by Paul Howard
The Hortator, to his credit, eyed these visitors with distaste and moved up top as the mates walked down the catwalk inspecting each downturned face as they chose. They stopped at one muscular candidate and Aelius reached into his loincloth. He smiled as he tried to arouse the man but it was of no use.
“I think this one is dead, Titus.” he laughed and they moved down the line. Finally, I became aware that they were standing above me. I also knew that they were beginning to like what they saw.
“Get him to look at us Titus.” said Aelius. His rich perfume was making me nauseous. Titus placed his hand on my chin and raised my face to meet theirs.
I might have made the mistake of betraying my feelings before. But this time it was no accident, as I allowed my eyes to speak for me. A hatred for my captors was growing within me and I let them know it. Titus slapped me so angrily that I almost fell off of the bench.
“He is a Roman of the worst kind,” he said, “The kind with brains. He gives up nothing and makes you pay for whatever you take! We could not turn our backs on him.” They frowned at me and moved on.
This process was repeated several times until they stopped at the burly man, Number 127.
“Oh, look at him Titus! He looks so primitive,” said Aelius, “Where do you come from, 127?”
The slave ignored him and stared at the deck, Gracchus and the other drivers watched this with perked up interest. Maybe they had picked the right man after all! The aft driver, Junius, quickly plied the whip on his back and Rufrius drew his sword.
“When a Roman asks you a question,” Junius snapped, “You answer him!” The big man never looked up at them as he spoke.
“Britannia.” was his reply. Rufrius placed the blade of his sword at 127’s throat and forced him to raise his face for the other Romans to see.
“He is much too hairy,” Aelius said, “He looks like a monkey. I do not like him.” Then Titus looked closely at the boy next to him, Number 128, a fair-looking youth of no more than sixteen.
“Aelius! Look at this one!” he exclaimed. Aelius’ eyes widened with excitement.
“Ask him to stand up.” he said.
“Get up, you!” Rufrius ordered.
The boy rose to his feet and the Romans grew very excited. He was a very fair boy with feminine features and very white skin, which Aelius began to caress. “He is so soft,” he exclaimed, “He is perfect, Titus. We have got to have him!”
Titus nodded his agreement and the boy was ordered to follow them out. “We will bathe him!” Aelius said. “It will be fun!” Aelius lead the boy up the steps and Titus paused in front of Gracchus, who had his hand outstretched. The mate opened a small purse and the clink of coins could be heard. Gracchus looked at the sum and scowled,
“The agreement was for ten.” he protested.
“You will take seven!” Titus said, smugly. Gracchus bowed as Titus descended the steps out of sight.
Hours passed. The ship was under sail and, judging by the passing lights of the coastline, we were making good time. The moon was full and the stars could just be seen out of the window twinkling overhead. The drivers, Junius and Portax were having a light meal in the aft gallery. The gentle movement of the ship was relaxing and the tensions from before were fading away as we saw a shape at the top of the stairs. It was the youth, 128, accompanied by a lancer escort.
Our visitors had finished with him. A soft murmur filled the gallery as he reached the catwalk. His appearance spoke loudly of his experience with the creatures. He was savagely beaten about the face and shoulders. There were bruises on his arms and legs and, as he passed slowly, I could see that the back of his loincloth was covered with blood. As his condition was noticed by more and more of us, the murmur grew. The boy shivered terribly and he hung his head, avoiding eye contact with anyone.
Rufrius quickly called for silence and the murmurs died down. The boy stopped at his place and stared at it for a moment. “Take your place, now!” Rufrius demanded. The boy complied, stiffly and moved to sit on the bench. When his buttocks touched the bench he stood up suddenly and groaned.
Rufrius jumped up and charged toward him. He placed his hand roughly on the boy’s shoulder and pushed him onto the bench. The boy cried out in pain. This amused our abusers, who began to laugh and mock him with foul phrases I will not utter here.
