"A little," Shirin allowed, looking worried.
"You will need to eat." The harbormaster rummaged on his desk and found a punched copper ticket. "Take this scrip," he said, pressing the token into her hand. "Calvus should be happy to have a priestess on board; it'll bring good luck. If he makes trouble, show him the scrip and tell him you're traveling on municipal business, on my business."
The harbormaster stared at her for a moment longer, then shook his head. "Good luck."
"Thank you." Shirin tucked the copper scrip away and hurried out. The Bast seemed very large, though she supposed the grain-hauler would shatter like any ship, if a large enough wave roared up out of the deep to swamp her. The Khazar woman was not happy at the prospect of going aboard—the quarters would be cramped and hot, and filled with soldiers. One slim hand crept under her cloak and touched the hilt of a long iron knife she had taken from the ruins. The cold metal made her feel better. The heavy weight of the jewel between her breasts was comforting too, though thinking of the gift turned her thoughts onto an unhappy path.
—|—
Gangs of shallow-draft tugs herded the Bast out to sea when the wind turned in late afternoon. Shirin managed to find a spot on the upper deck among some lashed-down crates. She was watching the rowers straining at their oars, bare backs glistening with sweat. The grain-hauler edged out to sea, passing between the pair of pharos. The wind was light, but it bellied the sails enough to let the heavy ship make headway. Shirin watched the Latin coast drop away, still dominated by the ragged cone of Vesuvius. Her memories of the ruined villa and the little graves already seemed faint, clouded and indistinct. She turned away, looking out to sea, watching the blue waters flash in the sun.
The sailing-master of the Bast hadn't troubled her, not when he saw she bore the sign of the Huntress. Shirin was very glad—she didn't know enough about this foreign religion to deceive a real believer—but her time on Thira had acquainted her with the basic themes. Despite what she'd told the harbormaster, she did have enough coin to purchase food during the voyage to Egypt. But it was not wise to boast of such things, not to a stranger.
"Mistress?" Shirin turned, hand automatically sliding around the hilt of her knife. A legionary, a very young one, was standing beside her at the rail. His brown hair lay flat on his head like a leather cap, and his warm eyes were filled with worry. "Will you say a prayer for us, for the voyage? To keep this flimsy boat from splitting open and spilling us into the sea?"
Shirin looked where he pointed and saw a group of soldiers sitting not far away. They already looked bilious and pale, which almost made Shirin smile. Until Thyatis had snatched her out of the burning ruins of Ctesiphon, she had never been on a boat larger than the hide coracles her brothers made to fish in the Rha or in the marshes along the Salt Sea. Three months in a dhow dogging the coast of Arabia and Africa exposed her to the real ocean, and against the heavy waves and tides of the Mare Erythraeum, this Inner Sea of the Romans was a flat, placid lake.
"What is your name?" she said, keeping her voice and face solemn. She supposed some priestesses might smile, but was not a good idea, not for a single woman on a ship filled with legionaries. She did not feel like smiling anyway. The soldier swallowed visibly, then bobbed his head.
"I'm, ah, Marcus Flaccus, my lady. We're from the Immortal Bulls, the Legion Fifth Macedonia."
"Do you have a sacrifice, to placate the gods and Poseidon Sea King?" Shirin knew her voice was cold and forbidding, but the little spark of fear in the soldier warmed her. "A hen, a lamb?"
The soldier shook his head sadly. "No, lady. We hoped you would spy out any poor omens... and avert them, you know, by speaking for us to the god."
Shirin nodded, looking out to sea again. The sky was clear and the horizon a slightly bowed line of dark blue. She turned back to the boy and fixed him with a gimlet eye. "The captain had omens cast, before we boarded?" Marcus nodded, looking a little queasy. "They were poor?"
"Oh, no!" Marcus raised a hand to his lips. It veered close to bad luck to mention poor omens aboard ship. "They were good, very good. The priest sneezed—to the right—during the ceremony. A good sign."
"Then why are you worried?" Shirin essayed a thin smile. "If you are not impious while aboard, if you do not swear, or curse the gods, and suffer no dreams of dark water, then all will be well. We will be in Alexandria in a week or a little more. I will watch for signs the gods have changed their mind."
