They stopped in mid-air. What was he to report? In the past two years of travel in the barbaricum to the savage Caucasus and the end of the world on the Steppe, Amantius considered he had provided good information. As far as he knew, nothing had yet come of his coup in discovering the possibly treasonous correspondence between Gallienus’s Corrector Totius Orientis , Odenathus, and Naulobates, king of the savage Heruli. But he flattered himself the return of the King of the Bosporus to friendship with Rome was in large part his doing. The Praetorian Prefect was not a man to be bothered with trivialities. What could he tell Censorinus about now – a drunken fight in a bar?
Amantius lay back, trying to put it out of his mind – hiding under a table, while two men died. He admired the jewels on his hands: garnets and sapphires set in gold. No one could steal rings, unless you were already dead. The thought made him shudder. He so wanted to be at home. Gods forbid not in Abasgia, where he had been born. Few memories remained, and those bad – the pain of the knife, being told his family were dead. He had not wanted to be a beautiful child, to be castrated or unwittingly become the cause of the deaths of his parents and brothers. He lacked the courage to seek revenge. Abasgia held nothing for him. What he wanted – desired with all his soul – was to be back among his own kind in the palace at Rome. Companionship, imperial favour, civilization and safety; he had been happy there.
It was unfair. He had survived Albania, Suania, even the sea of grass. Miraculously, he had survived when many others had died. He had been on his way home. Amantius had never known such misery as the day in Byzantium when the new orders came to act as secretary to this mission to the far north.
And the mission was inauspicious, if not already doomed. To begin with, there had been nothing worse than the discomforts of travelling on a warship, the enforced proximity with rough men who held the prejudices of the entire against his sort. He had seen them, thumb between index and middle finger, making the sign to avert evil. He had ignored the mutterings – monkey, crow, neither dove nor raven, thing of ill omen.
It now seemed an age since the storm had hit when they were off the mouth of the Ister. The Argestes had got up in the north-west, cresting the waves, driving the trireme out into the wild Euxine. When, through spray and low, scudding clouds, the Island of Leuce had been sighted, their delight had brought them to tears. They had embraced each other at their deliverance. All except Amantius. No one hugged a eunuch, no more than they would a monkey.
The galley had rounded the northern cape and anchored in a small rocky bay which gave some shelter. The boarding ladders in the surf, over treacherous rocks, they had floundered ashore, soaked to the skin.
The storm still raged when behind the clouds the sun went down. Zeno had said they must return aboard. Amantius had supported him. Leuce was the Island of Achilles. No one spent the night except at the risk of his life. It brought down the wrath of the hero.
The trierarch had dismissed the idea. The ship was double anchored, but it was a bad holding ground. She could drag her anchors at any moment. If the wind shifted, it was a certainty. Only a fool would put himself in a present danger to avert something intangible in the future. They would propitiate Achilles in the morning.
In the dark and the rain, they had trudged through the woods up to the centre of the island. There was a portico adjacent to the temple. They bedded down there, sodden and uncomfortable. Amantius had hardly slept, huddled a little apart from the others, full of dread, like a hunted animal in a temporary lair. Divine prohibitions were not to be flouted.
When the sun came up, the storm had blown itself out. The last few clouds ran like ink away to the east. The leaves of the sacred grove glistened. Gulls and sea-crows
Amantius lay back, trying to put it out of his mind – hiding under a table, while two men died. He admired the jewels on his hands: garnets and sapphires set in gold. No one could steal rings, unless you were already dead. The thought made him shudder. He so wanted to be at home. Gods forbid not in Abasgia, where he had been born. Few memories remained, and those bad – the pain of the knife, being told his family were dead. He had not wanted to be a beautiful child, to be castrated or unwittingly become the cause of the deaths of his parents and brothers. He lacked the courage to seek revenge. Abasgia held nothing for him. What he wanted – desired with all his soul – was to be back among his own kind in the palace at Rome. Companionship, imperial favour, civilization and safety; he had been happy there.
It was unfair. He had survived Albania, Suania, even the sea of grass. Miraculously, he had survived when many others had died. He had been on his way home. Amantius had never known such misery as the day in Byzantium when the new orders came to act as secretary to this mission to the far north.
And the mission was inauspicious, if not already doomed. To begin with, there had been nothing worse than the discomforts of travelling on a warship, the enforced proximity with rough men who held the prejudices of the entire against his sort. He had seen them, thumb between index and middle finger, making the sign to avert evil. He had ignored the mutterings – monkey, crow, neither dove nor raven, thing of ill omen.
It now seemed an age since the storm had hit when they were off the mouth of the Ister. The Argestes had got up in the north-west, cresting the waves, driving the trireme out into the wild Euxine. When, through spray and low, scudding clouds, the Island of Leuce had been sighted, their delight had brought them to tears. They had embraced each other at their deliverance. All except Amantius. No one hugged a eunuch, no more than they would a monkey.
The galley had rounded the northern cape and anchored in a small rocky bay which gave some shelter. The boarding ladders in the surf, over treacherous rocks, they had floundered ashore, soaked to the skin.
The storm still raged when behind the clouds the sun went down. Zeno had said they must return aboard. Amantius had supported him. Leuce was the Island of Achilles. No one spent the night except at the risk of his life. It brought down the wrath of the hero.
The trierarch had dismissed the idea. The ship was double anchored, but it was a bad holding ground. She could drag her anchors at any moment. If the wind shifted, it was a certainty. Only a fool would put himself in a present danger to avert something intangible in the future. They would propitiate Achilles in the morning.
In the dark and the rain, they had trudged through the woods up to the centre of the island. There was a portico adjacent to the temple. They bedded down there, sodden and uncomfortable. Amantius had hardly slept, huddled a little apart from the others, full of dread, like a hunted animal in a temporary lair. Divine prohibitions were not to be flouted.
When the sun came up, the storm had blown itself out. The last few clouds ran like ink away to the east. The leaves of the sacred grove glistened. Gulls and sea-crows
Similar Books
