The Navigator - Cussler Clive - Страница 3
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The column set off the way it had come. The procession moved at a brisk pace, without the weight burdening the cart, and marched directly to the river. Built along the sloping shore of the river was a wooden building whose large doors faced the water. The captain inspected the interior of the building. When he emerged, he seemed pleased. He told Tarsa and his men to prepare a fine meal and get a good night’s sleep.
At dawn, the tireless captain awoke them. The horses dragged a wooden boat from the storehouse and down to the river. The open-decked craft was half boat, half raft, around fifty feet long and a dozen or so feet wide, and drew only a few feet of water. A long tiller operated the rudder.
The horses were led onto the boat, and it was pushed and poled into the river to catch the currents. The ride downriver was more hair-raising than their sea voyage. The boat encountered shallows, rapids, drifting trees, whirlpools, and rocks. The Scythians cheered when the boat popped out of the mouth of the river and they saw the ship at its mooring.
The ship’s crew welcomed the new arrivals and helped drag the riverboat onto shore. While the captain wrote in his log, the crew celebrated late into the night. They were astir well before dawn, and the sun was just peeking over the trees as they cast off the mooring lines. Powered by the ranks of oarsmen and the wind, the ship moved swiftly out into the bay, the rowers putting their backs into their work. Like every other man on board, they were impatient to return home.
The exuberance on board the vessel was cut short by an unexpected development. As the ship passed an island, another vessel pulled out and barred their way.
THE CAPTAIN shouted a brisk order to ship oars and drop sails. He climbed onto a large water urn in the bow to better study the vessel. There was no sign of life on board, but the deck was obscured by a wicker fence for cargo protection that ran along the sheer strake, as the highest hull plank was called.
He was looking at a ship of Tarshish.
The craft had the same functionally graceful lines as the captain’s ship. The deck was long and straight, and the curving stern and horse-head-sculpted stem rose high above the water. The captain’s razor-sharp eyes picked out important differences between the two ships. The strange craft had been built for trade and modified for war.
The stranger’s bow was bound with bronze rather than wood, creating a beak that could tear the heart out of the strongest-built ship. The massive scull and prow oars clamped to the hull could serve as battering rams.
The Scythian commander came up to the captain. “Should we send a boarding party?”
The captain pondered the question. A Phoenician ship should pose no threat, but there was no reason for the vessel to be where it was. Its actions, while not hostile, were certain not friendly.
“No,” the captain said. “We wait.”
Five minutes passed. Then ten. After twenty minutes, figures could be seen climbing down a ladder into the warship’s utility boat. The boat approached to within earshot. There were four men at the oars. A fifth stood with legs wide in the prow, his purple cloak billowing out behind him like a loose sail. He cupped his hands to his mouth.
“Greetings, my brother,” he shouted across the water.
“Greetings to you, brother,” the captain said with surprise. “How came you here?”
A look of mock incredulity appeared on the man’s face. He pointed to the warship. “I came as you did, Menelik, in a ship of Tarshish.”
“For what purpose, Melqart?”
“To join forces once again, dear brother.”
The captain’s face betrayed no emotion, but his dark eyes smoldered with anger. “You knew of my mission?”
“We are family, are we not? There are no secrets among kin.”
“Then make no secret to me of your wishes.”
“Yes, of course. Come aboard my ship and we’ll talk.”
“My ship’s hospitality is open to you as well.”
The man in purple laughed. “It’s obvious that we lack brotherly trust.”
“Maybe that’s because we are only half brothers.”
“We share the same blood, nonetheless.” Melqart pointed to the island. “Let us stop this childish discussion and meet on neutral ground to talk.”
The captain studied the island. Unlike most of the heavily treed shoreline, the sandy riverbank was flat for a few hundred feet before rising into a low, grassy ridge.
“Very well,” he shouted.
The captain told Tarsa to round up a landing party. Tarsa picked four of his most battle-hardened men. Minutes later, the utility boat nudged up to the riverbank. The Scythians stayed with the boat while the captain strode up the sloping beach.
His half brother stood a hundred feet from the shore with arms crossed. He was dressed in full Phoenician regalia, with a richly patterned two-piece tunic under his purple cloak and a conical cap on his head. A gold collar encircled his neck, and his arms and fingers were adorned with gold.
He was the captain’s equal in height, and his handsome face bore a sharp resemblance to his brother’s, with its prominent nose, dark complexion, wavy hair and beard. There were major differences, however. The captain’s regal bearing came across as imperious and arrogant while his half brother’s features were brutish rather than strong. His dark eyes had no depth or softness. His prominent chin hinted at stubbornness rather than determination.
“How wonderful to see you after all these years, dear brother,” Melqart said, with an engaging smile that had more slyness than charm in it.
The captain was in no mood for insincere niceties. “Why are you here?” he demanded.
“Perhaps our father decided that you needed help on your mission.”
“He would never have trusted you.”
“He obviously entrusted you, and you’re a thief.”
The captain’s cheeks burned at the insult, but he held his anger in check. “You haven’t answered my question.”
His half brother shrugged. “I learned that you were on the move. I tried to intercept you, but your ship was too fast and we fell behind.”
“Why has your ship been fit for war?”
“These are dangerous waters.”
“You defy our father by coming here. This would not be his wish.”
“Our father.” He spit out the words. “Our father was a womanizer who slept with your whore of a mother.”
“And your whore of a mother as well?”
Melqart pulled his purple robe back. His hand started toward the pommel of his sword, but he thought better of it and drew his hand it back. “We are foolish to quarre lover family matters,” he soothed. “Let us go back to my ship. I will serve you refreshments, and we can talk.”
“There is nothing to talk about. You will turn your ship back. We will follow.”
The captain spun on his heel and strode back toward the river. He kept his ear cocked for footfalls, in the unlikely event that his brother found the courage to attack him. But the only sound he heard was Tarsa, who cried out:
“Captain! Behind you!”
The Scythian had seen a dozen or so figures rise from the grassy ridge behind the beach.
The captain wheeled as the men sprinted in his direction. Tattoos decorated their shoulders and chests.
Thracians.
Another fierce-eyed race that hired out its skills with the sword and javelin to the Phoenician navies. The Thracians swept by his half brother, who urged them on:
“Kill him! Kill him!”
The captain drew his short broadsword as the screaming Thracians quickly encircled him.
He pivoted to face his attackers, but he couldn’t guard his back. A Thracian moved in with his javelin in throwing position, only to stop short and drop his weapon. Clutching at the feathered shaft protruding from his throat, he let out a wet cough, sank to his knees, and fell forward face-first into the sand.
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