THE JOURNAL OF TIBERIUS GAIUS

For the children

Without survival of the body, there is nothing. But without survival of the spirit a man is worse than dead, an empty husk of flesh, wandering wraith-like across a barren and infinite plane.

Yet there is an even greater danger. Beware the man who has forsaken all flesh, all desire, in the name of a vengeful God—the priest, the ascetic, the ‘Saint’. Such men have made mortal enemies of their own Nature, until the animal within, caged and brutalized, becomes as the ravening beast, seeking to destroy all who are not caged, who have not made the same, unnatural sacrifice to the fear-inspired God of penitence and cruelty.

Here is the heart of all I teach. We are both animal and man, body and soul, earthly desire and spiritual yearning. Either one without the other is an aberration, the true ‘abomination before God’—the God of Nature, the God of all, the God within. Search for Him not beyond the stars, or in any faraway, unnatural thing. Seek for the Source within the essence of all that flows from it—Life, Nature, Yearning—and with the only honest guide that you will ever have: your heart.

My name is Tiberius Gaius, and I have been asked by Jacob the rabbi to keep a written account of our journey. Who are we, and where are we bound? To that I know no better answer than this: we are a mixed company of orphans, widowers, wives and young men, brought together by chance or Providence in a design which I cannot yet read. Cassius, our leader, insists there is nothing to read, and that as I grow older I will come to realize this. Perhaps he is right, but I do not believe it.

It is no accident that I speak of him first, Drusus Cassius, soldier of Rome. For until very recently he and I shared a common bond, an irresolvable conflict which has been the dominant theme of my life. For we both loved, alas, still do love, the same woman.

But reading back what I have thus far written, I see that this disjointed narrative is no way to make a start. If future generations are to read this chronicle, and understand what it is to be alive in this lost time, I must somehow order my thoughts. I must find a way to tell you who we are, and where we come from. For where we are bound, none can say.

Cassius is our leader, a Roman like myself. Yet very unlike myself. He fought in Rome’s latter wars, for which I do not envy him. Had he been born during the time of the Caesars, he would have been part of the greatest army the world has ever seen. Perhaps also the most destructive, I do not know. As it is he was thrust into a desperate battle to protect a failing Empire. It was a fight he could not win, and in it he lost everything: his country, his family, his reason to live. But he has found another, in Ariel. Too well do I understand her power to heal the dying heart, and instill in it the desire to live and keep giving. I would do anything for her.

Ariel is his woman. I do not say his wife, for no ceremony was ever performed between them. But she bears his child, the reason I at last relented, and there is no denying the bond between them. He took her from a smoldering village, savaged and laid bare by barbarians, and in so doing saved her life. For a time I believed it was only gratitude she felt for him. And fear, for he is not a gentle man. Yet it is not so. And though he is some years older, neither can it be truthfully said that he is but a replacement for her father, who abandoned her in childhood.

Oh, let it go, Gaius. The sweet, soul-stirring creature is not yours. You will never stroke her long dark curls, or feel her radiant eyes turn their love upon you. Nor touch her cheek, nor kiss her full and sensuous lips. Her olive skin and supple figure, the possession of another man. Stop torturing yourself and go on.

But a gentle touch, a living body interposing itself between my arms and settling comfortably in my lap, have just reminded me that I am not alone. It is Sarah, my adopted daughter. That word is still very new to us both, and even as I write it, I feel again all the emotion it engenders in me. I would not have believed such feelings possible. But as I kiss her hair and wrap my arms about her, reassurance to us both, I believe in this moment that anything is possible.

Her parents were killed but recently, a trauma which in her extreme youth I do not know how she survived. For she is but a child, five years old. Yet somehow she did survive. And more than this, she greets each day, each rising of the sun as a thing entirely new, in a world full of hope and promise. How much better a man might I be, if I could learn to do the same!

And despite the presence of a living uncle, Malachi, she has chosen, and been given, to me. To me, can you understand? A living child, to care for and protect. And not just any child. I have heard it said there is a special pride that only a natural parent can feel, and I do not doubt it. But I assure you, the love I hold for her is deep, and tender, and things which I cannot begin to tell you.

I am told that she resembles her mother, though I do not see it. Perhaps in her expression, though that is natural enough. For she is one of those rare and special children who strongly resemble neither mother nor father, but is a unique creation unto herself. Her hair is blonde and brown, her eyes chestnut, rayed with gold. And her smile. It is like the morning sun, the song of birds, the gurgling of a fountain. Perhaps if I were less devoted to her I could give you a more objective description. But that is impossible, so let this stand. She is beauty itself in my eyes. And if others cannot see it, so much the worse for them.

But now I must break off the narrative, for we are approaching the port city of Barceno. I will tell you quickly that here we mean, despite the danger, to acquire a larger vessel. For the winter sea, even our temperate Mediterranean, can be bitterly cold at night. And Malachi is ill. The open boat in which we travel is sturdy, but provides little shelter from the elements. If we cannot improve upon it he will surely die.Enough, Cassius said just now. I must go.

Well, it is done, and there is much to tell. But if you are to understand what has just happened, I must go back a bit and explain how I, a Roman youth on the threshold of manhood, came to be so far from my home. In so doing perhaps I may also shed some light on how Cassius came to be here, in the wilds of outlaw Spain.

Rome had been conquered by barbarians, sacked, as any future history must surely record. It was in this hopeless battle and its brutal aftermath that Cassius was severely wounded, and lost his wife and son. Though he is reluctant to speak of it, I have learned from Ariel that he fled in despair but a short time afterward, in the same boat we have but recently abandoned. He made land for the last time just north of here, after a wandering of untold years. I know nothing more of that time than that it was spent on both land and sea, a journey without destination, a self-imposed exile, a futile attempt to renounce and to forget. For he lives on, and is called once more to lead and to protect.

But as to Rome, and to myself, know this. The Gothic leader, Alaric, did not remain long upon the city he had raped. Migration and pillage were all he understood, and he had neither the interest nor the intellect to rule what remained of the Empire. He left Rome but a short time after he entered it, heading south with the horde he had mustered. From the scattered accounts that reached us, it seems he went on to fight several meaningless battles, tried to take Naples but failed in the attempt. He then mustered a fleet at Rhegium, meaning, it is thought, to sail on to Africa. But a storm arose and wrecked them in the straits. Alaric turned back inland, and promptly died of fever.

No tears were shed for him in Rome, I assure you, and the only reason I record this is to relate its effects upon our ravaged city, and my subsequent arrival here.

As the Goths left Rome, and went on to ill fortune at sea, we were able to recover ourselves somewhat, though still living in fear of the barbarian dagger, deep within the breast of Italy. Honorius was now an Emperor in name only. Of his character, or lack of the same, you need know only this. He lived in constant fear of the return of Alaric’s forces, now led by his half-brother, Ataulf. In the hope of appeasing him, and therefor remaining alive and in power, Honorius put to the sword many of the old ruling class. Among those executed was my father, Antony Tiberius, Senator of Rome. I am his illegitimate son, and he used my mother badly. For this reason I could not mourn his death. But by simply being his son, I too must be punished. I was given this choice. Enlist in the army then mustering, or be executed in turn. For obvious reasons I chose the former.

