Under the cork armor, Nicholas dripped with sweat. Someone was shouting at him from the dromon, but he refused to listen. A wave came up, and for a moment he was up to his shoulders in the cold, dark waters of the Propontis. It slid away, and it took all his strength to cling to the oar. Something heavy slammed into him from the side, and he blinked seawater away to see the crushed face of a man swing past him. He pushed the corpse off with one arm. The ropes were free on this oar.

He dragged himself up, feeling water sluicing out of his armor. The oar trembled and he jumped to the next- a tangled mass of ropes, broken oars, and part of the Persian mast. Behind him the freed oars slid away, pulled back into the Roman ship by the sailors still alive in the forward compartment. The rigging was greasy under his feet, slick with blood and long ribbons of gray intestine. He knelt, one knee pressed into the stomach of a corpse caught in the ropes. The herring knife bit at the hawsers. A groaning sound seemed to come from out of the water itself. Nicholas cut faster, his hand and the knife a blur. He could feel the dromon tipping farther, the dark water rising higher and higher toward the open oar ports as the merchantman's hold flooded.

A rope came free, and with it an oar. He kicked it free with his foot, then rolled off the mass of rope and shattered boards into the water as he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. The chill water was a sharp shock against his sweaty skin. A Persian crawled toward him across the wreckage, his chest bare and face spattered with blood. The man had a stabbing spear though, and Nicholas kicked in the water, pushing himself away from the debris. The Persian staggered up on the ropes, his mouth moving with unheard shouts. Nicholas pushed back again, but more broken oars were behind him. The Persian stabbed at him with the spear.

Nicholas ducked under the water, feeling it close with a slap over his head. Dimly, for the waters of the Propontis were thick with the blue-black silt that marked the Sea of Darkness, he saw a bright flash as the spearhead dug into the water and then disappeared again. He tried to dive and swim away from the wreckage. The cork armor was too buoyant, though, and he ground against the broken mast. The spear plunged into the water again, catching him on the shoulder. The armor caught the tip, but now he was driven deeper, spinning to one side, completely submerged. He clawed at the mast, trying to get some purchase. His fingers slipped off the smooth oaken surface.

Vladimir bounced from foot to foot, staring over the rail with mounting concern. The Roman ship was still tangled with the Persian, though enough oars had been cut free to halt the tipping that had threatened to flood the rowing gallery. Roman archers shooting from the fighting towers were cutting down the few Persians left on the foundering merchantman. Still, down in the dark water, amid the flotsam, Nicholas had not reappeared. Too, the Persian that had been stabbing at him with a spear was still there, kneeling amid the broken timbers, slashing at the water.

Vlad looked around; the deck of the dromon was swarming with fighting men and sailors. Around them the sea battle was still raging after a brutal day. Hundreds of ships were locked in a slowly swirling melee. Many of the Persian merchantmen were ablaze with the sticky green fire thrown by the Roman ships from arbalests in their fighting towers. Others were trying to flee toward the coast of Chalcedon, but the smaller Roman double-bank galleys were dogging them like wolves. A thick layer of smoke shrouded the sky. No one seemed to have noticed Nick's struggle in the water. Vlad fingered the heavy iron rings of his shirt, then looked around again. No one seemed to be paying him any attention.

For a moment he argued with himself silently, weighing pro and con. Then he shook his head, sending dark locks flying, and swung up and over the rail. His cavalry-style boots slipped on the top-rank oars, and he staggered, nearly falling. He shook his head again and frowned, concentrating. He slid, half falling, half running, down the oar. As he almost reached the bottom, it rose up out of the dark sea, and he jumped sideways to the next. His left boot struck it squarely and he immediately pushed off, springing into the air. The oars began to back against the pull of the sinking merchantman.

Vlad staggered, leaning forward, then windmilling his arms to bend backward. The long oar dipped, sliding under the waves. Water rushed up around his feet, and his footing slipped away. Cursing, he crashed into the water. It flooded cold and numbing into his clothing and armor, pulling him down. An oar rose up, swinging back, and Vlad kicked, surging up out of the sea. His arms wrapped around the heavy ashwood shaft. For a moment he broke free of the water, but then the oar dipped again, and now he was dragged under.

It was dark and cold, but he clung to the oar tenaciously, wrapping his arms around it. It cut free of the water on the upstroke, andgasping for breath- he flung one arm out. Fingers grazed the next oar as it came up, then dug in, splintering wood away from his nails. Vlad let go and swung out, crashing into the next oar. Breath chuffed out of his chest at the blow, but he held on. The Roman ship edged away from the wreckage. In the gore-drenched forward gallery, the marines were cutting men away from the ruin of the oars with axes and pushing the bodies out of the oarlocks. The tangled oars fell away, too, sliding into the sea. Bodies and wreckage floated on the water, tipped this way and that by the waves.

Vlad let himself slide to the end of an oar as it dug into the water, then- holding his mouth and nose closed against the cold shock as he went under again- let go as it broke free. Water rushed up around him, dragging at his armor and boots. He kicked strongly, and his arms plowed through the water. The wedge of ropes and timber and bodies was very close. He surged forward, even as the weight of the iron on him dragged him down. The Persian with the spear turned at the last moment as Vlad caught a net of webbing on the side of the debris.

The Persian shouted and stabbed down at him. Vlad rolled, his left hand tangled in the netting, and the spear point cut the water beside him. His right hand, free, darted out and seized the haft of the spear. The Persian struggled, hauling back on the oaken shaft. Vlad grimaced, the tendons in his arms bulging, and his face locked in a grim mask. The spear twisted in his hand, then suddenly snapped with a sharp barking sound. The Persian staggered back, then stumbled and fell into the ocean. Spray spurted behind him and he was gone. Vlad crawled up, hand over hand, onto the raft. It shifted queasily under him, but seemed to hold his weight.

"Nicholas!" Vlad's voice seemed thin and hoarse. The sea around him bobbed with debris; broken oars, shattered masts, crates, corpses, the oily shininess of blood on the water. He was exhausted from the tremendous effort. He fell to his knees, digging his hands into the ropes. "Ho, Nicholas!"

The sea tipped as a wave passed under the raft. The dromon had pulled away, the rattle of its drums echoing across the water. The Persian fleet seemed smashed, broken into a hundred sinking or captured ships. The Roman fleet, its red sails catching the light, seemed behemoths of war, titanic engines washed in blood. Smoke and haze filled the sky, turning the sun into a monstrous red orb.

"Nicholas!"

The raft tipped suddenly, and Vlad fell heavily into the welter of rope, broken pieces of wood and corpses that formed it. A hand appeared at the edge of the debris, cut and bleeding, gripping a rope. Vlad crawled over to the edge, lying flat to spread his weight on the noisome island. A face appeared out of the water, sodden and bedraggled. Vlad grabbed hold of the man's shoulder, catching an armor strap in his hand, and pulled him up.