The Galley Read online

  I had heard of her, of course. Most Romans had. But she was more impressive to look at than to sail. She was too heavy for the open sea and could only move at a crawl. Even though she was a quareme, with an augmented gallery, her riggings were insufficient. She also had the problem always encountered by anything larger than a bireme, synchronization of the oars for good handling, which was all but impossible. Her keel was not like the Septimus galleys which made her practically unable to maneuver on rough seas.

  Nevertheless, she was an awesome sight to behold. Her one tactical advantage was that she was simply too big to attack and the sight of her by an enemy was just too intimidating to risk it. Water was passed and I began to drink, but 53 advised against it.

  “It will bust your guts.” he warned.

  By three o’clock, a sizable crowd of onlookers had accumulated to witness the race. Mostly of noble rank, by the look of them. The Septimus ships still were supposed to be shrouded in secrecy but, of course, nothing is ever really a secret in Rome. Besides, who could resist the chance to see an all-out race between such naval giants? If I had been on the other side of the hull among the spectators, I would not have missed it for anything.

  The race course was laid out in lanes, one for each ship. This meant the course had to be enormous. Almost half of a league wide. The length of the course that had to be traversed was one league. There was the cruising length, followed by three, longer sections, each faster than the previous. These points were marked by towers with signal men. Green flag meant battle speed, yellow indicated attack speed and the final one, which was red, was for ramming speed. From my limited vantage point I began to understand what my comrade had been so concerned about. We were going to be called upon to sustain ramming speed for an unbelievable third of a league. I could not imagine how we were ever going to manage it. As this reality dawned on the slaves, any optimism quickly fled from their minds. They were going to drive us to the limit of human endurance.

  As nobody below could see the flags, the signal for the Hortator would be a horn from above. Sails were impractical for the race. The wind was against us and so was the tide. Only the steer board was used for control. We would row this hellish course. There were no rules for the contestants except to stay in their own lanes. To enter another ship’s lane would mean disqualification.

  The blue flag of standby was raised, and the roar of the crowd began to swell. The drivers were given the order to chain us in. Gracchus paced back and forth in front of us.

  “Now, my lovelies,” he said, “We are going to have a fine time. The Captain expects a victory and we are going to give it to him!”

  Two rows of lancers came down and lined the catwalk. Gracchus continued his speech. “Any of you turds that fall out of synchronization with the drill is going to get a spear in his ass!”

  The horn from the starting tower blew the standby call. The crowd raised a loud cheer and we were ordered to lower the oars. Up top, the Captain took his place at the prow, looking down at the course that stretched before us. The Centurion moved aft and personally inspected the rigging. All was ready. The tension in the gallery was high. Gracchus and the drivers looked at each other, ready to pounce on any slave who could not keep up.

  The horn blew and we began to row. The drill was slow at first but built up gradually, as we approached cruising speed. Between the strokes of the Hortator’s hammers the roar of the crowd could be heard. Every slave plied his oar with precision, as one hundred-forty men rowed as one. Out of the window I could only catch brief glances of the goings on outside. We were in third place. Two lanes over, the Tarsus had gotten off to a quick start and was setting the pace. In the lane closest, the Neopolis was just ahead of us.

  Up on top the Captain was yelling at the helmsman to hold in the center of the lane, not wanting to hit the wake of the other vessel, which would slow us down. He looked over at the Neopolis, which was moving dangerously close to our lane. On its port side several men produced long pikes with hooks at the ends. As the ship drew close enough, they began stabbing at the lines on our jibs.

  The horn blew again. We had reached the green marker and the order was for battle speed. The pace of the beat quickened. Up above, the Captain and several other hands fought to keep the pikes away from our lines. The effort was unsuccessful, one of the hooks grabbed onto the foremast line. It swung wildly and Antonia heeled to starboard. Two hands tried to regain control, but the hook caught one of them and slashed him badly. With the yardarm swinging wildly, it would be too dangerous for the men working forward. Such conduct by the Neopolis might seem unsporting, but no rules had been broken. She moved back for the center of her lane, the maneuver had cost her a few feet.