Then Honorius, at the urging of Ataulf, assembled and despatched a fleet for Spain, with the absurd idea of conquering the Vandals, and bringing it once more into the Empire. I say absurd for two reasons. First, our army was little more than an organized rabble, a few legitimate Roman forces, thrown together with mercenaries from half the tribes of Europe. Second, because the Vandals are the most skilled and savage warriors of the realm. As to their reputation for cruelty and senseless brutality, I have witnessed it with my own eyes. Ariel’s mother died of it. Krieg, the strongest man I know, was broken by it. And I will see charging horsemen in troubled dream all the days of my life. It is no small comfort to know that whatever lies ahead, the Vandals are behind us.

But here, I am ahead of myself.

My journey to Spain was indescribable. Sitting at the rowing bench day after day, seeing nothing but glimpses through the oarlocks of sea and sky, the ribbed bowels of the galley, and the sweat stained backs of the men in front of me. The nights were worse still, forever watching my own back, in terror of the rough and foul smelling men all around me. Some of them openly sought to use me as a girl, and threatened violence when I refused. I would hate them still, but for the knowledge they are dead. Or worse than dead. It was the darkest time of my life, but it prepared me for what was to come.

The fleet finally arrived at Barceno, on the northeastern coast of Spain. We made anchor, and after assembling unopposed, headed inland. After some early success against their weaker cousins, the Sueves, we ran afoul of the Vandals, and met with the inevitable disaster. I survived only by feigning mortal injury, and hiding among the corpses of my fallen comrades. For friends, too, had been sent on this fool’s invasion.

If I seem to tell this lightly, it is not what I feel. I simply lack the skill to express it any other way. For I was educated as a scribe, and though I have copied many learned texts—the reason that Jacob has asked me to keep this journal—I have never set quill to parchment for any meaningful work of my own. I despair of my ability to do so, but it seems I must try.

So far as I know, I am the only true Roman to have survived the Battle of Bent River, and this at terrible cost. For I nearly bled, then froze, to death. And this I surely would have done if something indefinable, and in whose existence I would not have believed, had not risen up inside me. Perhaps that is why I still seek the God that Cassius denies. For if I had not seen the glint of his sword, calling to me like a pillar of fire, I would never have made for the point, been found by him and carried to shelter. For this reason, also, the three of us are closely linked—myself, Cassius and Ariel—though to what end I cannot say.

But whatever the cause, the Vandals, after routing our forces and returning east to finish the Sueves, did not destroy the fleet that brought me here. Perhaps, God help us, they hope to use it to expand their own empire. At all events it remained, safely anchored in the port of Barceno. The great mainmasts of the galleys could be seen several miles out to sea, and inspired Cassius with the plan we have just executed.

Here is what happened.

III

The sun had set perhaps an hour before. A half moon struggled fitfully through the streaming cloud cover. All was dark and hushed. The tide was calm, neither with us nor against us. Cassius and I took to the oars, and rowed into the harbor as quietly as we could. We passed the northern point, like a great horn thrust out into the water. At its height stood a lonely pillar, carved in the classic style and set upon a massive pedestal. Erected far in the fabled past as a tribute to Augustus, it loomed eerily against the darkling sky, reminding us that this had once been a Roman port. As indeed all the Mediterranean, from Spain to Syria, Carthage to Athens, had once been. The Roman sea, the bath of Tiberius. Even the chaos brought by the barbarians cannot erase Rome’s monuments. Though the body of the Empire has died, though all around are the signs of decay, these bones will live on. To some a testament to tyranny, to others the mark of greatness. For I have seen both, and cannot honestly choose between them.

As I said, we rowed as soundlessly as we could. But in the calm waters, as we moved slowly in among the galleys, every creak of the oarlocks, every straining of rope and chain as the ships fretted against their anchors, seemed a thing intolerably loud. I fancied I could even hear the beating of my heart. As we passed between two of the largest, their great sides loomed like frowning cliffs above us. I could not help but think of the men, both good and bad, who had journeyed so far within them, and come to such a terrible end. My imagination thus stirred, these dark hulks now seemed a fleet of ghost ships, a prison of lost souls, unearthly and unreal.

But whatever Cassius thought, he remained locked onto his purpose. He whispered harshly for me to return my attention to the oar, and keep my eyes sharp for any sign of torch or lamp that would signal a watch was kept within. But there was naught to be seen. If a guard had been posted, they remained dark and silent.

The wind freshened, turning from the north, and all at once the moon broke free. After the clinging darkness that had come before it, the pale light it shed seemed almost bright. We were coming to the stone quays now. Torches could be seen there, and still we found no ship that could be manned by so slight a crew. Though his face was partly hidden in shadow, I knew Cassius well enough to read the marks of rage upon it. He looked at each of the ships in turn, no doubt recalling Rome in its glory, and dreaming of what he would do with such a fleet, and an army of his own. Or perhaps one ship and a handful of fierce men would be enough, to raid the coast as pirates, and carry off the women and the gold.

I should not speak of him this way. In truth I do not know what he thought. I only know that he was angry, to have to leave such a prize behind. But by now we had come too close to land, and could hear muffled voices from within the open doors of the guardhouse. So we turned and headed back again, this time weaving a different path among the abandoned vessels.

But as we left the lights and voices behind, a different thought seemed to come to him. He turned to me and asked quietly, did I know which was the armorer’s ship? I replied truthfully I did not, but that, speaking for the ship I myself had been on, it was fully stocked, the weapons more numerous than the men. At this he muttered something about mercenaries, and the old days.

Then pointing to the most impressive galley we had yet seen, he said that we must make a search. If we could not take a ship, we must at least avail ourselves of better weapons. Together we rowed toward it to find the gangway, the netting of rope, still trailing forlornly over the side, as if awaiting the return of its vanished crew.

“Hold tight to the ropes,” he instructed Jacob and Malachi. “If you hear fighting within, cast off. If we survive it we will hail you. If not, you had best be gone.” That is his way, blunt and without feeling. But it served his purpose, for both Jacob and Malachi forgot their fatigue, and rousing themselves to strict attention, did what was asked. Then Cassius and I clambered up and over the side.

Again there was no light, no sight or sound that anyone remained on board. We nearly tripped over the body of a man on the deck, near the cabins of the officers. This only confirmed what we might have guessed: that the few Romans left behind to guard the fleet and keep it in readiness, had been attacked and killed by the Vandals.

Cassius entered a cabin through the broken door, returned with a torch and flints. We moved below decks, felt more than saw the great belly of the ship. It took a good deal of time to strike even a modest flame to the old and disused torch, and he cursed the world in general beneath his breath.

But at last the bulbous end spluttered with life.
When it at last caught solid fire, we had a rude shock. There before us, between the rowing benches that I knew so well, was a man. He had been tied to the mast, which rose from the keel below, and up through the deck to its height some hundred feet above. But tied is not the right word, for it implies the use of rope. Again my lack of skill hinders me. I must simply tell you what I saw, in the only words that will come to me.

After a victory the Vandals are notorious for two things: greed and torture. Often the two are employed together. The man before us was an officer, and they must have believed he knew more than he told, of treasure and of secret compartments. So they made a small gash in his abdomen, pulled out a gut, and wrapped it around and around him, perhaps asking at each new turn if his memory had grown clearer. Surely the man knew nothing, for at least twenty feet of intestine had been wrapped around him and nailed to the mast. The dead man was now hunched and falling forward among them, with dozens of rats upon, and all about him. It was a sickening sight, and I will say no more about it.

