Hidden Courage (Atlantis) (20 page)

“Sir, if we throw our provisions overboard, how will we get home?” said a voice from within the small band of soldiers.

“We won’t,” Sophocles said bluntly, “Now, start tossing them overboard.”

--- --- --- --- --- ---

Lempithius looked on as Sophocles jettisoned his cargo. He found great satisfaction in this act and considered it the last effort from the desperate leader. Soon, his revenge would be complete.

“Fools! They think they can outrun the great Lempithius? I think not!” Lempithius shouted out triumphantly. “More arrows! Increase speed!”

“Sir, begging your pardon, we have the strongest slaves in the fleet. They are working at their greatest capacity. I fear any further demands will cause injury to their hands and shoulders, an event that will most certainly reduce our speed. May I suggest we also jettison some of our supplies?” the first officer reasoned.

Lempithius’ anger raged inside. He was the supreme naval leader of all
Egypt
and his word was not to be challenged. He drew his knife and lunged for his first officer…

“Sir, I am sorry, but we have run out of arrows,” announced an archer to Lempithius’ first officer.

Lempithius broke off his attack on his first officer and advanced toward the archer. With a quick swipe of his knife, he sliced through the throat of the unsuspecting man. The archer recoiled in shock, not yet comprehending the extent of his injury. As blood began to flow from his neck, Lempithius grabbed his shoulders and unceremoniously shoved him overboard.

Lempithius turned to his now-frightened first officer. In a low deliberate voice, he
gr
owled, “More speed, now
,
and prepare the men to board.”

----- ----- ----- -----

Sophocles watched as the barrels of oil floated toward Lempithius’ ship. He could see the sheen from the oil slick as the barrels continued to leak their contents. Closer in, he watched the last of his food and water slowly disappearing below the surface. A wave of fear broke over him as he realized this act marked the almost certain death of his crew. Without food or water, they would all certainly perish.

“Better to die of hunger and thirst as free men, than to die from torture as captives,” he reasoned quietly to himself.

With his finest archers standing at the stern of the ship, he stood with them and readied his orders.

“On my signal, you will shoot those barrels. All your practice, all your experience was for these next few minutes. You must succeed. We are all counting on your accuracy,” Sophocles announced.

With a simple nod of their heads, the archers acknowledged their orders and turned to face their destiny.

Sophocles watched the debris field float ever closer to Lempithius’ ship. The first of three barrels went wide, missing the path of the ship by a hundred feet. Nervously, he watched two more barrels slip past the ship on the opposite side. Sophocles looked on and saw Lempithius’ crew lining the deck, preparing for battle. The arrows had ceased just moments before and now they stood ready with kni
v
es, clubs
,
and spears.

Sophocles’ plan had worked. Without archers, Lempithius’ men were at a disadvantage. When they attacked, they would be overrun by greater weaponry. Sophocles breathed a small sigh of relief. His chances for survival had just dramatically increased.

----- ----- ----- -----

Lempithius stood proudly at the bow of his ship and watched the debris float by. He thought about snaring a few of the barrels as they passed, but thought better of it, realizing they would only slow him down. He noted the open barrels and the oil that seeped out of them, mocking futility of Sophocles’ actions. He noticed the oil as it clung to the hull of his ship and the mess it caused angered him.

“Fool, pouring his oil into the sea so I can’t have it… making a foul mess of my ship. Why would I want his silly oil anyway? He must know I have my own. He must realize I don’t need his stupid oil. He must…”

Lempithius cut himself off in mid-sentence, the reality of his own words finally registering in his mind.

“No!” he yelled out at the top of his lungs. “I am the great Lempithius. You cannot do this to me.”

--- --- --- ---

“Shoot!” Sophocles ordered loudly. “Shoot now!”

The six archers release their flaming arrows into the sky. For a moment, all stood motionless and watched the streaming arc of the arrows as they converged on their target. The tiny flames had reached their apex and were now descending. Sophocles could feel his heart pounding through his toga. The intensity of his focus caused his eyes to sear, and he blinked hard to clear the pain.

The first two arrows missed their mark, immediately extinguished as they plunged into the sea. A second later, three more missed their targets, suffering the same fate as the first two. The sixth arrow caught an air current and streamed long. Flying over the barrels, it flew headlong into Lempithius’ men. Instantly, screams erupted as it pierced one man and embedded in another.

While the arrows were still in flight, Sophocles ordered the archers to continue their barrage. Two more sets of arrows were underway. With the first round of arrows used to gage distance, the second and third round
s
were now far more accurate. Sophocles watched as two arrows struck one barrel floating just in front of Lempithius’ ship.

The leaking oil instantly burst into flames. Quickly, the fire streamed to its source: the contents inside the barrel. Instantly, the barrel exploded
,
sending volumes of burning oil up and over the top of Lempithius’ ship, coming to rest on the crew. Screams of agony could be heard as the searing oil stripped flesh from the crew’s body.

