She looked aft. A small cluster of men stood together around Flavius' tall form. She recognized Demetrios, the youth Quintus, two or three others. Briefly, she was afraid. But--a few unarmed malcontents? she asked herself scornfully. She walked forward. A locked hatch cover muffled some weird noises--what was that? Oh, to be sure, the free crew and the more timid slaves of this galley had been chained to the rowers' benches down there. Tjorr boomed at her, "Hoy, shield maiden! Come drink with me! You've earned it!" Phryne joined him. One man snatched after her. Tjorr tossed his hammer, casually. The man screamed and hopped about, clutching his bare toes. "Next one insults my girl gets it in the brisket," said Tjorr without rancor. "Now bring me back that maul." Phryne accepted the cup he sloshed into the barrel for her. She held it two-handed, bracing herself against the ship's long swinging. Barbarous to drink it undiluted, she thought; but fresh water was too begrudged at sea. She looked at the hairy, squatting shapes that ringed her in and asked, "Will there not be fights that disable men we need?" Tjorr pointed to a chest behind the barrel. "All arms save our own are in there," he said. "And here I'll sit all night. I'm not unaware of that Flavius cockroach, little one. Were I the chief, he'd have been fish food long ago." "Is your life so much more to you than your honor?" she bridled. "Well, I suppose not. But I've three small sons at home. The youngest was just starting to walk on his little bandy legs when I went off. And then there's my woman, too, if she's not wed another by now, and--Well, anyhow, it would be bitter to die without drinking of the Don again." Tjorr tossed off his cup and dipped it in once more. "Where would you yourself go?" he asked. Phryne stared eastward, where night came striding into the wind. "I do not know," she said. "Hm? But surely--you spoke of Egypt--" "It may be. Perhaps in Alexandria.... Leave me alone!" Phryne went from him, up the ladder and into the bow. She huddled there a long time. No one ventured past Tjorr; she could be by herself. Down on the main deck the scene grew more wild and noisy each hour; by torch and hearth-light she glimpsed revels as though Pan the terrible had put to sea. One small corner of civilization remained, far aft below the poop, where Flavius and his comrades warmed their hands over a brazier and drank so slowly she was not certain they drank at all. The moon seemed to fly through heaven, pale among great driving clouds. It showed fleetingly how the waters surged from the west--not very high as yet, but with foam on black waves. And the wind droned louder than before. Phryne sat under the bulwarks and nursed her beaker, letting the wine warm her only a little. This was no time to flee her trouble. She must choose a road. And what was there for her?