The Galley Read online

  Gracchus set up a table, where he was seated with a ledger. We were directed, one-by-one, to stand before him. As I awaited my turn, I began to notice the men in this new column. They came from all over the Empire. Presently the Greek was brought before Gracchus.

  “State your crime and nationality.” he demanded.

  “Arson. I am a Greek.” was the reply. Gracchus looked up at this fair-haired young man and smirked.

  “So,” he asked, “You are a firebug, eh?”

  “It was an accident,” the Greek answered, “I swear it!”

  “Do not swear to me,” Gracchus replied, “I do not care if you started the Great Fire! You are Number Seventeen now. Next!” The Greek was quickly shuffled over to the smith who pressed the red hot brand into his shoulder. He groaned in pain as they moved him aft.

  I continued to look about me when I noticed another man standing close, he was an African, one of the dark skinned people from the Southern Continent. Striking in appearance with long, sculpted arms and a broad back that showed few scars from the lash.

  The most remarkable thing about him was his eyes. These were not the eyes of a slave. He looked out of them as if unbound, with a determination of will that seemed out of place here. He noticed that I was staring at him and looked back at me with an expression that seemed almost missive, like the gaze one might show an errant child, yet cold as ice.

  The scene at the table called my attention once more as a coarse-looking man came before Gracchus, who repeated the same query he had given to all: “Your crime and nationality?” he asked.

  “I come from Gaul,” replied the man, “I was charged with rape.” Gracchus looked up at him impatiently.

  “You committed Gaul and you come from Rape?” he asked.

  The man smiled, “No. I come from Gaul and committed rape,” he answered, “I do come from rape, if you want to believe my mother!”

  This drew an outburst of laughter from everyone, including Gracchus. He stood up and moved around the table toward the man, still laughing.

  “So,” he said “We have a comedian in our midst. You are a very funny fellow!”

  The man chuckled, “I have my moments!”

  Another outburst of laughter. Instantly, Gracchus drew his sword and swung around in one violent motion, nearly severing the man’s head from his shoulders. With one more chop he completed the job. This quieted the laughter immediately. Gracchus continued laughing as he bent down to pick up the head. Holding it up before us his laughter turned to gall.

  “Anybody think he is funny now?” he shouted. “Go ahead, laugh! Listen to instructions carefully or I will kill you!”

  No one dared to make a sound. Gracchus swung the head like a discus and flung it to the dock, where it landed among the dogs. He looked down at the body on the deck and back at Rufrius. “Get that shit out of here!” he demanded. Several slaves were ordered to pick up the body and move it away.

  Call me a poor Roman but, as I said before, I do not care for gruesome spectacle. I stared down at the man’s blood on the deck with a sickened feeling inside. I suppose my expression betrayed my thoughts because a voice softly said to me, “They always sacrifice one or two as an example. You will see a lot more blood than that before you die, Little Roman!”

  I turned to the owner of the voice and it was the same African. He looked deep into my face with those cold brown eyes that seemed almost to be taunting me. As I looked at him I noticed the mark of several other brands upon his neck and shoulders.

  “Who are you?” I asked

  A quick snap of the whip on my back made me wince. I was getting tired of that treatment and my expression betrayed my feelings again. The African smiled and, as soon as the guard was out of hearing distance, he spoke again, “That is a dangerous religion you practice.”

  “What religion?” I asked.

  “Pride,” he answered softly, “It can shorten your life!”

  Another event was happening at the table. This time the man was one of the people from the Far East. He wore a peculiar hat upon his head made of fur which had flaps on the sides, one of which was up and the other down. It looked quite comical.

  “Crime and nationality?” asked Gracchus.

  “Robbery, I did not do it.” the man replied.

  “I do not care,” said Gracchus, “Nationality?”

  “I come from China.” he answered.

  “China! What the hell is China?” Gracchus asked.

  “My country,” said the man, “It is to the East.” Gracchus stood and sized up the man, hands upon his hips.