Like a repeat of the first, two more barrels floating close by exploded into balls of fiery liquid, spraying the sides and decking of Lempithius’ ship. With the third volley of arrows came more explosions. Lempithius’ ship was now fully engulfed in flames and Sophocles watched as its errant leader stood at the bow of his boat, on fire, as he leapt to his death.

A loud cheer roared from the crew of Sophocles’ ship. For the moment, they had beaten their foe and were free to escape. With great pride and gratitude, the crew let out a loud salute to their leader.

“
Viva
Sophocles!”

SIX WEEKS LATER:

Sophocles stood in a weakened state, leaning against his tiller for support. Weeks had passed since they had narrowly escaped the battle with Lempithius. Except for a few fish they had been lucky enough to catch and some rain water they had managed to collect during an occasional storm, Sophocles and his crew had almost nothing to eat or drink in weeks. Some had died
;
others were dying. The oarsman could no longer row and the remaining crew could no longer maintain the ship. Most found a spot, lay down, and waited to die.

Sailing across the
Atlantic
, Sophocles had called upon every bit of knowledge he had learned since he began sailing more than forty years before. He was in uncharted waters. No man had ever sailed this deep into the
Atlantic
and survived. Navigating by stars, wind and waves, he had kept
a
westerly
course and was certain at some point, they would find land. But day after day, the endless seascape stretched out before them, unrelenting and featureless.

Sophocles closed his eyes involuntarily. His mind ceased to function long before his eyes shut. Propped up against the tiller, his body swayed with the rocking of the boat. As time passed, the soft gentle breezes that had lulled him to sleep, picked up in intensity, causing the waves to build.

Suddenly, a large wave rocked the boat and Sophocles tumbled across the deck, waking up several feet away. He rolled onto his knees, grasped the side of the boat, and pulled himself to a standing position.

Working his way back to the tiller, Sophocles scanned the horizon behind his ship. At first, his mind refused to register the event, but instinct and self-preservation worked its way into his conscious thinking. Another storm was developing, this one ever more ominous and menacing than anything he had witnessed before.

Sophocles’ tongue had swollen from dehydration, making speech a laborious and painful task, but he overcame his condition and called to his first officer.

“Zotikos… Zotikos, wake up. We’re in trouble,” he called to his first officer several feet away.

He waited momentarily, took a deep breath and called out in a louder tone.

“Zotikos… you must wake up. We’re in great danger.”

Barely conscious, Zotikos sat up and tried to steady himself with his hands on the deck.

“Yes, sir,” Zotikos answered, his voice barely audible.

“Zotikos my friend, look behind us. We are in great danger,” Sophocles replied.

Zotikos’ eyes snapped open. In all his years sailing under Sophocles, he had never referred to Zotikos as his friend. The simple statement brought a sense of warmth and contentment at a time he felt the most despair. Zotikos smiled at his captain and slowly stood.

Pointing out behind the ship, Sophocles gestured to the advancing storm.

“Zotikos, I fear this will be the end,” Sophocles began.

Zotikos scanned the horizon. His body was swept with dread at the sight of the approaching storm.

“Zotikos, I’m not afraid to die… you know that,” Sophocles began. “But, I am afraid to pass on without righting an injustice. You have sailed with me since you were a boy. You have been as loyal, brave, and intelligent as any man I have ever met. It has been a privilege to have sailed with you. I’d be honored to know you as my friend.”

Zotikos stood stunned for a moment. Never had he heard Sophocles speak of anyone with such emotion. He felt the honor and gratitude of a lifetime of friendship.

“Thank you, sir, you have been like a father to me. If I am to die, it would be an honor to die with you,” Zotikos replied.

The two stood for a moment and acknowledged each other, not for their rank, but as good friends.

“So what do we do now, sir?” Zotikos asked.

“We can’t outrun it. The best we can do is steer through the waves and hold on,” Sophocles replied.

Zotikos shuffled along the edge of the boat, and stood next to his captain.

“
I could s
ure
ly
use a taste of wine,” Zotikos said, matter-of-factly.

“Hmm, yes, Egyptian wine,” Sophocles replied.

Zotikos turned and smiled at Sophocles, amused by his answer.

“What?” Sophocles said rhetorically, add
ing
, “They’re good for something, I guess.”

Zotikos smiled again, then turned his attention to the horizon out in front of them.

“Sailing from one and into another,” Zotikos said out loud to no one in particular.

Sophocles thought about Zotikos’ statement. In his weakened and confused state, he couldn’t figure out the meaning of it.

Finally, he asked, “What do you mean by ‘into another’?”

“Another storm, sir… one behind us and the other straight ahead. Maybe we should try to steer around it,” Zotikos replied.

Sophocles looked out on the horizon. He squinted hard, wiped his eye
s
, and squinted again. A small smile crossed his face.

“Great sons of Zeus! That’s no storm, my boy. That’s land!” Sophocles blurted out, his voice becoming strong and clear.