"Yes, my lady. Thank you." Marcus bowed and scurried away. Shirin watched him with interest. She had not been raised to be particularly religious; she was the daughter of a kagan, not a rev, and the hand of omen and portent lay lightly upon her. These Romans, though, they seemed a frightened lot, filled with concern over the flight of birds, or the color of the sky, or whatever phantoms of drink and poorly cooked meat plagued their dreams. Hiding a smile again, she settled on one of the heavy crates the Legion had brought aboard and wondered what she would do about food and water. She did have some money, but it occurred to her that on a ship of soldiers, there might not be anyone to purchase food from. Usually a big ship like this carried at least one merchant, selling tents, capes, sun hats, food, wine and fruit to the passengers. She scowled, wondering if she would have to beg from the crew.
—|—
The sun plunged down into the western sea, filling the sky with a glorious clear light. A few clouds crept across the heavens during the long, hot day and they gleamed like polished bronze. The Bast made good time, it seemed, down the Latin coast. Even with night falling, the captain was pleased enough with the weather to keep sailing after dark. On the shore, lights were beginning to wink on, tiny and orange against the deepening gloom. Shirin supposed there were towns and villages all along the coast, providing simple wayposts for passing ships.
She sat cross-legged, as Mikele might do, picking at the hem of her robe in irritation. An hour or so ago, she had taken a turn around the long deck—the Bast was almost two hundred feet long, with a deck forty feet, or more, wide. Every conceivable space was crowded with soldiers and their gear. The sailing master had mentioned nearly two thousand soldiers were aboard. Belowdecks, she supposed it was worse, with the cavernous cargo holds crowded with animals, more equipment and those men who hadn't managed to find a place to sleep up on the deck. She hadn't found anyone to sell her food. Now the Legion cooks were busy around a stone hearth behind the main yard, and the smell of frying sausages and bacon, meal cakes and fresh biscuits filled the air. Shirin's stomach growled and she clutched her middle, surprised by the pang of hunger shooting though her.
She closed her eyes and sent up a prayer to the great god watching over her people. Please don't let my mother know I had to beg for food from a foreigner! The thought made Shirin a little ill, but eating was far better than not eating, as her belly reminded her. Then a brief, intense series of memories plagued her—every glorious feast she had ever presided over while in Ctesiphon—the details of the roasts, the golden-glazed hens, the acres of cheese and baked breads and sweetmeats and wine, all presented themselves for her inspection. She desperately missed being an Empress.
"Foulness..." she whispered, staring gloomily out at the sea. A grunt answered. She looked around and found a grizzled-looking man with stout arms, a barrel chest and broad, stump-nosed face standing nearby. He was wearing the undertunic and leggings of a legionary and his bare arms showed puckered scars and welts like a blacksmith's anvil. Shirin felt a chill, seeing his flat eyes and the way they traveled over her.
"Your... pardon, lady," the man said, squinting. Shirin tensed, gaining the impression this soldier might not believe her story. "My lads wanted to know if you would join them at dinner, bless the food and the like, set their minds at ease."
"You are not at ease?" Shirin's nostrils flared. The soldier was staring fixedly at her breasts. She stood up, drawing the cloak around her. He blinked then, meeting her eyes.
"Can't say I like traveling on the water, no," he allowed. Shirin nodded, looking over at the soldiers sitting on the deck. They had their food on wooden plates and they were watching her, faces pale ovals in the growing darkness. "Will you join us?"
"I will," Shirin said, hunger blunting the edge of her suspicion. "My name is... Ruth. I serve Artemis, the Hunter. What is your name?"
The soldier blinked again, then rubbed his nose. "Florus, centurion of the Twelfth of the Fifth."
Shirin nodded somberly. "Well met, then, Master Florus."
—|—
Full night had fallen by the time Shirin finished stuffing herself with fried meal cakes and honey. The soldiers watched her with amusement and then in a little awe. They hadn't eaten so much—but then they'd had a meal in the morning too. When she was done, the Khazar woman set the plate on the deck, swallowed and looked around at the men with a calm expression. Inside, she wanted to shout or cheer with relief, before curling up and going to sleep. She had not eaten so well since diving off the Pride of Cos. Grubbing in the ruins, or accepting handouts from the Imperial troops sent into the devastation were poor sources of food. In Rome, the stink of the city, its strangeness, awesome size and the howling roar of the Colloseum crowd had crushed her appetite. Sitting in the darkness, only faintly lit by a candle lantern, hearing the rigging creak and feeling the cool night air wash over her, reminded her of the long trip around Arabia and up the African coast.
