section, and looked happily about. Forward of him was the deckhouse, on top of which two men strained to hold their steering oars against seas running heavy. It hid from Gratillonius the main deck, with lifeboat, cargo hatch, crewmen, and his soldiers. The mast rose over it. Square mainsail and triangular topsail bellied against swift grey clouds and malachite waves. Gratillonius could also glimpse the spar that jutted out over the prow and the artemon sail it bore.
No other craft was in sight. Their whiteness dulled by spindrift, the cliffs of Britannia were sinking under the horizon, though he could still make out the pharos that loomed over Dubris. Ahead, hillscape was shouldering out of Gallia, likewise vague and distance-dimmed.
The ship rolled and bounded like a live creature. Waters rushed, boomed, clashed. The wind skirled and flung briny spatters across his lips. Timbers and rigging creaked. Gratillonius’s muscles rejoiced in the interplay that kept him erect. Tomorrow he’d be on the road again, and that was good too, because he’d fare through country new to him until he reached magical Ys. But Mithras be thanked that first he got this brief voyage.
He laughed aloud at himself. Had the Gods really carved out a strait at the Creation in order that GaiusValerius Gratillonius could have a day’s worth of feeling like the boy he once was?
The captain strode around the deckhouse. His blue uniform was hidden beneath a cloak he hugged to him in the cold. Approaching, he said through the noise: ‘Come forward with me, Centurion. A fight’s brewing between your men and mine.’
‘What? How?’
‘Several of yours are miserably seasick, and when one of them puked on the deck, the sailors didn’t want to clean it up. Then they started mocking those landlubbers.’
Gratillonius bridled. ‘What kind of discipline do you have in the fleet?’
The captain sighed. ‘They resent being forced out this early-in the year, in this tricky weather. I do myself, frankly, but I realize you have your orders, whatever they are. Now do come along. It’ll work better if we both take charge.’
Gratillonius agreed and accompanied the other. On the broad expanse around the mast, men stood at confrontation. They were not all there were in their units. Some deckhands would have been flogged if they left their duty stations – though they too gibed and made obscene gestures. Half the legionaries huddled shivering, turned helpless by nausea. The rest had reflexively formed a double rank; their weapons were stowed but their fists were cocked. The sailors bunched loosely, about an equal number. They were not professional fighters. The garrison commander had ruled that the danger of Saxons was so slight at this season that he wouldn’t subject any of his too few soldiers to the real hazard of the crossing. However, each crewman bore a knife, and fingers had strayed to hilts.
Quintus Junius Eppillus stood before his troops, growling at a sailor who appeared to be a leader. Eppillus wasa stocky, paunchy man in his forties, big-nosed, bald on top, a Dobunnian with considerable Italian in his bloodlines, Gratillonius’s appointed deputy. His Latin came hoarse: ‘Watch your tongue, duckfoot. The bunch o’ you watch your tongues. You’re close to insulting not just us, but the Augusta.’
The sailor, a tall redhead, leered and answered with a thick Regnensic accent: ‘I wouldn’t do that. I only wonder why your legion allows fat swine like you in it. Well, maybe they’ve got tired of sheep, and pleasure themselves now with swine.’
Take that back before I remove some o’ those rotten teeth from your turnip hatch.’
‘Very well, I’ll take it back. You’re not swine. It’s just your fathers that were. Your mothers were whores.’
Cynan, who was young and of the still half-wild Demetae, yelled a battle cry. He broke from the army rank and threw himself on the sailor. They went down together, to struggle for possession
No other craft was in sight. Their whiteness dulled by spindrift, the cliffs of Britannia were sinking under the horizon, though he could still make out the pharos that loomed over Dubris. Ahead, hillscape was shouldering out of Gallia, likewise vague and distance-dimmed.
The ship rolled and bounded like a live creature. Waters rushed, boomed, clashed. The wind skirled and flung briny spatters across his lips. Timbers and rigging creaked. Gratillonius’s muscles rejoiced in the interplay that kept him erect. Tomorrow he’d be on the road again, and that was good too, because he’d fare through country new to him until he reached magical Ys. But Mithras be thanked that first he got this brief voyage.
He laughed aloud at himself. Had the Gods really carved out a strait at the Creation in order that GaiusValerius Gratillonius could have a day’s worth of feeling like the boy he once was?
The captain strode around the deckhouse. His blue uniform was hidden beneath a cloak he hugged to him in the cold. Approaching, he said through the noise: ‘Come forward with me, Centurion. A fight’s brewing between your men and mine.’
‘What? How?’
‘Several of yours are miserably seasick, and when one of them puked on the deck, the sailors didn’t want to clean it up. Then they started mocking those landlubbers.’
Gratillonius bridled. ‘What kind of discipline do you have in the fleet?’
The captain sighed. ‘They resent being forced out this early-in the year, in this tricky weather. I do myself, frankly, but I realize you have your orders, whatever they are. Now do come along. It’ll work better if we both take charge.’
Gratillonius agreed and accompanied the other. On the broad expanse around the mast, men stood at confrontation. They were not all there were in their units. Some deckhands would have been flogged if they left their duty stations – though they too gibed and made obscene gestures. Half the legionaries huddled shivering, turned helpless by nausea. The rest had reflexively formed a double rank; their weapons were stowed but their fists were cocked. The sailors bunched loosely, about an equal number. They were not professional fighters. The garrison commander had ruled that the danger of Saxons was so slight at this season that he wouldn’t subject any of his too few soldiers to the real hazard of the crossing. However, each crewman bore a knife, and fingers had strayed to hilts.
Quintus Junius Eppillus stood before his troops, growling at a sailor who appeared to be a leader. Eppillus wasa stocky, paunchy man in his forties, big-nosed, bald on top, a Dobunnian with considerable Italian in his bloodlines, Gratillonius’s appointed deputy. His Latin came hoarse: ‘Watch your tongue, duckfoot. The bunch o’ you watch your tongues. You’re close to insulting not just us, but the Augusta.’
The sailor, a tall redhead, leered and answered with a thick Regnensic accent: ‘I wouldn’t do that. I only wonder why your legion allows fat swine like you in it. Well, maybe they’ve got tired of sheep, and pleasure themselves now with swine.’
Take that back before I remove some o’ those rotten teeth from your turnip hatch.’
‘Very well, I’ll take it back. You’re not swine. It’s just your fathers that were. Your mothers were whores.’
Cynan, who was young and of the still half-wild Demetae, yelled a battle cry. He broke from the army rank and threw himself on the sailor. They went down together, to struggle for possession
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