by James Mace
He soon learned that his new friend was, in fact, from a realm even further north, outside the borders of the empire. Hansi’s grandfather had served as a Roman auxiliary and earned the family’s citizenship. His brother, Magnus, who Alaric had seen on the deck of the ship, served in the legions. The Norseman had offered him a position as an oarsman, once he heard about Alaric’s previous experience. He assured him this posting would not be a contracted position, so he would not be compelled to continue to serve as a member of the Roman Navy. Of course, Hansi did make certain he knew that should he wish to formally enlist, he would have a career instead of a temporary job. As work prospects for the young Alaric were scarce in Rome, the promise of a steady wage was too much to pass up. The Norseman had been a good friend, like an older brother, during their remaining time in Rome; never asking questions about his past.
“Ready to cast off!” Hansi shouted.
It was Alaric’s first sea voyage in over a year. He was seated on the inside bench, much to his dismay. The inside of the ship was hot, dark, and stank of sweaty bodies. At least whenever he had a portal seat he could feel the cool sea breeze and catch a glimpse of the sun. The rocking of the ship also made him seasick during the initial part of a voyage when he could not see where the ship was heading. There was a pair of leather straps fastened beneath the bench where Alaric and his oar mate would secure their gladii and small round shields.
Hansi shouted some orders to the men up top and then signaled to the drummer who sat at the front of the galley by the steps. He started to beat a slow cadence, which the men on the oars used to keep themselves synchronized as they backed away from the dock.
“Hansi!” Alaric said as the sailing master walked past them, ensuring all oarsmen were in sync with the drum cadence.
“What is it?”
“Where was your brother posted before coming here? Was he there long?” the young man asked in between grunts of pulling on his oar.
“Come on lad, keep your chest up and back tight,” Hansi said, correcting him on his oar technique before answering his question. “He was in Cologne, with the Army of the Rhine for the past sixteen years.”
“Sixteen years,” Alaric replied as he leaned back into his oar once more. “Was he in the wars in Germania?”
“I’m certain he was,” Hansi confirmed with a nod.
“And I assume a lot of his men on the upper deck were as well.”
“Probably,” the sailing master shrugged. He then looked at the young oarsman inquisitively. “Why all the questions about my brother?”
“No reason.” Alaric quickly shook his head. His face was red with building emotion, though Hansi surmised it was due to fatigue.
“Control your breathing,” he directed. “I know being an oarsman is tedious work, but that’s what you draw the emperor’s coin for.” He then shouted to the rest of the crewmen, “That goes for all of you! I know we’ve been at port for some time, but get a few leagues under our belts, and you’ll be right in no time.”
“Says he who doesn’t have to man an oar,” the man next to Alaric grumbled, thinking the Norseman could not hear.
Much to his dismay, Hansi’s hearing was very sharp, and he stopped in his tracks, turned casually, and walked over to their bench. His expression unchanged, he reached past Alaric and cuffed the man hard behind the ear.
“One more insubordinate remark like that and you’ll be manning this oar by yourself, with a bloody back!” Without another word he turned and headed past the drummer and up the stairs.
“Dumbass,” an oarsman behind them said. “Hansi manned an oar for eight years before he began working his way up the ranks of the crew. He took the time to learn from the sailors and officers, and you would do well to learn from him.”
The insubordinate oarsman only grumbled in reply. Alaric said nothing, as he did not even hear the men. His breath was trembling and a single tear rolled down the side of his face. What bitter irony that a number of legionaries aboard this ship had taken part in the annihilation of his people, including his closest friend’s brother!
He thought of nothing else as the hours passed and the port of Ostia grew smaller, eventually disappearing in the distance. He was oblivious to the other oarsmen who were crowded in the confined space with him. Their grunts and muttered curses, whenever they hit a rough patch of sea, muffled in his ears. His body moved by instinct, and he was not even cognizant of the rhythmic drum beats.
Memories long suppressed suddenly flooded into his consciousness. He could feel the cold waters of the raging river as he clung to his mother’s back. She was the best swimmer in their village, aside from his father. Wrought with exhaustion, she collapsed on the far bank, shielding him as she watched the Roman soldiers storm their village, burning huts and killing all who were unable to escape their wrath. Alaric’s father was most likely already dead by this time. With his mother shielding his view he could not see what was happening, but he could still hear the screams of the villagers, even over the roar of the river. He had vague memories of both his grandfather, as well as his mother’s sister, who had given birth just days before the Romans attacked. Years later, his mother would not give him the brutal details, but she did finally tell him that his grandfather, aunt, and newborn cousin were all killed by the rampaging legionaries.
“Oars in!” the drummer shouted as he ceased his cadence.
There was a collective sigh of relief from the oarsmen as they quickly pulled their oars into the galley until just the large paddles protruded from the sides of the ship. Alaric could not recall how long they’d been rowing, but he was suddenly exhausted. His mates stood and stretched while bantering amongst each other. The young man felt claustrophobic. He scrambled over the long oars that now ran across the deck, stumbling past the other oarsmen as he made his way to the steps leading to the surface.
