Harry Turtledove - The Sacred Land

“I don’t know.” Sostratos plucked at his beard. “Finding out would be interesting, though.”

Once past the potter’s, they turned a corner and saw blue water ahead. “There’s the gods-cursed harbor,” Menedemos said. He threw his arms wide. “Thalassa! Thalassa!” he called, and burst out laughing.

Sostratos laughed, too. “You didn’t march through all of Asia to find the sea, the way Xenophon ’s men did.”

“No, but I came through all of Patara-through some of it two or three times, too-and that seems even farther,” Menedemos retorted. “And I tell you something else, too: after I go back with some men to get the hams and pay off that Lykian, I’ll be just about as glad to get on the sea again as Xenophon’s men were. Have you ever found a place that’s harder to get around in than this?”

“Not lately,” Sostratos said. “I hope some of the other Lykian towns will be better.”

“They could hardly be worse,” Menedemos said.

“OцP!” Diokles called, and the Aphrodite ’s rowers rested at their oars. The keleustes went on, “Bring ‘em inboard, boys. We’re running nicely before the wind.”

The rowers did ship their oars and stow them. As the oarmaster had said, a brisk wind from out of the north filled the merchant galley’s sails. The Aphrodite sped southward, bounding over the waves as nimbly as a dolphin.

“No sailing better than this,” Menedemos said. Before long, he would swing the akatos east to follow the Lykian coastline. For now, though, he just stood at the steering oars and let her run.

Even Sostratos dipped his head. He was getting his sea legs faster this year than he had on the ship’s last couple of trading runs; its pitching didn’t seem to bother him at all. He said, “A pirate ship would have trouble catching us today.”

“Don’t count on it,” Menedemos said. “They sail at least as fast as we do, and when they sprint with all their rowers going flat out there’s nothing in anybody’s navy can keep up with ‘em.”

The wind continued to rise. It thrummed in the merchant galley’s rigging. The akatos’ creamy white wake streamed out behind it. Menedemos turned to look back over his shoulder, trying to gauge just how fast they were going.

“Skipper, I think maybe you ought to-” Diokles began.

“Take in some canvas?” Menedemos finished, and the oarmaster dipped his head. Menedemos raised his voice to tall out to the sailors; “Come on, boys-brail it up a couple of squares’ worth. We don’t want anything to tear loose.”

Strengthening lines crossed the sail horizontally. The brails ran vertically, giving it a pattern of squares. Hauling on the brails, the sailors could, if they chose, shorten part of the sail and leave the rest fully lowered from the yard, so as to take best advantage of the wind. Now, with that wind blowing out of the north, at their backs, they shortened the whole sail evenly.

“That’s better,” Menedemos said, but it still wasn’t good enough to suit him. He ordered the yard lowered on the mast. Again, that helped. Again, it didn’t seem quite enough.

Quietly, Diokles said, “Don’t mean to bother you, skipper, but-” He pointed toward the north.

Menedemos looked back over his shoulder again. “Oh, a pestilence,” he said, also quietly. “Well, that spills the perfume into the soup, doesn’t it?” The line of dark, angry clouds hadn’t come over the horizon the last time he’d looked. They swelled rapidly. No matter how fast the Aphrodite was going, they outpaced her with ease.

“Squall,” Sostratos said.

Menedemos started to spit into the bosom of his tunic to turn aside the omen, but didn’t bother completing the gesture. Sostratos hadn’t really made a prediction. He’d simply stated a fact.

“Brail up the sail the rest of the way,” Menedemos ordered, and the men leaped to obey. He had to call louder than he had only a few minutes before: the wind was rising fast and starting to howl. “Rowers to the oars,” he added, and swung one steering-oar tiller in and the other away from him. “I’m going to put her into the wind. A storm like this one usually blows out as fast as it blows up. We can get through it quicker heading into It than running away.”

Oars bit into the sea. The Aphrodite ’s steady pitching motion changed to a roll as she turned and presented her flank to the waves. Sostratos gulped and turned green as a leek; he didn’t like that so well. The rowers handled it with untroubled aplomb. In one ship or another, they’d done such things before.

Diokles began calling out the stroke as well as using his bronze square and little mallet. “Rhyppa pai! ” he boomed. “ Rhyppa pai! Steady boys. You can do it. “Rhyppa pai! ”

Pushed on by the wind blowing the squall line toward the ship, the waves got bigger. They crashed against the Aphrodite ’s ram, throwing up plumes of spray. As the akatos turned into the wind, she began pitching again, but harder; Menedemos felt as if he were aboard a half-broken horse that was doing Its best to throw him off.

The ship groaned as she rode up over one of those waves. Being long and lean helped her slide swiftly across the sea. But, in a storm like this, it left her vulnerable. In heavy waves, part of her was supported by nothing but air for long heartbeats, till she rode down into the next trough. If she broke her back, everyone aboard would drown in short order.

One of those waves threw water into her bow. Everyone aboard her might drown even if she held together.

“Here comes the squall!” Sostratos shouted, as if Menedemos couldn’t see that only too well for himself.

Black, roiling clouds blotted out blue sky overhead. The sun vanished. Rain poured down in buckets. Zeus hurled a thunderbolt, not far away. The noise, even through the pounding of the rain and the wind’s shrill, furious shriek, seemed like the end of the world. If one of those thunderbolts struck the Aphrodite, that would take her down to the bottom of Poseidon’s watery realm, too, and all the men aboard her down to the house of Hades.

Howling like a bloodthirsty wild beast, the wind tore at Menedemos. He clung to the steering-oar tillers with all his strength, to keep from being picked up and flung into the Aegean. The steering oars fought in his hands, the ferocious sea giving them a life of their own.

A stay parted with a twang like that of an enormous lyre string. The mast sagged. If another stay went, the mast would likely go with it. In its fall, it might capsize the merchant galley. “Fix that line!” Menedemos screamed. He didn’t think the sailors could hear him. He could hardly hear himself. But they knew what needed doing without being told. They rushed to seize the flapping stay, to bind it to another line, and to secure it to a belaying pin. More men stood by with hatchets, ready to try to chop the mast and yard free if they did come down.

And then, as suddenly as the squall line had engulfed the Aphrodite , it was past. The wind eased. The rain slackened, then stopped. The sea remained high, but the waves became less furious without that gale to drive them, A few minutes later, as the clouds roared off toward the south, the sun came out again.

Water dripped from Sostratos’ beard. It was dripping from the end of Menedemos’ nose, too, and from the point of his chin. Now he wiped his face with his forearm; he’d seen no point in bothering before.

“Just another day,” Sostratos remarked, just as if that were true.

Menedemos tried on a grin. It felt good. Being alive felt good. Knowing he’d probably stay alive a while longer felt best of all. He dipped his head, admiring his cousin’s coolness and doing his best to match it. “Yes,” he said. “Just another day.”