dark, but the moon lit up the clear sky far enough to see the silhouette of the Roman trireme outlined dismally on the black sea. Magon's muscles tensed and a prick of anguish ran through his body as he recognized the faces of those who had already killed his wife and children in Syracuse. Their persecutors did not want to sink them. They wanted to board them.
“Come on, Ascipo.” He helped join his friend. “Get up, we have to jump.”
The three men retreated toward the starboard and Magon looked back for a moment to confirm his dark thoughts. The Roman trireme was positioning itself to board the worthless ship and take its occupants as slaves. He grabbed Ascipo by the arm and looked into the black waters, begging his God, Eshmun, to keep them safe in his kingdom.
* * *
The lateen sail, held at port, fluttered slightly amidst the murmur of the whimsical waves that broke against the wooden hull and turned to foam on the extensive blue mantle that surrounded them.
“Careful! If the red scorpionfish bites you, you may not enjoy your tenth year,” Hermes reprimanded his son. The reddish fish jumped briskly on the deck with its open gills and thorns loaded with painful venom, erected to defend itself. Almices moved his bare foot out of the way just in time.
“I'm sorry, father,” the young man replied as the sailor’s leathery hands searched for his prey and armed with a pointed tamarind wood stick, skewered the dangerous fish, and placed it into a worn wicker basket.
“You need to be alert when gathering the nets! This has happened before and one day it’ll give you a good scare,” his father taught him affectionately. “It’s sting can be deadly. Remember the old Aristophanes who did not come back alive last year? It all depends on the amount of poison you get.”
"You're right, father," Almices tried to excuse himself. “But you know that what I'd like most is to be a soldier, so I can travel and discover new places.”
"I love the fresh breeze of the morning," Hermes replied changing the subject, as if he had not heard the irrational words of his son. “You don't know how lucky we are to live by the sea,” the tanned fisherman, already in his thirties, spoke to him with tenderness as he guided them toward the coast. He held the tiller firmly with one hand and with the other played with the line to keep the sail blowing in the wind. “The sensation of the waves splashing on my face makes all our efforts worth it. No adventure will make you happier, my son. Besides, a soldier's work is very unrewarding. There is no happiness or merit in taking the life of another human being.”
"That might be so, but I’d like to visit other places and I can’t think how else to do it, although I also like to fish," Almices added resigned. “And I like to sail too, especially when the wind pushes us fast, or when you tilt the boat so much that touching the water with your hands is effortless.”
"You're right, Almices; but don't tell your mother. God only knows she doesn't like us to play with our food.” The father smiled satisfied as he watched his son place the rest of the fish in the wicker baskets on the floor that had been caulked a thousand times with different types of wood, forming an irregular mosaic that was repeated throughout the boat. He had taught him well. He was sure that, if his wife let him, he could go fishing alone. “Come, take the tiller for a while. It’s not every day you turn ten years old and we have to celebrate. You’ve got to see the dinner that your mother is preparing for tonight.”
Almices returned a look of complicity to him. In theory he was forbidden to take the helm. His mother had always been frightened by the sea; in fact, she never sailed. She did not even approach the shore to dip her toes in the water on hot summer days. However, when Almices was alone with his father, without his sisters there to tattle on him, it was always a good enough excuse for Hermes to give him command of the boat. And he enjoyed it. He knew it was in his blood. His grandparents, even his great-grandparents, had been sailors or fishermen. And although some of them were taken by the violent sea, it was still the best experience in the world to surf the waves, control the wind and sometimes, always away from the coast to avoid unwanted explanations, compete with the other fishermen’s children until they got caught. Time at the helm flew by.
Hermes enjoyed watching his son guide the boat back home. The truth is that the boy did nothing wrong. He was very proud of him. How quickly he had grown. Time had flown by. He was no longer his little baby; he was becoming a man. The first time he went sailing he was barely two years old. He remembered his wobbly, unstable walk and his mother’s remarks were still vivid in his memory. That day little Almices did not cry. He stayed in the middle of the boat the entire time, with his eyes wide open and a huge smile engraved on his face as he watched the sea around him. Hermes cast his mind back, to the time when he himself experienced the sea for the first time. He would have been six or seven and his older brother was sick, his father took him by his shoulders and told him that he was also a man, that he would have to take his brother's place on the boat for a few days. Never before had he stepped foot on one, but since then he had never been separated from the sea. It captivated him, and he could now see that same intoxicating spell in Almices’ eyes, yet his life was not all joyous. He would have been about fifteen years old when Syrian sailors confiscated the fruits of a long day's work; then confiscated the nets and penalized their father and him. It was a miracle that they did not capture them and taken them from their home. Since then, every time he saw an unknown ship, he varied the course, even if that change was imperceptible. His memory flipped to remember the last unknown ship, spotted at dawn.
“What are you thinking about, father?”
Hermes remained absorbed, with his vision lost on the horizon.
“Why do you think the trireme that we saw at first light was so close to the island?” his father answered, now back in the present.
“I don't know. Maybe they’re carrying troops to the Island of Kos or chasing escaped slaves.”
The father nodded and looked up toward the coast.
"Well, we are already close. Time to pass me the tiller.”
Almices obeyed reluctantly. The eastern part of the coast of the island of Samos was somewhat rugged. Some reefs broke very close to the surface and it was easy to damage the boat.
Pines, oaks, and tamarinds were intermingled very close to the shore, leaving some clearings on the coast. They turned to a small peninsula and headed for a charming little cove with crystal clear water. They could already see the Theopoulos’ house , their home, from there. Although somewhat elevated over the sea, it was near the small jetty; about a hundred steps away, Almices calculated. Most of the fishermen lived by the large cove, behind a small, rocky hill, but his father and another fisherman, Andreas, who had the house right at the foot of the hill, had decided to build a wharf in the little cove because this way their things were more at hand and they did not have to explain themselves as often to their neighbours. The only one who ever complained was his mother, because the water of the stream was a little further away for her than the women of the large cove.
“Get ready to tie the rope to the jetty.”
Almices nodded and headed to the bow, holding the folds of his clothes so as not to stumble then grasped the rope as he prepared to jump to the ground.
The boy leaped and reached the precarious dock and tightened the rope. It was not long before the boat was well moored next to its neighbour.
“Well done, son," his father approved. “Now collect all the rope and fold the sail well while I take the fish. Tomorrow we can take advantage of the bad weather and clean up thoroughly. Do not mess about for too long. It's already noon and won’t be long before