“Permission to go up top,” he said, panting.
“What do you need to go up top for?” the drummer, who was in charge of the deck, asked. “You can wait until off shift like everyone else. Besides, if I let you go up top now, then I have to let everyone go! And with all those damned legionaries crowding the deck, there’s not enough room for the sailors as it is.”
“I feel sick,” Alaric confessed, his face pale. It was not a lie, though his nausea had little to do with the incessant rowing over the rolling seas.
“Let him go,” an oarsman at the front of the deck said. “If he spews down here, the whole bloody deck will stink all the way to Caesarea.”
“Go on,” the drummer nodded towards the stairs.
“Thank you, sir.” He stumbled up the steps as the ship lurched through an oversized wave.
Up top, crewmen manned the sails, keeping the ship on course. Orders were shouted by Hansi, as well as the other officers who supervised the maneuvering under sail. No one even seemed to notice the young man as he leaned against the short rail that lined the top of the stairs.
The sea air was a reprieve, though it was short-lived. Crowding the deck were dozens of legionaries. Their armor and weapons were all stacked at the center of the deck. All wore red tunics, belted in the middle. Some lounged against their packs. Others played dice or other games, while a number had their sandals off with their feet hanging over the side of the ship. And then there were those who hung over the rail for a different reason, the seas already wreaking havoc on their stomachs. Alaric looked from one to the next. It was hard to guess most of their ages. He did surmise that a large number were his age or younger. And then there were some, plain by the weathering of their faces and the visible scars, who had seen numerous campaigns.
Whenever he saw a legionary who looked to be older than thirty, Alaric suddenly envisioned the man, eyes filled with rage, screaming in fury as he plunged his sword into his father, grandfather, aunt, or even his baby cousin. And yet, even if some of these men had slaughtered his family, the soldiers themselves would never know it. After all, they had wiped out entire villages during t
he Germanic Wars. And besides, that was sixteen years ago. It was a difficult paradox to grasp, that these men who laughed and joked amongst themselves were monstrous killers.
Suddenly the sea air no longer comforted Alaric, and he felt violently ill. Gasping for breath, he sprinted past the elevated cabins to the back of the ship. He practically fell over the rail as he doubled over, the contents of his stomach spewing forth as he retched over and over. His vision clouded with tears, and all he could see was fire and death. Though the only actual sounds were the loud creaking of the ship and the rolling waves of the sea, in his mind he could hear the crackle of raging fire and the piteous screams of his people as they were brutally murdered by the very men who were now aboard this ship.
“Alaric!” It was Hansi, who was doing a walk around of the ship.
The young oarsman bolted upright and quickly ran his forearm across his bloodshot eyes.
“What the bloody hell, man? One would think you’ve never been out to sea before!”
“Sorry, sir, I don’t know what came over me,” Alaric lied.
“Well, you have been land-bound for the past year,” the sailing master reasoned. “Another day and you’ll be fine. At least you had the good sense to vomit off the back of the ship! I pity any oarsman sitting next to a port opening who gets splattered in the face whenever some poor sod spews his breakfast over the side. Just so you know, with this good wind we’ve picked up, we’re running under sails for the time being; so that will give you all a bit of reprieve.” He then patted the young man on the shoulder. “Now, I have to go pay respects to another one of my relatives who happens to be aboard ship.”
Alaric could only nod, collapsing to the deck and hugging the support post of the rail as the sailing master bounded back towards the front of the ship. The raised decks with the officers’ cabins shielded Alaric from the rest of the ship, though in that moment he did not care. As he clutched the post and contemplated throwing himself off the back of the ship, he let loose the tears that had been building for sixteen years.
At the prow of the ship, Optio Valens leaned over the rail, watching the endless seas before them, relishing the spray of saltwater in his face. He was able to tolerate sea travel readily enough. His main concern was keeping the men out of trouble. The sun was red as it slowly sank into the west. They had not even been at sea a full day yet and with nothing productive to do, the men were already becoming restless.
“Oy! You must be Valens!” a loud voice shouted.
The optio cringed for a moment, knowing that sooner or later he’d have to meet the other member of his wife’s eccentric family. He had, of course, known her brother Magnus for years before he even met her. Her father and eldest brother lived in Rome, though they were more ‘Roman’ in their dress and demeanor than Nordic. Her grandfather, affectionately known as Mad Olaf, gave many people the impression that he was completely insane. Despite being in his nineties, decades past the age that he should have passed on to the halls of his ancestors, the long-retired auxilia centurion still enjoyed physically brawling with his grandsons. Given the type of greeting Hansi had given Magnus, Valens surmised he took after his grandfather far more than his civilized relatives.
He turned and apprised the Nordic sailor. He did have a bit of resemblance to his younger brother, though he was taller, leaner, yet still very large. His thick mop of blonde hair was kept short in the back, and like Magnus, he was clean shaven.
“And you must be Hansi,” Valens said with a trace of apprehension.
The Norseman gave a boisterous cry and embraced him hard, slapping him hard on the back. “Welcome, brother!”