  “Well,” he sneered, “Is everybody in China the same stupid, yellow color?”

  “Yes sir.” the man answered, quite undaunted. Gracchus reached across the table and snatched the hat off of him. He frowned and fanned the air in a mock gesture. He looked at it contemptuously and then held it up for the soldiers to see.

  “Does anybody want a silly-looking hat off of a stinking yellow man?” he asked. The soldiers laughed mockingly. Finally, Gracchus tossed the hat back to the prisoner.

  “Here,” he said, “You keep it. It makes you look even stupider than you already do.” He glanced down at the ledger, “Number ninety-three! Next!”

  It was now my turn.

  “Crime and nationality!” he snapped.

  “Sacrilege,” I replied. “I am a Roman.”

  “Not anymore,” he answered, “Sacrilege? What did you do? Piss in the Temple?” I felt quite ashamed to answer him and I lowered my head, dreading the frightful taunting I knew would come.

  “No,” I answered softly, “I was caught with The Vestals…”

  I could not get another word out, for the entire company of soldiers and slaves alike erupted in laughter. It was a miserable humiliation. Once the mirth finally subsided, Gracchus looked at me with amusement.

  “Look everybody,” he shouted, “We have a Ladies Man among us!”

  This caused another outburst. Gracchus leaned over the table.

  “Let us see if it was worth the trouble!” he said, peeking into my loincloth to inspect its contents.

  He looked at the assembly, jutted out his lower lip and shook his head.

  “Nope!” he declared.

  The whole company exploded again as I turned quite red in embarrassment. He glanced at his ledger.

  “You are Number fifty-two, now,” he said. “Make sure you brand him in a place of honor!” he taunted as the soldier led me to the smith.

  He lifted the back of my loincloth and branded me on the center of my right buttock. The pain shot through me. Far worse was the smell of my own flesh burning, which I found quite nauseating. As I moved aft, I watched them lead the African to the smith and brand him. He looked right at me as they put the hot iron into his flesh. His expression never changed at all.

  After the branding and numbering was completed we were led below and given our rowing assignments. Each slave was given a number, which corresponded with his oar number. Antonia had one hundred-forty oar positions, and the rowing shifts were designated as Primus and Secundus. As I was in the first shift, I was 52 Primus.

  The shifts were organized at twelve hour intervals, with the opposite shift at rest within the bilges. The oars were of offset length instead of diagonally placed with the longest going to the inboard man, who was smallest and the shorter oar to the larger outboard slave. Thus, the seemingly arbitrary order in which the numbers were passed out.

  There were also fifty ‘floating’ slaves in relief and support. When at sail a shift would serve the full twelve hours. Under oars there were reliefs of twenty with a rotation occurring at every hour. A support detail of five slaves had the various duties of distributing food and water to the oarsmen, emptying the ‘slop buckets’ used for urination, and cleaning detail. This was continuous throughout each shift.

  The Romans had no love for us. But an unclean gallery of three hundred-fifty men in an enclosed space was a hazard to all aboard a galley at sea. Sickne
ss, once loosed, could run rampant throughout an entire ship’s compliment in just a few days, including officers. Hygiene was strictly observed on the Septimus galleys.

  The only thing that was left to the condemned’s own discretion was ‘going out’ to relieve himself of solid bodily waste. This necessity was granted, without question, unless abused. Any prisoner who went more than twice in a shift would face punishment unless illness was the cause. Even then, excessive excuses were frowned upon.

  The accommodation for this purpose was an outboard prominence located aft on the port side which could be accessed from the gallery. It consisted of a two fixed boards, where the slave could sit down and do his business. It was completely enclosed with rope webbing to prevent escape and was always watched by a lancer or soldier, (A punishment detail). Mercifully, a sponged stick was provided for cleaning one’s self. It was attached to a line in the sea which kept it clean.

