Lucian and Demetrios rose before dawn, gathered their belongings, and headed for the harbor at Seleucia, the port that served Antioch, by following the smell of fish and rope and the sound of seabirds. The harbor was a chaos of vessels—merchant ships with their broad, rounded hulls; a few faster biremes with their double rows of oars; fishing boats; ferries. Men swarmed everywhere, carrying amphorae, bundles of cloth, baskets of dried fruit, herding sheep and cattle down the gangways. Even at that hour, the noise was tremendous and incomprehensible.

Demetrios pointed to the Aphrodite's Favor—a merchant coaster of perhaps eighty tons, her hull painted a weathered blue-black, her single square sail furled against a wooden mast that rose from the middle of the deck like the trunk of a petrified tree, all glowing gold in the flickering torchlight. "That's the one we want," he advised Lucian. "I've traveled on her before."

Lucian and Demetrios presented themselves at the dock in the pre-dawn darkness, carrying only what they could manage on their backs: each had two tunics, a mantle, a pair of sandals, and a small sack of bread, cheese, dried figs, and walnuts. Demetrios had had the foresight to buy watered wine in a sealed bladder; Lucian had a bronze cup and a hope that fresh water would be available. The ship was being loaded by torchlight. Three merchant traders were aboard, overseeing the placement of their goods: one had amphorae of wine, carefully nestled in straw; another had bolts of cloth wrapped in waxed linen; the third had brought, mysteriously, a large cargo of what appeared to be garum, the pungent fish-sauce that Romans used on everything. The smell would be inescapable, they would soon learn. But they would also grow accustomed to it.

Captain Nikias was a stocky man with a beard like iron wool, standing at the gangway and accepting payment from merchants who were loading their goods. He had sailed this route—Antioch to Ephesus along the coast, stopping at Rhodes and Cos—seventeen times, he told them. He charged them each three drachmas for passage, asked no questions about where they were from or where they were going, exhibited no interest when Lucian tried to tell him anyway, and told them to go on below.

Then the captain began shouting orders. There were perhaps fifteen crew: a pilot who stood near the steering oars at the stern, a bow officer, three sailors working the rigging, and a dozen others whose exact functions Lucian could not determine but who moved with the practiced efficiency of men who had worked together many times. The sailors were a mixed lot: one was clearly Greek, one appeared to be Egyptian with the dark, fine features of the Nile, and the rest were a collection of Syrians and other men from ports unknown. They spoke to each other in a rough hybrid tongue, a mixture of Greek with the vocabulary of the sea—words Lucian had never learned in all his schooling.

All Aboard!

The ship itself, now that he could see it in the growing light, was larger than it had appeared from a distance but still somehow fragile. The hull was built, he learned later, of pine and fir, the planks sewn together with wooden dowels and linen rope, caulked with pitch. There were no nails, or almost none. The whole thing flexed and gave slightly, which was supposed to be good—Lucian had heard wooden ships that were too rigid tended to split. The deck was an open expanse, perhaps forty feet long and fifteen feet across, with the mast rising from its center. At the bow was a raised platform, the proreum, and at the stern, where the captain stood now, was the hind, a higher structure where the steering oars were mounted. Most of the deck was open, unshaded, unprotected.

Lucian and Demetrios were directed below, through a low hatchway, into the hold. The air that hit them was indescribable—the smell of bilge and garum and something ancient, as if the ship had been rotting from the inside since it was built. Their eyes watered. The hold was divided into compartments by wooden walls, and into these compartments the cargo had been loaded: amphorae secured with ropes, bales of cloth, baskets of produce. There were perhaps a dozen other passengers already there, and more would come. No one was assigned a spot. Lucian and Demetrios simply found a corner between two wine amphorae and a shipping crate, laid out their cloaks on the wooden floor—the only bedding they would have—and claimed the space.

An old man was already camped near them, an Egyptian or possibly Nubian, thin as a locust and entirely unconcerned with the discomfort. He had a clay lamp, by which he was reading—actually reading, from a small papyrus roll. When he saw Lucian's surprise, he smiled, showing four remaining teeth. "I always bring the same book," he said in accented but clear Greek. "I've read it forty times. But the sea is long, and a man needs something to do besides think about dying."

"Do we?" Lucian asked. "Die at sea, I mean. Often?"

"Never more than once!" the old man chuckled. "But Captain Nikias is good. He stays close to the coast, and he knows the winds. We'll hug Cyprus, then Rhodes, then work our way up to Ephesus. Spring is the safe season. You'll arrive in Ephesus wondering why you were ever afraid."

Lucian hadn't been afraid. But now he found himself oddly disquietened

Other passengers filtered in as the morning progressed. There was a widow traveling with her son, who was perhaps eight; a slave woman belonging to one of the merchants, tasked with watching over some kind of cargo; two Roman soldiers, probably minor functionaries being transferred; a merchant, a nervous man from Laodicea who kept checking on his goods; and three or four others whose stories Lucian never learned. No one had cabins. Everyone slept in the hold, or on the open deck if they preferred fresher air despite the risk of suddenly inclement weather.

