Hope of Earth

by Piers Anthony

  “It did seem good. But the oarsmen are experienced. I assumed—”

  “Did you find out his marital status?”

  “No. I hardly talked to him.”

  “Well, I did. He is single. His wife died in the plague. I think this tour with the ship is a relief for him, because he doesn’t have to face his empty home. I want an introduction.”

  “I will try,” Jes said.

  The next day was more practice. This was mostly, Jes suspected, to build the oarsmen up so they could row all day, and sustain speed in battle conditions. Today, too, the full crew was aboard, including the ten hoplites and four archers. The hoplites were ranged along the gangway, sitting on anchored stools, staying very still, because any movement could disturb the equilibrium of the craft and interfere with the efficiency of the oars. They were there to defend the ship from enemy boarding, and to fight on land when the ship was beached, but Jes suspected that they had a secondary purpose: to maintain discipline among the oarsmen. If any oarsman seemed inclined to protest anything, a sharp glance by a hoplite served to quell the notion. The four archers were grouped at the stern around the trierarch and helmsman, and would be bodyguards for them during combat. The seamen were completely idle while the ship was being rowed, but when the lunch break came, they sprang to their positions at bow and stern, hauling on the lines that anchored the foresail and mainsail. It was clear that a good wind could take the ship any distance, but for battle that was not feasible, because the ship needed to move rapidly in any direction.

  “Ho!” an oarsman cried during the afternoon session.

  The nearest hoplite scowled in his direction. “What?”

  “There’s a leak on my foot.”

  The hoplite caught the eye of the helmsman. “Leak,” he called, pointing.

  The helmsman signaled the boatswain, who signaled Jes: glide to a halt. She slowed her beat until the boatswain gave her the complete Halt signal. The oars lifted from the water, and the ship drifted.

  Now the shipwright appeared from belowdecks and made his way to the indicated spot. Sure enough, a jet of water was coming in. The commander of the hoplites grimaced steadily in Jes’s direction, as if blaming her for this mishap. Why did he hate her so? But the shipwright quickly pegged and tarred the leak, and bailed out a few buckets of bilge-water. The ship was reasonably tight again.

  At the end of the day, Jes dallied after the men had been paid, nerving herself for what she had to do. Captain Ittai spied her. “You have a problem, piper?”

  “No, sir.” She took a breath. “May I speak candidly, sir.” It was a request, not a question.

  “You may.”

  “My attractive sister would like to meet you.”

  He laughed. “Now why would you have to speak for her?”

  “She asked me to. She is seeking—”

  “Clear enough. But at the moment I am not looking for female company.”

  “I will tell her, sir.” Jes turned away, embarrassed.

  “Hold, piper.” She turned back. “Are you comfortable with this?”

  “I would rather never to have brought it up,” she said, striving not to blush. “I apologize.”

  “So I thought. But you had to do what you were told to do. It occurs to me that I was perhaps hasty. My wife is never going to return, and my nights are lonely. Take me to your sister.”

  Jes tried to control her surprise. “As you wish, sir.”

  “About the hoplite, commander,” he said. “His name is Kettle, the son of Pot, a repatriated slave. He is not the brightest of men, but he makes up for it by the ferocity of his combat and his loyalty to those he respects. The prior pipeman, taken by the plague, was his friend. He resents any replacement.”

  Oh. That explained that aspect. “I will try to do well enough to please him, in time.”

  “Only your abject failure would please him. But he is a good man, and dedicated to the welfare of the ship. He knows there must be a pipeman. You need have no fear of him.”

  “What about away from the ship?” she asked nervously.

  He shook his head. “Then stay away from him. He will not come after you, but it would not be wise to provoke him.”

  They walked to the hall where Wona served. “She works here,” Jes explained. “I can tell her—”

  “No. I am hungry anyway. We shall eat.”

  “Sir?”

