The boy, raised up on his elbow now, stared at the spot where his ship had just been. The horizon was empty. Empty of ship, empty of men, empty of debris. Just the smooth sea in all directions.
Damon knew they had escaped the vortex, but for what? To die of thirst, with nothing but water no matter where they looked? In the dissection rooms at the Museum he had seen bodies of those who had died this way: tongues swollen to ten times their size, skin blistered from exposure. Would it have been better to have gone down with the ship? Artemas and the boy looked happy to have survived. Was Damon the only one who could see beyond the moment?
"Where do you suppose we are?" he asked. He knew Artemas had been studying charts while he, Damon, threw up over the rail during those days at sea. "Are we near land?"
"We're three days' sail from Sicily 1 think. I'll know better tonight, if it's clear enough to see the stars. Not close to land, I'm afraid."
"On a trade route?" Damon imagined that enormous grain ship appearing over the horizon.
"The captain took a rather unusual route." Artemas looked down.
"No rescue, then."
"No rescue."
Damon pointed to the boy. "How are we going to tell him?"
The boy watched them speak, looking at Damon's mouth, then Artemas's, following the movement of their lips as if it would help him decipher their words.
"Tell him what?"
"That we're going to die out here."
"You don't know that."
"Oh, come on, Artemas. Look around you."
"We'll paddle to land. We can make it."
"He has a right to know," Damon said stubbornly.
"Why?"
"What if he has gods to make peace with?"
"You just want everyone to be miserable."
"We're in the middle of the sea, Artemas. We're supposed to be miserable! I wish you'd never seen the vortex. At least we'd have gone down quickly."
"It's right over there." Artemas gestured. "No one's stopping you."
Damon was so angry he felt like plunging in and swimming toward the spot where they'd last seen the ship. Any fool could see it wouldn't make a difference. One way or the other they were going to die, even if Artemas didn't want to face it. They were going to die.
TWELVE
Damon's tongue filled his whole mouth. It stuck to the roof and the sides, making him gag when he tried to swallow. His throat ached for water. And he was cold. The cold made him tired. The water sucked the warmth from him, while the salt in the water sucked out the moisture. The sea was pulling the life from him.
The boy had stared numbly when the ship first went down. Then he had surprised Damon by flopping into the water on his back, spouting like a whale, and kicking his heels. Damon thought the boy had lost his mind until Artemas pointed to the scars zigzagging across his shoulders, chest, and back. He'd been whipped. Some of the scars were old, but many were fresh. In the water the boy was celebrating his captain's fate, unaware, yet, of his own.
Damon wondered what the boy felt now. At first they had paddled toward what they thought might be the nearest coast. Artemas had seemed so sure of himself. Sure they would reach land in three days. But they hadn't. And when the fourth day came and went, so did their hope of ever seeing land again. Even Artemas had stopped encouraging them, pushing them forward. Now, weak from hunger and thirst—tortured by thirst—they sprawled along the plank, letting the waves toss them wherever.
Damon would have cursed Artemas if it weren't so painful to talk. It was Artemas's fault that they were on this journey in the first place. Damon had wanted to send word to his father, not travel across the sea. He was a physician, not some adventurer. What had he been thinking? He had let himself get caught up in Artemas's crazy ideas. What had happened to his life since he started listening to Artemas? He had embalmed his own mother. Taken off in a galley falling apart from rot-worm. Jumped right into the middle of the sea. All to find some man who called himself Damon's father. Well, it didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered.
Damon didn't let his arms and legs dangle over the side as the others did. He wanted the sun's warmth, but each time he felt some relief, some heat on the surface of his skin, the waves splashed over him, erasing all warmth before it had time to penetrate. He felt cold to his bones. If it weren't for the cold, Damon would have slipped over the side and let the water cover him, ending this torture. But it was so cold.
The boy rolled off the plank. He gulped the water, splashing it over his head.