The door of the armory was broken in as well, and at first I thought we had come in vain. But being horsemen, and shunning both breastplate and helm as the uniform of cowards, two things had been left untouched: armor and spears, the two things Cassius wanted. But now he was growing uneasy for the safety of the others. He quickly handed me a bundle of spears, ordered me to take them over the side and be sure there were no signs of danger. So I left him, and did not return for several minutes.

When I did return, stepping furtively over the gunnel, I received a further shock. My mind still pondering the spirits of the dead, I was perhaps left vulnerable. Whatever the cause, my limbs froze utterly and my breath would not come. For there, standing in the fore of the ship and wrapped in mist and moonlight, I saw what was surely a spirit of days past, an apparition of Rome as it had been.

A warrior, a general, a leader of men, stood gazing forward with one foot upon the prow, dreaming of glory, and conquest, and ruling all the world. His face was set and determined, as if he sailed down from Olympus on the wind of the gods. In time he turned, and looked at me.

The apparition, the spirit world, dissolved at once. But still the warrior remained, a man born out of his proper time, a vision of the past. It was Cassius, of course. He had found within the armory not only bronze and plume, but memories, some no doubt painful, but still too strong to let go. For the memories of a Roman soldier do not begin with his birth, nor end with his death. They are passed down from father to son, an unbroken chain reaching back to the time of Romulus: tales of honor and glory turned golden by the years, become myth, not mere words but a profession of Faith: a belief in righteous conquest, the foundation of order and discipline upon a dark and chaotic world. I must say as I watched him there in stark resplendence, I half believed it myself.

But only half. I could not forget that for every battle won is a battle lost, by death and mutilation. That for every stirring victory of Rome, there was a crushing defeat for those with the courage to resist her. That each time she added another jewel to her crown, a nation was no more, its people subjugated or scattered, thrown into the bondage of slavery, or sent on the long, futile road of the refugee. And that for every ruthless man who prospered, one of perhaps more compassionate nature must be broken. The human cost of Empire is high indeed.

Oh yes, I have seen war and slavery first-hand: the death of young men and young dreams, the rape of woman and the anguish of child. Taken all together, I cannot mourn the loss of the old order. No need. Cassius mourns it for us both.
He quickly came back to himself, pointed to a pile of breastplates and javelins that together we would carry. And soon enough we were back in the boat, rowing on in search of a vessel better suited to our purpose.

There was no indecision of the tide now; it was squarely against us. And combined with the wind from the north it set the black hulks swaying at their moorings, drifting apart and coming together in a most alarming way. Once we were nearly crushed, as a sixty-oar galley and a lesser craft, anchored by vastly different lengths of chain, came close to colliding.

But the size and shape of the smaller vessel were not lost upon Cassius, who now seemed doubly determined. Shortly thereafter he whispered that we must be coming to the ships of the high officers, designed to carry fewer men, in greater comfort. Perhaps also meant to carry off the spoils: the women and the gold. Anyone who doubts that lust and greed (and power) are the prime forces behind conquest, does not know the hearts of such men.

Nor was Cassius wrong. The warlike galleys behind us, we came among a gathering of lesser ships. No portals for the oars to come rattling out, no armored sides, or treble thick prows for ramming. These were sailing ships.

But alas, still too large for our purpose. Again Cassius was wroth, and this time I shared his frustration. Had we been but a few more men, here were swift and sure vessels of trade, easily turned to our purpose. For we mean to search the Mediterranean, from one side to the other if necessary, for an island we can call our own. A lofty goal perhaps, but one which is shared by all of us. Alas that we are but four men, one ill and the other aged. Not enough.

But the stubborn will that is Cassius’ dominant trait asserted itself once more. If we could not take the trim yacht before us, we must at least search it for coin and jewels. For surely somewhere in the world are places where people still trade for the necessary goods instead of killing for them.

We drew closer. The vessel looking both sleek and fast, I wondered aloud if it were not the ship of the Consul General himself, and therefor ripe for plucking. Cassius only grunted. In my eagerness I had forgotten the Vandals, who were likely to have drawn the same conclusion, and searched this prize more thoroughly than the rest.

I will admit that on this occasion, as on many others, with the least effort he was able to make me feel like a foolish child. That is the way he rules us. By calling attention to our weakness he asserts his own strength, his right to lead. I will also confess that it has begun to grate on me.

As we boarded we found less violence and mayhem: there were blood-stains on the deck but no bodies. I thought this strange, but said nothing. Such a detail was not likely to escape his notice, and I had no intention of giving him further cause for rebuke.

The door of the main cabin had been stoved in, the place ransacked. But Cassius, again lighting the torch, was meticulous in his search, examining nooks and corners that I would not have given a second thought.

“What are you looking for?” I asked.

“If this is the Consul’s ship,” he answered gruffly, “then it was built with secrecy and craft. The Vandals are greedy, to be sure, but perhaps they won’t be as patient. And I know a shipwright’s trick or two.” He stopped. Running his fingers along the inner seam of a closet, he tapped first against the back, which rang hollow behind, then pushed on one end of a piece of inlaid hardwood. At this the other end, near the bottom, swung out. He lifted it further, and a kind of rude handle was in his hand. He tried to pull, and then to push. Failing in this, he took it in both hands and applied a sideways pressure. A panel slid open, half the height of a man, and a shadowed space loomed empty beyond.

But not for long. Something leapt out of it, hands clutching wildly at Cassius’ throat. He fell back with a cry of rage, and was soon wrestling with a lesser figure on the floor, and reaching for his knife.

Perhaps because I had not been attacked, my senses returned more quickly, and I saw the possibility of a tragic mistake. But already Cassius had drawn the knife from its sheath, and I knew that I must act at once. There was time for nothing else but to step on his wrist and try to take the blade from him. For in battle he is the most fierce and thoughtless man I have ever known. But at the pain and immobility this caused he let out a second cry, more terrible than the first, and turned his fury on me.

“Cassius!” I cried as I fell, his hand collapsing my knee from behind. “Cassius, stop! He’s just a boy.”

My words must finally have reached him, and at least partly allayed his fear of betrayal, for he loosed his hold on me. But not on the other.
“If you ever do that again,” he said menacingly, seeming to address us both, “I swear to God I’ll kill you.” Need I say that he meant it? But at the words that passed between us the boy had ceased to struggle. This puzzled me until he said, also in Latin.

“You are Roman?”

“Yes,” I answered, the three of us still in a tangle on the floor. “I was part of the army that sailed here, under Count Asterius.”

“My master,” he replied, becoming almost docile. But I thought at the time, and still do, that this was more out of conditioned obedience than a passive temperament.

At this we gathered ourselves and stood up, myself confused, Cassius seething, the stranger watchful and unsure. I recovered the torch and held it up. Cassius, who had never loosed his grip on him, held the boy forward in the light to examine him.

I exaggerate when I say boy. He was perhaps fourteen, a few years younger than myself. From his darker hair and skin, along with large and intelligent eyes, I wondered if he might be Greek. Cassius voiced this same conclusion, along with another I would not have guessed.