  A prisoner on a galley never had any privacy. He was always in the presence of others, no matter what he was doing. This took some getting used to for me, but I was surprised how quickly I got over it. In the gallery there was a permanent staff of slave drivers, of whom Gracchus was chief, with Rufrius as his first assistant.

  The other drivers, or lashers, moved about the gallery, plying the whip when a man fell behind the drill or did not obey orders fast enough. Talking was not permitted, although this rule was usually relaxed during rest periods as long as you did not talk too loud. As I stated before, eye contact was dangerous and usually brought punishment. We were not considered worthy to look upon the Romans.

  A competitive every-man-for-himself atmosphere, (usually with food.), was maintained among the slaves onboard galleys to prevent uprising and resistance. It was this isolation of each man within a large group that took the most serious toll upon his spirit, along with under-nourishment, which broke the body.

  We were not supposed to make friends with each other, period. Of course, the very nature of this treatment always has the opposite effect on men under stress. A common problem on galleys which is usually addressed by re-assignment to other ships…or death.

  The slave drivers were operating under a franchise and were not naval personnel. On the Antonia the only exception to this in the gallery crew was the Hortator. Independent of the slave franchise, he answered to the officers, not to Gracchus.

  Small windows were placed near the oars at every third row, allowing for air to enter below. One was right next to us. These also afforded the driver crew, as well as slaves, the ability to look outside. Except for these windows and the webbing overhead, there was no contact with the world for us. The European slaves turned a pale white within a few weeks because we never got out into the sun.

  To my surprise, 53 Primus, who sat on the bench next to me, was none other than the tall African I had encountered up on deck. I sat inboard of him, being much shorter than he. Since we were going to spend so much time together, I decided to get to know him.

  “How many ships have you been on?” I asked.

  “This is the third.” he replied. I was amazed at this. Nobody lived very long in the galleys.

  “Your third?” I asked. “How long have you been in the galleys?”

  He looked at me, as if puzzled by my questions. Finally he answered: “Over two years. The last one sank under me.”

  “How did you get out?” I asked. “Weren’t you chained?”

  “I got lucky.” was all he said.

  Our conversation was interrupted as a line of lancers came down the stairs and formed on either side of the gallery. A few seconds later, the Captain came down the steps in full uniform, behind him was the Centurion. His appearance was no less impressive than the Captain’s. Gracchus bowed to the Captain and spoke.

  “Rowing assignments completed, Captain,” he said, “We are ready for inspection.”

  The Captain nodded but did not even look at Gracchus. He crossed his hands behind his back and looked us over slowly as if checking each one of us personally. He set his jaw and addressed us.

  “In the name of his Imperial Majesty, The Emperor, who has seen fit to spare your lives,” he began, “You are now attached to the Septimus Class Warship, The Antonia. My name is Urbano. I do not want to know yours. When you were men out there in the world, you had names. Now that you are condemned, you are simply part of this ship. When you came aboard, you were given a number. That is how you will be identified from now on, so remember it!”

  Number 53 smirked and whispered to me. “The Captain’s speech is always the same.”

  “There are only a few things I wish to say to you,” the Captain said, “First, this is a new kind of warship, as I am sure most of you have noticed. As long as you do your jobs and do not make trouble you will be well fed. But, if you are lazy or insubordinate, you will have your rations cut and be put to the lash. For those who work extra hard there is the chance to go outside for cargo duty from time to time.

  “Second, escape is impossible! The standing policy for any man who tries to escape is drawing on the forecastle in front of the crew.”

  Gracchus pulled a long, nasty knife out of his scabbard and showed it to us with a cruel grin on his face.

  “When you have your own guts held up before your eyes,” the Captain continued, “It will be too late to realize you have made a mistake! I do not recommend it!

  “Third, we will begin sea trials in a few days, followed by a speed trial to determine which ship is the fastest of the new fleet. Take advantage of the reprieve we have given you and you might do alright. Tonight you will eat a good meal and then you will sleep. Tomorrow your training as oarsmen begins. I only have one more thing to say: you are all condemned men!”