Artemas yelled in Greek, "Don't drink it, the salt..." But his voice cracked, and his words were garbled from a tongue too thick to form sounds. Even if the boy could speak Greek, Damon wondered if he would have been able to make out those words. Maybe he knew and didn't care. Maybe he wanted the salt to draw the last bit of water from his body.
The boy splashed the water over his head, rubbing it into his scalp. Damon watched, huddled on the plank, shivering in spasms. The boy looked at Damon, his face melting into confusion.
Damon rose up on one elbow, just as the boy was thrust out of the water. He rose up to his thighs and was pushed forward at a terrific speed. Just before colliding with the plank, the boy tipped sideways, and Damon saw the white belly of a shark rolling under the plank. The shark went down, dragging the boy with him. Blood gushed upward and spread, inking the water around them. Damon and Artemas scanned the water frantically. Where was he?
The boy popped to the surface, bobbing in the middle of the circle of blood.
Artemas was the first to move. He reached out. The boy spread both hands, stretching toward Artemas. Their fingers nearly touched when the boy was snapped to one side, then jerked back again, tossed from side to side. He screamed, and blood spurted from his mouth, spraying Artemas. The red water boiled from the frenzied thrashings. Artemas thrust out one foot, kicking the shark in the snout.
The water stilled, and the boy drifted toward the plank. Artemas grabbed hold of his arm just as his face slipped below the surface. Damon helped Artemas pull him gently to the plank. They had him halfway out of the water when he was hit again with a force that knocked Damon off the plank. Damon clung to the boy's arm, but his grip slipped to the boy's wrist from the slickness of the blood. The boy was yanked from him. Damon treaded water, spinning round. The boy was gone.
"Damon, in the name of Apollo, get out of the water!" Artemas's scream came out choked and muffled by the dryness of his mouth.
Damon swam back to the plank. He was shaking so badly he couldn't pull himself up. Artemas grabbed him and rolled him onto the plank. They lay there staring at the water in disbelief.
"Did you see that? Did you see?" Artemas said, not taking his eyes off the spot where they had last seen the boy.
"It happened so fast," Damon said.
The gangplank that had seemed so cumbersome when they were trying to push it off the deck now seemed flimsy to Damon, barely wide enough to keep their bodies out of the sea. Lying straight, he flattened his arms against his sides and held his thighs tight together, compressing himself into the center. "Do you think it'll come back?"
Artemas didn't have to say anything. Damon knew by the look on his face that it already had. He turned. The fin was knifing through the water, headed right toward the gangplank. lust when Damon was sure the shark would topple them, the fin slid below the surface. Damon saw the shadow pass under the plank. He held his breath. He could hear his heart hammering in his ears. Two more fins rose from the black water, this time so high they created a wake. Just before reaching the plank, they veered off, one to each side.
"There's more than one." Damon picked through his words carefully, his voice sounding strange even so, as though he had stuffed his mouth with cotton and was trying to talk around it.
"It's the smell of blood drawing them."
"By the gods, Artemas, look at the shadows beneath us. There must be a hundred of them."
"Too bad they smell the blood and not the lavender."
/> What was Artemas talking about? Damon had read that madness is often preceded by odors. He was sure that Artemas had gone mad. Then he smelled the lavender, too. Were they both insane?
THIRTEEN
Four ships sailed right toward them. The serpents adorning the prows rose and fell with the waves. Damon closed his eyes and rubbed them with his fists. Was he hallucinating? And the smell of lavender, stronger now. Was he mad?
Artemas spoke first. "We've got to get their attention. They could sail right by without even seeing us if we just lie here."
"How many ships do you see?"
"Something wrong with your eyes? Four."
Then they must be real, Damon thought. Both of them couldn't be having the same hallucination. "How can we hail them?"
"I'll have to stand up and wave my arms."
