The Galley Page 13

  The gallery erupted into violence. Portax ran to help his comrade but the port side slaves grabbed his ankles and pulled him into the pit, stomping and beating upon him. Rufrius yelled for help and charged for the steps. The Greek rose and threw a fist into his face. The other slaves around him grabbed Rufrius, who drew his sword. He waved it and tried to defend himself, striking Number 15 across the left arm. He was hopelessly outnumbered and, he too disappeared into the pit. The locks were quickly opened and the slaves freed themselves from their chains, working together to unthread the hooks.

  Another slave, Number 77, ran to the bilge and opened the lock. An explosion of men came from below. Choking the hatch in a rush to get out, the others erupted through the webbing near the hatch and crawled out onto the catwalk. No sign of Gracchus was anywhere to be seen and the Hortator, sensing the situation to be impossible, used his hammers as rams to punch his way to the steps. The slaves gave way and he went up top.

  Now all was chaos as every man grasped anything he could use as a weapon and moved for the steps. Realizing I could be trapped by the bodies of my comrades, who were jamming themselves in, my mind flashed to that terrible hour in Rome when I became caught in a wave of hysteria. I would not make that mistake again. I gestured for the Nubian to follow me as I bounded aft toward the port rest facility. Climbing on the ropes and using the seat to leap from, I caught the webbing above and pulled it open. All I could see above me was a flurry of arms and smoke. Nobody was aware of me at all. Or even what had taken place below.

  I climbed up and looked back for my friend. He saw what I was doing and climbed upon the seat. Reaching down, I clasped his hands and we helped each other, arm in arm, over the rail. No sooner had this happened than we were set upon by pirates. Unarmed, the Nubian stepped in front of me and seized the closest one. He grasped him by the neck and wrested his spear away from him, quickly swinging it around and sweeping his feet from under him. With a savage stroke, he plunged the tip into the prostrate mans’ chest.

  I quickly grasped a pike from one of the pirates, who was not aware of me, and made a similar motion, although it did not have the same effect. He recoiled and grasped the weapon, trying to retake it from me. I quickly fell backward with a jerk and thrust my feet into his chest. Still holding the pike, I swung him over the rail and he lost his grip, falling overboard. I got to my feet and engaged another pirate. This one had a sword and was busy fighting one of the Roman crew. I swung the heel of the pike around and clipped him under the chin. He turned his sword upon me with intense ferocity, such that it was all I could do to fend off his blows with the staff of my weapon. He swung for my head and I ducked, plunging the tip of the pike into his belly. His legs went limp and I took his sword.

  I could see no sign of the Nubian now. I quickly grabbed one of the swing ropes and threw myself, flying above the battle, to the top of the castle. I used to get in trouble for doing this as a youth on my father’s ships. Now, it proved a most efficient way to get above the fighting. From my vantage point I could see the battle waging below me.

  Fully six hundred pirates had joined the attack and at least four hundred were aboard our ship. The sheer numbers of their force was on the verge of overwhelming the crew of Antonia. But this was not to be. From the gallery steps and the aft hatches, hundreds of well-fed fanatics erupted, like angry ants, from the bowels of the ship. My fellow slaves were loosed and unleashed a furious wave of retribution on the astonished pirates and Romans alike.

  Several Romans moved for my position but I kicked them off before they could get up. Suddenly, I heard a loud thud in my side and a fierce, dull pain. I turned to a bearded pirate, a club in his hand, who had struck me from behind. Another figure jumped on the castle. It was Aelius, who flung himself at the pirate with his sword. He struck once and caught the club, but the pirate swung it around and struck him on the hip, knocking him off-balance. I swung my sword and caught the pirate in the neck, cutting to bone. Aelius looked at me and smiled, but I had neither the time nor inclination for such gratitude. I thrust my sword into his stomach and turned away, not even stopping to look at its effect.