“Athenian?” he asked bluntly.

“Yes.”

“Pleasure slave?”

“Yes.”

I could not believe the young man said this without blushing. I could not know then, as I do now, that he had been raised, more truly bred, for this purpose and no other, by a slave trader from Sicily. I knew only that he was handsome, almost godlike, and his Latin flawless.

“Attack me again,” said Cassius without mercy, “and I’ll make you a eunuch as well.”

“I’m sorry,” said the youth, though he flushed more in anger than embarrassment. Such a strange combination of emotions. His attempted manner was one of supplication, and of something else for which I have no name. He was, and still is, an enigma.

“I don’t want your apology,” said Cassius, not letting go of him. The young man then tried to put a hand to his face, but Cassius knocked it aside. “I don’t want that, either. Are you alone?”
At this the youth hesitated, as if trying to protect someone.

“No,” came a voice, from within the shadowed hiding place. I was startled to see the same face appear again, this time streaming with tears. “Are you all right, Alexander?” asked the twin in a higher, almost womanly voice. And unlike his brother, this youth exhibited all the emotions I would have expected in such an encounter. His face registered both fear and shame: at his profession, and for his cowardice at remaining hidden while his brother fought for both their lives.

“Yes, Cleades,” replied that brother. “You will not hurt him in any way,” he said to us, no longer trying to submerge his fierce protective instinct.
I began to assure them both that it was all right, we would not hurt them, but had to check myself. For I had seen Cassius in the role of inquisitor before, and knew that any compassion I showed would only make him harder and more ruthless. He must satisfy himself that the newcomers posed no threat.

But to my surprise he did not seem to consider the twins dangerous. Or perhaps that concern was overshadowed by the danger, and immediate need of our position. The dawn could not now be more than two hours off, and we had not yet found our ship.

But as Cassius studied the two in silence, regarding the callouses on their hands and the strength of their arms—Alexander in particular was like a living sculpture of Apollo—I saw the inner conflict written on his face. An idea was stirring in his mind, as I realized with a qualm of fear and sudden hope what he intended.

“Get the others,” he said decisively. “You boys, you know how to sail this ship?” A statement more than a question.

“Of course,” began Alexander, but in an instant Cassius’ knife was at his throat.

“Obey my orders,” he said mercilessly, “and you leave here with us. Cross me once, just once, and there will be two more blood-stains on the deck. Do you understand!”

Alexander could not answer without plunging the blade into the soft flesh beneath his chin, so Cleades answered for them both, nodding emphatically.

“Good,” snarled Cassius. “Raise the anchor at my signal, then set the mainsail. I will man the tillers. And if you value your lives, guide me well..... Move, Gaius!”

In truth I had barely hesitated, only wanting to be sure that the brothers would help us. But with Cassius even this small humanity was too much. As a Centurion, and of the legendary short swordsmen at that, he is too accustomed to giving orders, and having them obeyed without the least thought or comment. For such is the creed of the true soldier class.

Of our treacherous passage out of the harbor, with the wind sometimes swirling and the tide dead against us, I will say only this. It is the most desperate chance we have taken for weeks, and that is saying much. It is a wonder we did not smash ourselves to pieces against the other ships that leered and swayed around us. As it is we collided with one such vessel, doing extensive damage to the beak and starboard rail, perhaps deeper in the bows as well.

And whether we were far enough out of sight when the light came, or any on land had heard our tumultuous passage, none of us can say. Cassius had us furl the sails just before the sun cleared the horizon, and let us drift northeastward with the current. But whether this was enough to convince a watchful eye on shore that the ship had lost its moorings and drifted out to sea, I do not know. No other vessel has appeared all the long day, and with sails once again straining at the masts, we now make our way steadily east and south. We will see.

But this entry has run longer than I meant, and the daylight is fading. More than once Cassius has threatened to throw the scroll on which I write over the side, and me along with it, though in truth I have worked as hard as anyone. I only wanted to get this down fresh, for it may be several days before I can return to the narrative.

Enough, Gaius. No one reads this but yourself. See to your daughter’s care. Take your watch on deck, then sleep.

I said previously that it might be several days before I could return to the narrative. Alas that I spoke the truth. Not long afterwards, Alexander reported that we were taking on water. For Cleades had discovered a leak near the bow, just above the water line. That is to say, just above the water line when we are not moving. And needless to say, we have every reason to move.
On hearing the news, Cassius let forth a series of curses which seemed excessive even for him. He accused the two brothers of everything

from poor guidance to deliberate sabotage. But they seem accustomed to such treatment, for they were not much ruffled by it. Instead they quietly set to work, Cleades to preparing a temporary seal of wood and caulk, Alexander to rouse out buckets, and establish a human chain to bail the water and throw it over the side.
But with all our efforts, the leak would not be stopped. During a storm two nights after— and here I must tell you that a squall you think nothing of on land can be quite perilous at sea— the long, vertical crack deepened, and we bailed no longer to keep the prow high in the water, but for our very lives. And when the storm subsided, it became clear that if we did not make land and undertake more serious repairs, the ship would be lost. It is true we still had Cassius’ boat tied up behind; but our hopes, if not our lives, would be ended unless we did.
This put us in a quandary. For we had been heading due east, away from land, most of all, away from Vandal Spain. And though the brothers have some knowledge of navigation, and with the clearing skies were able to roughly establish our position on the charts, it was clear to all of us that escaping Spain entirely— that is to say, making for southern Gaul— would

be a difficult, if not impossible undertaking.
But Cassius was adamant. I realize now that what I once took for rage, is in fact a kind of fear: fear for the safety of Ariel, his adopted son and unborn child. He has changed of late, become quite protective of them. And while Ariel welcomes the change, and I in fairness cannot condemn it, he has become, if anything, more ruthless with the rest of us. To a man we argued that the south of France was an unreachable goal. And to a man he rebuked us, saying that if we returned to Vandal-occupied territory we might just as well cut our own throats. Or nail our own guts to the mast.
But I have begun to learn the value sometimes of an intractable will. For though the intervening days have been nothing short of hell on earth, moving all the cargo to the back of the ship, rigging a fathering sail across the bows, and bailing incessantly night and day, in the end we achieved our purpose. After turning to the northeast, and sailing on in such a state for nearly a fortnight, we spotted land. And not the stark mountains rising row upon row of the Pyrenees, but the gentler slopes and beaches of southern Gaul.
But even here we must find a safe place to make landfall, and repair

our gallant ship. No small task, since we must not only be out of sight of plundering eyes on land, but in a place calm and shallow enough that when the tide is out her bows will rest easy upon a sandbar, and we can set to work with more permanent repairs.

#
When at last we found such a sheltered mooring, an isolated inlet two days’ journey to the east, we brought her in gently with the tide, and though exhausted, Cassius and I used his launch to go ashore and look about us.
We moved with some trepidation, for any clear sign of the land beyond was blocked by the granite outcroppings that rose to either side of the broad stream. Anyone looking down on us as we climbed would have caught us at a severe disadvantage. And with Jacob’s bow across my chest, Franzi’s arms about Cassius’ neck, we had no small trouble in reaching the more level ground beyond.
Franzi. I now realize there are some within the company whom I have not yet mentioned. Please allow me to do so now.