  “You and me and your sister.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jes agreed faintly. She was not at all comfortable with this developing situation. For one thing, she really liked her position as piper, and didn’t want to risk forfeiting it because of some social complication. The trierarch was clearly accustomed to being obeyed by those he encountered, and Wona did not necessarily respond well to such imperatives. Sparks could fly—and Jes could be caught in the middle.

  They took a table. Wona soon came over. She gave no sign that she knew Jes. “Your best wine and bread, for three,” Captain Ittai said, proffering a silver coin.

  Wona flashed a smile at him. “Immediately.”

  “You will join us.”

  “Oh, I am not allowed to—”

  “This is Captain Ittai,” Jes said quickly.

  Wona, startled, nodded. She must have mistaken him for a lesser officer, not expecting so high a personage to walk right into her hands. She would get permission from the proprietor, who surely did not have many trierarchs as patrons.

  “She is attractive,” Ittai agreed, watching the swing of Wona’s hips as she departed.

  Jes felt awkward. “There is no need for me to remain—”

  “Stay. I have not been with a woman in some time. I am not adept at trifling dialogue. When it lags, you provide it.”

  Worse yet. “Yes, sir.” Her tension did not ease.

  Wona returned with an excellent meal. “I thank you, captain,” she said, flashing him a smile as she took the third seat. “I have wanted to meet you.”

  “So your brother informed me.”

  Things progressed rapidly, as Wona utilized her considerable array of charms. Jes did not need to attempt to fill in dialogue; Wona kept it going without seeming difficulty. When the good meal was done, the captain invited Wona to spend the evening at his residence, and she accepted. They departed together, leaving Jes to finish off what remained of the bread, which she was glad to do. It was good to eat really well, for once.

  So it had been a success, after all. Wona had finally found a suitable man, and she would make sure he did not escape. But Jes’s feelings were mixed. Because while she was glad to see the near end of her long mission, she was not easy about inflicting a woman like Wona on the captain, who seemed to be a decent man. Yet maybe it would be all right, because Ittai had the wealth to afford a woman like that, and would not expect her to do manual labor. If she had children by him, there would be servants to care for them. Wona was a bad deal only for a poor man. In any event, the trierarch was surely capable of making up his own mind.

  She consumed the last crumb, pleasantly full for the first time in several days, and went back to the apartment. She still had most of Crockson’s largess remaining in her hidden purse-bag, but she was hoarding that for a time of real need. She was existing for the moment mostly on scraps Wona brought back from the inn.

  She lay on her pallet and slept. Her sleep was undisturbed; Wona did not return to the apartment in the night.

  The next day the activity on the ship was normal. They continued to practice maneuvers, becoming ever faster and sharper. The helmsman nodded with satisfaction as the ship became a finely functioning unit.

  At the end of the day, the trierarch approached Jes. “It was a good introduction.” He turned away.

  Later, back at the apartment, Wona echoed the sentiment. “I believe he is the one. He is wealthy, mannered, undemanding, and in a few months his term of service will end and he will retire to a rich estate. What more could a woman want?”

  “Love?” Jes asked.

  Wona lau
ghed. “Maybe eventually. A man has to earn my love.”

  “How does he do that?”

  “By treating me the way I like, for several years. It is not smart to sell love cheaply.”

  Jes didn’t argue, but she winced internally. She would have liked to have love on any terms, and wealth hardly mattered. Captain Ittai was a good man, and Wona was using him. It didn’t seem fair. But it was not her place to object. She had, after all, introduced them.

  She thought of Sam, who had been similarly used. Did Ittai have a sister? A little brother? Would they suffer?

  She put such thoughts from her mind and focused on the training at the ship. She liked being its pipeman, and she liked being part of a smoothly functioning crew. The men treated her courteously despite considering her a stripling, because she was doing the job well. They accepted her, and that was worth a great deal. When they participated in coordinated maneuvers with the other ships of the fleet, their ship often was assigned the lead position, and she knew that was because it was among the fastest and surest. And that was because the oarsmen were responding well to her piping.