  I moved forward and saw a great struggle there. A giant pirate, even bigger than Barbosus, was fighting several slaves and Romans. He was so large, that men hung from his arms like rags. After he flung them off he attacked the Captain, who turned to meet his assault. The giant swung his axe at that mighty man several times. Each time the Captain met the blow with his sword. On the fourth, his sword broke. Even so, the Captain continued his fierce assault upon the giant, knocking him down.

  At this moment one of the pirate commanders cut the line on the jibs, causing the yardarm to swing wildly. The Captain did not even see what hit him. He tumbled over the side and plunged into the sea. The weight of his armor was too much for him. He splashed his arms desperately to keep his head above water and disappeared below the surface.

  Once as a youth, I got my foot caught in a net as it was cast overboard. I tumbled into the sea unable to loose myself, the stone weights pulled me down into the depths. I cannot forget the sensation. The terrible struggle to get back up. The burning in the chest, until, unable to control them any longer, the lungs breathe in, as if expecting a miracle. Then the choking, pulling in more of the sea. The mind locks up, the heart stops beating. The next thing I remembered was the faces of my rescuers, relieved to see me coughing the sea from my lungs.

  No such redeemers would come for Captain Urbano. He went limp, and was pulled by his soggy garments into the cold bosom of Neptune. I regretted seeing him die this way. He was of the seamen’s breed. In another world I could have called him a friend. Now, he was gone.

  The swinging yardarm continued to wreak havoc at the bow. The tide of battle was quickly turning in our favor. The pirates were not ready for a slave army, three hundred strong. Nor could anyone have withstood the fierceness with which we fought. It was as if all our anger and pain was now being avenged upon these hapless men. We were not so much men as animals, bent on killing everything that dared to walk on the decks above our heads, looking down and pissing on us.

  Near amidships, I saw the Centurion. He fought like a true Roman, without fear or panic. His swordsmanship was quite perfect and he dispatched his adversaries with mechanical precision. He had not noticed the revolt that was going on around him yet because he was too occupied with the battle.

  The port slaves began to turn their rage upon the enemy ships themselves, tossing fire directly into the vessels below, like mischievous children throwing stones into a well. Two of the ships burst into flames and were cast adrift. Another gang of our comrades heaved the giant corvis off of the rail and the enemy ship listed badly as it drifted away. The remaining pirates, realizing that all was lost, began to attempt retreat to the remaining vessels. They fought and climbed over each other as they tried to get to the side. My cohorts gave them no quarter of any kind, slashing and killing without mercy.

  The pirates who could manage climbed onto the other corvis, many falling off into the sea. The great bowl of burning tallow was retrieved by two of my comrades, who flung it upon the hapless pirates who stood there. I saw the Nubian next as he led a crew of men to push off the burning corvis. The tackle whined as it flew up, throwing burning men and ropes onto the invading ship. The snap broke the hull of the enemy ship and it crumbled into pieces below us.

  During this stage of the battle my attention turned to the state of Antonia herself. Her forward jib was flailing wildly and she was still under sail. The helm had been lashed but the vessel was drifting dangerously out of trim. The break and release of the enemy’s corvii only made this situation worse and I feared that we were in danger of losing her. Battle or not, this situation had to be remedied at once.

  I bounded toward the helm and instinctively began barking orders at the others to secure the jib and trim sail. Many were too busy to pay attention but others responded to my calls. One voice demanded to know why I was giving orders.

>   “You fools,” I responded, “Do you want us all to drown? Get six men aft on the lateen before it shears and tailspins us! Move!”

  Apparently, my words hit their mark, for no sooner had I said this than a half dozen men moved aft. I unlashed the helm and tried to right the ship but it was sluggish and would not respond at once. I grasped the nearest man to me and told him to help me turn the wheel. It was still sluggish.

  “I need a dozen men to go below and secure all oars!” I shouted. A familiar voice answered my call.

  “Will a dozen be enough?” asked the Nubian.

  “It is a start,” I replied, “Get those fires out!”

  “Who put you in charge?” demanded 37 Primus.