  It cost Antonia more. We had lost some control and the heel cost us time. The Captain called below to increase the drill by two strokes per minute and the hammers beat faster. The Centurion made a brave effort and leaped onto the swinging yardarm, risking life and limb by doing so. He shimmied up the mast and was nearly tossed off, narrowly managing to stay on. He reached for a line and the arm swung wide. Losing his balance, he fell off and clung by a single hand. The oars churned just below him and it seemed as if he would fall to his doom. He tried a wide swinging move and managed to get his other hand on the arm.

  Mustering his strength, he pulled himself back up and grabbed for the swinging line again. After several tries, he caught it and hastily secured it to the yardarm. The arm swung back into place and he jumped down to the deck. He quickly tied off the line. A shudder moved through the ship as the steerboard groaned from the pressure. I thought we were going to lose it, but it held. We had reached the next tower.

  The horn blew again and the stroke doubled as the call of attack speed was issued. The air in the gallery crackled as the lash went into use. Gracchus extolled us to remember our training.

  “Pull with your ass, not your arms. Get your back into it!” He laid the whip on several of us for emphasis. “Pull, you miserable dogs,” he yelled, “This is not a rowboat!”

  To starboard, another drama unfolded when the Captain of the Caecilianus made a terrible misjudgment. Falling behind, he attempted to augment his speed with the risky move of raising his lateen. It worked at first, until the first gust of southern wind pulled him off-course and plunged his ship into the adjoining lane, cutting off his nearest competitor, the Vesuvius, which had no chance to avoid her. The two ships collided, with the bow of Vesuvius plowing into Caecilianus. Two seamen were killed and both ships were out of the race.

  Below on our ship the pace was taking it is toll on the slaves. Men’s bodies were beginning to fail them and some had even let go of their oars, only to pay for it with lashing. Gracchus was now worked into a frenzy of beating and kicking. The lash became continuous for the rest of the race. I was an extremely healthy young man, yet it was hard to breathe. The air in the gallery became heavy from the sweat and stifling heat.

  Above, Tarsus still held her lead but Antonia was gaining. We had just pulled even with Neopolis when she moved closer to our lane once more. Again the pikes were raised to use the Julian technique on our jib as before. But this time our Master was ready for it, calling all available hands to aid him with swords and pikes of their own.

  The horn blew again. We had made it to the final length and ramming speed was called. The beat was now furious and men, who had nothing left, had to find more from somewhere. Above, the duel of pikes had become an angry battle of two crews. The Neopolis drew so close that her oars almost touched ours. Fouling the marker line, she heeled slightly to port and righted herself. Her Master now enjoined the battle of the hooks with our own Captain in a tug-of-war. With a quick and furious jerk, the Captain pulled the hooked pike out of his hand so hard he almost fell down. His anger taking over, the Captain turned the pike and threw it at his opponent, catching him in the stomach. He recoiled in pain and fell overboard.

  The Neopolis was out.

  Below, the situation was one of utter pain and f
atigue, the men struggled to keep up with the pace but it was almost impossible to hold on to our oars. The entire driving crew was pushing us beyond our limits. On the starboard side a Phrygian stood up suddenly and grabbed his left arm. Rufrius lashed him relentlessly but to no avail. The man’s face turned almost completely black and he collapsed dead into the pit.

  My eyes felt like they would jump out of their sockets. My head was pounding like the Hortator’s drum. I could not breathe. Suddenly I became dimly aware of a stream of white vomit splashing on the back of the man in front of me. I was spewing up everything in my stomach and I could not feel it for the burn that had taken over my every feeling. I was not breathing, but chocking on my own vomit. I gasped and started to suffocate as a quick, hard slap on my back caused me to cough it out and gasp in air. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Gracchus grinning down at me. He had just saved my life!

  The call came from above, “Up two!”!

