OW TO put into a port controlled by Romans, with part of his crew composed of two hundred and fifty deserters from Cæsar's army, and without falling foul of Cæsar's letters of proscription was a problem that Tros left to the gods to clear up for him, although he already had a hint of the solution in his mind. Meanwhile, there was work a-plenty—head winds and off-shore winds, flat calms with a heavy ground-swell that made the bucking rowers grunt, and squally weather in which whales played all around the ship, nearly causing a mutiny because he would not let Jaun Aksue and his Eskualdenak turn aside to hunt them.
"Thus we kill whales. With a spear we slay them. It is easy. We will slay two. You may tow them into Gades, making haste because the sharks will follow, eating at their undersides. The dead whales float, I promise you, and they are worth much money. Romans buy the meat; the traders buy the bone; the Spaniards buy the skin for sandals, shields, mule-harness—"
"Let live," Tros answered. "I hunt bigger fish."
"Aye, but you pay us nothing. Give us a chance to turn the whale meat into money, that we may drink in Gades. I tell you. Lord Tros, we haven't tasted red wine since the sour, thin stuff that Cæsar fed to us. We Eskualdenak are noblemen, who like to get drunk now and then."
But one of the things that Tros had learned in many foreign ports was the difference between a crew mad drunk on its own earned money, and the same crew equally drunk on its master's bounty.
"You shall drink at my expense in Gades," he remarked, and the tawny-haired soldier of fortune swaggered forward where he discussed with his companions the pros and cons of taking the ship away from Tros and hunting whales until she was full of the bone and blubber.
But Tros could smell the breath of mutiny as wolf smells men afar off, and sent Orwic to them to pretend to sympathize and to be very friendly. Orwic, a soldier of fortune, too, soon won his way into their confidence. It was he, in the forward deck-house—when the waves were heaving the ship's stern sky-high, burying her serpent in a welter of green, and there were three men at the helm—who made the proposal that they should give Tros one chance to show them a short cut to fortune; whereafter, if he failed them, they would do exactly as they pleased.
To that they agreed, and swore to it on the blade of a sword, served out to Aksue long ago by Cæsar's chief armorer—a silly little Roman sword, as all agreed, but good enough to swear on. Besides, it was the only weapon Tros had let them keep.
"So now you know," said Orwic, reporting to Tros on the poop.
And for three days and three nights Tros turned that situation over in his mind, while waves, tide, current and the wind fought him a blind battle for the mastery. No sight of sun, no stars nor moon, noticing to gauge direction by except the shrieking wind and—now and then when he dared it—thunder of the surf against high cliffs.
But he only approached the lee shore once or twice until he saw a headland that he recognized, and that was after he had left the dreaded rocks and isles of Finis Terrae far astern.
And for all th t he had only sighted landmarks twice, Tros hove the ship to within sight of Gades Bay in the late afternoon of the eleventh day out from Vectis, sending three men to the mastheads to keep watch for Roman ships and covering the serpent's head with 'paulin lest the setting sun should glitter on its gold-leaf and attract attention from the shore. He knew his ship was notched against the western sky, but her vermilion top-sides merged into the sunset splurge, and it was possible her masts might not be seen if none was actually watching for them.
Seated at the table in the stateroom by the whale-oil lantern-light he clipped a piece of parchment from a roll, mixed gum with sepia from cuttlefish, chewed the point of a pen to his liking and sent for Orwic.
"Ludd love me, Tros, but the land smells good!" said Orwic, making himself easy on Tros' bunk. "We Britons are not fish. I hate the sea."
"Can you speak the Roman tongue?" Tros asked him.
"You know I can't. When I was a boy I learned a few words from a Roman trader who was cast up on the beach. But he was killed soon afterwards for taking liberties with women. Even in the battle on the beach last year I couldn't remember a word of it. I wanted to yell the wrong commands to Cæsar's men and confuse them until our chariots could ride them down and—"
Tros interrupted with a gesture, leaning forward with an elbow on the table.
"But Gaulish? Can you speak that with a Gaulish accent?"