  53 leaned to me a whispered, “We keep you alive to serve this ship! Row well and live!”

  “We keep you alive to serve this ship! So row well and live!” repeated the Captain, concluding his speech. He glanced at the Centurion and Gracchus and they followed him up the steps.

  “An excellent speech, My Lord,” Gracchus said. “I am sure…” The Captain interrupted him at once.

  “I want these men fed well tonight,” he said, “Meat and vegetables.” Gracchus eye widened with surprise.

  “Did you say: meat, sir?”

  “That is right,” he answered sternly, “I want a strong, fast ship under me and I will not get that if the slaves are fed on gruel.” Gracchus fumbled for an answer.

  “But…My lord, meat and vegetables are expensive!”

  “I did not ask how much it costs,” the Captain snapped, “Meat and vegetables, and fruit several times a week. Keep them healthy!”

  The Captain turned to leave and Gracchus asked after him. “But that is unprecedented, sir,” he pleaded, “Well fed slaves are dangerous! They think too much and are difficult to handle…”

  “Those are my orders!” the Captain replied and walked away.

  Gracchus turned to the Centurion, who stared at him with a grin on his face.

  “Is he mad?” Gracchus said. “Who is supposed to pay for that?”

  “You will,” the Centurion sniffed, “After all, your commission is big enough!” This statement irritated Gracchus.

  “I do not hold with coddling condemned men,” he snapped, “How can he do this?”

  “He is the Captain,” the Centurion replied impatiently, “And you will obey his orders or give up your franchise right now! Shall I call him back?” The Centurion raised his arm to gesture forward but Gracchus bowed and spoke.

  “I was only asking, that is all.” The Centurion frowned at him and moved forward without another word. Gracchus moved back down the stairs and placed his hands on his hips with disgust.

  “Meat and fruit for galley slaves,” he sneered, “What a mentality!”

  THE WINNER

  It was not long after that the food came below for the slaves under the watchful eyes of the Centurion. It was meat and raw vegetables. I took a small amount and tried to nibble
at it but it was no use. My appetite had not returned and I just did not feel like forcing myself.

  Number 53 was another matter. He ate all he could and advised me to do likewise. A galley slave was lucky to get such fare and even luckier if it had not been spat upon or worse. Every opportunity to show contempt for us was never wasted. A lesson I had not yet learned.

  After the meal we were allowed to relieve ourselves, (those who could), and the relief rotation began. Just before dark the order came down to cast off. The Captain ordered an easy stroke out of the harbor and I finally got my first turn at the oars of this giant.

  The Hortator beat the stroke, slow and steady. Most of the men were able to keep the rhythm and those who did not got a swift coaching with the lash. As soon as we cleared the harbor we drew in our oars and the sails were set. Antonia was underway.

  Our turn in the rotation came on the third hour and I got my first look at the bilge. It was dark, except for the light coming from the gallery above and the smell of freshly finished wood was everywhere. In the center were the ballast stones, which were lashed down with tough netting to prevent us from removing them.

  The men lay around anywhere they could find and a place near the hull was especially desired, as it afforded a prop for the back. I was able to get such a spot on the first night, mostly due to my bench mate, who knew his way around a galley better than I. My instinct told me to follow his lead and he offered no objection. In fact, although he would not admit it, I think he expected me to. My first impression of him was that he was a very decent fellow and I was beginning to like him.

  After we lay there awhile I noticed the sounds around me. In spite of the fatigue everything was still new to me. The sea was quite calm that night and the ship made unusual sounds as it rocked with the sea’s motions. In addition to the normal groans of wooden seams and beams there was the strange, higher-pitched sound made by the unique double planking of the hull.

  As my eyes became more accustomed to the dim light I became aware of a soft tapping to my left. I looked to see what it was. The Greek had managed to obtain a stone or piece of charcoal and was writing something on the deck next to him. I could not see what it was and it would not have mattered if I did. My Greek was terrible.