  “Do as you are told,” shouted the Nubian, “Thank your gods that there is somebody onboard who knows what he is doing!”

  He nodded at me and set about putting my orders into action. Thank the gods indeed. Even as all this was going on the battle still raged about us, although it was nearing its end.

  The Centurion at last battled the giant pirate. It was a tremendous struggle between them. The giant struck, was pushed back, and struck again and again, until he had the Centurion with his back against the mainmast.

  In a desperate lunge, the Centurion thrust his sword into the throat of the giant. Blood gushed from his neck as he collapsed slowly to the deck. The Centurion raised his sword to finish the giant but never struck the blow. In an instant, two swords were at his throat. He looked up at the men who held them and saw the faces his own galley slaves. All about him was the carnal aftermath of battle. The pirates had lost…and so had he.

  16

  DESTINY’S FOOL

  It was if as time stood still for the galley slaves of Antonia. We looked at the human wreckage about us and could not believe our eyes. It seemed like a moment from a dream that could not be true. We looked at each other amazed, and it slowly began to sink in. My former bench-mate emerged from below, raised his lance above his head and let out a Victory Cheer of his forefathers. It was the first time I ever saw a look of joy upon his face. The rest of the men quickly joined in. Laughter and smiles appeared on faces that had nothing to celebrate only moments before. The world had turned upside down and it felt good.

  The men turned to clumsily and followed instructions, securing the jib and trimming sail. Fortunately, the steerage lines had not been fouled and I turned the helm hard to port. Antonia now responded. The water around us was brown from all the blood that had been spilled. The sea was covered with the bodies of dead and drowning. I thought it prudent to put as much sea between us and the men in the water as we could for our own safety. Soon, the ship was back under our control.

  Just as I had begun to think about how to organize ourselves into a seafaring arrangement, I became aware of the sound of anger and violence on the starboard side. Fearing the worst, I turned the helm over to another and decided to investigate. We had prisoners aboard and retribution was in the air.

  As I approached the disturbance I noticed the body of the Hortator. I did not see him fall but the dead pirates about him suggested that he had made an admirable accounting of himself.

  As I joined my comrades on the starboard side they had one of the mates. Titus, whom they found hiding inside one of the holds. They taunted and poked at him, not forgetting his treatment of us in the past. He crawled on all fours. A pathetic, cowardly sight. Finally the Briton pulled him to his feet and stared into his eyes.

  “Do you remember me?” he asked the Roman. “I am the one you called a monkey!” Titus shook his head.

  “I meant nothing by it,” he pleaded, “I have nothing against you. Please let me go!” The Briton let go of him and looked him over.

  “There is only one place to go,” he replied, “Over the side!” Another man grabbed Titus and threatened to toss him overboard, Titus began to quiver and weep.

  “Let me join you,” he said, “I will do whatever you say!”

  This amused 127. He pulled the Roman to him by the scruff of the neck. “You are a very co-operative man,” he declared, “Would you get down on your knees and use your mouth to please me?” Titus smiled and consented. He looked down at the Briton’s groin and started to kneel. The Briton clenched his teeth and pulled Titus back up. He looked deep into his face, the rage boiling inside of him.

  “Do you remember the fair, young boy who used to sit next to me?” he asked. Titus’ eyes widened with fear. “We called him 128,” he continued, “He died on account of what you did to him! Did you know that?” Titus shook his head.

  “What did you do to him?” 127 asked. “Do you remember? How would you like for each one of these men to do the same thing to you?”

  He turned Titus to face the others. “Look at them,” he demanded, “Tell them you will do anything they want!” Titus was petrified with fear, like a man of stone. The look on the faces before him said it all. Nobody forgot that awful night. 127 drew his sword and placed it at the opening of Titus’ butt. “Do you like the way this feels?” he asked. Titus began to cry again. “This is for the boy!” the Briton said, thrusting his sword into Titus’ rear. He screamed in pain. The Briton withdrew the sword and spun him around to face him again. “And this,” he said, “Is for me!” He thrust the sword into Titus’ stomach and pulled the blade up to the ribs. The former mate melted to the deck, a lifeless figure.

