The Siege of Syracuse

by Dan Armstrong

  I said as little as possible. The two thieves talked incessantly. I didn’t recognize the language, but one seemed to be complaining to the other. It gradually came out that one of them spoke Greek. The other could also, but not very well. The brown man was from beyond the Mediterranean. None of us could understand what he said. He squeezed into one corner of the cart and closed his eyes.

  I remember little of this terrible five-day journey other than my deepening descent into anguish, pondering my fate and that of my parents. But one conversation on the trip’s last day stands out. The Thracian who could speak Greek addressed me. “You have never been a slave.”

  He needed only to read the fear in my eyes to know this was true.

  “You had better get used to it,” he snarled. His face was wide and flat, spotted with sores. “Prepare to be nothing more than a dumb animal.” He pointed to his chest. “Bitter it is, boy, to be owned by another man. Especially if he’s mean. I’ll tell you now, your life is done. No family, no land, no rights at all. You have nothing to look forward to.” He leaned toward me. His lips curled back. His teeth were twisted in his mouth like chips of rock. “Except the end.” He winked at me with some hideous suggestion. “You will learn to welcome death as an avenue to freedom.”

  I was too frightened to reply. My parents were likely dead and I hoped to be the same. It was all I could do to keep from sobbing.

  Not long after I’d been given this stark advice, when we were entering Locri and nearing the docks, the brown man deliberately caught my attention with his eyes. I’d been watching him the entire trip and had begun to think the markings on his face might mean he was part of some religious sect. His intense black eyes seemed both wild and sympathetic. He motioned for me to open my hands. Though shackled at the wrists, I opened them, palms up.

  The brown man leaned forward to look more closely. It wasn’t that easy in the cramped space. The Thracians were watching. The one who spoke fluent Greek commented. “He wants to read your future, boy. So he can tell you which master will beat you hardest.”

  I had heard of this before—that one’s life is written in the lines on his or her hands. I quickly closed my hands. I didn’t want to know.

  The brown man sat back and nodded his head.

  “It appears the crazy lout got all the look he needed,” the thief said, trying to make me feel as miserable as possible.

  I steeled myself with silence, determined not to cry.

  The brown man brought his hands together as in prayer. He lifted them to his lips, then tilted his head in my direction.

  The thief laughed out loud. “Ha! He’s giving you a bow. Your future must be something special!” He laughed again, then sneered, “Anyone who gets on the boat we’re getting on doesn’t have a future.” Both the thieves laughed at this. But their laughter was hollow. We were all getting on the same ship.

  The brown man lifted his head and looked me in the eye with a clarity that penetrated to the center of my being. That look was all the hope I had—the faint chance that he might actually have read something positive in my palms.

  At Locri we were packed into the hull of a mid-size sailing vessel with another fifty or so shackled men, women, and children. So awful was the squalor in the hold and the thick smell of human feces and vomit that this four-day voyage made the journey in the chicken cart seem luxurious. For a youth who had lived his entire life in a loving home and had never been beaten, the rough handling I received in those days of travel were my initiation into the real meaning of freedom—or should I say, the lack of it.

  The slave traders used bullwhips to make us move or get our attention. Our second day at sea, these coarse men brought all the youngest slaves on deck and removed our shackles. Several of us struggled with sea sickness. They laughed at me when I fell to my hands and knees to retch. A man pushed me over with his foot so that I fell into my own vomit.

  With the crack of a whip, the traders made us take off our clothing. They inspected us in the rudest way, taking liberties with their hands, and shaving any of us who had body hair to make us appear younger.

  When the shaving was done, the man who was giving orders, called Drako by the others, sent the girls back to the hold. Short and heavily muscled, Drako appeared to be a Cretan. He had a thick black beard and pale blue, almost white, demon-like eyes. He stood at the bow and tossed a piece of chalk to one of his whip-snapping minions, ordering him to draw a circle on the deck. While the man drew a circle big enough for a horse to stand in, Drako paired us off, two by two.

  Drako stepped into the center of the circle and announced in Greek, “We’re going to have a wrestling match.” He used his hands, which were large and expressive, to pantomime what he was saying for those who didn’t know the language. “You are standing next to your opponent.” He pointed to the chalk line. “The object will be to force him out of the circle, using any means you can. The winners will be paired again,” he continued with an ugly smile, “and again, until there are only two of you left.”

  He held both of his hands out in front of him with the forefingers extended and brought them together at the wrists with a slap, then raised one hand in the air. “The winner of that final match goes free.” He grinned, showing his teeth and lighting his pale eyes like a cat’s in the night. “There are no rules except that there must be a winner.”