She clenched her teeth, biting back tears, missing the solid warm presence of Thyatis at her side, and her cousins Kharmi, Efraim and Menahem, and her children... She felt a terrible pang, like a knife twisting in her diaphragm, fearful the voyage might prove to be the only happy time in her life. A vision of Thyatis laughing, red hair bound back behind her head, a little boy hanging from each arm, shrieking as the Roman woman spun them about on the deck, swam up into her memory.
"Thank you," she managed, driving away the cruel image. "May the Huntress' luck be with you, in war and in peace."
There was a pleased murmur from the soldiers. "Thank you, lady, we'll need it with these Persians! Though they've not faced the Fifth, by Jupiter!" Heads nodded, half-seen in the darkness.
Shirin looked over at Florus, sitting at the edge of the circle, his hands busy with oil and a cloth and a file. His armor lay out in front of him, each segment carefully arranged, the wire and leather thongs removed. The soldier was carefully cleaning each bit of metal, rubbing away rust, coating them with oil. Some of the other men did the same, though they were not paying such close attention.
"There will be fighting in Egypt, then," she said.
"Yes," Marcus answered her, sitting up. His young face caught a little of the light from the candle lantern. "They've been lucky so far, thrashing the Easterners, but they've not fought the West, not yet, not under a real general like the Caesar Aurelian!"
The other men nodded and some laughed. "We'll show them a steady line," they said.
"Have you fought the Persians before?" Shirin was curious. She had spent a long time in Persia and knew what the diquans said of Rome. What did their enemies think? "You've faced the cataphracts and the clibanarus—the oven-men, I think you call them—in full battle array?"
"No," Marcus admitted, grimacing. "Well, the centurion has, right Florus?"
There was a grunt from the darkness, but the centurion did not look up from his work.
"If you follow his orders," Shirin said, seeing the soldiers were very young and brave, but afraid to admit they had not faced an enemy as fearsome as the Persians. "You will do well, and fight honorably."
"Have you seen the Persians in battle?" Marcus failed to keep both curiosity and disbelief from his voice.
"I have," Shirin said, then stopped, wondering if anything she might say to these boys would matter. Soon they would fight and live, or die, by their own merits on some Egyptian field. "When I was little, before I became a... priestess, I lived near the Persian frontier. More than once, I saw the Persians ride against... my people. They make a great show on the march, bright banners and flags and great horns blowing, and they are all a-horse, great chargers with round chests. Their spears are keen, I remember, and wave like a forest of shining reeds."
"But Rome has always beaten them," Marcus interjected, his voice concerned. "Off their horses they're no match for us, not on broken ground!"
"I hope so," Shirin said. "The Huntress would be pleased to see you live. When I am home again, I will sacrifice for you, and your safety."
That pleased the young Romans, who raised their cups in salute. Shirin felt a little odd, as if she'd pulled a mask across her face and suddenly spoken with someone else's voice. Marcus lowered his cup, his face suddenly grim. "We shouldn't be too quick to discount them, though."
"Why?" called some of the other men. Shirin noticed Florus raise his big square head to watch the younger man with interest.
"They have arts we lack," Marcus said, looking around at his fellows, mouth thinned to a sharp line. "They did not throw down the walls of Constantinople by strength of mortal arms! No, their foul priests summoned up some fiend—"
"Their priests are not foul!" Shirin was surprised by the vehemence in her voice. "The mobeds and mobehedan are pious men, who serve a god of light, not darkness. Their god may be different from yours, but he too rules justly in heaven. I fear—" She stopped, throat choked closed by old anger. Her face seemed to shutter, as if a door closed on a lighted room. In dark memory, she looked upon almost-forgotten pain and turned the scenes and voices over in her thought like glittering bits of glass. With an effort, she returned her attention to the present, and the stunned, questioning faces of the young soldiers.