Earth Thirst (The Arcadian Conflict) - By Mark Teppo Page 0,122

as ourselves?” Aeneas asks.

This is not the first time he has asked this question, and I have tried to discern the answer that he seeks, but I fear my responses have never been suitable enough.

I hesitate before answering this time, glancing over at Aeneas. His skin is much darker after weeks at sea—as is mine—and our bodies are thin and wiry. We have stopped wearing our armor. It fits poorly now, and carrying the extra weight on board the boat is a foolish proposition. Very few of the men have shown any aptitude for swimming.

“I don't know,” I say, unable to muster the enthusiasm to craft different rhetoric.

“Nor do I,” he admits. “We have always turned to the gods for our answers, haven't we? When do we plant the crops this year? Let's ask the gods. Is tomorrow an auspicious day to smite our enemies? Why, yes, the gods think so. Shall I marry this buxom wench? The gods appreciate the offering her dowry will afford.”

“The gods always appreciate a bountiful marriage,” I point out.

“But we have no temple out here,” he says, waving a hand at the sky.

I remain silent, already anticipating where this conversation is going.

“Before the men grow too weak to row, we should ask for a sign,” he says.

“And how would we find this sign?” I ask. “We have no goats or pigs to offer as a sacrifice.”

“We have no hope either,” he says, looking at me.

“If I do this, we stray from the path we have known. We will no longer be the men we were.”

He laughs, a sick wheeze hiccuping out of his chest. “We are strangers already.”

“Who are we then?” I press him, seeking some sign that he was not gripped by the madness that came from too much sun.

“That is the question I want you to ask of the gods, my friend. Who are we destined to be?”

He offers me his knife and, on unsteady legs, I clamber down into the damp hold. The men, instinctively sensing I am on an errand none wish to witness, make way for me. Many of them flee for the upper deck even though they are too weak to withstand the sun's heat for long. In the darkest corner of the hold, I find the few men who have tried to crawl as far away from the others in preparation of dying. Only one of them is conscious enough to be aware of my approach.

“What is your name?” I ask.

“Tymmaeus, my lord,” the sick man responds. His shoulder is festering with a foul blackness. I remember him. He had taken an arrow in the shoulder as we were boarding the boat. We had tried to get the tip out, but hadn't been successful. His wound hadn't closed, turning red and then black as rot set in. Tymmaeus tries to sit up, but he hasn't enough strength to do much more than breathe shallowly. His body is hot with fever, and his skin is slick with sweat. He was a young man when he came aboard the boat, but he looks much older now.

I show him Aeneas's knife, and he squints at the blade.

“It is a warrior's death,” I tell him.

Licking his lips, he nods and tries to arrange his body to make my task easier.

“Close your eyes, brave Tymmaeus,” I instruct him. “You do not need to see this death coming.”

“I already—”

I don't let him finish, sliding the knife into his heart so that he dies as quickly as possible. I withdraw the knife and slit his belly.

His guts burn my hands, and I root through his viscera until I cannot withstand the pain any longer.

Aeneas has ordered the men to the oars, and when I emerge, red-handed, from the darkness of the under deck, he shouts to me. “Which direction?” He is standing beside the tiller, leaning toward me, eager to hear my augury. Eager to know that the gods have not abandoned him.

I raise my hands, puffy and swollen. Red with Tymmaeus's blood. The sun beats down, its rays inflaming my hands. I don't know how I can feel anything through the pain, but I do. It is the gentlest of caresses, the light touch of a zephyr's kiss.

“That way,” I say, letting the wind stroke the back of my burning hands.

* * *

At the top of the cascade of salt farms is a row of white-walled huts, nestled against the base of another hill that rises much more steeply. There are people wandering