The Wadjet Eye (4 page)

The boy opened a pouch. Damon recognized the pouch, but Artemas peered inside. "Our gold!"

Damon studied the boy's face. The boy looked over his shoulders, first right then left, and put the pouch in Damon's hand.

"Thank you."

The boy stayed, looking from Artemas to Damon.

"Give him a piece of gold," Artemas said.

"What? It's
our
gold." Damon frowned.

"It would be the captain's gold if he hadn't taken a hand."

"But—"

"There's a custom—if a ship is sure to go down, the crew and passengers hang gold from their necks. They hope that when a body washes ashore, whoever discovers it will be grateful for the gold and use a portion of it to see to a decent burial. The boy risked his life, I would wager, to bring us this gold. He should get something."

Damon plucked a coin from the pouch and pressed it into the boy's hand. The boy snatched it and disappeared as quickly as the smile that flickered across his face.

Damon rested his head on the rail and closed his eyes, but it just made the nausea worse. The boat rocked, and with it his stomach surged. He threw up over the rail into the sea.

Artemas patted his shoulder. "You're lucky it's so calm. It will pass."

"I've been sick for three days. I need to get on solid land." Damon tried not to whine, but failed. "I thought we had to stick to the coastline."

"The captain decided to make a run for it. We'll save weeks by crossing open water. Be thankful you're not an oarsman in the hold."

Damon had passed the open hatches and smelled the foul fumes of human sweat and excrement from below. Just the memory of the stench made him clutch his stomach.

"We'll see land soon," Artemas assured him.

Damon threw up. He held his chalky forehead in his hand. It felt cold yet sweaty. "How soon?"

Artemas didn't answer him. Damon lifted his head.

Artemas pointed to his vomit floating. The patch of froth swirled outward.

"Can you throw up again?"

"You must be joking. I thought two days ago my stomach had to be empty. If there was anything left, it would be on your feet."

"Look. Look how it arcs away from the boat."

"So?"

"Are you sure you can't vomit again?" Artemas looked around the deck. "Never mind. Help me find something to throw overboard that floats."

Damon looked around. The rocking deck made him run for the side again. He vomited. "Happy?"

Artemas studied the vomit swirling outward. "Quick! We must tell the captain."

"I doubt he's going to have much sympathy for my seasickness."

"Not about your seasickness. The vortex."

"What?"

"We are nearing a whirlpool. We have to change course."

"Artemas, I don't mean to suggest that I don't believe you, but you've never even been out to sea before. Don't you think maybe—"

Artemas grabbed a deckhand by the shoulder. "Where's the captain? Quickly."

The deckhand pointed his chin toward the hatch. "He's in his quarters. But I wouldn't disturb him—he's sleeping."

Artemas pushed past the sailor and slid down the ladder, feet on both sides, ignoring the rungs. Damon followed, stepping carefully. "Artemas, maybe we shouldn't wake the captain."

Artemas ran toward the captain's quarters shouting, "Captain!"

The captain, stretched out in his hammock, lifted his head. "Who's making all this noise? Oh, it's you. I should have known. Go away."

Artemas grabbed the edge of the captain's hammock. "We are coming up on a whirlpool. You have to change course."

"Now, how would you know that?"

"I can see it in what floats."

The captain looked at the gubernator, who had rushed in behind Artemas and Damon. "Anything up ahead?"

The sailing master shook his head, smirking at Artemas. "The paper admiral must be studying too hard. His head is spinning."

"Then let me get some sleep, by Jove."

Artemas tried to tip the captain from his hammock. "We will all drown!"

The captain pushed Artemas away. "If he doesn't shut up, throw him overboard." He winked at the gubernator. "Observe how he floats."

Artemas turned and ran smack into Damon. "Quick." He grabbed Damon by the upper arm and dragged him to the ladder. Damon's feet barely brushed the floor.

"Where are we going?"

Artemas pushed Damon up the rungs. When Damon lost his footing, Artemas shouldered him upward and kept climbing. Damon struggled to regain his footing and climbed faster.

The gubernator stood at the bottom, his hands on his hips. "If you see a pirate ship, Admiral," he called after them, "be sure to come back. We'll need an expert to hold our hands!"

