The Galley

by Paul Howard

  With a smile on his fat, pimply face, he bowed at us mockingly and looked Galba in the eye. Obviously he expected an apology and the deference due to his station as the Young Emperor designate. This made Galba, who had been drinking, even angrier. This is very unwise, even for a Young Emperor designate! He threw a punch at Nero’s face that struck him so hard he lost control and wet himself. After staggering for a few seconds, (His men were already on the ground.), he finally regained himself and glared at Galba angrily through swelling eyelids. He was just about to say something, when Galba reminded Nero that there were witnesses to his humiliation. (We had our hoods on and he could not see my face.) “One word of this in any of the Greek Schools,” he warned, “And you will not dare show your face to anybody under twenty without fear of being a laughing stock!” This angered Nero and he stepped up to confront Galba.

  “You dare to threaten the Imperial Family?” he hissed.

  “I am not threatening anything,” Galba sniffed, “Our silence has a price. You forget all about this or face the consequences!”

  Nero took the hint. He also knew what the youth of Rome are like. When he showed up in public with a swollen face on the next day, the story was given that a horse had kicked him.

  Oddly enough, I met him a few days later under much different circumstances. My father received an official invitation to the Palace for a reception given by Old Claudius for Rome’s most distinguished tradesman. My father insisted that I go as well. So did Nero. As I was formally presented to him there was no hint of recognition. He gave me a nasty look through still puffy eyes and offered me a sweaty hand, which I had to take. It is not polite to wipe your hand in front of the Emperor’s heir but I washed it thoroughly as soon as he was not looking at me.

  Nero was burning down our city. Because of him the best theaters, restaurants, baths, and shops in the Empire, the history of centuries, were falling in dying embers all around us. I knew Rome would never forgive him for it.

  Finally, out of sheer fatigue, I made my way out of the City to the hasty encampments in the open fields. People were concentrated, again like ants, sobbing and searching desperately for their loved ones. Others were just in shock. All that night, and for the next eight days, we watched helplessly as the fire raged on. There was nothing anyone could do. Rome was a tinderbox that had to burn itself out.

  As the flames finally subsided, terror and rage turned into a general numbness, as the people moved back into the city. It is impossible for any modern man who has not witnessed the devastation firsthand to conceive of such a scene. The Mighty City was a dead sea of gray for mile upon mile. Although a third of Rome was spared the flames, the loss was more than the heart could bear. The House of Vespa, the City’s Ceremonial Household and all the City’s sacred goods were nothing but ashes and piles of scorched stone. A small deputation was offering prayers at the site when I was there. Romulus’ own temple to Jupiter the Stayer was also in ruins. Its beautiful restored facade of purple marble and original timbers lay in shattered columns across the street in front of where it had once stood, a living reminder of Rome’s foundation. I could not hold in the tears. The Altar of Evander completely collapsed unto itself in the ferocious heat. It broke the heart of all who saw it. Countless irreplaceable treasures from Rome’s history were gone forever.

  As I made the way to my father’s warehouses I expected the worst, but was pleasantly surprised. The fire had not made it into the area and our holdings were spared. I was grateful for this, because my father had gone to Rhegium on business and certainly would have hurried back to Rome when he heard the news of the fire. At least he would not have to come back to ruin. As his only son, I set about the tasks that needed doing. After taking care of his worker’s needs and securing our operations, the main order of business was the emergency effort which was taking shape throughout the city. The Emperor had ordered that Mars Field would be open for a refugee camp, and it was the duty of every tradesman in the City to provide whatever aid and supply they could. By the time Father had returned the carts were rolling out of our warehouses all day long with food and medicines for the homeless.

  Now if the City ruled the Empire, it was rumor that ruled the City. Gossip has always been the favorite pastime of Romans and, long before the fires had died out, a cloud of suspicion had enshrouded the Emperor. Nero responded to the crisis with uncharacteristic swiftness. He ordered a reduction in food prices, lifted levies, and gave priority to relief operations. With my father’s return to take over operations I was called upon to personally supervise the distribution of goods at Mars Field. Some unscrupulous people were trying to take advantage of the situation for their own profit, acting as managers and gouging survivors for food and water. When I arrived with cartloads of supplies I personally witnessed the way in which these food racketeers operated.

  Taking advantage of the crowds, they would bring in ruffians to make a line between the people and the goods. Unloading it from the carts, they would take it elsewhere to sell at dear prices to people who simply could not afford to argue. It was a very dangerous situation for all. Pockets of fighting were breaking out and there had been some killings. Our people withdrew from the field and a meeting with the other sponsors of the distribution effort was arranged with the City Magistrate.

  We suggested that the help of the City Garrison should be summoned to remedy the situation. The Magistrate agreed. No commander in the City Garrison was better respected or feared than Lucius Bronias. He agreed for the need and provided troops to accompany the supplies into the area. He also made it known that any attempt to interfere or make money off of the distribution operations would result in summary executions for all who attempted to do so.

  As always, there were some who did not listen to the warning and actually tried to fight with the guards. The skirmish was brief and Bronias made good on his promise, putting four violators to the sword on the spot. The profiteering was curtailed and the distribution could finally proceed in the way the Emperor intended. On this occasion Nero was trying to help.

