The Book of the Lion by Michael Cadnum Page A

sailor kneeling in the prow dropped a sink line, and called out, “ quat’ bracci. ” The line made a whisper as it was reeled in. After a short silence, the plumb-knob splashed and the line sank again.
    Every time the cry was nearly the same—four fathoms, or three.
    Nigel and Rannulf ate the rooster, roasted on a spit, while the rest of us ate the first salt meat we had tasted on this voyage. It was a pink-fleshed smoke-flavored pork the sailors ate with relish. I thought it a good dish, but tar-flavored, like wine that has been stored in greenwood barrels.
    Our ship bumped some submerged object, a floating cask or log. In recent hours we had encountered much debris, charred beef bones, hen coops, tun-staves. But this was an unusually large drift-bole, and it bumped and gently battered the keel as we sailed on over it, and bobbed up in our moonlit wake.
    From afar Venice was like an army of pitched tents and glorious pennons in the late sun, floating on smoke.
    We could not approach the waters of the city itself, because the sea was crowded with warships and pinnaces, rowboats, fisher-boats, boats appointed with gold and thick dark carpets, and salt-stained barges. Some of the ships were heavy in the water, and gave off the perfumes of peppercorn and clove, guarded by men in red or yellow trousers, carrying spears with brilliant crescent-moon blades.
    â€œNot one of those spearmen is worth a serf’s wage,” said Rannulf.
    I was surprised and flattered at his quiet word, leaning with me over the glittering surface of the tide. “They look dangerous to me,” I allowed.
    â€œLooking dangerous is everything to the warriors of the East,” said Rannulf.
    I couldn’t keep myself from asking. “What would your plan of attack be, in a fight with one of those spearmen?”
    Rannulf’s scarred lips twisted into a smile. “What would you recommend, Edmund?”
    I could not meet his gaze for a moment, aware that this was more than an idle question. “I’d let the spearman make the first move, seize the shaft, and try to take it away from him.”
    He shook with silent humor.
    â€œI’d take the spear in my hands,” I insisted, “and break it over my knee.”
    He laughed aloud, and I felt rebuffed.
    â€œI don’t mock you, Edmund,” said Rannulf. “I hope to see you break many a heathen spear, and before too many weeks.”
    Nigel returned from a brief visit on the docks. He spent a moment huddling with Rannulf and Wenstan. Hubert perched in the rigging, and when the meeting broke up he bounded along the deck to my place beside the horse enclosure.
    â€œThe fighting is already underway!” said Hubert. “Christians and Mussulmen have begun fighting in the Holy Land!”
    I was bitter with disappointment at this news. I was gathering up the leather feed bags, the horses having eaten, and placing the bags in a leather-hinged trunk.
    â€œThe Christian knights are laying siege to the great castle-town of Acre,” said Hubert. “But King Richard is not yet there.”
    You are too late, the gulls sang.
    Too late, too late.

chapter SIXTEEN
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    Morning was hot.
    The sea gave off an odor like shellfish soup, the sailors sweating heavily. The gray, weather-mottled sails were furled, oars drawn up, and there was nothing to do but wait for the customs officials to climb aboard.
    Venice was a riot of red plumes and brass pier-knobs, gold flags and messengers in purple stockings. All of it beyond reach. A squealing, spinning music from above descended upon us. Swallows, small, dark birds, spiraled and lofted into the sky.
    Hurry, their cries said to my ears. The Crusade is almost done.
    We paced, impatient, as the long day grew hotter. Hubert convinced me that Richard was tarrying in Sicily, on the Greek islands. We would reach Acre before the king, and surely the fighting would not end before Richard drew