by R. W. Peake
Despite fully expecting to slip or lose my grip on the ladder when the ship was struck by yet another wave, I somehow made it below on my feet, holding on to the ladder to remain upright. The first thing I noticed was that the water was now up above my ankles, sloshing about from the movement, and I wondered if, by opening the door, the water would go pouring into the main compartment. I mention this only as an example of my inexperience in thinking that somehow the main compartment would be dry, or at least drier. The inner door did open more easily because it was tucked under the edge of the deck and protected from the wind roaring through the hole, but I think it was less than three or four heartbeats before I was regretting my decision. My concern about water rushing in was groundless; if anything, it was the other way around, and only the Hortator, who was perched on a wooden platform just above the upper row of oarsmen, was even partially protected.
Naturally, there were no lamps lit, but there was a bit of light because the holes for the oars were not plugged, which they normally are at night when the oarsmen are allowed to rest and the ship is powered by sail. The problem was that along with the light, torrents of water were pouring through, and I sensed as much as saw my men moving on both sides of the raised walkway where the guards who are always present were all clinging to one of the vertical posts that support the upper deck above our heads. In fact, I was doing the same thing, but I was also trying to find either Saloninus or Columella, the Optio of the Second Century, whose brother had been the Optio of Fabricius’ Century until he lost an arm, and the man technically in command of the Second since I had not yet informed him of my decision to promote Saloninus. I heard Saloninus before I saw him, roughly in the middle of the ship.
“Bail, you cunni! Stop your fucking whining and praying to the gods, because they’re not listening! You heard Motius! If we don’t at least keep even with the water level we have now, we’re going to the fucking bottom.”
Honestly, it was Saloninus’ words that made me recognize that the flurry of movement I was seeing was actually what I hastily counted to be about two dozen of my men using the leather buckets that were for that very purpose, working as quickly as they could. Even with the dark, however, it did not take me long to see that there were not enough buckets to keep up with the water that came pouring in, first on one side, then on the other, as the ship continued to roll.
“The rest of you grab your helmets!” I roared several times before the men began to obey, and as they responded, I risked moving further along the walkway.
Slaves they may have been, but I cannot fault the courage of any of the oarsmen as they struggled to maintain the drumbeat rhythm that, honestly, I could barely hear over the other noise. A cynical man would point out that of course these men were working so hard under terrible conditions; they were enslaved, and their fate was inextricably entwined with their masters’, but I do not believe it matters. I saw several of my men closely enough to recognize them, mostly because they turned their eyes to me, and perhaps it was my imagination in the gloom, but I was certain I saw the pleading expressions on their faces as they looked to their Pilus Prior to help them. I suppose that was what prompted me to drop down off the walkway, landing in water that was knee deep, which meant that the hammocks of the men on the lowest row were completely submerged at the moment.
“Here, Pilus Prior.” I turned to see that it was my Signifer Gemellus, thrusting a helmet at me, and I took it, then in one motion bent over and filled the helmet, holding on to the side of the walkway as I leaned as close to the nearest oar hole to throw the water out.
Soon enough, almost every man, at least those I could see in the cramped space, was busy, and we worked at a feverish pace, though I have no idea how long. At some point, I realized that the terrific noise had faded away, yet when I paused to try and determine if it meant the storm was slackening, it became apparent that, much like when we are in battle, the noise does not fade away; you just become accustomed to it. The ship would still shudder when a wave crashed down on us, and men would lose their footing and stagger, while even the slaves sitting on the benches would suddenly slide off. This was especially dangerous for the slaves on the lowest bank of oars because the water was up to their waists as they were seated, and I saw one man slip off his seat when the ship unexpectedly keeled over in the opposite direction than we were expecting. His comrade next to him did the natural thing, reacting immediately by letting go of the oar, except that it also put us in even more danger, because suddenly, that oar was dangling limply, and even with the wind, I heard a cracking sound when the men on the bench ahead of them swept their oars back to make the next stroke and their oars collided with it.
“You ignorant dog!”
This was shouted in Greek, but even before I could react, a figure dropped down from the walkway, making a splash as he struggled to the bench, where he grabbed the slave who was only trying to help his comrade by the hair, and yanking him savagely back down onto the bench.
“If we do not keep the strokes even, we are going to founder, you stupid bastard!”
He was grabbing the oar and shoving it into the man’s hands as he said this, but before he could reach down to help up the other man, whose head had at least broken the surface, the ship lurched in a sickening manner that was not part of the normal motion. The crewman would have joined the slave at the bottom of the ship, yet somehow, I managed to drop the helmet and grab the back of his soaked tunic. He glanced over his shoulder, and while I heard him say something, I could not make out the words, but I gave him a nod to assure him that I would not let go. His footing more secure, he reached down, and just as he had with the other man, grabbed a handful of hair, and pulled the man back up next to his companion.