  With one kick the Briton pushed his body over the side. I had never seen him truly angry before this. I had watched him during the battle, where he crossed sword and lance with at least six men, all of whom he vanquished. If he was any example of the men who lived on that primitive isle, then it is a small wonder that the legions paid dearly for every acre of ground they won there.

  The next to come was the blacksmith, although he lived up top, his brand spoke for him. He was as much a slave as we, and was held blameless by us. Besides that, a ship needs a good smith. He joined us gladly.

  The next prisoner was not so easily judged. The Centurion was brought before us. Even as a prisoner he was still proud and determined. I cannot speak for the others, but his manner impressed me and I interceded on his behalf.

  “You are a Roman Officer,” I said, “But you never abused us or treated us unjustly.” This statement did not set well with the other men, who looked upon all Romans naval personnel as deserving of death.

  I spoke as firmly as I could, “Who among you,” I asked, “Can say this man did wrong unto him?” This quieted them somewhat. The Briton, being a just man, nodded his head in support.

  “You can keep your life,” I continued, “If you will pledge not to raise your hand against us.” The Centurion’s eyes narrowed curiously at this statement. “I am offering you the chance to join us…” I said.

  “Join you?” he snapped back. “Do you think I would join a band of renegade galley trash?” This angered the men and they cursed and spat at him. I raised my hand and they quieted down. The least we could do is hear him out. He moved closer to me and looked deep into my face.

  “I do not curse you,” he said to me, “But you are a Roman. Or you were one once. You know that there is no honor in such a choice. For a Roman soldier, there is only one course.” His face grew sad. “My crew is slain. My Command is lost. I would try to regain it if I stayed. You know that.” he said.

  “My Captain is dead. I will join him.”

  As a Roman I knew what he meant. For him, there was no other possible course. I nodded my head and backed away. He turned to the sea and the others waited to see if he would do as he said. He turned to me once more and smiled, softly.

  “May the Gods be merciful to you, brother,” he said, “But you know they will not. You will never get away!”

  He plunged into the sea without another word. Still wearing his armor, he disappeared into Neptune’s realm with hardly a ripple on the surface. Making no effort to save himself, he was gone in an instant.

  A strange sensation came over me as I looked at that empty sp
ot in the water. I almost stopped him and I wish I could have. He saw the probable destiny that awaited us. I began to turn it over in my mind.

  I listened to the unruly sound of revelry all around me and realized that an undisciplined mob of men, yielding only to his own interest, could not endure what was ahead of us. We were prisoners of a captured warship on troubled waters and unless we decided on an intelligent course of action and pursued it together as one, we would be doomed. Disaster loomed over us.

  I probably would not have known what to do about it but circumstance took control in the most predictable way. Another argument, far more deadly, had broken out at the bow. The Lady and her servant had been hidden in the forecastle during the attack. Now there were some among our company who wanted to avail themselves of carnal pleasures with them. This was exactly the thing I dreaded most. The ugly spectacle of a mass rape and even murder would set a tone of brutality that would be impossible to control. It would put the monsters in charge and leave every man to fend for himself. In our situation, that would be suicide.

  It was imperative that all the men understand this. These women were guiltless of anything. They deserved better and I knew I was not alone in that opinion. Without thinking, I moved toward the disturbance, not knowing what to do. When I saw who was putting up the fiercest protest for the women, something inside of me clicked. It was none other than my bench-mate, the Nubian. Holding his lance across like a barrier, he glared at the men before him.

  ”No one is going to touch these women!” he shouted.

  The spectacle of this tall, black warrior was enough for some to cool down, but not all. I realized that he too, was thinking the same as I about our predicament. Number 36 Secundus shouted back, “This is not your business! None of us has had a woman in months! Stand aside!” He strode forward but the Nubian swung his lance, catching him on the chest. A bright red line of blood appeared where the lance grazed him.