  “Surely the Captain had lost his mind!” I thought. The Hortator tried to increase the stroke but his arms were like two numb pendulums, barely able to grip the hammers. The oarsman in front of me suddenly straightened out like a board. Letting go of his oars, he grasped his left side and turned ashen faced. Again, the lash was applied with terrible vigor. But he could not feel it.

  Just as I was sure this was my end and all of us were going to die in agony, I glimpsed the white marker just ahead. The end of the race was less than fifty yards away! Tarsus had held her lead throughout the race but now she was paying for it. Her speed was slackening. Somehow, ours had not. I could see her starboard side falling away as we passed her only twenty yards from the finish.

  The roar of the crowd was muffled in my ears, which now rang like howling cats. It grew and grew until we passed the tower. Instantly, the hammers fell to the deck and the Hortator doubled over, gasping for breath. We let go of our oars and collapsed into the pits, unable to sit up any longer. The sound of the crowd was answered by a chorus of coughing and gasping. As I toiled to get some air into my lungs, I looked out of the window. A shower of rose petals fell. A few benches away yet another slave stopped breathing forever. The drivers collapsed to the catwalk, unable to move. Even Gracchus was spent.

  We were victorious and none of us cared at all. They were having a celebration up top. Below, we were just clinging to our lives. A darkness came over me and I passed out. I think I heard music outside.

  11

  S.P.Q.R.

  When I came to, it was night outside. The chains were still on us and it was quiet in the gallery. Many slaves would sleep the night through and only one driver was below. The sound of festivals and triumphs could be heard outside. I looked over at my bench-mate who just looked at me with a very tired face. Somehow, I got the impression that he had watched over me during my rest, but I did not know what to make of it. “You are going to make someone a great mother!” I commented. He ignored my remark and looked out of the window at the flickering lights outside. He turned his eyes to something at the front of the gallery: the bodies of our three dead comrades. They had laid them on the catwalk with a cover and went to the celebrations. The crew of the Antonia could do no wrong as The Victors.

  The Septimus fleet had proved its worth beyond anybody’s expectation. We had set a speed record at our peak that had not been matched by any other galley of even half our size. Not only that, but the galleys involved in the collision sustained no hull damage, in spite of the fact that one took a direct ram at battle speed. The double webbed hull design worked far better than expected.

  After the race the Tribune brought a Wreath of Victory and presented it to our Captain, along with an invitation to join the celebration onboard the Agrippa. Although the Captain would have been entitled to wear it to the party, he chose instead, to wear his standard dress uniform and helmet. Such was his nature.

  The deck of Agrippa was decorated with colored lanterns and an open tent of golden cloth. The Captain moved up the gangplank and arrived, fashionably late, to the festivities.

  A cheer of the officers and their escorts greeted him as he removed his helmet and joined them. Taking an uneasy bow, he moved into the crowd, which parted before him in salute. At the far end Gaius Valerius stood, boldly holding a golden cup in his hand. He was a heavily built man with a shock of red hair on his head. Somewhat older than our Captain, although he did not seem like it. He greeted the Captain and introduced him to the gathering.

  “My friends,” he said, “I have the honor of introducing the Victor of the Day, Marcus Urbano, Master of the Antonia.” This was followed by loud applause again.

  “Wine for the Captain,” Valerius ordered, “Let us raise a toast!” One of the ladies, who had taken a fancy to him, approached the Captain and offered her cup to him.

  “Please drink from my cup, sir.” she said softly, with inviting eyes. He bowed and let a rare smile register on his lips.

  “I can hardly refuse such a beautiful lady!” he remarked as he accepted it. The toast was named and the two captains locked arms and drank.

  The business of greeting completed, the Captain laid down the cup and Valerius led him toward the buffet. A long, scrumptious table of fare was laid, with any delight the palette could desire, including Little Smokers, of course.

  “Valerius,” our Captain said, “You are in command of the Tarsus, are you not?”

  “Indeed I am,” Valerius answered, “That was a brilliant piece of sailing you did today!”