By mid-morning, the loading was complete. Captain Nikias came below and made a brief announcement: "We sail with the tide. The crossing should take nine to twelve days if the wind holds. Fresh water will be rationed—fill your containers now from the large barrel near the hatchway. Food is your own responsibility. If you get sick, move to the rail and be quick about it, or clean up after yourself. If you see anything strange in the hold—rats as big as dogs, water leaking where it shouldn't, cracks in the hull—tell one of the crew immediately. Any questions?" There were none. The captain returned to the upper deck.

Lucian and Demetrios filled their cups from the water barrel, which tasted of wood and rust but was, at least, cold and wet. They sorted through their provisions—already the bread was hardening, and Lucian realized with a start that they would need to be careful. Twelve days was a long time. They should have bought more. They should have bought dried fish, at least, or more cheese. Oddly, at the thought of a food shortage, Lucian was struck by sudden hunger. He could easily envision himself gulping their whole stash down at once. "So, this is what starvation is like," he thought. It had been five hours since he'd had breakfast.

They returned to the hold and with nothing else to do, tried to nap; but sleep was impossible in the daytime noise and the thick, unmoving air. So Lucian climbed back onto the deck and began to explore. The Aphrodite's Favor was a revelation. He had never understood, in all his years in Samosata, what a ship really was—not a thing that floated so much as a thing that pushed against the world, a will of wood and rope and human effort imposed upon the sea. The mast was thick as a man's body and rose what seemed like an impossible height, perhaps sixty feet, with a wooden platform halfway up for the lookout to stand. The square sail was enormous when furled, a bundle of linen the color of old cream. The rigging was a web of ropes, each with a specific purpose, and the sailors moved among it with an ease that suggested they were more at home in the air than on solid ground.

The bow was pointed and reinforced, and from it extended a wooden figurehead—a woman with flowing hair, presumably Aphrodite herself, badly weathered and missing one eye. There were also eyes painted on the hull just above the waterline, as Lucian had noticed when he boarded. He had read in Homer about such things, but seeing it was different; it made the ship seem almost alive, a creature that had consented to carry humans but retained its own mysterious purposes.

The stern held the steering mechanism—two large wooden oars, one on each side, each long enough to require a team of men to move. There was a small shrine there, too, a wooden cabinet with a clay figurine of Poseidon inside, which someone had garlanded with dried flowers. Captain Nikias caught Lucian looking at it and nodded approvingly. "We made an offering at dawn," he said. "The god is merciful, but there's no mercy without respect."

By early afternoon, the tide was right, and the Aphrodite's Favor began to move. Lucian felt the subtle shift, a loosening of the ropes, a change in the light as the vessel swung away from the dock. The crew worked in practiced silence, and then the sail was being raised—a slow ascent of white linen, fighting against its own weight and the wind that now began to fill it. There was a sound like the ship breathing in, and then they were moving, actually moving, the shore beginning to recede.

Lucian stood at the rail and felt something shift in his chest. He had left Samosata on foot, but that had felt like running away, small and almost shameful. This was different. This was departure as a cosmic principle—he was moving away from everything he had known, and the movement was not something he was doing but something that was being done to him and around him, by forces older than men. The shoreline of Seleucia grew small. The harbor became a toy. The land seemed to dissolve. There was only the ship, the sea, and the wind.

Demetrios appeared at his elbow. "Nine to twelve days," he intoned as he gazed over the water. "Except for the next water stop."

Lucian's thoughts were further off in the future. Ephesus is the gateway. Ephesus is where the orators speak. Ephesus is where I can learn to change the world with words.

First Night

The first night at sea was less entertaining than he had expected, despite having been forewarned by Demetrios. The ship, which had seemed stable in the harbor, was never still—a constant gentle rocking that seemed harmless until one was lying on the wooden deck trying to sleep and realized that one's entire body was in motion, that there was no fixed point anywhere, that the floor itself had betrayed the concept of floor. The widow's child would not stop crying. The soldier from Laodicea was asleep and snoring in a way that seemed almost defensive.

Demetrios shook him. "By Zeus," he muttered in disgust. "I'm going to sleep on deck." He rose and Lucian followed him. The air outside was blessedly fresh with just a slight salty tang. They found a spot on deck as yet unclaimed, and lay alongside each other, spooning to provide more stability against the rocking of the deck.

Lucian lay still and tried to count the stars. The old Egyptian was right—the fear was different than he had expected. It was not sudden or dramatic. It was a slow, creeping realization that the normal rules of the world had been suspended, that he was entirely dependent on the skill of Captain Nikias and the grace of Poseidon, and that there was nothing he could do about either. After an hour of this, he found it strangely comforting, and fell asleep.

The next day the seasickness hit him, then left. He discovered if he stared at the distant shore, it seemed to help settle his stomach. The wind held from the northwest, steady and reliable, and the ship found its rhythm. They were sailing close to the coast, as promised, and the land was never far away—mountains visible on the horizon, small harbors where the ship did not stop but could stop, a continuous ribbon of possibility. The ship's routine established itself. The crew changed watches with bells. Water was distributed in measured amounts. The three merchants disappeared into whatever compartments they had claimed and seldom emerged, except to go to the bow and use the "seat toilet" suspended over their wake.

