The Ancient Ocean Blues by Jack Mitchell

Author:Jack Mitchell [Mitchell, Jack]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-77049-069-7
Publisher: Tundra
Published: 2008-08-19T04:00:00+00:00

The Manuscript

arkness saved us. The wind from the highland grew stronger as the sun set. We were aware of frantic calls and shouts on the dock behind as they made ready to follow us; but with half the other galley’s crew unloaded and an enraged landowner to save from drowning, they were greatly delayed. Moreover, they had no light to see us by. The last half-circle of the orange sun dipped beneath the horizon as we reached the mouth of the bay, and the green galley behind was only beginning to set sail. Soon the villa was no more than a strip of dim light on the shore, slowly receding as we were carried, again, across the black Aegean Sea.

Once the sail was steady and the steering oar lashed firmly in place, we turned to the poor Captain. He refused to go below. With some cushions from Brasidas’ cabin, we propped him up on the poop deck beside the steering oar, and we cut away his grimy shirt.

It was a horrible cut, but it had not reached the bone. Thick wine-red blood bubbled up from inside. One of the copyists took a look and addressed Homer.

“If you please, sir,” said he, “I can help, I hope. My former master was a doctor, and often I have seen him treating such wounds. We must wash the cut immediately with wine and stitch it up.”

Paulla washed it – she didn’t flinch. She reassured the Captain that it was all right, in fact it was quite normal for the hero to recover from a sword cut, while we ransacked the ship’s stores for a needle. I found one in what I took to be the sailmaker’s chest.

“It’s rather large,” said the copyist doubtfully, when he saw it. “Bring a lamp: my master always burned the needle first, to restore the element of heat.”

For thread we unpicked strands of rope. The Captain, who was determined not to cry out and thus provide our pursuers with a clue to our position, merely remarked that he would have a tremendous scar. Then he bit on a cord and endured the stitching in the lamplight.

When the slave had finished, I was sure the Captain must have fainted. There had been muscles to sew together as well as skin. But to my astonishment he spoke to me.

“You, Marcus Oppius,” he gasped faintly. “You must steer us.”

“I have the steering oar lashed, sir.”

“No!” whispered the Captain. “You are too… too far into the wind. Point the prow… more southward.”

I wasn’t sure where south was, but I kept turning until the Captain spoke again.

“There!” he called. “Keep it steady. If the wind backs…” He fell silent.

“If the wind backs?” I asked.

“Then… ease the clew and… try to keep this course.”

With that, he passed out. Before long, I heard him snoring fitfully on the cushions beside me.

I stayed by the steering oar. My hope was that the wind would not back (though how would I know if it did?) and thus I would not have to decipher the Captain’s instructions.

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