  She didn’t even mind spending many nights alone. She had lost her earlier dislike of Wona, after the woman cared for her well during the plague, and they had taught each other some worthwhile things, but the memories of Sam and Ned remained. She could survive quite well without the woman’s company.

  “He is a real catch,” Wona remarked on one of the nights she was home.

  “He is a good man,” Jes said.

  “That, too.” Wona glanced at her. “He likes your piping:”

  Jes nodded. At least it seemed that her job was not in peril. But she remained uneasy about the relationship of the two. Wona could bring such grief to a good man.

  “Something’s up,” Wona said another evening. “There is going to be a battle. The gossip is rife.”

  Jes discovered that the fear she had expected to feel at such news was lacking. “We have a good ship, a good crew, and a good fleet. We are ready for battle.”

  “They have fifty ships.”

  Jes stared at her. “Fifty?” There were only twenty ships in Phormio’s fleet.

  “From Corinth, stroking this way. Most are troopships. They are going to Acarnania.”

  Troopships. That was better. They would be heavily laden, and sluggish in the water. No match for the Athenian vessels in speed or maneuverability. But if contact was made between the ships, those troops would overrun the scant troops on the Athenian side. This was dangerous.

  The next day Captain Ittai assembled the crew and confirmed the news. “The Corinthians are attempting to sneak past our blockade of the gulf,” he announced. “They have forty-two troopships and five fast ships. We have to stop them. We shall do so.”

  “Yes!” the members of the crew agreed. But their enthusiasm was tempered by realism. They were overmatched, and this was likely to be a grueling campaign, with substantial losses.

  They set out eastward, toward the mouth of the gulf. The masts of the enemy fleet were visible by the southern shore. The enemy was proceeding in plain sight by daylight, seemingly contemptuous of the lesser Athenian fleet: They knew that if Phormio tried to engage them near the south shore, the maneuverability of his fleet would be limited, and any ships that were disabled would be subject to attack by Spartan forces on that shore. Only in the open sea, far from land, could the Athenians make their superiority in fast ships count. The Corinthians were not giving them that chance.

  All day they paced the slow enemy fleet, staying north, but not engaging. In the afternoon the Corinthians passed the narrowest section, alert for attack, but Phormio did not attack. Was he letting them get away?

  By nightfall the Corinthians landed at their harbor at Patrai, where it was not possible to attack them. The Athenian fleet landed on the north shore and bivouacked. This would have been a problem for Jes, because she could not urinate in the bushes in the way of a man. But it was dusk, and she was able to lose herself in the shadows for the necessary time.

  Supplies arrived from Naupactus: food, bedding, even a hardy corps of prostitutes. Jes was relieved to see that Wona was not among them. This was too much like a final fling before execution.

  They ate well, and sang some rousing songs. But Jes knew that it would take more than such encouragement to prevail on the morrow, when they would have to fight—or suffer the shame of letting the Corinthians have their way.

  Jes had learned, from the attitude of the crewmen and the gossip Wona culled, that Phormio was considered to be the smartest admiral Athens had. The ships of Athens were generally conceded to be the fastest and best-managed in Greece. But there were limits. Twenty against forty-seven? Expertise could not make up for lack of power. The Corinthian admiral was surely no fool. If he maintained a tight formation, how could anyone stop it from going where it wished? The main Athenian technique was ramming; when a ship jammed into another ship from the side, the ram would puncture and disable it. But if one Athenian rammed one Corinthian ship, the men of a second Corinthian ship would grapple, board, and destroy the Athenian ship before it could pull free of the wreckage. So even with a perfect score, they could take out only twenty enemy ships—while losing all of their own.

  It was time to sleep. Jes headed with her blanket for a suitable spot, then spied Kettle, the hoplite commander, there, and quickly changed course. But he saw her, and sneered before turning disdainfully away.

