Whoever Fears the Sea, Justin Fox [i love reading .TXT] 📗

being unloaded. Goods from a Roman vessel that was moving back into deeper water were being sorted on the beach. Paul could see a pile of boxes filled with metal objects — iron tools, swords, spearheads — and a few amphorae of wine. A merchant in a colourful caftan was shouting something about the price.

‘But is it really Rhapta?’ muttered Paul, mostly to himself.

‘Who knows?’ Husni shrugged. ‘I think we must get back to Jamal.’

The sun was high. They’d spent most of the morning standing over their own reflection in breathless conditions. Now Jamal was beating slowly northward in fluky airs. The crew lay about the deck; Husni was perched at the tiller. Paul sat cross-legged on the quarterdeck and wrote in his notebook:

 

VISUAL: Bustling harbour scene. Water-line images of dhows cleaving through the roadstead, men leaning out, graceful lateens filling, quivering, alive. Slo-mo helicopter shot from directly above: a jahazi coursing through limpid green water, leaving a wide wake.

A gust strikes the vessel. It heels, accelerates. Cut to a camera in the bows looking ahead, under-cranked so we appear to be flying across the water…

A popping sound interrupted his writing. He looked up. The sail above his head was riddled with holes. The punctures began to tear grotesquely.

‘Maharamia!’ screamed Rafiki from the foredeck.

Paul dropped the notebook and scrambled to his feet.

There was utter confusion on deck. The skipper yelled incoherently. Taki ran to start the engine. Paul looked astern. The boat was a hundred metres off their port quarter, approaching at high speed. There was no way they could outrun it.

The vessel was a white fibreglass skiff, about eight metres long. Paul counted five men. One was driving, another stood in the bows with a red keffiyeh wrapped around his head, its end trailing in the wind. Two men amidships carried AK-47s, a third pointed a rocket-propelled grenade-launcher at Jamal.

The skiff came tearing up to them, the outboard engine deep and throaty. Moments later they were alongside. Their driver decelerated and the skiff settled back into the water like a pelican landing. The man in the bows shouted something in Swahili.

‘What’s he saying?’ asked Paul. His hands were shaking, his voice high and unsteady.

‘We must let them come aboard or they’ll shoot,’ said Husni in a dead tone.

Paul stared at the attackers in disbelief. This couldn’t be happening. The skiff bumped against Jamal and four figures climbed over the rail. Teenagers charged with adrenalin; their eyes wild. It wouldn’t take much for one of them to pull a trigger. He desperately hoped none of the crew did anything foolish.

‘Nobody move! Shut up!’ screamed the pirate with the red keffiyeh.

The rest of the crew held their hands aloft, except Husni, who continued to steer. Paul copied the others, putting his arms high in the air. It was only then that he noticed Latif lying on the foredeck, a stream of blood pouring from his arm.

The red pirate was obviously the leader. He mounted the quarterdeck and struck Husni in the face with his pistol. The skipper fell to the deck and Paul leapt to grab the tiller to stop Jamal veering off course. The pirate smiled, pressed the pistol against Paul’s temple and shouted something in Swahili. The ugly, pockmarked face was close to his. Black, bloodshot eyes. A sprig of khat protruded from the side of the man’s mouth and his teeth were stained green. Paul smelt foul breath, the stale sweat of his body. The pirate was excited, enjoying himself. ‘Mmarekani’ — American. Paul went cold with terror, his body stiffened, expecting at any moment the shot he would never hear. His mind raced, but could find no purchase.

Husni was pleading, repeating something over and over. His voice came from the bottom of a deep well. ‘Mmarekani’ again. The gunman laughed, patted Paul on the cheek with a rough, fisherman’s hand and turned to the crew, shouting orders. Nuru took the helm and the rest of the sailors were herded into the waist, where two men guarded the group. The third took up a position on the foredeck aiming his rifle at them. The red pirate stood on the quarterdeck beside Nuru. ‘You are now prisoners!’ he shouted in English. ‘If you do anything wrong, we kill you. Keep heads down. Do not look at us. No talk!’

The pirate ordered Nuru to follow the skiff, which had drawn ahead of Jamal. ‘Do not fall behind,’ said the pirate. ‘Do not change course. I shoot you.’

The crew sat with hands on their heads. Two pirates moved among them, checking their pockets and patting them down for money or weapons. After the search, they were allowed to tend to Latif, who lay on the deck behind them. The young sailor’s upper arm had been torn open and the wound was a mess of ugly flesh. Taki tried to staunch the bleeding with a kikoi. Husni found some painkillers, disinfectant cream and bandages in Jamal’s rudimentary first-aid tin. They propped Latif against the mast. His eyes were closed and he moaned through dry lips.

Nuru remained at the helm, trailing the skiff. The sail was riddled with holes, but with the engine’s help they were still making good speed. Paul was forced to sit at the stern, away from the rest. The adrenalin had left him and he felt drained, exhausted. His body still shook.

Once Latif was made comfortable on a pile of mattresses and his arm bandaged, Husni took the helm.

‘How’s he doing?’ asked Paul under his breath.

‘I don’t know,’ whispered Husni. ‘The bullet went right through his arm.’

‘Silence!’ shouted the leader, vaulting the steps to the quarterdeck and grabbing Paul by his hair. The pirate punched him in the face with his pistol, opening a cut across his cheek. ‘American pig!’ he screamed. ‘I tell you, quiet!’

He dragged Paul by his hair