The Emperor Series Books 1-5. Conn Iggulden

to walk through first before following.

      Left alone, Epides sank into his chair and dipped a hand into a bowl of rosewater, dabbing it onto his neck. Then he composed himself and smiled grimly as he gathered his writing materials. For a while, he mused over the clever, sharp retorts he should have made. Threatened by Renius, by all the gods! When he returned home, the story he would tell would include the blistering ripostes, but, at the actual moment, something naked and violent in the man’s eyes had stopped his mouth.

      The second mate was a dour man from northern Italy called Parus. He said very little as Marcus and Renius reported to him, just outlined the daily tasks for a first mate of a trader, ending with the stint on the rudder at around midnight.

      ‘Won’t seem right, calling you first mate, with him still below decks.’

      ‘I’ll be doing his job for him. You’ll call me by his name while I’m doing it,’ Marcus replied.

      The man stiffened. ‘What are you, sixteen? The men won’t like it either,’ he said.

      ‘Seventeen,’ Marcus lied smoothly. ‘The men will get used to it. Maybe we’d better see them now.’

      ‘Have you sailed before?’ Parus asked.

      ‘First trip, but you tell me what needs doing and I’ll get it done. All right?’

      Puffing out his cheeks in obvious disgust, Parus nodded. ‘I’ll get the men on deck.’

      ‘I’ll get the men on deck, First Mate,’ Marcus said clearly through his swollen lips. His eyes glinted dangerously and Parus wondered how he’d beaten Firstmate in a fight and why the man wouldn’t identify him to the captain when any fool could see who it had been.

      ‘First Mate,’ he agreed sullenly and left them.

      Marcus turned to Renius, who was looking askance at him.

      ‘What are you thinking?’ Marcus asked.

      ‘I’m thinking you’d better watch your back, or you won’t ever see Greece,’ Renius replied seriously.

      All the crew who weren’t actively working gathered on the small deck. Marcus counted fifteen sailors, with another five on the rudders and sail rigging around.

      Parus cleared his throat for their attention.

      ‘Since Firstmate’s arm is broken, the captain says the job belongs to this one for the rest of the trip. Get back to work.’

      The men turned to go and Marcus took a step forward, furious.

      ‘Stay where you are,’ he bellowed, surprising himself with the strength of his voice. He had their attention for a moment and he didn’t intend to waste it.

      ‘Now you all know I broke Firstmate’s arm, so I’m not going to deny it. We had a difference of opinion and we fought over it, that’s the end of the story. I don’t know why he hasn’t told the captain who it was, but I respect him a bit more for it. I’ll do his job as best I’m able, but I’m no sailor and you know that too. You work with me and I won’t mind if you tell me when I’m wrong. But if you tell me I’m wrong, you’d better be right. Fair enough?’

      There was a mutter from the assembled men.

      ‘If you’re no sailor, you ain’t going to know what you’re doing. What use is a farmer on a trade ship?’ called a heavily tattooed sailor. He was sneering and Marcus responded quickly, colouring in anger.

      ‘First thing is for me to walk the ship and speak to each one of you. You tell me exactly what your job is and I’ll do it. If I can’t do it, I’ll go back to the captain and tell him I’m not up to the job. Anyone object?’

      There was silence. A few of them looked interested at the challenge, but most faces were bluntly hostile. Marcus clenched his jaw and felt the loose tooth grate.

      He pulled his dagger from his belt and held it up. It was a well-crafted weapon, given to him by Marius as a parting gift. Not lavishly decorated, it was nonetheless an expensive piece, with a bronze wire handle.

      ‘If any man can do something I can’t do, I will give him this, presented to me by General Marius of the Primigenia. Dismissed.’

      This time, there was much more interest in the faces, and a number of the sailors looked at the blade he still held as they went back to their tasks.

      Marcus turned to Renius and the gladiator shook his head slowly in disbelief.

      ‘Gods, you’re green. That’s too good a blade to throw away,’ he said.

      ‘I won’t lose it. If I have to prove myself to the crew, that’s what I’ll do. I’m fit enough. How hard can these jobs be?’

       CHAPTER NINETEEN

      Marcus clung to the mast crosspiece with a knuckle-whitening grip. At this, the highest point of the Lucidae, it seemed as if he was swinging with the mast from one horizon to the other. The sea below was spattered grey with choppy white waves, no danger to the sturdy little vessel. His stomach heaved and every part of him responded with discomfort. All his bruises had stiffened by noon and now he found it hard to turn his head to the right without pain sending black and white spots into his vision.

      Above him, barefoot and standing without support on the spar, was a sailor, the first to try to win the dagger. The man grinned without malice, but the challenge was clear – Marcus had to join him and risk falling into the sea, or, worse, onto the deck far below.

      ‘These masts didn’t look so tall from below,’ Marcus grunted through clenched teeth.

      The sailor walked over to him, perfectly balanced and adjusting his weight all the time to the roll and pitch of the ship.

      ‘Tall enough to kill you. Firstmate could walk the spar though, so I think you’ll just have to make your choice.’

      He waited patiently, occasionally checking knots and ropes for tautness out of habit. Marcus gritted his teeth and heaved himself over the crosspiece, resting his unruly stomach on it. He could see the other men below and noted that a few of the faces were turned upwards to see him succeed, or perhaps to be sure of getting out of the way if he fell – he didn’t know.

      The tip of the mast, festooned with ropes, lay within his reach and he grabbed it and used it to pull himself up enough to get one foot on the cross-spar. The other leg hung below and for a few moments he used its swing to steady himself. Another grunt of effort against his tortured muscles and he was crouching on the spar, gripping the mast-tip with both hands, his knees almost higher than his chin. He watched the horizon move and suddenly felt as if the ship was still and the world spun around him. He felt dizzy and closed his eyes, which helped only a little.

      ‘Come on now,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Good balance you’ve got.’

      His hands shook as he released the mast, using the muscles in his legs to counteract the great swing. Then he uncrouched like an old man, ready to grab at the mast again as soon as he felt his balance fail. He brought himself up from a low bow to a round-shouldered standing position, his eyes fixed on the mast. He flexed his knees a little and began to adjust to the movement through the air.

      ‘There isn’t much wind, of course,’ the sailor said equably. ‘I’ve been up here in a storm trying to tie down a ripped sail. This is nothing.’

      Marcus suppressed a retort. He didn’t want to anger a man who could stand so comfortably with his arms folded, sixty feet above the deck. He looked at him, his eyes leaving the mast for the first time since he reached that height.

      The sailor nodded. ‘You have to walk the length. From your end to mine. Then