Buono didn’t think; he ran. He sprinted down the dock to a weather-faded grey rowboat and jumped in.
“Hey! Thief!” the old woman cried, “That’s Andro’s boat! Andro the woodcutter!”
Buono untied the boat and pushed off from the dock. “I’m sorry! He’ll get it back, I promise!”
“Oh he will, all right! Then he’ll rip your prick off and beat you to death with it!”
The galley sculled away from the land with twenty oars. Buono had but two. He rowed just a few strokes and knew he could never catch up. Then he remembered: Paolo was going to Syracuse.
Buono slid around on the bench and banged the oars into the side, thrashing and staggering through the water towards the afternoon sun. The galley continued on northwest, out to sea. The old woman shook her fist at Buono from the shore, dancing right and left in his vision as his uneven strokes jerked the bow of the boat.
He snapped his head around to look over his shoulder. He could see his goal– a red-stained wooden pole sticking up out of the water. When he was aimed straight at it he turned around and looked at the old woman. He adjusted his stroke to keep her centered in his view. The boat straightened and picked up speed. Buono risked a glance to his left; the galley was turning south towards him just as he’d hoped it would. He smiled and rowed faster, leaning his back to pull the strokes as he’d seen others do.
Wood cracked, and the force of impact threw Buono into the bottom of the boat. He smashed his hand between the oar-handle and the gunwale. He sucked on his knuckles and looked up to see the red pole several yards away. The boat had struck a submerged rock.
Buono pushed off the rock with the blade of an oar. He rowed around the rock and past the pole. He had reached the Malamocco Channel, the one safe passage south past the island’s western tip. A line or red poles driven deep into the lagoon’s muddy bottom marked the way.
To the north, the galley crew pulled their oars from the water. Buono watched men climb her mast and let the sail go. The great square of linen fluttered down and filled with the north wind. A thin green wake foamed up from either side of the bow.
Buono paddled out into the middle of the channel. He was lucky to have found the narrowest section, where there was scarcely room between the poles for one big ship to pass. He pulled his oars into the boat, then stretched his aching back and rubbed his sore biceps.
The galley’s sail was bright and full like a square moon. The ship soared through the water, bearing down on Buono’s little grey boat. He could hear men shouting and see them pointing at him. Gingerly, Buono stood up on the rowing-bench and waved.
“Dear Lord,” Buono prayed, “Let this be the right Paolo. Else into Thy hands I commend my spirit.”