  It was one gesture too many. Jes was tired and her temper was worn. So she did something foolish. She changed course again, and went to lay her blanket down near the man.

  He stared darkly at her. She stared back. “Have you something to say, Hoplite Kettle?” she inquired.

  He reached for his spear. But before his hand could grasp it, she had her knife out and cocked, ready to throw.

  His jaw dropped. “You threaten me, stripling?”

  “I merely suggest that I intend to sleep in peace, sir.” He was not in her chain of command, but he was an officer, so she gave him that token courtesy of recognition.

  Kettle lifted the spear. He was sitting on the ground, but could throw it hard and accurately from that position.

  She refused, again, to be intimidated, though she was distinctly nervous. She had to make her stand now, or forever be wary of him. “If you will hold up your shield, sir, I will show you my aim.”

  He made a sound of contempt, and lifted his shield part way.

  She hurled the knife into its center, hard.

  Kettle looked. It was clear that she could as readily have put the knife into his face. She had given fair warning that she was not to be held in contempt. He laughed and jerked it out, flipping it back to her hilt-first. “Sleep in peace, pipe-man.” He lay down and closed his eyes, not at all concerned.

  It was a small and dangerous victory, but perhaps she had won a modicum of respect. At least he had addressed her by her title.

  The trierarch was going among the men of his crew as they settled for the night, talking briefly with each before moving on. He came to Jes. “Bed down now,” he said. “We may be roused early, and must be ready.”

  “Yes sir,” she agreed uncomfortably.

  “You have doubts?”

  “I fear for our success.”

  He squatted beside her. “Jes, do you question my competence?”

  “Oh, no sir! I didn’t mean—”

  “At ease; the question is rhetorical. Of course I am competent in my position, as you are in yours. I will perform well tomorrow, and so will you. Admiral Phormio is not merely competent; he is a genius as a strategist. If it is possible to destroy the enemy fleet, he will enable us to do it.”

  “But is it possible, sir?”

  “Not only possible but probable. We are bound to take some losses, but theirs will be far heavier. Have faith in that.”

  “I will try, sir.”

  He leaned close. “Jes, I know the admiral’s strategy. It is brilliant and feasible. All
we need is discipline and performance in our crews. I have faith in both the strategy and the crews. I ask you to accept my word: we have victory within our means. Do you accept that?”

  Somehow she had to believe. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “Welcome.” He tousled her short hair and stood. He glanced at Kettle. “Good to see you guarding my piper, commander. I will stand in great need of both of you, tomorrow.”

  The hoplite nodded noncommittally.

  And now Jes did believe. The situation made no more sense than before, but Captain Ittai had made her confident that their fleet had the advantage. Somehow his confidence and his touch of camaraderie had transferred his faith to her. He had transformed her fear into assurance.

  She knew that he was doing the same for every other crewman. Intellectually she remained in doubt about the outcome of the coming engagement, but she no longer feared it, and she was now quite sure of the leadership of their ship. Captain Ittai was quite a man.

  One thing still bothered her, though. Her brother Sam was quite a man too—and Wona had made a fool of him. How great was Jes’s guilt for bringing Wona to the trierarch?

  So even if the Athenian fleet was completely victorious, with no losses, what mischief lay ahead?

  A hand tapped her shoulder. “Pipeman.” It was Kettle, but this time he didn’t sound angry. He could have dropped a clod of dirt on her face, by “accident,” but hadn’t; he had his own honor. If he ever attacked her, it would be with the same fair warning she had given him. “Up, pipeman. Clear your bladder and go immediately to your-post.”

  It was still dark. She did as directed. All around her she heard others doing the same.

  The helmsman checked the roster. The ship slid into the water. Other ships were moving similarly. “Faint pipe,” the helmsman said. Jes played just loud enough to be heard in the hush. She knew her music was vital, because the oarsmen could not see the boatswain in the darkness. Neither could she, but the helmsman was directing his orders to her. As dawn came, the full fleet was rowing almost silently out to sea.