After a few moments they stopped taunting and a silence filled the gallery. That is when it came, soft and pathetic. The boy began to weep and, although it was very quiet, it cut through all who heard it like a knife.
There was a palpable feeling of sadness and outrage that grew among the slaves. Nobody said anything but it was unmistakable. The weeping grew as the boy lowered his head against his oar, the tears running down the wood. 127 softly put his arm around the boy, he said,
“Do not cry lad. Do not give them the satisfaction…”
An apple, thrown by Junius, hit the Britain on the head. He shouted,
“There is no talking!”
The boy erupted into sobbing out loud. The slaves hung their heads. Others, including me, stared at Gracchus, making no secret of it. The atmosphere in the gallery was getting thick and the longer no one said anything, the worse it became. Even Junius and Portax were affected.
This enraged Gracchus, who rose to his feet and glared at the boy. “Shut up that crying!” he demanded. The order had the opposite effect on the youth, whose cry became even more inconsolable. Gracchus became infuriated by this. He charged over to the boy and stood directly above him, with all the malice that was within him.
“I said shut up, you piece of shit,” he shouted angrily, “Stop crying or I will kill you!”
The boy looked up at him pathetically but the tears did not stop. Gracchus looked about the gallery, where every face was turned toward him. In an explosion of rage he lifted the boy onto the catwalk and punched him repeatedly, shouting obscenities as he did so.
The boy collapsed onto the deck yelling in pain, which only further inflamed Gracchus. He began to kick the youth mercilessly as hard as he could. The tension of the men exploded in anger as the slaves, without concern for the repercussions, began to yell and curse at Gracchus loudly. The situation was quickly growing out of control and the two drivers rose to their feet, cracking their whips in the air.
Forgetting myself, I began to rise to my feet as I joined the protest of this boy’s treatment. In an instant, 53 grabbed my arm and pulled me back onto the bench without a sound. Above, the sound of heavy footsteps could be heard as the sound of our fury stirred the entire ship’s company. The lancers quickly charged down the steps and lined the catwalk. The yelling subsided as the Centurion came down and looked about with sword in hand. He glared at Gracchus angrily.
“What is going on down here?” he demanded. Gracchus quickly regained his composure and raised his hands in reassurance.
“The situation is under control, sir,” he said, calmly. “We just had to discipline one of the slaves, that is all.”
The Centurion looked down at the boy, who was now unconscious but convulsing on the deck. “This is inexcusable,” the Centurion protested, “If you cannot maintain discipline down here without starting a riot you will be clapped in irons until we reach port!” Gracchus bowed like a menial toady and nodded his head in obedience.
“It will not happen again, sir,” he said, “I can assure you of that!”
The Centurion looked at us for a moment and gestured for the lancers to withdraw. “Any more of this and you will all regret it!” he told us. “You had better chain them in for the rest of the night.”
“Yes sir.” Gracchus agreed and the chains were quickly run down the wells and locked tight. The Centurion moved back up the stairs and Gracchus stared at us out of that dreaded eye.
“Just wait, all of you,” he snarled, “You will regret this!”
He looked at 128, who had stopped moving. “Get that little whore below!” he ordered, and two floaters carried him out of sight to the bi
lge.
The less said of the remainder of our shift the better. Nothing onboard Antonia had really changed as far as anyone could see, but a spark had ignited. No one could have put it into words. But we all felt it.
That night in the bilge was quiet. There was no sound but those from the ship and the labored breathing of number 128. I slept fitfully that night and was awakened by the pitch of the ship as we had sailed into a mild gale. I was lying in an inch of water, which is not unusual for a bilge in a storm.
In the faint light, I noticed the color of red in the pooled liquid around the boy. He was still bleeding. 127 was watching him with a grave expression on his face. The Chinese came to look at him.
“He is bleeding from both ends,” said 127, “It does not look good.”
“He is bleeding inside,” 93 replied. “Gracchus kicked him too hard.”