Franzi is Cassius’ adopted son. Born to the warlike Vandals, and abandoned by them on the battlefield where his father was slain, he is so

much the son of a soldier— both his natural father and now Cassius— that I often find myself thinking of him not as a child, but as a fifth appendage, the living shadow of our leader. They go everywhere together, and it was only with harsh command and much hard feeling that he was able to make the boy remain behind as we searched the ships at Barceno. He is, incredibly, only four years old.
Then there are Jacob, Meryl and Malachi to tell you of, and I can proceed less encumbered.
Jacob is our senior member and spiritual leader. He is a Rabbi, and a man whom all in the company save Cassius hold in high esteem. It was he who conceived, and saw to the building of the mountain fortress that for a time kept us safe among the swirling dangers all around. That its secret was in time discovered, its sanctuary violated, is in no way his fault, nor the fault of any living man. This modern-day Masada was simply overtaken by events. A great battle— indeed, the one in which I myself took part— was fought near the base of the great rise on which it was built, and in its aftermath the inevitable stragglers and deserters found us out. And though Jacob tries to keep such feelings to himself, and to project to the rest of us

an aura of Faith and confidence, that we will not feel ourselves abandoned by God, I know it wounds him dearly to think that the refuge he created for his people, became in the end a place of torment and death. For both Sarah’s parents were killed there. Lest they be forgotten, I name them here as Ezekiel, by trade a blacksmith, and Vera, his wife.
Malachi is the younger brother of Ezekiel. He was wounded in avenging his brother’s death, and delivering Sarah from the hands of men so vial and depraved, that even as I write this I feel a catch at my heart. Of what they might have done to her, I cannot even think. All I can say is that whatever dark wisdom the years may have brought Cassius, I do believe in God, and thank Him with all my soul for her deliverance. He may be slow to come to the aid of those who seek Him, and may at other times withhold all help, to test us. But he protected my Sarah, and for that the tears I shed at the memory are but a poor repayment. Malachi, too, shall always find me in his debt.
For one other thing at least I must give Cassius his due. He plainly saw that Malachi, long troubled by fever, had come to a desperate pass. So while the rest of us toiled these many days to bring the ship safely out of

troubled waters, Cassius saw to it that Malachi did not join in our efforts, but remained warm and resting in the Consul’s cabin, his wife there to tend him when possible. And it seems that in the calmer days which followed, the worst of his illness slowly passed. He is able to rise and walk about, though he still cannot risk the chilling ocean breeze for more than a few minutes at a time. I now believe that he will live, and I could not have said that with any certainty at the outset of our voyage.
Meryl is his wife, a lovely and wistful young woman, seventeen years old. I will confess that had Malachi not survived, it would have taken no great effort on my part to fall in love with her. And I must here interject that the prejudice I have heard voiced against the Jews, both in Christian Rome and Arian Spain, is something I will never understand. For those descendants of Israel whom I have known have almost always been intelligent and thoughtful, quietly devoted to each other and their God— who is, after all, the one true Father of Christian and Jew alike. How some narrow minds could find them wanting, and more than this, place upon them the blame for their own failures and frustrations, is something for which I have not the least sympathy. That I have loved Ariel with all my soul, as I

could have loved Meryl, should tell you that from a young and yearning heart there can be no higher praise.
Meryl and Malachi have been married for less than a month. Their love has been sorely tested, as indeed the young woman herself has been. I am told she led a somewhat sheltered life before the barbarian invasions. Her father, a prosperous vintner, is said to have kept her from physical labor, teaching her instead the skills and refinements of a woman of property. If this puts her in some kind of debt to the less fortunate, then let us say once and for all, that debt has been paid in full.

For she received a rude awakening from any dream of wealth and comfort. And though the memory of innocence can sometimes be read in her face, the shadow of more recent suffering only serves to make it lovelier still. Her features are not as perfectly balanced as Ariel’s, her figure taller, less rounded. But her softly rolling hair, her eyes which seem to smile at you in gentle supplication through her sadness, touch me, if no other, with profound tenderness. Forgive me, Malachi. She is your wife, and I harbor no secret hope of possessing her. But you are fortunate, for all your recent hardship, to have been given such a bride. For when you recover, this

gentle flower is yours alone.
Again I must tell myself, surrender. Because in truth, when Malachi was most ill, Cassius planted in my heart a seed which I would not otherwise have encouraged to grow there. He said that if her husband perished she would need someone to care for her, and comfort her in her loss. And while I never wished him ill, and have done, like the rest of us, all I could to restore him to health and well-being, there was in truth a part of myself which had begun to dream of her. Perhaps it was to ease the pain of losing Ariel, perhaps, as Cassius has said in moments less harsh, because I am becoming a man. I do not know. Only that she is beautiful, and wistful, and makes my heart bleed.
Come, Gaius, you paint yourself the fool for nothing. The company is now introduced, and you can proceed with the tale.
At all events, Cassius, Franzi and myself reached the summit. The land opened broad and peaceful beyond, a gentle sea of grass waving in the wind, and bordered at its edge by rich and sheltering forest. And in the distance, beautiful snow-capped peaks. An earlier plan, formed before we left the mountain refuge, returned to me. The land looked so fertile, so

untroubled by the ravages of Spain, I could not help but wonder if we had found a place to lay down our burden, after all, if only for a time.
But reading the thought in my face, Cassius directed my gaze to the left, a few miles further west. Here, where the plateau falls more evenly to the sea, was a village neither large nor small, dotted with fishing boats, and laced with the trails of many cooking fires.
“The Visigoths?” I asked him, still clinging to my stubborn hope. “Probably,” he said, “or some native people who live in fear of them, and pay a high tribute just to keep their precarious hold on life. No doubt they’ll inform them of our presence, if they haven’t already.”

“But the Visigoths weren’t always the enemy of Rome. If not for the Huns driving them west and south….. And didn’t they fight with us— ”
“With us?” he demanded sharply. “And how many battles did you fight with them?”

Again my eagerness had betrayed me. Cassius knows this country and its people firsthand. Far to the north and west, in the long retreat from Britain he had battled the Franks, killed many, and lost still more: friends and comrades. There, too, he had taken Arna as his wife— some years

before we knew him. Such years of war and bloodshed are beyond my experience, and for all the pain it cost me, I knew that he was right.

“Would they permit us to live among them, if we found some secluded place, and got in no one’s way?” For this, too, we had discussed.
“No,” he said, with the sudden humanity that has marked him of late. “It is tempting,” he went on, his eyes turning inland again. “The thought of rest and shelter: solid ground beneath our feet, instead of a storm-racked sea that may drown us at any moment. And perhaps for a time we would be left in peace. But this would never be our home. Sooner or later the prejudice, the fear and hate of those who are different, would rise among the Visigoths, or the Alans, or some invading army. And we would be killed, or driven out, or sold into slavery.”

To be let into his confidence this way never fails to stir me, though I cannot honestly say why. Perhaps because I never had a real father. Perhaps because it is so difficult and painful for us both. I don’t know. I only know that as on other rare occasions, with Jacob or myself, he was opening his heart, his secret mind, though he would no doubt scoff to hear it.
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“I’m tired,” he went on, his eyes misting. “So tired of living on the run…..

