall out and return with full
packs. You will march single file around the capstan.
If this barbarian does not find the article he needs you
will all swim home. DisMISS!" the Roman spun sharp-
ly, still at attention. "And you," he said to Joe, "will
wait aboard the prize."
To his own infinite surprise, Joe saluted. He turned
bemusedly and ambled forward along the catwalk. Gor-
son was awake now. Joe caught his eyes but the chained
chief's look was expressionless. Where were the women?
The sun was nearing noon before a work party
clumped across the korax and deposited a small pile of
odds and ends in the cockpit. The faceplate was there.
His watch was not. So be it, he decided a life for each
jewel, a hundred for the hairspring. He turned to the
nautae who watched. "Give me a knife."
The stupid act again.
"God damn you all! He rummaged through the pile
again, and found one of Cookie's boning knives. Some-
one had apparently been trying to cut wire rope with
it. Where in hell was the stone? Twenty minutes passed
before he found it and another twenty in honing. He
stripped, tied the knife to his wrist, and donned the
faceplate.
The water was warmer than usual, and oddly murky.
Tiny bubbles rose from the bottom. He remembered
Dr. Krom and his test tubes. Was the old man still alive?
He pawed his way downward and was shocked to feel
barnacles. When had the Alice been hauled out last?
The water was ungodly murky. He could scarcely see
his hand before the faceplate. He swam under her keel
and swore, blurping a gob of water inside his faceplate
as another barnacle snagged his back. He came up on
the far side and breathed. No wonder he couldn't see; [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]