Artemas shouted at Damon, pushing him quickly toward the stern. "The gangplank is on the deck. Throw it overboard and jump."

"But we're in the middle of the sea." Damon looked around, nothing but water full circle. "We'll need food and water."

"There isn't time."

"We'll die of thirst before we reach land."

"We'll die for sure if we stay on this boat."

"But the oarsmen? They can row."

"By the time they feel the pull of the whirlpool, the oarsmen will be useless. Hurry! It may already be too late."

"You're a madman if you think I'm going to jump off this boat into the water." Damon stood with his fists planted on his hipbones. "How can you even be sure we are headed for a vortex?"

"I've read about them. You've got to trust me!"

Damon heard the edge of hysteria in Artemas's voice. Could he be right? But jump in? Here? In the middle of nowhere? Damon shook his head and backed up a step.

"Damon, we've got to move. There's no time!"

He'd heard Artemas say those words before, with that same sound of desperation. They had been little then. The others had laughed. But Damon had trusted Artemas, and they had paddled furiously. Damon had fell silly, paddling in a frenzy when the water of the Nile was so calm, the others laughing at them. But he had done it because he had trusted his friend. The hippos had surfaced just as Artemas had predicted. Damon and Artemas had watched their friends' papyrus boats capsize. Watched the crocodiles slide from the bank into the water.

Damon closed his eyes. Artemas had been right then. Was he right again now?

Suddenly, the ship's wooden hull screeched in pain, twisted by the currents below. It shrieked as board rubbed against board.

Damon ran to help Artemas pick up the loading gangplank. It was oversized for carts, and solidly built. They strained under its weight. They lifted one end until it rested on the rail, then pushed, sliding it until it teetered in the middle.

"You!" The gubernator scrambled out of the hold.

Artemas struggled to lift the end of the plank over his head. The weight favored the half out over the water, and the plank spilled over the side, making a loud crack when it hit against the hull on its way down.

"Jump!"

Artemas was running for the edge when the boy peered out from where he was hiding behind the folded mizzen sail. The boy's eyes showed mostly white, his mouth wide. Artemas ran back and grabbed the boy, who began to kick and flail his arms. Artemas threw him overboard, then jumped after him.

Damon watched, frozen by the rail. He looked back at the gubernator hurtling toward him, screaming and turning brighter red the closer he got. Damon hated the damn boat anyhow. He vaulted over the side.

Damon hit the water sideways. The slap stung, and he sank into the cold, cold sea. Then he stopped, suspended a moment in a flurry of bubbles before starting to rise. He broke the surface, gasping for breath and turning himself around in a circle in the water, puffing through his mouth against the cold.

The gubernator leaned over the stern, shouting and shaking a fist. Damon kept spinning, turning just in time to put his hands out and catch the gangplank in the current rushing toward him. Artemas was swimming. The boy trailed behind him, punching the water where Artemas had just been.

"Get up, use it like a raft." Artemas put both hands on the side of the gangplank and kicked his way up until his elbows were locked, then threw one leg over and rolled onto the plank. He stuck an arm out to the boy. Screaming curses, the boy tried to pull Artemas off. Artemas kicked him in the jaw. The boy's head lolled to one side, and he bobbed backward, floating away from the raft.

"What did you do that for?" Damon asked, clawing his way up onto the gangplank.

There wasn't time for explanations, even if we could make him understand." Artemas grabbed the boy by his tunic and pulled him next to the plank. Damon hooked his arm under one of the boy's arms and Artemas hooked his under the other. Together they hauled the unconscious boy onto the plank.

Damon looked back at the ship, sailing on. The distance grew rapidly. What if Artemas was wrong? What if this was just some ocean current?

"Let's go!" Artemas screamed and madly thrashed at the water. Damon turned onto his stomach and struck out with cupped hands. They made headway against the current, but just barely. It seemed as if they were standing still. Damon's shoulders began to ache, but still he beat the water as fast as he could. He gritted his teeth against the pain and pressed his chin into the gangplank. The salt stung his eyes.

The boy moved on the plank ahead of him. If he rolled off, they would have to leave him behind. They couldn't go back now. The pull was too strong. If this was a vortex, they were being sucked right into it.