“If he cannot row,” said 127, “He cannot live.”
As the morning call came, the storm passed. After baling the water, we moved up to the gallery. 128’s condition had not improved much but he had regained consciousness. We helped him to the ladder and lifted him to the catwalk. Junius looked him over and frowned.
“He will not make it.” he said.
“He will be alright!” said 127. Junius looked forward and nodded.
“Hurry, before Gracchus sees him.” he answered.
127 moved him to the oar and told him to try. The boy looked at him and nodded, all the color had gone out of his cheeks. After we were chained in, Gracchus stood before us and smiled. “Today, we shall see how you can row on half-rations,” he declared, “Now the fun begins!”
It was a very rough shift, with Gracchus making us pay dearly for our outburst of temper the night before. It was in the sixth hour that 128 stopped rowing and Junius plied the lash at his back. The boy slumped over. “Row! Damn you, Row!” Junius ordered. “I said, row!!” He plied the lash again but there was no response.
“He cannot row…” 127 said. Junius slapped him with the lash.
“I was not talking to you, slave!” he snapped.
127 was quite undaunted, “He is dead!”
Junius raised the sweaty face of the boy. From my vantage point it was a soulless mask. The youth was indeed dead. He looked forward at Gracchus.
“Master!” he said, raising his whip. Gracchus called for All Stop and moved back to join him. “This one is dead.” said Junius.
Gracchus leaned over him and studied his face, “Hmm,” he said, “It looks like we have got a winner!” He gestured for the floaters to come. “Get this garbage out of here.” he ordered.
The body was picked up and moved up top. A few moments later the splash came. I looked over at his bench, which was covered with blood. Junius moved aft and raised the hatch. “128 Secundus,” he ordered, “Come up!’ As Secundus moved up the ladder into view, Junius grabbed him roughly and slammed him down into the seat, proclaiming, “You are 128 Primus now!”
The buckets were passed and the officers we had seen betting came below to collect their winnings. 53 looked at them and said, softly, “This is only the beginning. Over the next six months, all but a handful of these men will go. Even you, Little Roman.”
“I have no intention of dying!” I answered, defiantly.
“Just wait till the speed trials start,” he said, “You will feel differently.”
10
VICTORY
That night in the bilge my bench-mate finally told me about himself. I do not know why he chose to on that evening. Perhaps he was beginning to like me or, perhaps, he thought I would share the same fate as 128. Maybe he just told me so I would stop bothering him with such questions. When I asked him where he came from, he replied,
“I came from a desert land, south of Egypt, on the Nile. My people are the Kushites of Nubia, where I was born a kind of noble.” He asked me if I knew of them and I told him I did. He then continued.
“We are a very old people. We were building pyramids when Rome was only a village. But we had one terrible misfortune. Our land was rich with gold. It seemed to come out of the sand below our feet. Or so the legend has it. It brought us wars, invasions, the destruction of our culture, and the rape of our cities.
“The Egyptians were not completely ungrateful for the wealth they stole. They kept us, like pets, and allowed us to go to Egyptian schools. We were even given Egyptian names. At one point, one of our own even sat on the high throne of Pharaoh. Then, the gold ran out. We became as flotsam in the desert. Without money or power. Then came Alexander, then the Romans. Governors were appointed, favors were granted, and we became subjects of Rome.”
“How did you end up here?” I asked.
“Because I refused to pay tribute. It is a long story. Angry warnings were dispatched. Someone had to be blamed. My house had fallen out of favor and I was sacrificed. That is all.”
“So,” I asked, “You committed no crime?”
“It depends on how you look at it. From the perspective of those who sent me here I did.” he answered, and rolled over to sleep. I asked no more, once he had closed the door there was use in trying to open it.
