Chapter 24: The Odyssey (Part 4)
On the fifth day adrift at sea, Alexios held the line controlling the sail, his muscles burning, ready to react to the skinny fisherman's commands.
The moment their raft had hit the water, the chain of command had inverted. Here, Gorgias gave the orders. The two Lacedaemonian warriors obeyed.
Gorgias's first order had been for them to ditch their bronze cuirasses and helmets. The armor was useless at sea, took up precious space, and would drag them straight to the seabed if they capsized. Alexios, however, had refused to part with his shield. His mother had pressed it into his hands before he left. "Return with it," she had said, "or on it."
Gorgias hadn't argued—it was wood, after all, and would float.
At this moment, Gorgias was squinting through a battered, old brass sextant. When Alexios had first seen him pull the device from his pack, he had nearly panicked, terrified the "advanced technology" would disqualify them. But Gorgias had calmly explained that sailors had used them long before the Angels ever came. It was ancient, not advanced. He'd bought it in a junk market, and it had cost him everything he had.
Lykurgos, meanwhile, just stared intently at the fishing line he was dangling over the side, praying for a bite. Even a raw, slimy fish would be better than the leathery, smoked rations they had left.
With nothing to do but wait, they traded stories to pass the time.
Gorgias spoke first. He was, as he'd claimed, a fisherman's son. As the second son, he had no right to inheritance—not that there was anything to inherit, besides a leaky shack, a small, rotting boat, and a few torn nets. If his family had split that small pittance, they would have all starved.
His father had apprenticed him to a merchant captain as a "probationary sailor"—a cabin boy. The pay was a few silver coins a month, stale, tooth-breaking hardtack, and watered-down wine. He would have had to endure that life for five or six years just to earn the rank of 'sailor' and the right to bully the next cabin boy.
When he heard the Angels were holding a trial, he had deserted his ship, spent all his meager savings on gear, and set out. He had made his choice: he would become one of the Angels, or he would die trying.
Alexios and Lykurgos's story was simpler. As kings' sons, they had never worried about food. Instead, they had worried about survival. They had been put through the most brutal training from the day they could walk, forged into warriors and leaders. Their parents had constantly reminded them that while their title was hereditary, their power was not. If a more worthy cousin or rival emerged, they would be cast aside.
When the Angels announced The Odyssey, the noble families had seen the opportunity. To have a son in the Angels' mortal auxilia—or, Throne willing, an Angel himself—would secure a family's legacy for generations. The Lacedaemonian youth had flocked to the trial. He, his brother, and his cousin had set out bearing the honor of the royal house.
Soon, the stories ran out. They told jokes. They told tales. It didn't matter if they were funny; the sound of their voices was better than the silence. But soon, the jokes ran out, too. They were left to just stare at each other, occasionally shifting the sail on Gorgias's command.
Alexios was dozing, letting Lykurgos take a turn at the sail, when he heard his brother's voice, tinged with confusion.
"Hey... fish-boy. Why is the sky over there so... dark?"
"What dark? Wait..." Gorgias's voice suddenly cracked with pure panic. "Throne! Damn it all, that's a storm!"
Alexios shot to his feet. He looked where Gorgias was pointing. A massive, churning wall of black cloud, laced with lightning, was bearing down on their tiny raft.
"Turn!" Lykurgos yelled, panicking. "We have to go around it!"
"Useless!" Gorgias shouted over the rising wind. "A storm like that is fifty, maybe a hundred kilometers wide! We can't go around!"
"Then we go through it!"
"On this raft? One big wave will capsize us!"
"Why didn't you have us build a better boat?"
"Give me six months and I will!"
Lykurgos was frantic. "Sailor, use your 'unbeatable sea knowledge' and do something!"
"Enough, Lykurgos!" Alexios roared, his voice cutting through the wind. "No more bickering! Gorgias! What are your orders?"
Gorgias stared at the approaching wall of blackness, his knuckles white. "There's only one thing we can do," he said, his voice grim. "Tie ourselves to the raft. And pray."
They used everything—vines, leather straps, even tearing their own cloaks into strips to lash themselves to the central mast.
When the storm hit, their world vanished.
It was a chaos of noise and water. One monster wave after another lifted them to the sky and slammed them back down, threatening to shatter their small raft. Alexios saw his brother retching, vomiting his morning's rations into the spray.
Suddenly, Alexios heard a sharp tearing sound. The strip of wool from his cloak. Gorgias had been right. Wool was useless against the sea's fury.
The world went upside down. He was in the water, tumbling, suffocating, drowning in the cold, black chaos. He tried to remember his swimming lessons... 'stroke with the hand, kick with the foot'... The lessons were useless. He had learned to stay afloat in a calm lake. Now, the Lacedaemonian from the mountains was finally learning the true, terrible power of Poseidon.
Just as his lungs were about to burst, a figure dove from the raft. Gorgias. He moved like a fish, arrowing through the churning water toward Alexios.
Alexios felt a hand grab his tunic. He knew not to panic, not to grab his rescuer and drown them both. He just kicked, trying to help.
After an eternity, they were back at the raft. Lykurgos hauled them both aboard. Alexios collapsed, clinging to the logs, coughing up stinging salt water.
He'd learned a valuable lesson: seawater was terrible to drink, especially when you were drowning in it.
He looked around, his heart sinking. His shield was gone, torn away by the storm.
Along with all their food and fresh water.