On the second day, Lucian discovered that one of the cargo holds contained not just merchandise but animals—three goats and two pigs, intended for a merchant in Rhodes. They were kept in a wooden pen and they were miserable. The pigs in particular seemed to be in a state of permanent outrage at their situation, squealing in tones that could probably be heard in Samosata. The goats were calmer but occasionally attempted to butt their way through the pen. A young slave, a boy barely older than Lucian, had been assigned to feed and water them. It had to be, Lucian thought, the worst job on the ship.

The food situation stabilized into a kind of routine of diminishing satisfaction. Lucian and Demetrios ate their bread and cheese sparingly, supplemented by shared meals with other passengers—the widow had brought some dried fish and was willing to trade for bread, the merchant from Laodicea had fruit preserves in a sealed jar, the old Egyptian apparently needed almost nothing and existed on a diet of bread and resignation. The water remained precious; one learned to drink sparingly, to rinse one's mouth rather than swallow, to save the body's moisture for moments of genuine thirst.

Rhodes

On the fourth day they put in at Rhodes, dropping anchor in the harbor briefly to take on fresh supplies and drop off cargo. The crew took several hours for what appeared to be important business; the captain himself went ashore. Lucian and Demetrios decided to walk around, longing as they were to stretch their legs on solid ground. Lucian wanted to visit the ruins of the famed Colossus of Rhodes, a giant statue that had overlooked the harbor for centuries but had been toppled by an earthquake 350 years before. It had been snapped off at the knees; but even that was enough to make it a major tourist attraction.

Demetrios begged off, saying he'd already seen it and wanted to catch up with an old friend. When Lucian offered to accompany him, Demetrios laughed. "I don't think you'd get along that well, to be honest," he said. "Don't worry about it. I'll meet you back at the ship."

Lucian went to see the Colossus's calves and feet, and found himself more amused at the reactions of the other tourists than at the ruins themselves, thinking if it had stayed up during that earthquake, now, that would have been impressive!

Lucian returned to the ship before Demetrios. In fact, he was beginning to fear his friend might miss the afternoon tide, and the captain had been clear that they would not, could not, wait for anyone. Finally, Demetrios appeared, looking tired but positively glowing. And he had a sack with him.

"Food!" he called out to Lucian. When he'd gotten on board, he continued. "My friend was, uh, cleaning out his pantry and he gave me some extra bread and cheese. And figs! And some dried fish! So we won't have to worry about food for a while!"

Lucian was surprised but grateful. He knew Demetrios was well-traveled despite his youth, but hadn't expected him to have friends in Rhodes, much less friends who could afford to be so generous.

Back at sea, with the wind still favorable, Lucian spent the hours mentally reciting Homer, lying on the deck between the mast and the rail, watching the sky change in its slow. majestic way. The wind was constant, making a kind of rushing whisper. The water, seen close, was not blue but a complex combination of shades—green in the shallows near the coast, then a deeper blue-gray, and farther out a darkness that suggested infinite depth.

On the ninth day, with Cyprus long behind and the coast of Asia Minor growing more substantial, the lookout shouted a warning. A sail was visible on the horizon—another merchant ship, smaller than the Aphrodite's Favor, approaching fast. For a moment there was tension among the crew. Piracy had been reduced significantly since Pompey's campaigns two centuries before, but they still existed. Captain Nikias ordered the speed increased—the sail was adjusted, and the ship seemed to lean forward with effort. But the other vessel made no hostile move, simply passed at a distance, and the moment of tension passed. Lucian was almost, but not, quite, disappointed. He had played pirates as a child. But, as an adult, he knew they were nothing to play around with.

By the tenth day, the coast was so close they passed fishermen in small boats, and on the eleventh day, they could see the ruins on a headland—the remnants of an ancient city, probably Greek, apparently dead. The lookout called that they were approaching Cos, and then Samos, and finally, on the twelfth day, the peaks of the mountains above Ephesus became visible.

Ephesus At Last

Lucian woke early that morning and ran immediately onto the prow. The city was still distant, but it was real now, tangible, a collection of white buildings spilling down from a height toward a harbor that seemed impossibly busy. Smaller boats surrounded the Aphrodite's Favor, merchants from the shore seeking to make sales, harbor pilots offering their services. The crew moved with purpose—the sail was being adjusted, the steering oars were being manned, and above it all, Captain Nikias stood at the stern and grinned a grin that suggested satisfaction.

Ephesus was coming closer. Lucian could smell it now—the smell of a large city, a mix of humanity and commerce and saltwater and hope. He had survived the crossing. He was a different person than he had been twelve days ago in Seleucia! Or so he felt. He was no longer merely a boy from Samosata, no longer merely the failed apprentice of a sculptor. He was someone who had crossed the sea! And he had arrived.

Demetrios appeared beside him, and pointed at the city. "We made it!" he exclaimed.

"We did!" Lucian agreed. And then, looking at the city, at the harbor, at the crowds of people moving with purpose along the waterfront: "But my journey's not done yet. This is just the beginning."

Demetrios grinned as if he knew something Lucian did not. "You have no idea," he chuckled.