  Weeks passed. There was so much to do. I became absorbed in the effort. There was a new challenge every day, and it was all I could do to keep up with it. I had never even seen a birth before and now I had helped deliver babies. I worked day and night, too engaged by necessity to realize the toll that fatigue was taking upon me. I also ignored the warnings and repeated requests of my friends to slow down. On the twelfth day I had to be carried from the Field.

  When I awoke, my family’s physician was leaning over me.

  “I suppose you think you are immortal, my boy,” he said, “Well you are not, I can assure you.”

  He turned to my father. “If your son does not rest,” he said, “I will not be able to answer for the consequences. Get him out of Rome, Ostia perhaps. Or better yet, one of the Southern Resorts. He should do no more work for a while.”

  With a bow, he took leave of my father. As I tried to get up, my father quickly held me down. “Absolutely not,” he declared, “The doctor ordered rest and you are going to rest.” I tried to protest. “Never mind that,” he answered, “I am proud of your efforts, but the Empire will survive without you for a few days.”

  His expression told me that the subject was closed.

  The next morning an old school friend of mine, Marcus Terentius, paid me a call. He had come down from Florentia to see the City for himself.

  After my father exacted an oath from me not to do any work, he allowed me to take Marcus on a tour of the City. I was not sure how the sights would affect him, as he was always very sensitive about such things. The first time I ever had to work at The Games as a vendor for my father, he accompanied me. It resulted in him having nightmares for a month afterwards. I explained that the slaughter of wild animals in the arena was a form of tribute. He responded quite seriously: “I wonder if a Tiger that is starved and butchered in front of thousands of people appreciates the honor?” He had a point, of course.

  Contrary to
popular beliefs, there are many Romans who find the games cruel, needlessly brutish, and wasteful. I was not born to wealth, my father acquired it. He started life as a poor fisherman. Among such people the spilling of blood is not viewed as sport. For the poor it is close to home.

  As we moved through the City Marcus was deeply saddened by the sights but there were no tears. He seemed to accept what he saw with a strange serenity. As the day wore on, I realized that my old friend had changed in a way I could not quite understand. He was more confident than I remembered him, and much more at ease. I did not ask him why, but I knew he would tell me when he was ready to.

  THE EXPERIMENT

  Although almost everything in this account is firsthand, there are a few relevant parts of the tale that were told to me by those involved. As Marcus and I were studying the devastation of Rome, a strange event was unfolding in a village just outside of Barium. It involved a certain young Greek armorer. Now, this Greek was an extraordinary man, possessed of a brilliance that is hard to describe in any conventional way, for there was nothing conventional about him.

  Suffice to say that, in a world where Greeks were heralded as scholars and scientists, he had no equal. His mind was in a place where few men ever go, beyond other Greeks, beyond anybody else in the world. I do not think he saw things as others do, creating a reality based on science. Where others would cower in fear of lightning, he would try to study it. If others saw superstitious explanations for nature, he only saw natural laws.

  On this day he was conducting an experiment in his shop. He had built an apparatus that he actually believed would be capable of producing perpetual light and heat without tinder or oil. Such a notion might seem like madness, but he was perfectly serious about it. He believed this day would see the culmination of a project he had been working on for years.

  After closing all of the doors and windows, allowing light to enter only through narrow slots from above, he ordered his apprentices to remove all jewelry and metals from their clothing and place them outside. Then, he directed all but one to move behind a heavy barrier he had constructed for that purpose. He dipped a scarf in water and wrapped it around his shoulders. Putting on gloves, he removed a small container from a lead vault. He moved slowly to the table containing the apparatus.

  It is hard to describe this strange device. It was about three feet wide and one foot in height. It was perfectly circular and constructed of a metal called steel. Inside were nine chambers filled with rare earth which surrounded a bowl-like shape he described as “the core”. This emitted a very powerful smell of ammonium. Running out of its bottom were two finely shaved copper wires which ran to a brass tube filled with a compound of his own concoction, mostly quicksilver. As he carefully opened the container the tiny particles of dust danced in the shafts of sunlight entering from above, giving the strange scene an eerie feeling. The object inside was of a gleaming metal that, through some mystery I cannot understand, was so acidic that it was impossible to touch with bare hands.

  He turned to the apprentice at the table, who was shaking with suspense. “Remember,” he reminded, as he slipped the object into the end of a wooden arm, “Do not take your eye off of the needle for a moment. Call out the numbers constantly!”

  The apprentice nodded his understanding as the Greek slowly swung the arm over the center of the apparatus. “Are you ready?” he asked. The servant could only nod his head. “I am lowering the cylinder into the core.” As he gently lowered the cylinder, the apprentice began reading the gauge. The Greek continued to lower it.

  “220…230…250…290…350!”

