Under the Paralos’s floorboards, Gontran’s bladder was about to explode. He wanted to smack Alexios for telling him to piss himself. What an idea!

Gontran lifted the plank above his head and peered outside. It must have been early morning. He could see the crates, amphorae, barrels, and sacks the Romans had thrown everywhere. No one seemed to be around.

In all honesty, he would have preferred to piss off the deck and into the sea. Maybe he could just sneak up top, wave to the Romans, and say: “Time out!” Since this was a game, they had to respect the rules, right?

Mom said you guys have to play fair…

But he was going to die if he didn’t take a piss. His bladder would burst. It would be like appendicitis. And so—as Alexios was whispering and waving for him to stop—Gontran climbed onto the floor and, still in the hold, crept toward the bow. He found, however, that the floor rose up to meet the ceiling here. This presented a problem. If he pissed in this place, wouldn’t it fall into the bilge and flow to their hiding spot? He couldn’t piss on his friends! He wasn’t drunk enough—he wasn’t drunk at all! But what was he supposed to do?

Footsteps sounded behind him. Gontran whirled around in terror, but it was just Diaresso.

“Jesus, you scared the shit out of me!” Gontran whispered.

“Apologies.” Diaresso hunched his tall shoulders. “Have you forgotten that I must also void the contents of my bladder?”

A moment later, Alexios joined them, explaining that they all might as well piss at the same time so they wouldn’t have to worry about it later.

“The prodigal son returns,” Gontran said.

“I don’t even know what that means,” Alexios said.

“Of course you don’t,” Gontran said. “So we’re all out here. Now what do we—”

Voices were talking upstairs. Then the ladder creaked. Someone was climbing down—a man with leather-soled sandals, muscular legs, and a kind of armored skirt. His helmet crest was turned to the side. He must have been an officer—probably that kentarch from earlier. He dressed just like an ancient Roman soldier, too, not like the other soldiers or foreign mercenaries who wore lots of chainmail or even the heavy helmets and armor you might find on medieval knights.

Shit! Gontran thought.

The three fugitives hid behind the cargo as the man jumped to the floor. Gontran peered over a huge amphora rack. There was a problem. They had forgotten to replace the floorboards. He could see Herakleia lying in the darkness in her sailor’s tunic.

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Three other Romans joined the kentarch, all of them stumbling into the nearest hammocks and dropping their helmets and supply sacks to the floor. Within seconds their breath grew loud and regular. They were asleep.

Gontran glanced at Diaresso and Alexios—both of whom were watching him. What should they do? Kill the officers? But then the other soldiers would notice. If the fugitives killed them and dressed in their armor, nobody would be fooled. These men must have been living together for months at least. On the other hand, if the fugitives returned to their hiding spot, the Romans might discover them. Gontran also still needed to piss like the devil.

At this point the drumming and rowing stopped. He looked back at Diaresso and Alexios again, and in the gloom pointed to the ceiling.

“No drums,” he mouthed, exaggerating the words with his lips as much as possible. “No rowing.”

Alexios narrowed his eyebrows and looked up while Diaresso leaned forward and listened.

“I’m going up to have a look,” Gontran whispered.

“Gontran, no!” Alexios said.

Ignoring him, Gontran crept to the ladder and climbed up quietly. He looked back at Diaresso and Alexios. His partner was glaring at him while the boy was clutching his head and swearing silently to himself. Gontran suppressed the urge to laugh.

Peering over the floor of the top deck, he discovered something amazing. The Romans were all asleep. Some were lying on the deck while the rest were slumped against the oarlocks. They hadn’t even set a watch.

Roman discipline ain’t what it used to be, Gontran thought. No wonder you guys are having so many problems these days.

Suddenly he understood. That droungarios from earlier had ordered them to return to Konstantinopolis. The soldiers had acknowledged his command out of respect. But as soon as he was out of sight, the kentarch gave the order to rest. Now the ship was adrift and the crew had passed out.

Gontran moved to the stern, as far from the sleeping men as possible, almost silent and invisible thanks to his high stealth skill. Saying a prayer to Saint Jehoshaphat—the patron saint of urine—Gontran unleashed his piss over the side. It struck the water with a deafening and continuous splash, warping the reflections of the planet Venus shining in Pontos’s calm waters.

Whew, he thought. I had to piss so bad. There’s nothing like a good piss. They call me thunderpiss.

Soon he was joined by Diaresso and Alexios, who likewise released their urine into the abyss, though Diaresso did so by squatting, oddly enough. Then Alexios cracked a joke which no one understood. He whispered: “Don’t cross the streams!” Gontran thought this a reference to the outside world, but he had stopped caring about that place, and was so absorbed into Romanía now that he had trouble remembering his old name. He was Gontran Koraki, he came from Metz, and he had adventured across the world. That was the end of it.

The craziest thing about the piss adventure was that the fugitives avoided all detection. Gontran, Diaresso, and Alexios crept back belowdecks, lay down in their hiding spot, and pulled the floorboards over themselves.

“Home sweet home,” Gontran whispered, luxuriating in the cold wet uncomfortable darkness as the bilge water sloshed back and forth.

It may not be much, he thought. But it’s keeping us safe from these Romans.