Macroscope

There was a lookout sitting high in the bow, now directly opposite him. Ivo yelled.

The head swung around immediately: no snoozing there. An exclamation, and other heads appeared. The banks of oars lifted and paused at the height of their uniform backstroke, and the ship coasted to a halt. Then a chain of gruff orders, and it spun neatly and shot toward him.

Had he thought it a toy, from the patronizing vantage of his macroscopic elevation? This was a precisely disciplined, highly maneuverable warship!

It hove-to above him and he clambered clumsily aboard the ram — Aries the ram? — immensely grateful for its support. He discovered that it was triparte: the major portion was an extension of the narrow keel, reinforced with bronze plates, with two braces converging from the sides of the bow. The entire thing could be crushed or broken off without holing the ship proper. It must have seen action recently, too, for there were no barnacles on it.

Hands reached down from the upper deck. Ivo braced himself against the curving bow and stood up, clinging weakly against the motion of the boat. He was just able to reach the proffered assistance, and in a moment they had him hauled roughly aboard, bruised, chilled through and as tired as he had ever felt, but intact.

A short warrior stood before him, resplendent in metal helmet and leather armor unlike that of the Egyptians: evidently the captain. He studied Ivo, who stood naked and shivering violently in the slight evening breeze. “Who are you?” the captain demanded brusquely.

“Ivo Archer.” He realized that these people were not going to help him until they were satisfied he was not dangerous to them.

“Ivarch,” the captain repeated. “Slave, free or royal?”

“Free.” But how could he prove it, naked as a slave and without money or home-address or friends?

“Which nation?”

“America.”

“Arpad?”

“America.” Naturally they would not have heard of it, but there seemed to be no point in prevarication.

The captain hesitated, probably uncertain whether a citizen of an unknown country deserved courtesy or rebuke.

At length he made his choice. “Mattan will decide.”

Mattan: a superior? A god? Fate?

The captain wheeled neatly in military fashion. “Clothe this man and feed him.” A man of decision, he.

They brought Ivo an abrasive fiber blanket and put him belowdecks where the air was steamy from the perspiration of the naked oarsmen. The stench was terrific, but the warmth made it worthwhile. Before long the stiffness withdrew from his limbs and he felt his vigor oozing back.

He was seated in the stern just ahead of the rudder — man’s compartment. There was a center aisle about five feet across that ran the length of the hull, cluttered with boxes and buckles. On either side were the narrow benches upon which the oarsmen sat, one per oar. They heaved in unison, as they had to, for in these cramped quarters any wrong or poorly timed motion would create chaos. Every second oar projected well into the aisle, but the men did not bother with the added leverage available. They were slaves, obviously, but none was chained or, as far as he could tell, unhappy. Most of them were light-ski

Night, and the hold grew dark. The officer at the far end terminated the cadence and bawled out his orders. The oars were shipped, their ends pushed to the floor and fastened there with stiff leather straps. There followed a period of fifteen minutes while the slaves stood up, stretched, chatted, and relieved themselves into the available containers. The rudderman — another officer, since he wore the leather armor — tied his own oars and used the bucket. Ivo, seeing the way of it and finding himself in need, availed himself in like fashion of the facilities. More of the reason for the intense atmosphere was now evident; not all of it was sweat.

But was it any worse than the broken toilet and steaming garbage of a twentieth-century slum dwelling?

Under the supervision of the bow officer, the slaves hauled on the bottom panels of the lower deck and handed up from the bilge the supplies: rolls of hard bread, goatskins of wine. The rudderman went topside and returned shortly with two legs of smoked goatmeat, one of which he passed to the cadence officer. Rank had its privileges.

Ivo took one of the rolls and found it wooden. It had not occurred to him just how solid unleavened bread could be. He couldn’t bite it; he had to gnaw. Soon the saltiness of it inspired thirst, and he borrowed a skin. He squeezed it the way he had seen the others do, to arc a stream into his mouth without contaminating the nozzle with his saliva. The brownish stuff splashed across his face, bringing laughter from the slaves.

Ivo laughed too, sensing no enmity from these people, and wiped the burning fluid out of his eyes and off his hair. This concoction was beyond contamination! On the second attempt he managed to center on his mouth, though he did not have the technique of swallowing while squirting and had to break off quickly. Wine? This brew tasted like overripe dishwater with frogjuice in it, but it was wet.

Some of the slaves had brought out fine lines of knotted tendon and were dangling these out the oar-ports. Soon Ivo saw why: they were fishing, and not without success. The fish liked the chips of bread! There was air-space around the rising mast, and in an enormous ceramic bowl they built a smoky fire to roast their catches against. The lucky slaves might well sup better than the masters!

While this was not the life Ivo would have chosen for himself, he did find a certain appeal in it. A man here had only to pull his oar and keep the cadence, and he was adequately fed and sheltered and protected, with little to worry about (except an enemy ram?) and plenty of company.

After an hour the crude tallow candles were snuffed. The men returned to their places and slept, seemingly not discommoded by the cramped discomfort. The officer-shift changed; the two hitherto on duty went above, while a single armed soldier paced the aisle. Any slave could have grabbed him from behind, but none was interested; this was token force to keep order, nothing more. Probably the slaves had no knowledge of sailing or of navigation; mutiny was pointless.

Ivo lay down on the filthy deck and slept without difficulty, only moderately queasy from the constant rocking of the boat.

At break of day a rising wind rocked the ship more violently. The slaves gri

About noon orders began to fly above. The men came alive, taking their places and unshipping the oars, though the craft was still under sail. The alternate men who had the projecting oars stood up this time, grasping the tips. The center aisle was now filled, one man standing behind another, arms resting on wood held waist-high.

The cadence began and the oarsmen strove vigorously. The ship — still under sail! — accelerated. Then Ivo heard distant cheering, and understood.

The ship was coming home.

The cadence accelerated and the men fairly bent the oars in their effort, muscles glistening. Ivo peered through the nearest port with some difficulty and was able to make out the outlines of a walled city. Nothing like putting on a show for the homefolk!

Then halt! and the oars reversed as the sail dropped, braking the ship within a few feet of the dock.

The captain had not forgotten Ivo. Two soldiers came to escort him from the ship. He blinked in the brightness of day, topside, then was hustled over the gang to the dock. The harbor was in the southern section of the city; the sunlight slanted over his right shoulder as he walked.