Aristocles saw that despite the presence of so many men on deck, Kargan had them in careful order, with the Phalesians in a section with the men he presumed were the senior officers and crewmen, while the rougher-looking Ileans were placed near the bow. The ship’s crew displayed an astonishing variety of builds, from lean to squat, and skin tones from the darkest brown to a light olive color little different from the Phalesians. Some of the men had hooked noses while others had wide mouths and deep-set eyes. Aristocles guessed that they weren’t all Ileans; the crew was likely drawn from across the Salesian continent.
The last glow of twilight had faded from the sky and a million pinpricks now shone in night’s curtain above. Though the warship was drawn up on the beach, her stern, where Aristocles’ group sat high on the upper deck, was in the water, and rocked gently from side to side. He glanced up when he heard a soft patter that became a rumble and saw a man with a drum between his knees, tapping a rhythm with his fingers that caused the heart to beat a little faster.
Remembering that he needed to learn about the warship’s construction while he was here, Aristocles ignored the men and instead scanned the deck, running his eyes over the timbers and mast. But he realized swiftly that with the lower decks sealed by boxlike coverings placed over the hatches there was only so much he could learn. The mast was tall and as thick as a man’s waist; it would have been a mighty tree in life. The oars were all down below. Kargan had risked little by inviting the consuls to this departure feast, for this beast’s skeleton and muscles were all hidden from view.
Aristocles made a quick count and saw that while the top deck appeared crowded, with one hundred and twenty oarsmen alone – slaves, all of them, knowing the Ileans – only a small proportion of the crew was present. The ship would be crowded below decks.
He nodded as a slave handed him a wooden cup filled with wine, but Aristocles felt unsettled. It was strange to be feasting, while just a few feet below this very deck, over a hundred miserable souls huddled on their rowing benches, resting before their work began with the dawn.
‘Now it is my turn to serve you wine,’ Kargan’s voice boomed as he seated himself near Aristocles, pushing aside one of the other consuls in the process.
And with those words, the banquet began.
The drum’s rhythm and volume increased. Conversation became loud and laughter more frequent. The only light was the dim crimson glow of the coals in the iron bowls, illuminating faces with reddish tones, lending an eerie feeling to the festive mood.
Food came after the wine. Aristocles ate his fill – it would be rude to do otherwise – but then his heart sank as more slaves brought yet more food. It was Phalesian fare, sourced from the agora, and as good as anything Aristocles ate at his own table. Well-trained slaves handed out a cold assortment of olives, nuts, fresh and dried cheeses, flat bread, figs, roasted goat, pig ears, and smoked fish. Some unfamiliar spices had been liberally sprinkled over the meats, but Aristocles found the flavors surprisingly pleasant.
Kargan ate everything, and insisted Aristocles do the same. He drained his cup with every mouthful and waited expectantly, watching and scowling, his glare becoming ever more fierce until the first consul’s wine cup was empty. It would then be refilled immediately.
Checking on his daughter, Aristocles saw that an Ilean officer was regaling Chloe and Nilus with a bawdy tale. Some of the humor appeared to be lost on the Phalesians, and when the Ilean laughed uproariously Chloe merely smiled, while Nilus looked bemused.
Kargan and Aristocles spoke of Phalesian cooking and Sarsican wine – the warship’s commander said that for the banquet he’d gone to the market and asked the wine sellers to supply him with the same wine they sold to the first consul. They talked about the weather in Ilea and the places the wealthy went to escape the heat of summer. Aristocles tried to discuss music, but the mind-numbing repetition of the drums appeared to be enough for Kargan’s senses.
‘More food!’ Kargan shouted.
The wine was taking its toll, and Aristocles was wondering whether the time was before midnight or after when Nilus leaned forward. ‘How long will this go on?’
Kargan overheard him. He grabbed Nilus’s upper arm and pulled him over, so that Nilus tumbled on top of the swarthy master of the Nexotardis in a tangle of white cloth.
‘This is a real banquet,’ Kargan roared into Nilus’s ear. ‘It will go on until the last star vanishes, of course. More wine for the consul!’
Nilus righted himself and rearranged his tunic as well he could given his unfocused eyes and the way his fingers kept grasping on empty air. His round face was bright red.
Still the wine kept coming.
Kargan started to dance with his men, performing a strange jig with arms spread and fingers clicking together in time to the drums. Hopping from foot to foot, shifting around a circle formed with four others, he started to sing with such gusto that Aristocles wondered if the entire city behind the harbor could hear him. The four other dancers knew the words and formed a humming chorus like the chant of a priest.