“Fool, pouring his oil into the sea so I can’t have it… making a foul mess of my ship. Why would I want his silly oil anyway? He must know I have my own. He must realize I don’t need his stupid oil. He must…”
Lempithius cut himself off in mid-sentence, the reality of his own words finally registering in his mind.
“No!” he yelled out at the top of his lungs. “I am the great Lempithius. You cannot do this to me.”
--- --- --- ---
“Shoot!” Sophocles ordered loudly. “Shoot now!”
The six archers release their flaming arrows into the sky. For a moment, all stood motionless and watched the streaming arc of the arrows as they converged on their target. The tiny flames had reached their apex and were now descending. Sophocles could feel his heart pounding through his toga. The intensity of his focus caused his eyes to sear, and he blinked hard to clear the pain.
The first two arrows missed their mark, immediately extinguished as they plunged into the sea. A second later, three more missed their targets, suffering the same fate as the first two. The sixth arrow caught an air current and streamed long. Flying over the barrels, it flew headlong into Lempithius’ men. Instantly, screams erupted as it pierced one man and embedded in another.
While the arrows were still in flight, Sophocles ordered the archers to continue their barrage. Two more sets of arrows were underway. With the first round of arrows used to gage distance, the second and third rounds were now far more accurate. Sophocles watched as two arrows struck one barrel floating just in front of Lempithius’ ship.
The leaking oil instantly burst into flames. Quickly, the fire streamed to its source: the contents inside the barrel. Instantly, the barrel exploded, sending volumes of burning oil up and over the top of Lempithius’ ship, coming to rest on the crew. Screams of agony could be heard as the searing oil stripped flesh from the crew’s body.
Like a repeat of the first, two more barrels floating close by exploded into balls of fiery liquid, spraying the sides and decking of Lempithius’ ship. With the third volley of arrows came more explosions. Lempithius’ ship was now fully engulfed in flames and Sophocles watched as its errant leader stood at the bow of his boat, on fire, as he leapt to his death.
A loud cheer roared from the crew of Sophocles’ ship. For the moment, they had beaten their foe and were free to escape. With great pride and gratitude, the crew let out a loud salute to their leader.
“Viva Sophocles!”
SIX WEEKS LATER:
Sophocles stood in a weakened state, leaning against his tiller for support. Weeks had passed since they had narrowly escaped the battle with Lempithius. Except for a few fish they had been lucky enough to catch and some rain water they had managed to collect during an occasional storm, Sophocles and his crew had almost nothing to eat or drink in weeks. Some had died; others were dying. The oarsman could no longer row and the remaining crew could no longer maintain the ship. Most found a spot, lay down, and waited to die.
Sailing across the Atlantic, Sophocles had called upon every bit of knowledge he had learned since he began sailing more than forty years before. He was in uncharted waters. No man had ever sailed this deep into the Atlantic and survived. Navigating by stars, wind and waves, he had kept a westerly course and was certain at some point, they would find land. But day after day, the endless seascape stretched out before them, unrelenting and featureless.
Sophocles closed his eyes involuntarily. His mind ceased to function long before his eyes shut. Propped up against the tiller, his body swayed with the rocking of the boat. As time passed, the soft gentle breezes that had lulled him to sleep, picked up in intensity, causing the waves to build.
Suddenly, a large wave rocked the boat and Sophocles tumbled across the deck, waking up several feet away. He rolled onto his knees, grasped the side of the boat, and pulled himself to a standing position.
Working his way back to the tiller, Sophocles scanned the horizon behind his ship. At first, his mind refused to register the event, but instinct and self-preservation worked its way into his conscious thinking. Another storm was developing, this one ever more ominous and menacing than anything he had witnessed before.
Sophocles’ tongue had swollen from dehydration, making speech a laborious and painful task, but he overcame his condition and called to his first officer.
“Zotikos… Zotikos, wake up. We’re in trouble,” he called to his first officer several feet away.
He waited momentarily, took a deep breath and called out in a louder tone.