"Are you crazy? If you fall off—" A shark bumped into the gangplank, jerking it sideways. The sharks seemed to be waiting, circling below. Every so often one would venture close and nose the gangplank, testing, then thrash off to one side. Angered, it seemed. Or frustrated.
"We can't just let them sail on by. They're our only hope." Artemas squatted, balancing for a moment on the balls of his feet, his fingers splayed, supporting half his weight. He straightened his knees, keeping his fingertips in contact with the wood. A wave gently raised and lowered the plank. Artemas teetered, then centered his weight and stood up, spreading his arms wide for balance. He waved his arms over his head, crossing them, then bringing them down.
Damon watched the water. The sharks seemed to back off a bit, gauging this new movement. Then one swung away from the others and darted for the plank. "Artemas, hold on!"
Artemas dropped to his knees. The shark hit the plank. It spun. Artemas flattened himself on the gangplank, but still he tipped wildly back and forth. Damon clung to the board, trying to steady it.
"We'll both go in!" Damon screamed. But the gangplank finally stopped tilting. Damon took a deep breath and held it.
The ships drew closer. Damon could see people on deck. Could they see him? Had they seen Artemas?
"I'm going to try it once more," Artemas said.
"Wait till they're closer."
"What if they change course? I have to do it now." Artemas stayed flat until there were no fins in sight, then inched his way to a crouch again.
Damon watched the shadows pass beneath him.
Artemas stood, waving his arms and shouting, "Here! Look, here! Help!" His voice was creaky but gained strength.
Damon saw a man on the lead ship point at them. "They see us, Artemas. They see us!"
A wave tossed the plank. Artemas's arms windmilled. Damon watched helplessly as his friend's weight shifted backward. His arms flailed faster, in large circles. He was going to fall in!
Artemas was thrown backward. Just as his feet lifted into the air, a shark rammed the plank, sending it gliding under him. He fell hard on his backside on the edge of the plank. Damon thought the whole plank would tip. It arched sideways, poised on the brink of turning over. Artemas strained forward to keep from falling into the water. Damon dared not grab for him but threw all his weight to the high side of the plank. It hung there, then sloshed back into the water.
The two lay head to head, panting. The shark nosed the plank, then twisted sideways, its tail skimming the surface, splashing both of them.
"As Osiris is witness, that was close." Artemas's knuckles were white from gripping the plank, but still he could not let go. "He thought he was getting dinner."
"I thought the same thing." Damon's teeth rattled from the chill. He clamped his jaw shut and rested his forehead on the plank. The surge of strength he had felt the moment when he thought Artemas would fall in drained away from him as quickly as water sinks in the desert sands. He lay on the board shaking, weaker than he had ever felt in his life.
FOURTEEN
The lead ship cleaved through the water until it was near, then turned into the wind. The sail luffed, snapping rope and wood. Two men threw a ladder over the side.
Damon and Artemas paddled their plank to the ship. Shadows flitted beneath them. The closer they got to the hull, the faster they paddled. Damon dreaded dipping his hands in the water, expecting a shark to take his hand with each pull. He tried not to think. He focused on the bottom rung of the rope ladder ahead, tipping his chin upward so he couldn't see the movement in the water below. But he knew they were waiting. He could feel it.
When the plank thudded, wood on wood, against the ship, Damon felt the vibration through his whole body.
Artemas climbed the ladder with ease, one hand over the other. But all Damon could do was cling to it while the sailors hauled him up. The cold, the exhaustion, the relief—all seemed to come over him at once, and he wasn't sure he could even hold on, he felt so weak. When he neared the rail, several hands grabbed him and pulled him over. He fell in a heap at the sailors' feet.
Someone wrapped a scratchy wool blanket around his shoulders. Nothing had ever felt so good.
They were all speaking at once. Damon just looked up at them, watching Artemas explain, when he realized they were speaking Egyptian. Egyptian. He sat up.
Cups of water were offered by hands stretched forward. There were so many bodies surrounding them that Damon couldn't tell whose hands he took his cup from. "Thank you."