With that done, he bellowed, again in Greek, “If your mate loses his seat, he will have to fend for himself because you need to do your fucking job! Do you understand me?”
It was not until some time later that the thought struck me that it was actually unlikely that these men did, at least not much of it; still, what mattered was that they obeyed when it happened again, this time on the opposite side of the ship. While this was taking place, now that the men were using their helmets to augment their comrades who were already working with the leather buckets, the level of water in the bottom of the ship began to drop. It was barely enough to notice at first, and it seemed as if as much time was spent by my men helping one of their comrades out of some difficulty caused by the plunging and rolling of the ship as they did the bailing. Nevertheless, somehow, it seemed as if one moment the water was over the knees of all of the men but me, then it was several inches below.
“Centurion!” I turned to see the crewman who had leapt down to save the two oarsmen, but he was now back on the walkway, holding on to one of the support beams with one hand. Seeing he had my attention, he shouted, in Latin, “We are no longer in extreme danger from foundering. I thank you and your men!”
My usual impulse when someone says something I consider to be superfluous, or perhaps a bit silly, is to be sarcastic, but this time, I stifled the retort about how neither my men nor I could have given a fart in a testudo about the crew; we were working to save ourselves.
What I did not realize was that he was giving me a hint, so when I did not move, he added, “My suggestion is that you return to your cabin, Pilus Prior. We’re already crowded as it is, and,” he did pause, then finished, “you will just be in the way.”
What he did not realize was that I was perfectly happy to leave, and I made my way back to the rear of the ship along the walkway, although I made sure to call out to those men I was close enough to that I could recognize them, offering them what encouragement I could. I had just left the compartment and was standing in the small open area, clinging to the ladder, when it happened. What happened, exactly, I would not know for a fair amount of time, but I do recall it began with the deck underneath my feet suddenly shifting again. However, I instantly understood that it was not in the manner to wh
ich I had grown, if not accustomed, at least accepted was part of the normal pitching and rolling in this storm. The best way I can explain it was that it was as if the ship suddenly pivoted and changed its orientation by a matter of ninety degrees, and because it was so unexpected, my feet flew out from under me so that I landed heavily on my back on the deck and I was now looking straight up at the ladder and hole. Somewhat ironically, my fall was cushioned by all the sloshing water so that I was not knocked senseless, at least at that moment. Then I heard a sharp, splintering sound that, while it was similar to the snapping I had heard earlier, was much, much louder, but I only had the barest sense of something appearing above the hole, moving so quickly that I am not certain how I understood that what was rushing at me was the mast of our ship. There was a horrific crashing sound, and I threw both my hands in front of my face…and that is the last thing I remember of that moment.
My next memory is of swaying, not in a violent manner, but more of a gentle rocking that I immediately remembered was the motion that came from lying in a hammock on a rolling sea.
I must have moved my head, because the next thing I recall was hearing Alex’s voice as he shouted, or at least it sounded like it, “Thank the gods! Gnaeus! Gnaeus! Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” I snapped; even as I did so, I knew how I sounded, but it felt like Alex had just plunged awls into both of my ears. “You don’t have to yell.”
I opened my eyes just in time for his face to thrust into my vision, close enough that I could see nothing else but his broad smile, which made me feel more ashamed for my outburst.
“What happened?” I asked him, and the grin vanished as if it had never been there.
“The mast,” he explained. “Somehow we got turned sideways so that the waves were coming from the side, and the force of the water was so much that it snapped the mast.”
I felt myself frowning because it did not seem to make sense, and I countered, “If we turned sideways to the waves, how did we not capsize?”
“That,” Alex answered immediately, “is what everyone is asking. But,” he used a hand to indicate what I realized now was the cabin, where I was in my hammock, “as you can see, we didn’t.”
“Maybe we did, but we’re in Hades and Dis is just toying with us,” I grumbled, though I did not really mean it.
Frankly, I was relieved; we were alive, and is there anything more important than that?
“So, what does Vellocatus say?” I asked. “We can still move under oar power, can’t we?”
I got a hint by the sudden change in Alex’s expression, although he clearly decided that honesty, however brutal, was the best approach.
“Vellocatus is gone,” he told me tersely. “He was swept overboard.”
This did not make sense to me and I exclaimed, “But I saw him! He had a rope tied around his waist, and it was tied to the railing! There’s no way he would have been swept away like that.”
I cannot say that Alex became evasive, yet there was something…vague about the way he answered.
“Cador said that the rope snapped, and before he could do anything, Vellocatus was gone.”
I was about to argue the point, but even with the sharp pain in my head, I also realized it made no real difference, at least in the moment.
“So Cador is in command now?” Alex nodded, and I asked, “And when do we get to Ubiorum? Did we get blown off course?”
Now my de facto cousin—at least this is how I think of him—looked everywhere but at me, which prompted me to reach up and grab him by the arm, not hard enough to make him wince, yet enough to make him aware I was serious.