“Zotikos… you must wake up. We’re in great danger.”
Barely conscious, Zotikos sat up and tried to steady himself with his hands on the deck.
“Yes, sir,” Zotikos answered, his voice barely audible.
“Zotikos my friend, look behind us. We are in great danger,” Sophocles replied.
Zotikos’ eyes snapped open. In all his years sailing under Sophocles, he had never referred to Zotikos as his friend. The simple statement brought a sense of warmth and contentment at a time he felt the most despair. Zotikos smiled at his captain and slowly stood.
Pointing out behind the ship, Sophocles gestured to the advancing storm.
“Zotikos, I fear this will be the end,” Sophocles began.
Zotikos scanned the horizon. His body was swept with dread at the sight of the approaching storm.
“Zotikos, I’m not afraid to die… you know that,” Sophocles began. “But, I am afraid to pass on without righting an injustice. You have sailed with me since you were a boy. You have been as loyal, brave, and intelligent as any man I have ever met. It has been a privilege to have sailed with you. I’d be honored to know you as my friend.”
Zotikos stood stunned for a moment. Never had he heard Sophocles speak of anyone with such emotion. He felt the honor and gratitude of a lifetime of friendship.
“Thank you, sir, you have been like a father to me. If I am to die, it would be an honor to die with you,” Zotikos replied.
The two stood for a moment and acknowledged each other, not for their rank, but as good friends.
“So what do we do now, sir?” Zotikos asked.
“We can’t outrun it. The best we can do is steer through the waves and hold on,” Sophocles replied.
Zotikos shuffled along the edge of the boat, and stood next to his captain.
“I could surely use a taste of wine,” Zotikos said, matter-of-factly.
“Hmm, yes, Egyptian wine,” Sophocles replied.
Zotikos turned and smiled at Sophocles, amused by his answer.
“What?” Sophocles said rhetorically, adding, “They’re good for something, I guess.”
Zotikos smiled again, then turned his attention to the horizon out in front of them.
“Sailing from one and into another,” Zotikos said out loud to no one in particular.
Sophocles thought about Zotikos’ statement. In his weakened and confused state, he couldn’t figure out the meaning of it.
Finally, he asked, “What do you mean by ‘into another’?”
“Another storm, sir… one behind us and the other straight ahead. Maybe we should try to steer around it,” Zotikos replied.
Sophocles looked out on the horizon. He squinted hard, wiped his eyes, and squinted again. A small smile crossed his face.
“Great sons of Zeus! That’s no storm, my boy. That’s land!” Sophocles blurted out, his voice becoming strong and clear.
Zotikos stared for a moment then said, matter-of-factly, “I do believe you’re right. So close, yet so far away.”
“Don’t give up just yet, Zotikos. We’re not dead yet. Rouse the men. There’s no time to lose. Assemble them here immediately,” Sophocles ordered.
“Yes, sir,” Zotikos replied.
Within minutes, the crew assembled on deck and listened to their captain’s instructions. With little time to spare, he made his order short.
“Gentlemen. Out there in front of us is life. Behind us is dea
th. We are descendants of the mighty Zeus and were born to greatness. On that piece of land there on the horizon, we will carry on our line. We will thrive and rebuild our great nation once more. But, before we can rebuild, I need all your strength. You can do it… one last effort. Do you want to live or do you want to die?” Sophocles bellowed.
In one loud unanimous roar, the crew shouted, “Live!”
As the crew made their way to their rower’s stations, Sophocles called out to Zotikos.
“Zotikos, a word, sir,” Sophocles asked.
“Yes sir.”
“Inscribe one last entry, then stow it with the crystal key in my quarters,” Sophocles ordered.
“If we sink, will it matter?” Zotikos asked.
“It is the only record of our existence. Someone will find it,” Sophocles replied confidently.
With a quick nod of acknowledgement, Zotikos turned to perform his duties.
