When Phryne saw Hwicca go in to her husband and close the door behind,
she felt this ship would be no place for anyone else tonight. Let her
board the other one, then. She made sure that the dagger was safe in
her girdle, then climbed the grappling plank.
It surged and chattered on the newly won decks. Tjorr stood huge,
bawling out his orders. They had begun to release the slaves; one after
another shambled into the sunlight and blinked with dull eyes. Phryne
went to the Sarmatian. "Can I be of help?" she asked.
"Ha? Oh, it's you, little one. Best you keep out of harm's way. We've
much to do before sunset."
"I told you I want to help, you oaf," she snapped.
Tjorr scratched in his ruddy beard. "I don't know what with. I'll not
let you scrub the planks nor cook a meal. Sets a bad example, you know,
we have to be officer class now. And otherwise--"
"_Aqua, aqua._" Croaking came from the pitch-bubbling deck as though
men had become frogs.
Phryne looked at one who was trying feebly to stanch blood from a half
severed arm. She felt more than a little ill, but she wetted her lips
and said, "I know something about the care of hurts. Let me see to the
wounded."
"Waste of time," said Tjorr. "If they're not too badly cut, a swathe
of rags and maybe a few stitches will save 'em. The rest it would be
kinder to throw overboard."
Phryne answered slowly: "Some woman bore each of these beneath her
heart once. Let me do what I can."
"As you wish. Find a place down below. I'll tell off a couple of men to
bear them thither for you."
In the time that followed, Phryne had horror to do. Twice she
stopped--once to cast up at a certain sight and once to change
her blood-stiffened gown for a tunic. It was hot and foul in the
'tween-decks space; the groaning and gasping seemed to fill her cosmos.
Her temper began to slip--having held the hand of one youth and smiled
on him, as the only lullaby she could give while he died, she heard a
man screaming as though in childbirth, and, seeing he had a mere broken
finger, she chased him out at dagger point. Otherwise it was to wash
and bandage, cut and sew and swaddle, set and splint and fetch water,
with no more help than a ship's carpenter from Galilee or some such
dusty place.
She came out at last, unable to do more--now Aesculapius and Hermes
Psychopompos must divide the souls as they would--and saw the sun low
above a sea growing choppy. Its rays touched ragged mare's-tails that
flew from the west; wind piped on the rigging. She shivered as that
air flowed across her bare legs and arms, but made her way over a deck
strange in its orderliness. Tjorr was looking down into an open cargo
hatch.
He turned and grinned at her through tossing fiery whiskers. "We found
our way into the hold," he said, "and you'd not believe this hulk could
carry so much wine and stay afloat. The lads will mutiny if we don't
feast tonight, and I can't say I blame 'em!"