The next day we were drilled heavier than before. On the following day we were less than a day out of Brundusium, where the speed trials were to be held. The Captain ordered the sails raised and the slaves were ordered to rest and given extra rations. It could not have been more welcome. Gracchus kept true to his word and made us pay for our conduct without remorse. I also think the Captain’s order for better food also angered him. It was costing him extra, and he took it out on us in any way he could, not letting us forget it. In addition to being a pig, he was also cheap.
Just before our evening meal came down the buckets were passed again. I got down into the well to rest and the pain in my hands made me wince. 53 noticed this and asked to see my palms. I showed them to him, the cracks in my hands had separated and looked as bad as they were painful. “Your hands look as if you have not ever done a day’s manual labor in your life!” he said.
“We had slaves to do that.” I answered.
He looked at me impatiently for a moment, then commented, “You are the slave now and you have to start acting like it.” The bucket had reached us but I did not need it. He placed it on the deck in front of me.
“Put your hands in there!” he said. I looked at him as if he was crazy. He continued, “That is not urine in there! That is sea water. Brine toughens the skin. That is why they brought it down here. It can help those wounds to heal.”
He was perfectly serious and I decided to trust him. I thrust my hands into the bucket and he told me to leave them there for a few seconds. It stung my hands and really hurt. Finally unable to bear it anymore, I removed them. My first reflex was to shake them off but he frowned at me like a little boy.
“Why do you look after me? I asked him.
“Let us say I am a fool for lost causes. You, Little Roman, are the most lost cause I have ever seen!” he replied.
Gracchus moved to the front and spoke to us. “The Captain has ordered the sails raised and an extra ration for you all!” This was well received by us. “I can see that meets with your approval,” he said, “Tonight you eat your fill and get some rest. Tomorrow, you will pay dearly for it! Since some of you will not be joining us for dinner tomorrow night, enjoy it while you can!”
He gestured for the food and a feast was brought down for us. Hot food, bread, wine, and fresh fruit! The latter drove the men into near-frenzy, I grabbed as much as I could, in spite of my sore hands, and tore into an apple. It was divine. I offered some to 53, but he helped himself. That night we slept better than any of us had since our arrival on the ship. The next morning my hands were much improved.
By mid-morning we sighted the harbor of Brundusium and were nearing the fleet. We were met by a skiff bearing a Tribune. The Captain had him lifted aboard and offered him wine. The Ceremonial Greeting was given and our Captain was informed that the Libernium Race was schedul
ed for three o’clock.
Although all of the other ships in the fleet were decorated with the shields and lances of pageant, our Captain ordered no such ritual. “It increases wind resistance.” he said, “I want all to know that we have come to win!” The Tribune accepted this with both humor and respect. Romans love a fierce competitor and the Captain was such a man in every way.
The Tribune then asked if there were any problems with the shake-down of Antonia, the Captain remarked that she was a fine ship but there was a serious problem with the steer board. It had proven too flimsy for really accurate steering and it had nearly broken in the storm we encountered. The Tribune had already heard this comment from the Masters of the other Septimus vessels. He assured the Captain that a meeting with the designers, who were present for the trials, was to follow that night. Shortly after that he wished our Captain good fortune and returned to his boat.
The order to strike sail was given and we rowed in to join the fleet. From below, we could hear music from all around us. The other vessels were decorated with garlands in the manner of festival. One even had a wine press, offering beverage to the other ships, which our Captain refused to accept. As we glanced out of the windows, some of the slaves’ hearts were gladdened by these sights from a bygone life. I was not.
“It looks like they are having a party!” I commented.
“A party for them,” said 53, “A hell for us!”
Portax quickly shouted at us to be quiet and we said no more as we rowed through the fleet to our position.
As the order to pull in oars was given, I finally got the chance to look at the fleet. All seventeen of the Septimus vessels were present and it was an impressive sight. But even more impressive than these was The Agrippa. Nearly three hundred-fifty feet in length, she was the largest sea-going ship ever built by Rome. She dwarfed the mighty ships parked near her.