“Well,” Valens said as they stood apart. “I wasn’t sure if I was going to get the same greeting you gave to Magnus.”
“Bah!” Hansi retorted with a wave. “We save that for him. Oleg and our father think we’re all completely mad.”
“And are you?”
“Probably,” Hansi nodded. “Yet I look at our grandfather, who is likely to reach a hundred before the Valkyries come for him. While Father is only in his late sixties, soft living in Rome has done bad things to his health. Would not surprise me if Grandfather outlives him.”
“I did notice that your father and eldest brother are quite a bit different than the rest of you.”
Hansi shrugged again and then leaned back against the rail next to his brother-in-law. Valens noticed that he was keeping an eye on his sailors while they talked. Even while exchanging pleasantries with family, the sailing master was always on duty.
“Oleg’s quite a bit older than the rest of us. Olaf began spending more time with the family after Grandmother passed on, but by this time our eldest brother was already a grown man and finished with his apprenticeship under our father. He never got that added influence of our ancestors; always considering himself a Roman and nothing more, despite his Nordic given name. In fact, no one outside the family ever calls him Oleg. Me, Magnus, and Svetlana were born Romans, but thanks to Grandfather, we kept that link to our heritage. Father never talks about it, though given that he broke Roman tradition by naming us how he did, he must be at least a little sentimental about where we came from.”
“Svetlana and I have talked about that quite a bit,” Valens said. “I do not have that kind of link with my ancestry. My father was a legionary, my mother a Gaul. I honestly do not know if we were even Latin or if a few generations back one of our predecessors won our family citizenship. All he would ever say is that I was a Roman and that was enough.”
Chapter XI: Sea of Evil
***
By the second day, the small flotilla had rounded the southwest tip of Italia, after which there was no land in sight at all. As the sun rose on the fourth day, Artorius joined Commander Stoppello on the top deck. The ship’s captain bore a look of concern.
“There’s been a change in the air pressure,” he said. He pointed off to the east. “And there, black clouds are forming in the distance. A bad storm is coming, sure!”
“Can we avoid it?” Artorius asked. “Perhaps there is a port somewhere we can dock in. Honestly, having a view of nothing but sea for the last two days, I have no idea where we are.”
“We are in the middle of the Ionium Sea,” Stoppello replied. “Sparta is a full day’s sailing to the northeast, and we are still at least a day and a half west of Crete.”
“So we sail right through it, then. Well, the lads have been rather restless with boredom, so this’ll liven things up a bit.” Artorius’ attempt at humor was not felt by Stoppello.
“As we get closer, I want your men to cluster at the center of the deck, near the main mast,” the ship’s captain directed. “Have them bind themselves to the mast and whatever else is permanently fixed to the ship. They may be eager to assist, but they will only get in the way of my sailors.”
“Understood,” Artorius replied, his manner suddenly serious as he grasped the gravity of their situation. As the centurion descended the steps, sailors under Hansi’s orders were reefing sails and readying the ship. A few miles away, just within sight off to the southeast, the other ship was preparing for the coming storm as well.
“Well, brother,” the Nordic sailing master said as he approached Magnus, who was directing his legionaries to cluster at the center of the deck, “it looks like you might get a bit damp before this journey is over.”
Magnus noted the deep concern in Hansi’s face, despite his outward boisterousness. “No need to soften the blow. Just how ‘damp’ are we talking?”
“If you look far enough, you can see that the sky is as black as Odin’s raven. A less-skilled crew would likely be torn to pieces in what is to come.” Hansi’s face was hard for a moment before he grinned once more, smacking Magnus on the shoulder. “Not to worry, little brother. I’ll carry you through this, like I did when you thought you could swim across the Lammefjord.”
“I was four years old then,” Magnus noted with a chuckle at the long forgotten memory, “And I had not
yet learned to swim.”
“You did after that. I saw to it, knowing Father would give me a severe beating if I let you drown.” Hansi then looked over his shoulder, a blast of cold wind whipping his hair back. “Best secure yourself with your men. There is nothing more you can do, just let your big brother carry you one more time.”
The black clouds and howling winds had come upon them unnervingly fast. Legionaries sat huddled shoulder to shoulder, arms linked together. The more superstitious cringed in terror at the first crack of lightening.
“Steady lads!” Artorius said as he joined his men.
“Sir, shouldn’t you be in the cabin with your wife?” Sergeant Cicero asked, looking up at his centurion, who was doing his best to mask his own fear.
“Absolutely not!” The voice of Lady Diana startled the men. She wore a set of short riding breaches and a loose-fitting tunic. A fierce determination was in her eyes as she linked her arm with Artorius’. “My husband will not leave his men to face the wrath of Neptune alone, and if he goes over the side, I go with him.”
As if to emphasize her remark, the ship dipped sharply and cut into a deep wave. A torrent of sea water surged across the deck, knocking over scrambling sailors, as well as both Artorius and Diana. They each grabbed onto a loose rope and dragged themselves back to where the mass of legionaries huddled together. Despite the helpless terror they both felt, Diana broke into a fit of laughter.
