Free Cursed by the Sea God by Patrick Bowman Page B

Meanwhile, Lopex seemed to be everywhere at once, choosing
     treesto shape into replacement oars, working with our fat
     stores-master to replenish our ship’s provisions and chivvying the carpenter to
     complete repairs to the Pelagios . On the fifth day after we reached the
     island I saw Lopex returning to the beach from somewhere. The ship’s carpenter,
     a balding little man with only three fingers on his right hand, was sidling up
     to him, shaking his head.
    “It’s not so simple as all that, Lopex,” he was saying. “A month’ll never do,
     not with the state she’s in.” He leaned down to rap at a hull plank near the
     sand. “D’you hear that? Half these planks, it’s just barnacles and shipworm
     holding them together. And the deep waves, they flex her keel fierce as she
     crests. It’s Poseidon’s own miracle that we haven’t all fed the eels, sailing
     her like this. Now, back at Korinthos yard I could refit in a month, but here
     I’ll have to cut and shape everything separate.” He shook his head, sucking air
     through his teeth. “You don’t want to rush it, Lopex. It’s her knees, don’t you
     see, her knees won’t take it, they’re hanging off their pins—”
    Lopex held up a weary hand. “Stop.” Caught in mid-flow, the carpenter looked
     up.
    “Just get it done quickly. I’ll assign some men to help you,” Lopex went on.
     “As for parts, Circe will provide whatever I want . . .” His voice trailed off
     as he stared up the hill in the direction of Circe’s cottage.
    All at once his gaze returned to the carpenter. “You’re right, Arturos. This is
     too important to rush. Take whatever timeyou need. I will take
     it upon myself to ensure that the sorceress stays friendly to us.” He turned and
     headed back up the path toward Circe’s cottage. Perplexed, the carpenter stared
     after him, rubbing the back of his neck.
    On a cloudy morning over a month later, I was finishing some supper leavings
     with Zosimea, a sharp-tongued older woman who had been enslaved with me at Troy.
     From down the beach, I could hear the crack of wood against wood and some
     halfhearted cursing. At my glance, Zosimea shrugged. “Some idiot Greek thing,
     boy. Don’t get involved.” I got up and headed closer to see anyway.
    On the far side of the Pelagios , two men were practising sparfighting,
     brandishing wooden poles at one another like swords, surrounded by a dozen
     watching men. The trainer was a wiry, nut-brown man they called Pakullos,
     fighting in nothing but a loincloth and sandals. He must have had at least
     fifteen years on his opponent, but he was leaping about like a monkey, skipping
     easily out of the way of his opponent’s spar while landing blow after blow
     himself. Thersites, a slope-shouldered Greek soldier with a foul temper, was
     going to be badly bruised tomorrow. I slipped quietly between a couple of
     cheering Greeks to watch.
    “Hit me, you oaf!” Pakullos was squeaking. “Not like that, are you throwing
     flower petals? No, never look where you’re striking, your eyes give you away.
     Always look at your opponent’s face, you bumbling sueios
     ekpneusis !”
    Even after a year with the Greeks, that insult took me a moment.
     I ducked my head down to hide my smile as I got it, but Thersites, leaning on
     his spar for a breather, spotted me.
    “Think this is funny, slave boy?” he snarled. “Laughing at me, are you?” He
     threw his spar at me and I caught it automatically. “The slave, he’s going to
     show us how it’s done!” he shouted.
    I was about to drop the spar and run off when a hand pinned my shoulder. “If
     you run now, you know, they’ll never respect you,” Deklah said softly.
     “Pakullos will give you a few falls. You’re small. Just try to be hard to hit.”
     He gave me a shove that sent me staggering into the ring.
    Pakullos eyed me dubiously and looked back at the circle of men. “Spar with that ?” he called,