“But we must find a home,” he ended stubbornly. “A place that is truly ours. Or the efforts of a lifetime are wasted.”
And for a moment I felt the terrible weight he carries, the burden of responsibility as our leader. And I no longer envied him, or judged him harshly. Then he turned again without a word, and we began the long climb back down.
Yet when we reached the launch, then were safely back upon the ship— or as safe as we are likely to be, so long as we remain thus anchored— he quickly reverted to the other, harsher man I have so often described. He laid into the twins as if they had been sunning themselves on the beach, when in truth they had set to work at once, repairing the ship with hammer, saw and nail, and fresh planks taken from the hold.

At this latest abuse Alexander nearly rebelled. As I have said before, he is not nearly so docile as his brother. But at Cassius’ implacable glare he thought better of it. And at the gentler, reassuring glance of Ariel he desisted, and returned to his work. Such is her effect on all of us.

As it has already played a significant part in our lives, and no doubt will again, I feel I must here give some description of Roman merchant vessels in general, and of the Aphrodite— for that is her name— in particular. I will try to relate what I know, and what seems necessary to tell. And while I am nothing like a skilled seaman, Alexander and Cleades are, and they have agreed to answer my questions, and to fill in the gaps of my own, admittedly incomplete knowledge.

Merchant vessels are generally two-masted, the more prominent

mainmast running from the keel— the bottom, or backbone of the ship— up through the crossbeams and deck toward the sky. It is reinforced from the prow, or front of the ship, by the forestay, a thick cable running down from it, to keep it in place. From behind it is similarly lashed to the stern, or back of the ship, by the backstays.

Perhaps two-thirds up the length of the mainmast is the main yard, a stout pole running parallel to the deck, and from which the largest, or mainsail is lowered. Smaller sails are sometimes mounted above this, for use when strong winds would carry away the mainsail, and possibly the mast as well. I am told these smaller, ‘gallant’ sails have saved many a mariner’s life in rough weather, allowing the ship to sail directly before the wind, and keeping her straight when she might otherwise careen wildly before the waves and be sunk.

‘Braces’ run from either end of the main yard to the stern. Other lines, called sheets, run back from the sail’s lower corners. Taking in one side of the sheets and braces, while letting out the other, is used to turn the mainsail on the mast, to make better use of the wind and, along with the rudders, to guide the ship on the desired course.

The second, or ‘fore’ mast, angles far forward and, so I am told by Alexander, is called by the Celts a bowsprit. Triangular or ‘jib’ sails can be set from it along the forestay, to catch winds largely from left or right: the port and starboard sides, respectively, of the ship.

The foremost part of the prow is called the beak, and serves as a cutwater, allowing the ship to slice forward through the waves. Our own beak is (or at least was before the collision) sharp and proud, ornamentally carved, and with the foremast joined to it, seems to point our way bravely toward the horizon.

The body of the ship is, of course, the hull. The keel both forms, and runs across the base of it, a kind of bow-shaped spine. Cleades has just told me that an extended fin along the bottom, used to maximize the leverage of the wind against the sea and propel the ship forward, is sometimes referred to as the keel as well. Most vessels, he adds proudly, sail more or less directly before the wind; but ours, with the forward sails and more pronounced keel, can sail in nearly the opposite direction, ‘tack’ against it at angles that few vessels, and no galley ever built, can match.

The gunnel refers to the uppermost sides of the hull, to which rails are

sometimes attached. Our own vessel had, before the accident, two very graceful and elegant forward rails, running back from either side of the prow. The port rail is still intact, but the starboard, alas, is now ruined.

The Aphrodite, like many merchant vessels, utilizes not one, but two rudders, sometimes called steering oars, one running behind from either side of the stern. Each has its tiller, a lever fitted to its head, and with which the pilot steers. It requires a good deal of strength and practice to take one tiller in each hand, and accurately guide the ship. Perhaps that is why Cassius could not do it well enough— though Alexander offered several times to do it for him— to guide us without accident from the harbor at Barceno. But in fairness he did not yet know the twins, had not witnessed Alexander’s remarkable skill at handling the ship. Perhaps when he has come to trust him, as I have, Cassius will relinquish the post to him entirely— as did Count Asterius— for he knows and can guide her as no one else.

The ‘blocks’ are carved pieces of wood through which the various ropes are run, to serve as pulleys. The accurate use of these, along with the sheets and braces, is essential in working the sails. I have examined one in particular, and the skill and subtlety of the shipwright are something to

behold. To be able to take a solid block of wood, round it off, and cut into it curving holes for the lines to pass through without catch or tear, is truly remarkable.

The ‘rigging’ refers to all the ropes, great and small, which run like an intricate spider’s web between the masts, yards, sails, deck and hull. I am similarly impressed by the complexity of the skills involved in operating them, which is Cleades’ domain. We are truly blessed to have the brothers with us, and I think that even Cassius will realize this in time.

As to the dimensions of our ship, she is roughly seventeen fathoms— a measure of approximately six feet— from stem to stern, and four fathoms across, amidships. She is slender, unlike the squat galleys, and of a more graceful line and deeper keel than most vessels of her class. She is, in fact, a wonder of design and engineering, worth more in gold pieces than any of us are likely to obtain in a lifetime. When whole and undamaged— as she was, and will be again through their efforts— the twins tell me she sails magnificently, swift and true, as few ships ever built. And while part of this, no doubt, is pride, you will remember that she was in fact a Consul’s private yacht, his personal treasure, and the apple of his eye. Alas that we have

tried her too hard already.

Well, I have tried to describe the design, and basic workings of the ship. No doubt more experienced writers and sailors can and have done it far better. In truth, as the brothers pause in their labors to read this, they have more than once exchanged glances as if to say it is useless: I am too much an ignorant landsman to ever get it right. But I pray this flawed description will serve well enough for you to at least in part visualize our proud Aphrodite, and help you to understand the entries that are sure to follow.

Such, at least, is my hope.

As I said, we all set about the labor of repairing the ship. Jacob and I provisioned the launch, in the event of any sudden hostility while Aphrodite is beached upon the sandbar. For we did not yet know how far down the hull the breach went; and in fact the damage is considerable. Several planks will have to be replaced, the whole re-caulked. Thank God no beams were affected, or we could be here for weeks.

If I may stray from the subject of our immediate survival for a short

time, I feel compelled to note a strange truth that I have just discovered.

Thinking much on the twins, how very different they are, I put the question to Cassius, and received a startling answer.

Cleades is a eunuch, castrated as a boy to retain his high voice and wistful demeanor. Alexander was not, allowed his manhood for the perverse uses of his eventual master. And in raising them thus, the Sicilian trader had been well rewarded. For they were bought as the pleasure slaves of a Roman Consul, a Count, and therefor at great price.
The knowledge of this inhuman scheme has opened to my mind such bizarre and unsettling images of man’s unseemly nature, that I confess I am quite shocked, and don’t know how to take any of this. I find myself regarding Cleades with pity, only to have Alexander glare at me in protective wrath. Does he suspect me of some terrible longing? Do I suspect myself? For the feelings this sympathy arouses in me are not at all what I first felt for Ariel, and then for Meryl. I have no conscious desire to touch him, am in fact somewhat revolted by the thought. Cassius, in his maddening way, told me just now that I need a woman. Perhaps I do.

