tall from below,’ Marcus grunted through clenched teeth.
The sailor walked over to him, perfectly balanced and adjusting his weight all the time to the roll and pitch of the ship.
‘Tall enough to kill you. Firstmate could walk the spar though, so I think you’ll just have to make your choice.’
He waited patiently, occasionally checking knots and ropes for tautness out of habit. Marcus gritted his teeth and heaved himself over the crosspiece, resting his unruly stomach on it. He could see the other men below and noted that a few of the faces were turned upwards to see him succeed, or perhaps to be sure of getting out of the way if he fell – he didn’t know.
The tip of the mast, festooned with ropes, lay within his reach and he grabbed it and used it to pull himself up enough to get one foot on the cross-spar. The other leg hung below and for a few moments he used its swing to steady himself. Another grunt of effort against his tortured muscles and he was crouching on the spar, gripping the mast-tip with both hands, his knees almost higher than his chin. He watched the horizon move and suddenly felt as if the ship was still and the world spun around him. He felt dizzy and closed his eyes, which helped only a little.
‘Come on now,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Good balance you’ve got.’
His hands shook as he released the mast, using the muscles in his legs to counteract the great swing. Then he uncrouched like an old man, ready to grab at the mast again as soon as he felt his balance fail. He brought himself up from a low bow to a round-shouldered standing position, his eyes fixed on the mast. He flexed his knees a little and began to adjust to the movement through the air.
‘There isn’t much wind, of course,’ the sailor said equably. ‘I’ve been up here in a storm trying to tie down a ripped sail. This is nothing.’
Marcus suppressed a retort. He didn’t want to anger a man who could stand so comfortably with his arms folded, sixty feet above the deck. He looked at him, his eyes leaving the mast for the first time since he reached that height.
The sailor nodded. ‘You have to walk the length. From your end to mine. Then you can go down. If your nerve goes, just hand me the dagger before you climb down. It won’t be too easy to get if you hit the planks.’
This was more like the sort of thing Marcus understood. The man was trying to make him nervous and achieved the opposite. He knew he could trust his reflexes. If he fell there would be time to grab something. He would just ignore the height and the movement and take the risk. He stood up fully and shuffled back to the edge, leaning forward as the mast seemed determined to take him down as far as the sea for a moment before coming upright and over again. Then he found himself looking down a mountain slope, blocked only by the relaxed sailor.
‘Right,’ he said, holding his arms out for balance. ‘Right.’
He began to shuffle, never taking the soles of his bare feet from the wood. He knew the sailor could walk along it with careless ease, but he wasn’t going to try to match years of experience in a few breathtaking steps. He inched along and his confidence grew mightily, until he was almost enjoying the swing, leaning into and away from it and chuckling at the movement.
The sailor looked unperturbed as Marcus reached him.
‘Is that it?’ Marcus asked.
The man shook his head. ‘To the end I said. There’s a good three feet to go yet.’
Marcus looked at him in annoyance. ‘You’re in my way, man!’ Surely he wasn’t expected to get round him on a piece of wood no wider than his thigh?
‘I’ll see you down there then,’ the man said and stepped off the crosspiece.
Marcus gaped as the figure shot past him. In the same moment as he saw the hand gripping the spar and the face grinning up at him, he lost balance and swayed in panic, suddenly knowing he would be smashed onto the deck. More faces below swam into his vision. They all seemed to be looking up, pale blurs and pointing fingers.
Marcus waved his arms frantically and arched back and forth in whip-like spasms as he fought to save himself. Then he steadied and concentrated on the spar, ignoring the drop below and trying to find the rhythm of muscle he had so enjoyed only moments before.
‘You nearly went there,’ the sailor said, still casually hanging from the spar by one arm, seemingly oblivious to the drop. It had been a clever trick and had nearly worked. Chuckling and shaking his head, the man started to reach out to a rope when Marcus trod on the fingers that were wrapped around the crosspiece.
‘Hey!’ the man shouted, but Marcus ignored him, putting all his weight on his heel as he shifted with the movement of the Lucidae. Suddenly, he was enjoying it again and took a deep, cleansing breath. The fingers squirmed beneath him and there was an edge of panic in the sailor’s voice as he found he couldn’t quite reach the nearest rope, even bringing his legs up. With his hand free, he would have swung and released without any difficulty, but, held fast, he could only dangle and shout curses.
Without warning, Marcus moved his foot to take the last step to the end of the spar and was cheered by the scrambling sounds below him as the sailor, caught by surprise, slid and gripped furiously to save himself. Marcus looked down and saw the angry stare as the sailor began to climb back up to the crosspiece. There was murder in his expression and Marcus moved quickly to sit down in the centre of the spar, gripping the mast-top firmly between his thighs. Still feeling unsafe, he wrapped his left leg around the mast below to hold himself steady. He took out Marius’ dagger and began to whittle his initials into the wood at the very top.
The sailor almost sprang onto the crosspiece and stood at the end, glaring. Marcus ignored him, but he could practically hear the train of thought as the man realised he had no weapons and that his superior balance was cancelled by the firm grip Marcus had on the mast. To get close enough to shove Marcus off, he would have to risk getting the dagger in his throat. The seconds ticked by.
‘All right, then. You keep the knife. Time to get down.’
‘You first,’ Marcus said, without looking up.
He listened to the dwindling sounds of the sailor’s descent and finished carving his initials into the hard wood. In all, he was disappointed. If he carried on making enemies at this rate, there really would be a knife in the dark one night.
Diplomacy was, he decided, a lot harder than it looked.
Renius was not around to congratulate him on his safe return from the high rigging, so Marcus continued his round of the ship on his own. After the initial excitement at the thought of winning the dagger, the stares he received were either uninterested or openly malevolent. Marcus clasped his hands behind his back to stop the involuntary shaking that had hit them as his feet touched the safe wood of the deck. He nodded to every glance as if it was a word of greeting and, to his surprise, one or two nodded back, perhaps only from habit, but it reassured him a little.
One sailor, his long hair tied back with a strip of blue cloth, was clearly trying to meet Marcus’ eye. He seemed friendly enough, so Marcus stopped.
‘What do you do here?’ he asked, a little warily.
‘Come to the stern … First Mate,’ said the man and strode off, gesturing him to follow. Marcus walked with him to stand by the two steering oars.
‘My name’s Crixus. I do a lot of things when they needs doing, but my special
