The Glory That Was

Chapter Three

The sounds grew louder yet. The unseen ship must contain many people all talking at once: an excursion boat, perhaps. Somebody chanted above the general noise: "Rhyppapai! Papai.' Rhyppapai.' Papai!"

The approaching ship must now be so close that her stem might appear any time. In the fog, higher than Bulnes's head, a light spot grew to a hazy red ball.

"Here they are," panted Flin. "I had to hunt ..."

"Get away! Keep off!" screamed Bulnes in French, Italian, Spanish, and Arabic.

From the darkness a voice answered "Ti?" and continued with a rattle of syllables Bulnes could not make out, though it sounded not unlike his native Spanish. The "Rhyppapai! Papai!" grew louder, keeping time with the thump and splash as of many oars.

The blood-red ball became brighter. Bulnes snatched up one of the flares and ignited it with his cigarette lighter.

The red ball became a fire pot on the bow of a ship. Bulnes glimpsed a group of men around the fire pot. Then the flare went off, just as something struck the Dagmar II under water with a sickening crunch.

The yacht jerked. Bulnes, almost thrown overboard, dropped the flare to clutch for support just as the magenta flame shot out. The flare fell into the water and was quenched with a sizzle. The post or tripod on the strange ship toppled forward, spilling coals over the bow, and the men around it grabbed at each other and at the rail. The "Rhyppapai!" stopped.

"You farstards!" howled Bulnes. "Maricones!"

Shouts came from the other ship, and water swirled as the ship began to back away.

Bulnes thrust his head into the cabin. By the light of his headlamp he could see that the floor boards were already wet, and an ominous gurgle from below told the rest of the tale. Bulnes snatched up the sail-winch crank and rushed out again.

"Wiyem!" he shouted. "We're filling! Pull up the anchor!"

Bulnes cranked the sail winches furiously, taking the jibs first so that the faint air filled these and swung the yacht's bow shoreward. Water was sloshing over the duckboards by the time they were all up and the ship sliding toward shore.

"She moves awfully slowly," said Flin.

"Not much wind, and she's low in the water."

"My feet are getting wet."

"There'll be more of you wet than that!"

Fuming, Bulnes searched the fog for signs of shore. The water was up to his ankles.

"Did you see what I saw?" said Flin.

"You mean that ship, like some antique out of a history book?"

"More than that. It was a Classical trireme."

"I thought so. Somebody must be making a movie."

"Could be," said Flin dubiously.

"What holed us? The bow of that thing was nowhere near the Dagmar."

"If it was a real trireme, it would have a ram sticking out just below the surface of the water."

"What were those people talking? They didn't seem to understand any of the common Mediterranean languages."

"Dashed if I know. Is that something ahead?"

Dark irregularities appeared in the fog forward. The sounds from the galley had sunk to a mere murmur. Bulnes said, "Drop the mainsail. This looks like a wharf."

The water was up to his calves. The wharf solidified, but small ships tied up to it occupied all the available space.

Bulnes said, "She's going down any minute. As soon as we touch those ships, jump on to them."

"But our clothes and stuff ..."

"Can't be helped. Ready?"

The Dagmar II brushed alongside the nearest ship, a blur of curved lines in the blackness.

Bulnes released the wheel and leaped for the rail. The yacht, as if this latest jar had upset a precarious balance, shuddered and slid below the surface of the bay.

Bulnes swung himself over the rail of the other ship, then turned as Flin called, "Help me, Knut! I'm stuck!"

Bulnes found his companion hanging on to the rail with his hands while his feet thrashed the water. He hauled the plump schoolteacher over the rail.

"Ouch!" said Flin. "You needn't be so blasted rough, you know. Oh, dear, my good clothes and passport and everything!"

"Clothes! How about my ship?"

"She's insured, isn't she?"

"Yes, but — I loved that little boat."

"Rotten luck, but I should think she could be raised."

"There is that." Bulnes blew his nose. "What worries me more ..." said Flin. "Yes?"

"This thing we're on is of antique design too. Just put your hand on these timbers; you can feel the adze marks. How shall we ever get out of this — this phantasmagoria?"

"We'll worry about that in the morning, comrade. Come on."

"Whereto?"

To find a place to sleep. Got your money?"

"Yes. That and our clothes and my pocket radio and your case knife are about our only worldly goods at the moment"

Bulnes felt his way to the opposite side of the ship and climbed over the rail to the pier. He found himself on a flat, stone-paved surface. Ahead, low structures loomed. From somewhere in the ambient darkness, human voices wafted faintly.

Bulnes led Flin a step at a time across the wharf until his groping hand found a wall, then along the wall to a corner. It seemed to be the beginning of a street.

The darkness lay thick ahead. Creeping along this street, they came to another intersection. A ruddiness in the fog to the right suggested a fire, and voices came from that direction.

"Shall we try 'em?" said Bulnes.

"I don't know. I suppose we might as well. If I could only get dry for once!"

They walked toward the light, and the ruddiness solidified into a red globe, like a planetary nebula contracting into a star. The red ball in turn became a wood fire crackling in an iron cage atop a stone pillar in the middle of a street crossing.

Bulnes saw four men squatting or kneeling in a circle, looking inward at the ground, while two others stood behind them watching. At the sound of footsteps, they looked around. All had beards. All were clad in shapeless pieces of cloth wrapped around their persons. Bare arms and legs protruded from these bundles. They stank of garlic, onions, olive oil, and unwashed human hide.

As the nearest man, who had had his back to them, swiveled around on his heels Bulnes saw a little group of white objects on the ground. He had interrupted a crap game.

"Pu ime?" he said in Greek, of which he knew a few phrases.

The men looked at one another. One made an unintelligible remark. Although the language sounded European, it had a curious singsong quality.

Bulnes repeated his question.

Again the interchange of unknown syllables, and a laugh. Six pairs of eyes focused on Bulnes.

Beside him, Flin burst out, "Knut! I'll swear they're talking Classical Greek!"

"Caray! Suppose you take over, then."

"I don't know ... I'll try, but we don't learn to use the stuff colloquially in school, you know." Flin addressed the men, "Chaire."

All the men were now up. The nearest was shorter than the others but very broad of chest and thick of biceps.

"Chaire," repeated this one, his pitch sliding up and down on the first syllable.

"Pos echeis?" said Flin.

"Agathon," grinned the stocky man. More remarks flew among the six. Bulnes asked, "What are they saying?"

"Can't quite make out, but I jolly well don't like it. I'll ask the way to an inn." Flin began piecing together a sentence, a word at a time.

Bulnes saw one of the men pick up a club he had left lying on the ground. This was going to be like that time in Bombay. He glanced at the sheath knife at his own waist. When Flin had finished his sentence, Bulnes murmured, "Got a knife in your pocket?"

"Y-yes, but ..."

"Get your hand on it, please. If they jump us, try to get your back to the pillar."

Bulnes and Flin stood about as far from the pillar as the strange sextet, who had been playing their game at some distance from its base because the fire did not illuminate the ground directly below itself. Flin started his sentence again, but the six seemed not to be paying attention. Instead they leaned toward the stocky one, listening to the words he muttered.

Bulnes quietly unsnapped the retaining loop that held the upper end of his knife handle, then started to peel off his greasy work jacket. He had it partly off when the burly man said something that sounded as if it began with "happy teeth."

At the same time that man's fist came out of his swathings with a knife.