"Faster!" Artemas yelled again. His voice sounded as if he were in agony Damon counted in his head.
One, two, three, four.
The aching in his arms felt as if it were spreading.
Eight, nine, ten.
His breath was coming in short gasps now. His breath was coming so quickly he timed the strokes to it.
Twenty, twenty-one.

He looked over his shoulder again. The ship was turning oddly now, arcing to the right. He was sure his arms would fall off if he had to take another stroke. He looked ahead at Artemas, the muscles in his back straining against the water, his head raised, water white with froth from his striking, the sea rising up all around him. Damon didn't know how much longer he could keep going. He was losing sensation in his arms. What if they couldn't escape the pull?

Damon felt a sudden lurch. Were they moving forward? Yes. They were skimming the calm water, moving quickly now as if they had been shot from a bow.

Damon collapsed against the board. He felt his jagged breathing, his heart pounding in his chest. In front of him Artemas still slashed wildly at the water.

"Artemas. Artemas! Stop. You can stop."

Artemas rolled onto his back and folded his arms across his heaving chest.

They watched the Roman galley. It was arcing more tightly now. The oars suddenly thrust from the sides. The galley looked like a centipede rolled on its back, thrashing at the air. The oars slapped the sea randomly. Some oars never appeared, and others fell unmanned after a few swipes—not the even rowing that Damon had seen when they had left the harbor.

The ship began to pick up speed, turning full circle, careening to one side. Damon could hear screams, or did he just imagine it? Oarsmen swarmed the deck, throwing themselves overboard, only to be swept around, then sucked under. The ship made one final turn, then tipped, holding for a heartbeat before disappearing from view as if Poseidon himself had snatched it from below.

The boy, raised up on his elbow now, stared at the spot where his ship had just been. The horizon was empty. Empty of ship, empty of men, empty of debris. Just the smooth sea in all directions.

Damon knew they had escaped the vortex, but for what? To die of thirst, with nothing but water no matter where they looked? In the dissection rooms at the Museum he had seen bodies of those who had died this way: tongues swollen to ten times their size, skin blistered from exposure. Would it have been better to have gone down with the ship? Artemas and the boy looked happy to have survived. Was Damon the only one who could see beyond the moment?

"Where do you suppose we are?" he asked. He knew Artemas had been studying charts while he, Damon, threw up over the rail during those days at sea. "Are we near land?"

"We're three days' sail from Sicily 1 think. I'll know better tonight, if it's clear enough to see the stars. Not close to land, I'm afraid."

"On a trade route?" Damon imagined that enormous grain ship appearing over the horizon.

"The captain took a rather unusual route." Artemas looked down.

"No rescue, then."

"No rescue."

Damon pointed to the boy. "How are we going to tell him?"

The boy watched them speak, looking at Damon's mouth, then Artemas's, following the movement of their lips as if it would help him decipher their words.

"Tell him what?"

"That we're going to die out here."

"You don't know that."

"Oh, come on, Artemas. Look around you."

"We'll paddle to land. We can make it."

"He has a right to know," Damon said stubbornly.

"Why?"

"What if he has gods to make peace with?"

"You just want everyone to be miserable."

"We're in the middle of the sea, Artemas. We're supposed to be miserable! I wish you'd never seen the vortex. At least we'd have gone down quickly."

"It's right over there." Artemas gestured. "No one's stopping you."

Damon was so angry he felt like plunging in and swimming toward the spot where they'd last seen the ship. Any fool could see it wouldn't make a difference. One way or the other they were going to die, even if Artemas didn't want to face it. They were going to die.

Damon's tongue filled his whole mouth. It stuck to the roof and the sides, making him gag when he tried to swallow. His throat ached for water. And he was cold. The cold made him tired. The water sucked the warmth from him, while the salt in the water sucked out the moisture. The sea was pulling the life from him.

The boy had stared numbly when the ship first went down. Then he had surprised Damon by flopping into the water on his back, spouting like a whale, and kicking his heels. Damon thought the boy had lost his mind until Artemas pointed to the scars zigzagging across his shoulders, chest, and back. He'd been whipped. Some of the scars were old, but many were fresh. In the water the boy was celebrating his captain's fate, unaware, yet, of his own.