Damon warned Artemas, "Don't drink too quickly. It will bring on cramps. Try to sip it." He fought his own impulse to gulp. He closed his eyes and let the water surround his tongue. He held it in his mouth even though his throat ached for it. He swallowed. His throat cooled.
When he opened his eyes, the sailors had dispersed. The captain stood over him, talking to Artemas. Damon heard them speaking of sharks.
A sailor came forward with warm soup. He slipped away before Damon could thank him. Damon put his face over the bowl and breathed deeply. He couldn't smell the broth. The smell of lavender overpowered everything.
"If's in the sails," the captain said, as if reading his mind. "She soaks her sails in it."
"She?" Damon's voice was stronger now.
"Why, the Great One, Cleopatra. You didn't see her standard?"
Damon looked up at the flags fluttering at the bow of the ship. The image of Isis, Cleopatra's patron goddess, flapped in the breeze.
The crew had not gone far, Damon noticed. They kept busy nearby, tying and retying knots that needed no adjustment, keeping an eye on Artemas and Damon, listening. Damon heard the captain mention pirates and watched Artemas shake his head. Did they think pirates had sunk their ship? The Roman navy had swept the sea of the vermin years ago. Damon had heard that a few pirate ships remained. Like cockroaches, they had scurried away before the navy could stamp them out.
Damon's teeth still clattered. He huddled in the blanket, trying not to spill his broth, though it sloshed over the rim from the shake in his hands.
"What became of your ship?" the captain asked Artemas.
"A vortex caught her in a whirling trap. I tried to warn them. We barely made it ourselves."
"Did any others survive?"
Damon knew that Artemas was thinking about the boy, but Artemas shook his head.
The captain nodded. "There are many currents off the coast of Sicily. It is best to keep careful watch."
"So we are near Sicily?"
Damon pulled on his earlobe. His ears crackled from the water inside.
"About three days' sail."
Damon watched the crew. They had forgotten to look busy and were listening openly to Artemas and the captain.
"Where were you headed?"
"Spain and Caesar." Artemas straightened as if the very act of traveling toward Caesar deserved honor.
"When you are ready, the Pharaoh will want to speak with you. To hear it all, even the sharks, no doubt. The Great One is curious about everything."
The captain shouted to one of his men to trim the sail and strode off to see that his orders were carried out properly. The crew s
prang up, heading off in different directions to their duties.
You would never know Artemas had been in the water, Damon thought. Look how he throws off his blanket! How he paces the deck! Damon still didn't trust his legs. They quivered beneath his blanket.
Artemas crouched and whispered to Damon, "Be sure to mention your studies with the Pharaoh's physician, Olympus. I understand he and Cleopatra are close. Imagine! The Pharaoh herself."
Damon leaned his head to one side and thumped the top of his head, trying to drain the water from his ear.
"And be sure to say you're a physician. Cleopatra admires the sciences."
"Calm yourself, Artemas. I think you're more nervous now than you were with the sharks."
With mention of the sharks, both of them thought of the boy and grew silent. They sipped their broth.
FIFTEEN
She's not as beautiful as they say, Damon thought. Her hair was not silken black, as he had expected, but brown with a curl to it. And her eyes were large for her small face. Only her mouth was as he had pictured it. Her lips were hill and perfectly formed, as if chiseled from stone.
"Sit, relax. Your journey has been hampered by the gods. Let it take a turn for the better now." Cleopatra welcomed them as if they were nobility, indicating piles of Persian rugs on which to recline.
Damon felt like nobility in the tunic Cleopatra's servants had provided. He'd never touched anything so soft. Could this really be happening? Lounging with a Pharaoh? He'd heard rumors that Cleopatra sometimes stole into the Museum disguised, attending lectures with the students, joining their discussions as if she were one of them. He'd never believed it. Could it be?
The Wadjet Eye Page 4