It was the Libyan, with a broken nose to avenge. He came down the ladder quickly, facing forward in sailor fashion, bearing a short spear. In the shifting gloom he was not much more than another shadow. Eodan poised himself. The spear punched at his stomach. He caught the point in his wadded cloak, shoved it aside and stepped in. The Libyan howled, but was scarcely heard above the howling of the galley slaves. Eodan slid the sword into him. The sailor did not seem to feel it. He backed against the ladder, pulled his spear free and struck. Eodan did not quite sidestep it. The edge raked his shoulder. As the Libyan moved in, Eodan chopped at the wooden handle of his enemy's weapon. Roman iron bit; he caught it. The Libyan wrestled him for the shaft. Eodan jerked. The Libyan lost his balance, slipped in his own pouring blood and fell into the pit. Eodan glanced up. The sky in the hatch blinded him. He could only see that someone was looking down. As if from far away, he heard Demetrios: "Throw a kettle of boiling water. He cannot withstand that!" "He can retreat onto the catwalk," said Flavius, "and come back to meet the next man we send. No, let one sailor carry that kettle down the ladder. The barbarian cannot attack him without being scalded. Two or three others can come directly behind--" Gasping, Eodan turned toward the benches. It had quieted a little. He heard links clash in the darkness. A staple screamed as it was torn out of a timber. "Follow me!" shouted Eodan. "Break your oars for clubs! There are no more than six or seven men up there! You can be free!" They shuffled and mumbled in the dark. He glimpsed a few who had been released holding up their dangling chains in a dull, wondering way. They were loathsome with sores and scars. A voice yelled back to him: "We can be crucified, no more!" "They have swords," another whispered. "They are masters." Eodan shook his red blade high and yelled in rage: "Is there even one man among you?" A moment longer, then a booming from the foul night before him: "Get these god-rotted irons off me, boy, and you'll have at least two more hands!" X The man who sprang up onto the catwalk and joined Eodan was huge--not as tall as the Cimbrian, but with a breadth of shoulder that made him look almost square. His arms, hanging down toward his knees, were cabled with muscle. His hair and beard were matted filth, but they still had the color of fire. Small blue eyes crackled under bony brows; the dented nose dilated, sucking air into a shaggy bow-legged frame clad only in its chains. He trumpeted at the darkness: "Hear me! You had courage enough to kill one stunned man, tossed down to you. Now you've no hope for your flea-bitten lives but to fight. Whether you touched the overseer or not, d'you think the Romans would spare a man of us after this? They'll grind you up for pig-mash! Follow us, beat in a few heads--after all the beatings you've taken, it's your turn--and we'll have the ship!"