  The pungent odor of ammonium rose and the air became harder to breath. The Greek stopped lowering the cylinder and the needle stopped rising. He pulled the wet scarf over his nose and his assistants did likewise. “I must do it much slower.” he said. The apprentice breathed a heavy sigh and the Greek swallowed hard. “Easy does it…nice and slow…”

  The beads of sweat poured off of the Greek’s forehead as he began to bite his lower lip in concentration. “420…,” the apprentice continued,”…440…465…500…550…” Again the Greek stopped the cylinder, now just touching the core. He took a deep breath, “Slower…” He resumed the lowering. The counting resumed.

  The object began to glow a soft blue. The Greek’s eyes widened with excitement. “Too fast! Too fast,” hollered the apprentice, “We must stop this!”

  The Greek shook his head. “It is supposed to fluoresce like that,” he declared, “That is the whole idea!”

  “A little more,” protested the Greek, “It is almost in! The chemical reaction is expected to produce extreme heat. That is normal!” He resumed.

  “1050…1140…,” the apprentice was now shouting, the other workers had seen enough and ran out of the back door. “1330…stop it! 2700…3900!” The air now crackled and whistled around the core as the blue light became too bright to look at. The needle jumped up to 12000.

  The Greek gasped in surprise. The chemical chain reaction he had hoped for was unstable. “Get out!” he demanded.

  The apprentice did not need to be told twice. He jumped up and bolted out of the door. The Greek followed, pausing only for a moment to look back. The entire apparatus was now glowing as the fluid began to spew over the top of the gauge. His experiment had failed.

  He dashed outside and ran for the cover of a drainage trench behind a concrete wall fifty yards away. As he was running, he became aware of a deep low rumble emerging from the shop. He quickly leapt for cover in the nick of time.

  The Greek’s workshop was located across a plaza from the local marketplace. The street was lined with carts, kiosks and livestock. The entire plaza was framed by walls and buildings on three sides and, as it was mid-week, the plaza was full of shoppers. It could not have happened at a worse time, for no sooner had the Greek reached cover, when something he had never imagined could happen…did!

  The shop exploded. But this was unlike any explosion ever made by mortal man. It was indescribable! I have never heard a volcanic eruption but this must have been much like it in volume, for it tore the roofs off of houses along the shore, broke windows in Barium and the flash could be seen as far away as Brundusium! For several terrifying moments, he covered his face in the trench, where he could see the bones of his hands in the fluorescence through closed eyelids.

  The rumble and sound of wind died away. The Greek rose from his cover to survey the damage.

  The marketplace and all the buildings were gone! Except for a few badly burned people, everyone, including animals, had just disappeared. In all directions, the devastation was total. The Greek looked up at the sky. A giant, purple cloud of dust, almost a quarter mile across, rose overhead. “Great Zeus,” he cried, “What have I done?” Before he could even finish the sentence, a heavy hand seized him roughly upon the shoulder. He quickly turned to find himself confronted by an ashen-faced soldier. All he said was: “You are under arrest!” It is fortunate for the Greek that the soldier’s hands were burned too badly to wield a sword, for he might have died where he stood.

  It was the last moment of freedom he was ever to see on Roman soil.

  STUCK AGAIN

  I love the sea. Ever since I was a little boy I would go on my father’s fishing boat whenever I could. Although I never knew my mother, who died giving me life, I was never alone, for my father kept me with him wherever he went until I was old enough for school. My ancestors were all fishermen. My father inherited his first boat from his father and worked it for years, until fortune offered him the opportunity to purchase another boat and hire a crew to work it. Within several years, he had a fleet of fishing boats, and a fishery at Ostia.

  His now famous “Little Smokers” came about quite by accident; he wanted to find an alternative to salting his fish for export to the other provinces. The flavor of his secret smoking process, (which I will not reveal here.), took the Empire by storm. Within two years no inn, theater, or stadium in Italy could be without the
m. We were now so successful that my father’s business kept him on dry land most of the time. Nevertheless, my love of sailing did not diminish, and I had my own sailboat by the time I was ten. Every chance I got, I was at sea in it.

  The following day Marcus and I went down to Ostia for an afternoon of sailing in my sloop. He and I had spent many hours aboard her in our youth, and it was a perfect day for it. The sun was bright and the air off of the sea had a lovely perfume. We set out of the harbor before noon, and cleared the break into the open sea. By late afternoon a good, sturdy breeze was blowing and we decided to make the most of it. I took the tiller and Marcus handled the sheets. A really good gust had taken hold and I maneuvered to take advantage of it. We had just turned into the groove when the full force of the wind was at our backs. The wind roared in our ears as I shouted: “Now! Let the wind have her!” A soft tug on the starboard sheet and the sail bellowed at it is full.

  The roar disappeared, and we experienced that wonderful feeling when all is silent, the only sound is your own heartbeat and the occasional break of the water under the bow. Everything seems to fly past without a sound and the full, broad feel of the sea air on your face makes your eyes smart. We sailed thus for nearly an hour until fatigue finally crept into our arms. Then we settled back on Neptune’s gentle mane to enjoy the sublime peace with nothing but the wind to thunder in our ears. Presently we refreshed ourselves. As the sky began its nightly pageant of pink and orange, Marcus took a piece of bread and gnawed upon it as he spoke. “Now that we are alone,” he said, “I want to know about the fire. I heard some nasty rumors as I was coming down here. Are they true?”