----- ----- ----- -----
Deep in the hold of the ship, the oarsmen strained against starvation, dehydration, and fatigue. Seated on benches that held two oarsmen per oar, they rowed to the cadence of the striker who drummed the speed of rowing with each blow of his mallet. They worked in perfect unison and propelled the ship to a blistering speed of eight knots per hour. Racing against time, they needed to travel the fifteen miles it would take to reach land before the much faster storm overtook them. With the storm moving at nearly five times their speed, it would be a near impossible task.
On deck, Sophocles ordered his men to tighten the sail and throw overboard all ropes, anchor and anything deemed non-essential to their immediate sail. As the men worked, the winds intensified and the seas began to rage, tossing the ship from crest to trough as Sophocles feebly tried to negotiate the waves. Far in the distance, the land loomed and grew larger and more distinct with each passing minute.
Sophocles didn’t need to look behind him to know the storm was close. The crests of the waves were now nearly as tall as the mast and the winds streamed in, ripping at the sail, nearly tearing it from its rigging. Over the roar of the storm, he could hear his ship bending and creaking as the violent waves and winds punished his boat. Looking up at his taught sail, he wondered nervously if the mast would hold.
Sophocles felt continuous moisture on his arms and face. At first, he ignored it, considering it just the spray from the ocean swells. As the drops of water began to build in momentum, he realized the rain had begun. Seconds later, the sky opened up and the light rain turned to a powerful deluge of water that at times, moved sideways across the ocean, driven by the wind.
Sophocles was now in battle with the elements. As the ship rolled up the waves crests, the oarsmen could no longer make contact with the water, losing control of their forward momentum. The winds caught the sail and thrust the ship from crest to trough, out of control and nearly capsizing with each downward plunge into the valley of unforgiving water. Sophocles worked the rudder wildly as he clung to it in desperation.
Suddenly, a rogue wave slammed the side of the boat, crashing over the top and washing a man overboard.
“Throw him a line,” Sophocles screamed over the roar of the wind.
He watched as the man passed by the boat, struggling to stay afloat, then disappeared under the white, frothy waves.
Zotikos looked over in sad desperation, nodded to his captain in sympathy, then continued his work.
Another large wave struck the front of the boat as it floundered in the trough, dousing the deck with a tremendous plume of water. This time, the men grabbed whatever they could and held on. The force of the water ripped several men from their grasp and rolled them down the rear of the deck toward Sophocles. Instinctively, he let go of the rudder and grabbed one of the men before he was launched over the side. Both men grabbed the rudder and held on, as another violent wave rolled over the top of them from the other side. As the water cleared the deck, Sophocles looked around him. Three more men were gone.
Deep in the hold, the oarsmen continued their work. Although tied to their benches, they could not maintain balance, and toppled over with each violent wave that broadsided the ship. Great walls of water rushed in, flooded the hold, and momentarily threatened to drown the inhabitants. Continuing to row, they held their breath and hoped for air, as the water slowly drained out of the side ports and back into the sea.
As time passed, the men weakened, and so too did the ship. Sophocles began to hear the unmistakable sound of wood cracking. Through the loud roar of the storm, he tried to pinpoint the location of the sound.
Suddenly, a wild and violent gust of wind burst through them, knocking men off their feet and sending them rolling toward the side. Sophocles watched in horror as the sail twisted beyond its constraints and cracked the mast.
“Zotikos, cut the ropes. Release the sail!” Sophocles screamed over the wind.
Zotikos raced for the ropes and began to cut. On the other side, other men were attempting to do the same.
Sophocles battled the rudder as he anxiously looked on.
Moments later, another gust charged in and snapped the mast at its base. Sophocles looked on in horror as the long wooden pole toppled into the sea, dragging another man with it.
“Quickly, cut the ropes. It’s dragging us under!” Sophocles screamed out again.
As the mast began to sink, its weight and size acted as an anchor and began to overcome the effects of the rudder. It quickly began to pull the ship sideways in the water. Sophocles had now lost control of his ship. Clinging to the rudder, he watched Zotikos desperately sawing through the last of the ropes.