When our preparations for the launch were completed, Jacob and I returned to our vigil on deck. I was assigned to mount the mainmast, and keep a close watch inland.
Only another man who has done this— with no other perch than the uppermost yard, no other way up or down than a narrowing web of rope— can appreciate the sensations one experiences while looking down on the world in such a state. For though at low tide we are moored upon a sandbank parallel to (and not far from) the shore, even then the ship is anything but still. And when the tide came in, as it must, I clung to the mast as if to life itself, swinging with the sudden and exaggerated arc of a torch waved back and forth by a lunatic.

This is perhaps a fitting metaphor. For here we all are, caught between sea and shore, a flickering flame of life and hope, moved this way and that by a god or spirit lost in the fearful dark. What is he looking for, and what, therefor, is our course? No one knows. Despite my Christian upbringing I sometimes feel that the ancient Greeks had it right: that we are all trapped in a myth about the futility of human effort, when set against the Chaos of this world.

Yet these feelings were nothing to what I experienced when I saw them coming. Barbarians. For now the safety of the group lay entirely with Cassius and myself, the only two likely to understand their language, and having any real skill with weapons. I forgot my fear, and slid down the backstay so quickly that when I reached the deck I didn’t have to say a word. Cassius instantly went to the hold, called softly but insistently to the brothers, still at work below, as Jacob took up his bow with a trembling hand.
“How many?” was all that Cassius asked me.
“Ten or twelve,” I said, taking up the station I had been assigned in such an event, near the prow, where javelins had been laid in readiness, hidden by the gunnel from view of anyone approaching on land. Cassius had assigned me here as the fairest-skinned among us, and the only member of the company besides himself with some knowledge of Germanic languages. The ability to translate foreign texts is essential in a city as cosmopolitan as Rome, and as such, was part of my training as a scribe.
“Vandals?” he asked quietly, and I could hear the trepidation in his voice. The possibility, unrealized until that moment, passed over me in a

cold wave of horror. Had those thoughtless killers ventured north and east into Gaul? It would mean crossing the Pyrenees again, or taking the sea route as we had, but it was not unthinkable. When the Vandals once put fear into your heart, it stays there.
“No,” I said finally, as we both gazed west to where the company of horsemen, as if they knew the place, were taking a path that angled slowly down to the beach, then riding steadily across it, straight toward us. Cassius, knowing my eyes were sharper, asked me to describe them.

Their hair was mostly dark, their eyes blue or brown, their faces high browed and bearded. Those in front wore rough breastplates— nothing like the ornamented muscle cuirasses of true Roman service— the others, leather jerkins studded with iron. All had roughly conical helmets of steel, with long nose- and cheek-guards, though only the two at their head, leaders of some kind, wore the flowing horse-tail that denoted their rank.
“Visigoth warriors,” he said uneasily, when he too could make this out.
“Will they attack?” I asked nervously, going down on one knee, and without taking my eyes off them, seeking the grip a javelin. At this Cassius

took hold of my elbow, and firmly raised me again to stand beside him.
“They will if you provoke them,” he hissed. I released the weapon, then stepped on it to keep it from rolling. I looked back to see the men of our party in a similar state of readiness, at their assigned places, the women and children out of sight below.
The riders, fifteen in all, came on steadily, their expressions stern, if not yet openly hostile. When within speaking distance they fanned out in a rough semi-circle and stopped on the sloping beach, perhaps forty yards away. And regarded us with narrowing eyes. Then without any signal that I could see, drew their swords almost in unison.

Cassius did not wait, but greeted them in a strong, unwavering voice. There is no substitute, I think, for long military training and experience. It was clear he had done such things before. I understood most of what he said— native Visigoth, rather than the mongrel German spoken by mercenaries— and having talked with him since, can roughly translate what was said.
“Hail, Soldiers of the Cross. Well met, Sons of the Son.”

Subduing his surprise, their leader answered gruffly. “Who are you,

Roman, to speak to us in this familiar way?” His voice was sharp, but Cassius’ manner and accent had not gone unnoticed. Already the man had separated us in his mind from the lesser barbarians, and sea-faring rabble.

To my astonishment Cassius told them the truth, at least so far as he and I were concerned. “I am Cassius, son of Drusus, Centurion of the disbanded Seventh Legion. This is Gaius, son of Tiberius, Senator of Rome.”
The man, late middle-aged and with straight black hair and beard, along with a younger man of similar features beside him, probably his son, examined us closely, though neither spoke. Then the elder turned his eyes on Jacob and Malachi, amidships, and Alexander and Cleades, poised by the anchor-chain and tillers, respectively. The brothers must have believed that Cassius intended cut away the thick mooring line forward, if it came to flight. But surely the Visigoths would be upon us before he could. Six had already turned to their bows, and with arrows fitted, were aiming them fixedly at the twins.

“These others are not Roman, whatever you say of yourselves. Surely

those are Greek.” He pointed his sword at them, and with a further gesture,

warned Alexander away from the capstan.
“True enough,” said Cassius, confirming the order with a stern nod. “But able sailors both.”
With this the man turned back to Jacob and Malachi. His eyes narrowed further still.

“Jews?” he asked accusingly.

All I can say of this last, is that although Cassius must have been prepared for such a question, it took all his courage to answer without wavering. I know him that well, at least.
“No,” he said dismissively. “The old man is from the Balkans, our navigator. The wounded man is Syrian.”
“Mercenary?” asked the Visigoth sharply.
“Aye,” agreed Cassius, finding less danger in this wrongful surmise than the truth. Forcing myself not to turn towards him, I thought of the deep scar on Malachi’s neck.
“And from whom did he receive the mark of his trade?” Did Cassius pause for emphasis?

“The Vandals.”
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At this there was a stir among the company. Cassius has just confided to me as I write this that he took a desperate chance in speaking the name of a hated enemy, but had done so to demonstrate we were neither friends nor spies of them.

“You come from Spain?” asked the leader, with something more than polite curiosity.
“Newly sailed from Barceno,” was Cassius’ honest reply. “We’re stuck here for a fortnight at least,” he added, “while we make repairs.” I hoped to God it wasn’t so.
“Come down,” said the Visigoth, with a wave of his sword. In that moment I realized how our ship must appear to them: a kind of movable fortress, with high walls, and the sea for a mote. Thank the risen Christ that the tide was in, the gangway raised.

At this summons (or command) Cassius did not lower it, but instead clambered out onto the bowsprit, and leapt directly toward them. He landed in water that was still waist-high, righted himself and drew his sword. I thought for an instant that Ariel’s worst fears were coming true: that he meant to take them on single-handed, while the rest of us retreated in the

launch.
But again his shrewd gamble paid off. For the Visigoths, like most Germanic tribes, respect courage above all else. As he moved unerringly onto the flat, wet sand, he turned his sword hilt-first toward their leader, whose name, I now know, is Thorundil.
“The blade of Titus Drusus speaks for my honor,” he said. “It is the sword of my father, and was ever a friend to the Visigoths. I myself fought beside Theodoric at Rheingold, and with Ataulf in Rhetia (the truth and a lie, respectively) against our common enemy, the Huns, who have since allied themselves with the Vandals.”
Thorundil hesitated, again scrutinizing ship and crew. At last he breathed heavily, seeming to relent in his angry suspicion, and raised the hilt of his own blade to his forehead in answer. I saw there, for the first time, the cross of our Savior set upon a weapon of war. I thought to myself how glorious, and at the same time perilous, was this mingling of the true Faith and human violence.
“I am Tomas Thorundil,” he said. “I am the cousin of Ataulf, ruler of Rome, and of our people to the east.” Cassius nearly bridled at this, but

restrained himself. “A strange meeting to be sure, but I would have further proof of your identity, and news of Spain. If your second will come down as well, if you will give us food and drink, and pay tribute for your presence in our lands, perhaps we need not come to blows.”
“My thanks,” said Cassius. Then he turned to me, and said in Latin.

