Varro reached up for the porthole above him, pulling back the shutter, allowing the early sunlight to flood the narrow confines of the cabin and he caught sight of the last of the ubiquitous insects as they fled for the dark recesses of the room.
He stood up slowly and rubbed the fatigue from his eyes, digging his knuckles in deeply until his vision exploded with tiny stars before returning to the gloom of the twilight world below deck. He had barely slept, the constant motion of the world around him still completely alien, the confines of the room and the sudden inexplicable sounds that punctured the darkness keeping him constantly on edge. It had been one of the longest nights of his life, his mind filled with nightmarish visions of everyone he had ever known turning their back on him in vile condemnation, their faces haunting him even now in his waking hours and he cursed his fate and the ship that bore him anew.
Varro dressed quickly and mounted the steps to the main deck, squinting in the dawn light as looked about him to the frenzied activity of the crew. The majority of them were looking over the side—and forerails, shouting instructions to each other as they searched the waters around the galley. Varro moved quickly to the side-rail, pushing a crewman aside to see out over the water but he saw nothing in the empty sea. He turned to the aft-deck and his eyes sought the captain, seeing him instantly as he stood beside the helmsman, his easy confident stance evident, even from a distance, and Varro felt a resurgence of his hatred. He was about to stride back to the captain when a shout cut through the cacophony of voices on deck.
‘Two points starboard. Someone in the water!’
All eyes on the Aquila spun to that point, Varro following the gaze of others as he sought the point indicated. It was there, fifty yards off the bow, a small mass of indeterminate shapes in the gentle swell, hidden one moment and exposed the next but amidst the tangle Varro could see the shoulders and head of at least one person.
‘All stop,’ Atticus shouted and he ran the length of the galley to the foredeck, not noticing Varro as he passed him by, his attention firmly fixed on the figure of Septimus standing by the rail, his arm outstretched in indication of what Atticus had spotted minutes before from afar.
‘One survivor,’ Septimus said as the captain reached them. ‘Lashed to some debris.’
Atticus nodded and turned to the crewmen beside him.
‘You two, over the side,’ he said and the men instantly obeyed, each one swan-diving into the sea eight feet below to surface once again a couple of yards short of the inert people in the water. The crewmen were both able swimmers, as was every man on the Aquila , a skill Atticus strictly ensured that every sailor who joined his crew was taught. It was an ability that many of the more traditional sailors who found themselves serving on the Aquila thought irrational, believing it better that a sailor should die a quick death if his ship was sunk rather than suffering a lingering struggle before the sea inevitably claimed you.
‘He’s alive but unconscious,’ one of the crewmen shouted and they struck off towards the Aquila again without command, each man swimming with one hand while the other dragged the makeshift raft behind them. Two more sailors jumped overboard as the group reached the hull of the Aquila and the survivor was quickly cut from the debris and hauled by rope up and over the side-rail. The crew formed a rough circle around him as he was laid on the deck but it partedagain for Atticus and Septimus, the centurion kneeling down and listening intently at the unconscious man’s chest, his knowledge qualified only through years of experience in the military.
Atticus was given a moment to study the man as Septimus’s steady hands searched for the signs that would indicate the strength of his life-force. The man was dark, almost certainly Roman, his young angular
He stood up slowly and rubbed the fatigue from his eyes, digging his knuckles in deeply until his vision exploded with tiny stars before returning to the gloom of the twilight world below deck. He had barely slept, the constant motion of the world around him still completely alien, the confines of the room and the sudden inexplicable sounds that punctured the darkness keeping him constantly on edge. It had been one of the longest nights of his life, his mind filled with nightmarish visions of everyone he had ever known turning their back on him in vile condemnation, their faces haunting him even now in his waking hours and he cursed his fate and the ship that bore him anew.
Varro dressed quickly and mounted the steps to the main deck, squinting in the dawn light as looked about him to the frenzied activity of the crew. The majority of them were looking over the side—and forerails, shouting instructions to each other as they searched the waters around the galley. Varro moved quickly to the side-rail, pushing a crewman aside to see out over the water but he saw nothing in the empty sea. He turned to the aft-deck and his eyes sought the captain, seeing him instantly as he stood beside the helmsman, his easy confident stance evident, even from a distance, and Varro felt a resurgence of his hatred. He was about to stride back to the captain when a shout cut through the cacophony of voices on deck.
‘Two points starboard. Someone in the water!’
All eyes on the Aquila spun to that point, Varro following the gaze of others as he sought the point indicated. It was there, fifty yards off the bow, a small mass of indeterminate shapes in the gentle swell, hidden one moment and exposed the next but amidst the tangle Varro could see the shoulders and head of at least one person.
‘All stop,’ Atticus shouted and he ran the length of the galley to the foredeck, not noticing Varro as he passed him by, his attention firmly fixed on the figure of Septimus standing by the rail, his arm outstretched in indication of what Atticus had spotted minutes before from afar.
‘One survivor,’ Septimus said as the captain reached them. ‘Lashed to some debris.’
Atticus nodded and turned to the crewmen beside him.
‘You two, over the side,’ he said and the men instantly obeyed, each one swan-diving into the sea eight feet below to surface once again a couple of yards short of the inert people in the water. The crewmen were both able swimmers, as was every man on the Aquila , a skill Atticus strictly ensured that every sailor who joined his crew was taught. It was an ability that many of the more traditional sailors who found themselves serving on the Aquila thought irrational, believing it better that a sailor should die a quick death if his ship was sunk rather than suffering a lingering struggle before the sea inevitably claimed you.
‘He’s alive but unconscious,’ one of the crewmen shouted and they struck off towards the Aquila again without command, each man swimming with one hand while the other dragged the makeshift raft behind them. Two more sailors jumped overboard as the group reached the hull of the Aquila and the survivor was quickly cut from the debris and hauled by rope up and over the side-rail. The crew formed a rough circle around him as he was laid on the deck but it partedagain for Atticus and Septimus, the centurion kneeling down and listening intently at the unconscious man’s chest, his knowledge qualified only through years of experience in the military.
Atticus was given a moment to study the man as Septimus’s steady hands searched for the signs that would indicate the strength of his life-force. The man was dark, almost certainly Roman, his young angular
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