Without warning, another violent wave broadsided the ship, capsizing it momentarily and snapping the rope to the sunken mast. A great wall of water rushed across the deck and Sophocles watched helplessly, as Zotikos was washed away.
“Nooo!” Sophocles cried out in angst.
As the boat righted itself, Sophocles searched the seas in desperation. His shipmate, his friend, was gone.
Sophocles wept openly, the pain too much to bear. He clutched the rudder in one hand and rubbed his eyes with the other. Holding his tears in his hand, he lifted his head in sadness and searched once again for his friend.
Through his blurred and teary vision, he spotted a hand, then an arm on the edge of the boat. Quickly, a leg was thrown up over the side and Zotikos pulled himself to safety. He rolled to the middle of the deck, stood and clung to the shattered base of the mast. He flashed Sophocles a humble grin and raced off to help the other men.
Sophocles roared a triumphant laugh, relieved by the saving of his friend. He watched Zotikos for a moment, then refocused on controlling what was left of his ship.
As the hours passed, the land that had been a gray shadow, turned into a lush green mass of land. Less than a half mile from shore, they could see the white sandy beaches that lined its shores. They were almost there. The feeling that they were going to make it sent a steady rush of adrenaline through their bodies, invigorating them, giving them the energy to go on.
Sophocles began to feel relief. Although they were still fighting for their lives, he was almost certain the fight was about to end.
Abruptly, the ship came to a violent halt. All men were flung forward, including Sophocles. The oarsmen in the hold were ripped from their benches and piled on top of each other as they, too, were launched forward. A large wave rolled in and slammed the side of the ship, spinning it around and now positioned it broadside for further punishment.
“Abandon ship! Abandon ship!” Sophocles screamed.
He ran to Zotikos and gave further instructions.
“Zotikos, we’ve run aground. The waves are going to tear this ship apart. Get everyone off the ship… Now!” Sophocles ordered.
“Yes, sir,” Zotikos shouted.
The waves rolled in as the evacuation unfolded. One by one, the men reluctantly jumped into the water and began to fight the savage waves as they swam towards shore. Those that could not swim, drowned. As
the last oarsman jumped into the sea, Zotikos and Sophocles took one last look at their jewel that carried them to safety.
“She was a good ship, tough, strong. I have no complaints,” Sophocles said with sadness.
Just then, another large wave crashed over the deck, knocking the two into the sea. The force of the wave rushed over them and carried them away from the ship. Zotikos popped up out of the water first. Searching for Sophocles, he bumped into something hard. Instantly, Sophocles popped up above the surface next to him.
“Sir, you made it,” Zotikos said, smiling.
“Not yet, my friend. It’s a long swim to shore,” Sophocles grinned.
A worried look came over Zotikos. Looking into Sophocles’ eyes, he said, “The crystal key, the scrolls… I have to go back.”
“Zotikos, it’s too dangerous. You have to save your strength. We need to swim now or we won’t make it,” Sophocles responded.
“But sir, it’s all we have left,” Zotikos replied.
“No, Zotikos, what is left is what we make of it. Let’s swim,” Sophocles ordered.
FOURTEEN HOURS LATER:
The day broke bright and clear. The great storm had past and all but four of the crew had made it to shore. Sophocles stood on the sandy beach and scanned the horizon. He breathed in a deep breath of air and exhale deep satisfaction. He had made it.
“Any sign of it?” Zotikos called out from behind Sophocles.
Sophocles turned and greeted his first officer.
“Well, good morning, Zotikos. Good to see you’re in fine spirits,” Sophocles teased, then continued. “No sign. The ship’s gone.”
“Do you think it could still be stuck on that sandbar?” Zotikos asked.
“It’s possible. It could have broken up and sank right there or it could have sailed out to sea during the storm,” Sophocles replied.
“Hmm, sad. It would have been nice to carry on with our treasures,” Zotikos said in saddened tone.
Tomb of Atlantis Page 2