Bronze Summer by Stephen Baxter Page B

bunch, however; they could handle their oars, and none of them was throwing up as the sea swelled under them.
    ‘Oak,’ Kilushepa said now. ‘These planks are of oak, are they not?’ She picked at the withies that bound the planks, the caulking. ‘And these lengths that bind them?’
    ‘Yew. And then it’s all caulked with moss, beeswax and animal fat. The hull is sealed to keep out the water.’
    ‘You know, we Hatti generally don’t have much time for ships. Even though we rely on the fleets that bring us our grain from Egypt. Everything this ship is made of was once alive, wasn’t it? The wood, the wax, the moss, the leather – all these bits of trees and plants and animals, sliced up and stitched together. The living stuff of the land moulded to defy the sea. It’s wonderful when you think about it.’
    ‘Is it?’
    ‘Yes! As if the ship is itself alive, a creature bounding across the waves.’
    ‘Praxo says she has a mind of her own, that’s for sure.’
    His only response from Praxo was a scowl.
    They were putting out from the land now. Troy diminished to a shabby blur on the eastern horizon, and a breeze was picking up, fresh with salt. Sitting at the prow, Kilushepa turned and looked out to the open sea, breathing deep. She was remarkably composed, Qirum thought, not for the first time, considering her circumstances – considering she had been the booty of her own people’s army so recently, and now here she was alone on the ocean with ten violent, lusty men.
    ‘So we sail for Northland,’ Kilushepa called back. ‘Will we be out of sight of the land altogether? How remarkable that would be – the world reduced to an abstraction of sea and sky.’
    ‘Only for brief stretches,’ Qirum replied. ‘We’ll do some island-hopping before we get to the Greek mainland. Basically we’re following the coastline.’ He held up his periplus, a linen scroll. ‘From Gaira, we’ll work our way up the river valleys and overland to get to Northland.’
    ‘Would you get lost, out of sight of land?’
    Praxo hawked and spat over the side, a green gobbet on the grey-black water. ‘ He would. There are clever sorts who have tricks to find their way around on the open water. Such as to see how high the sun rises at noon, and from that you can work out how far north or south you are.’
    She frowned. ‘What sort of divination is that? Sounds like the Greeks to me. Always full of tricks, the Greeks, clever-clever, like clever children. What is that scroll, Qirum? A map, is it?’
    He unrolled the periplus carefully, passing the fragile fabric from one spindle to the other, holding it up so she could see the writing, the little sketches. ‘This is my periplus. A guide to the coast. It cost me half my fortune when I bought it from an old seaman down on his luck. And he bought it in turn from somebody else, long ago. I’ve been adding to it since. See, the three different writing hands?’
    She came back down the boat to see. ‘I can’t read your script. But yes, I see the differences. And this faded writing must be the oldest.’
    ‘It’s a kind of description of the coast. Of landmarks, dangers like shoals and shallows – and dangers of a human kind. You see, there are little sketches to help you understand. Good ports, safe places to beach, the prevailing winds. Look at this.’ He ravelled the scroll back. ‘Here is an old description of how it was to come upon Troy, before the Greeks burned the place. A sketch that shows how it might have looked from the sea.’
    She studied the picture solemnly. ‘You have crossed it through.’
    ‘I hadn’t the heart to erase it.’
    ‘This little scroll is shared wisdom. You treasure it, don’t you? A sailor would have to be desperate indeed to sell such a thing. How would you feel if you had to part with it?’
    ‘I hope I never have to.’
    Her gaze was steady. ‘You hope to have a son, don’t you? A family. You don’t want to be doing this all your life,