“What happened? What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing!” he protested, but he obviously saw this would not be enough, and he amended, “At least, not much. Cador is being…closemouthed about it.” He took a breath, then said, “All I can tell you is that I’m pretty certain he doesn’t know where we are.”
Perhaps not surprisingly, that got me moving, but when I began by swinging my legs out of the hammock, I had to stop, gasping from the shock of pain in my head from the sudden motion. It might sound odd, but this was the first moment where I thought to reach up and touch my head, or I tried to, my fingers instead encountering a heavy bandage.
“What happened to me?” I demanded.
“I didn’t see it happen,” he replied. “I just heard. And,” his mouth turned down, “when I felt the mast come down, I left the cabin. That’s when I found you.”
I moved more carefully, and while standing erect on the deck made my head hurt, it was bearable, although I still took my time to collect myself. The first thing I noticed was how stable the wooden deck felt compared to how it was rolling and pitching during the storm.
“Have you talked to Saloninus?” I asked Alex. He nodded. “How are the men? What’s the situation?”
“Nobody got pitched overboard or died,” he replied, “but we have six men who broke something.” Before I could form a response, he reached over to the desk, picking up a wax tablet, opening it up to read from it. “Two men have a broken arm; one left and one right, both from the First, Servilius Caepio of the Sixth Section, and Vibius Potitus of the Third Section. Laevinas of the Eighth Section broke his ankle. In the Second Century, Lucius Fidenus of the Second Section broke some ribs, Capito has a broken jaw.”
“That’s going to make playing the cornu difficult,” I commented, but when Alex did not seem to appreciate the humor, I misunderstood why, because it had nothing to do with my former Cornicen.
“The last one is Atellus of the Tenth Section.” His expression turned grave, but I understood why when he said, “He broke his back and can’t feel anything below his waist.”
I am certain I do not have to explain that this is essentially a death sentence, especially for a ranker in the Legions, because the chances are very small that they have the money to hire someone or buy a slave to attend to their needs. And in the case of Gaius Atellus, it was an even bitterer blow because he was one of the solid men of the Second Century; even in my relatively short time commanding the Second, I had seen enough of Atellus to know his quality and his value to the Century. As I had learned from my father, there are a core group of men in any given Century who are the bedrock for the rest of their comrades, the men those comrades come to when they are in need, and who they look to for guidance in hundreds of small ways. Now that I had heard Alex’s report, I realized I could not put it off any longer, so I walked, somewhat unsteadily, to the door. When I stepped into the space, I came to a stop, gaping up at the buckled decking running along the left side of the ship, but it was the jagged and splintered hole just a foot from the opening at the ladder that at least partially explained how I was knocked unconscious.
Obviously seeing where I was looking, Alex explained, “When the mast fell over, the crosspiece broke free and crashed through the deck. A piece of it splintered off and hit you in the head. At least,” he shrugged, “that’s what I think happened.”
“Who found me?” I asked, suspecting I knew the answer, and Alex confirmed it, answering simply, “I did.”
Realizing that it did not ultimately matter, I walked across the space and opened the door to the main compartment. I was unsure what to expect, but it was certainly not as frantic as it had been, and there was no longer the stench of fear sweat. Yet, what did puzzle me was that the slaves were doing what passed for lounging on their benches, while the Hortator was nowhere to be seen. Most of my men were lying in their hammocks, but Saloninus saw me, hopped up onto the walkway, and made his way from the front of the ship. Now that the Brizo was only rolling from what felt like gentle swells, it certainly made moving easier, and he weaved his way past the guards, who were sitting on the walkway.
Returning Saloninus’ salute, I began by saying, “Alex gave me the report. Where’s Atellus?”
He turned about and led me towards the bow, then stopped about midway and pointed down to the ranker lying on the top row
hammock. Standing next to it in the scant space between the rows was Publius Natta, Atellus’ close comrade, while Atellus looked as if he was sleeping. When Natta saw me, before I could stop him, he leaned down and whispered to Atellus, his eyes coming immediately open, making me think he had not actually been asleep. I dropped down off the walkway, having to turn sideways to reach Atellus’ head, and I tried to make the smile I offered him genuine.
“I’d come to intente, Pilus Prior,” the ranker’s voice was hoarse but understandable, “but I just don’t feel like it.”
Comprehending and appreciating what Atellus was trying to do, I laughed at his jest, and I countered, “Well, you always were a lazy bastard, Atellus. Why change now?”
As I hoped, this made him chuckle; then the smile faded, and he said quietly, “I’m done for, Pilus Prior. I know it. You don’t have to tell me.”
I knew he was telling the truth, yet I could not bring myself to acknowledge it, so I shook my head and said, “We don’t know that for sure, Atellus. As soon as the fleet regroups, I’m going to signal for the ship carrying the camp physician to come alongside and take a look at you.”