“Bring us food and drink, and the pouch of silver we took from the Vandal dogs.” This last article was a fiction, but Cleades, understanding both Cassius’ words and the meaning behind them, went quickly to take the desired coins from the Consul’s chest. These he placed in his own purse, then emerged and tossed it down to Cassius, while Jacob and I fetched food and wine.

Cassius and I spoke with them, in the end, for several hours. They were hungry for (and a little fearful of) the news we carried, which he gave them in their own fashion, leaving out the uncomfortable fact of the Romans’ defeat at their hands, and our subsequent theft of the ship.

Then the talk turned to Rome itself— growing trouble with the Huns— and I related what I could of the state of the Empire under Honorius:

of the impending marriage between Ataulf, the eastern Visigoth King, and Galla Placidia, the Emperor’s sister, which was supposed to unite our two peoples after the death of Alaric, the bloody-minded fool. Needless to say, I did not put it in these words.

At the mention of Placidia’s name, and the powerful position this afforded her, Cassius turned somewhat pale in spite of himself, and had to cover his dismay with a large draught of wine. For she is known to all— save the Visigoths, apparently— for her beauty and ruthless cunning. With any other man I might have worried that the wine would loosen his tongue; but such was not the case. He no doubt feared the same of me, though under the circumstances I think I did rather well.

But while Cassius’ adage about, “a true Roman can never be drunk,” may be untrue— for I assure you, I have seen my father and his friends in a state near to madness— still he holds his drink as well as anyone. And after recovering from the further shock of what I had to tell— the folly of Alaric and his subsequent death, which Thorundil knew already— in time he brought the conversation to a close, and we returned to the ship.

But once there, meeting with the others in the Consul’s cabin, there

was no disguising his anxiety. For while the Visigoths, after their initial examination, had shown no further sign of hostility, this in itself troubled him. Speaking one way and acting another, is as old as warfare itself.

Cassius believes they will come back again soon, and in greater force, to storm the ship, which they covet. I must admit I caught several of them looking at it with open envy. And while, after the initial shock of their presence, my perceptions of them are less sinister, Cassius’ instincts in such matters have proven true too many times to discount.

So when they were gone, when nightfall came at last, bringing ebb tide with it, we quietly slipped our moorings, turned the ship about and set off once more. Alexander would have liked more time to complete repairs, but he too sensed the danger of remaining there: the way their leader eyed Cleades, I make no doubt.

So with our combined efforts, with Alexander restored to his post at the tillers— for we have all come to trust his judgment when it comes to Aphrodite, which he knows and handles like no one else— we set sail once more upon the dark bosom of the waters, and rode on a strengthening breeze throughout the night, to south and east, away from them.

VII

It is evening, and I write in haste. For a storm is approaching from the north, riding on a land-breeze from Gaul, famous for its sudden fury. This is nothing to take lightly, looming black and terrible on the horizon, devouring the sky. Alexander insists, and our leader does not dispute him, that we must take in the sails, keeping but a single, reefed stormsail aloft, a single jib upon the forestay. He and Cleades have seen to it. He also insists that we run due south, before the wind. And though this runs counter to our plans, though Cassius has threatened to kill him if he pursues some course

of his own, or bends westward to seek harbor in Spain….. We must do as Alexander says, or perish. Cassius has enough experience of the sea to know this, and the twins were born to it.

May God protect us, and help us to weather the fearful storm that is now upon us. Merest survival, yet again.

* * *

Alexander stood at the tillers like a man possessed. Though Cleades had asked to remain on deck beside him, the more manly twin refused. For together they had already done all that was possible to prepare the ship for storm. They had lashed down the hatches, and tied restraining ropes to the rudders, allowing them only a limited sway in either direction. This last so that the agitated seas cannot tear them from his grasp, or cause the ship to broach to: turn parallel to the great waves that continued to rise behind, and thus be overwhelmed. On this point he was adamant: his brother must remain below. Whether he did this to protect him physically or emotionally— I suspect it was both— Cleades reluctantly obeyed.

And while Cassius too had offered to stand beside him, taking one of the rudders and coordinating their efforts— as much to watch as to assist him, I think— after seeing the young man’s strength and skill at riding before the waves, using, rather than trying to fight their awful power, after being knocked down and nearly washed overboard by a cross-wave he did not see coming, he helped lash Alexander to his post by a rude sling about the chest (to avoid a similar fate), and came into the cabin with the rest of us.

All our lives were now in the hands of the young Athenian. I could just see him through the small portal in the door. Such courage and determination I have rarely seen in any man, but also something else I cannot give a name to. Though I dare not speak the thought aloud, he seemed intent on some purpose of his own: as if this fearsome trial, which might well kill him, were the sign, the opportunity he looked for. But who can say what another man thinks?

Cassius extinguished the single, swinging oil lamp we allowed ourselves. It had crashed so violently into the overhead planks that it nearly burst asunder. Cold and blind as this left us, it was better than one or more

of us being set ablaze. Thank God that ours is a taught, and fairly dry ship. For now we were shut up in darkness, with the often alarming motion of the waves, the wind and rain screaming like banshees all around, clinging to each other and to the ropes for stability and support. God help us.

As Alexander battled the storm deep into the night.

Schism

A bolt of lightning struck the mainmast.

The same bolt of lightning missed the ship, striking the water less than forty fathoms off.

The mainmast split, the tops crashing back and down. Alexander saw it coming and was able to dodge the mast itself, but was caught square on the forehead by a falling block.

Alexander reeled at the nearness of the strike, as a split second

later his entire being shook to the overpowering crack of thunder. He gathered himself as best he could and steered the ship away, but remained undaunted in his resolve to escape the brutal and over-peopled

Mediterranean, which had forced his brother and himself into a life worse than death.

He fell to the deck in a heap, only the impromptu harness keeping him from being washed over the side. The ship now swam of its own accord, the jib and restraining ropes alone preventing it from careening wildly and being rolled completely over, sending them all to a watery grave.

Alexander considered. Cassius might well kill him if he knew— too well did he understand the violent nature of such men— but the fury of the storm and the need to yield to its force, survival first and all else after, could not be questioned. The thing that troubled him most was the element of time. He could not hope to pass the fabled Pillars of Hercules in less than two days, and on to the free Atlantic: the Seven Labors, from which he would not shrink. But would the storm, and his strength, last so long? For if the cloud-wrack abated, and direction could be told by sun or star, all might still be lost.

The ship plowed on before the wind, with here