  He placed a hand on the Captain’s shoulder, the Captain commented gracefully, “I was lucky. You were a very worthy adversary.”

  Valerius scoffed, “Luck! I saw what happened when they cut your line! It hardly slowed you down…”

  “So,” another, much deeper voice said, “The Victor has come at last!”

  The two men turned to see it is owner, Publius Nervanus Severus, Commanding General of the fleet. His armor glistened like polished gold, and it accentuated his hair, which was silver. He had the look of ancient nobility, reminiscent of the Patricians of old. He strolled up to the Captain, who began to salute him. Severus stopped him and they joined hands.

  “That was a nice bit of seamanship you gave us today.” he commented

  “Thank you, sir.” The Captain replied. Severus put his arm around the Captain and turned to Valerius.

  “You will excuse me if I borrow Urbano for a while, Captain?”

  Valerius saluted and rejoined the ladies. Severus led the Captain over to the buffet and examined the offerings there. “Roast Peacock,” he exclaimed, “My favorite, if it is not overcooked.” He tasted a morsel and expressed his approval. “Will you not try some?” he asked the Captain.

  “No. Thank you.” he replied.

  Severus frowned and remarked, “We have set this table in your honor! Will you not touch it?”

  The Captain diplomatically took a piece of carrot and chewed it. This amused Severus, “So, the reports about you are true!” he observed.

  “Very well then, to business!” He gestured to the door of his cabin and the Captain followed him inside.

  The cabin was remarkably austere. Severus moved to his seat and gestured for the Captain to do likewise, which he did not do at first.

  “You remind me of your father, Marcus,” he said, “You are a credit to him.”

  “Thank you,” the Captain replied, “That flatters me.”

  “Well it should,” Severus said, “He was a fine officer and a good friend in adversity.” The Captain smiled at this comment.

  “He spoke of you often, sir.” he answered. Severus was starting to become impatient with the stiffness of this conversation.

  “Will you please sit down?” he pleaded. “You do relax once in a while, do you not?” This succeeded in breaking through at last. The Captain smiled and sat down calmly.

  “Have some of this excellent wine.” Severus said, pouring him a cup and then filling his own.

  “You know, Marcus,” the gener
al continued, “A sailor should take every pleasure he can, because he never knows when Neptune will collect his due.”

  The Captain raised his cup to his lips and drank. Allowing a smile to register, he commented, “Delicious wine, sir.” Severus looked at him for a moment, weighing his next statement carefully.

  “Your sail is going to be refitted,” he said, “The Wolf-Mother is going to grace your ship from now on.”

  The Captain did not like this much. “May I ask why, General?” he asked.

  “Because the winner of the race is to fly the Symbol of the Senate,” Severus grinned. ”Such is the Will of the Senate…and the People of Rome!” This did not please the Captain at all.

  “Accept the honor, Marcus,” the elder man admonished, “It is real feather in your cap. A captain has to think of politics if he wants to rise.” The Captain took another swallow.

  “I see.” was the only reply he could muster.

  There was a long pause. The Captain knew there was something else to this honor and he felt sure he would not like it. Severus was way ahead of him.

  “I know,” he sighed, “Nothing gets by you. I would not have expected otherwise from Young Urbano.” He leaned forward and looked the Captain very seriously in the eyes.

  “The honor comes with a mission,” he said, “You know that Corbulo’s legion is stalled in Armenia.” The Captain nodded.

  “I have heard something.” he answered. Severus leaned back in his chair.

  “Well, here it is straight,” he said, “They are in a real bad way. The country is terrible and the enemy is worse. The Armenians fight like wild men, when you can find them, and intelligence is almost impossible.

  “The main problem is one of re-supply. The terrain makes it impossible for carts to reach them. Corbulo’s men have not been paid for a very long time and he is running out of materiel. The only way to re-supply him is by sea. That is where you come in. Your orders are to contact our supply people in Rhodes. You will pick up a shipment of weapons and gold to pay the legions.”