  I looked at the boy beside me at the same time that he looked at me. I’m sure the fear I saw in his eyes matched mine. I couldn’t guess where he was from. Though not as tall as I was, he was older and thicker. I knew I was in for a battle, especially when I was nearly spinning with seasickness and my knee still ached from the night of the kidnapping.

  Clearly enjoying the theater, Drako walked down the line of us, strung out along the deck, naked and frightened. He stopped in front of the pair who would begin the contest. They were of equal height and perhaps a year or two older than I was. I guessed one to be Latin. The other must have been African. He was a deep black, skinnier than I was, and had what looked to be bug bites all over his back. As the boys squared off, sizing each other up, the sailors and slave handlers formed a ring around the chalk line. The rest of us stood behind them, peering between, uneasily watching what we would soon have to do. I overheard one boy whisper that the Latin boy was his brother and that he was sure to win.

  The reward of freedom inspired both wrestlers and made for a fierce match with a lot of hooting and hollering from the onlookers. The Latin boy seemed to know what he was doing. He went right for the midsection of the other, using his head and shoulders to drive the boy back. The quickness of the boy’s attack caught the African off balance. He teetered backward three steps, nearly over the chalk line, before he was able to spin out of his opponent’s grasp, back to the center of the circle to square off again. The Latin immediately dove at the African’s feet. The boy was ready this time. With one neat sidestep, he swung around and wrapped up the other boy from behind. Not quite able to lift the Latin boy off his feet, he squeezed him as tightly as he could and swung him left, then right, carrying him toward the edge of the circle. Then, just as it seemed the African would win, the Latin got a leg in front of his opponent and tripped him. The African stumbled sideways and the Latin pushed him outside the white line. The match was over. The loser was ordered to one side of the deck, the winner to the other.

  The men cheered or cursed, then exchanged coins wagered on the outcome. It may have been entertainment for these men, but to the boys, it was a battle for freedom.

  Each match became more vicious as the drama of the competition mounted. In the third bout one boy was nearly out of the circle, when he took hold of the other boy’s hair and wouldn’t let go. The other boy wailed in pain as the first leaned into him with his hip and swung him out of the circle by his hair, leaving the victor with a mass of brown curls still gripped in his hand.

  Drako pushed the loser off to one side, then pointed to the pair to my left. He had matched a much larger boy against a
small, younger boy. The outcome was never in doubt, prompting a round of jeers from the onlookers when the larger boy simply lifted the other boy in the air and tossed him to the deck outside the line. The younger boy struggled to his feet, almost in tears, with a long, red burn down the side of his face and shoulder from skidding across the rough plank deck.

  After two more matches, two sets of opponents remained. I was in one of them. Drako picked the other. It matched a large young boy against a small older one with a mean look about him—the same boy whose brother had won the first match. The younger boy quickly wrestled the older boy to the deck and used his size to push him around. He had him in a headlock, very nearly twisting him from the circle, when the older brother on the sidelines yelled out, “Bite him, Gnaeus!” And the boy did, a big bite into the younger boy’s bicep as if it were boiled chicken. The boy let out a holler and released his grip. Gnaeus spat a piece of flesh onto the deck then butted his head into his opponent’s stomach, knocking the bleeding boy on his seat—two feet beyond the white line.

  Drako turned his crooked grin to me and the boy beside me. I wanted freedom more than anything, but I was not a fighter and I had vomited twice since the matches had begun. My only advantage was being Greek. From my years in the gymnasium, I was accustomed to wrestling naked. All of our athletics, even during the Olympiad, were performed in the nude. Wrestling was one of our most popular sports. Although I did not excel at it, I’d had some training and felt I had a chance against what appeared a stronger opponent, who covered himself with his hands out of embarrassment for his nudity.

  Knowing my knee wouldn’t hold up in a long match, I entered the circle with a plan to go for his left leg. I would spin on his leg, take him down from behind, and ride him out of the circle.

  There was a moment before Drako gave the signal to begin. Around the circle, the slave handlers and rough looking sailors, faces twisted and eyes wide, drew up close to watch. Beyond them was the aquamarine sea, heaving, and tilting the ship from one side to the other. I started to swoon with nausea just as I heard the call to begin. Instead of immediately diving for the boy’s leg, I staggered on the shifting deck. The boy swung at me with his fist and hit me in my already damaged nose. That was all it took. I fell backwards out of the circle onto my back, clasping both hands to the bleeding mess in the center of my face.

  The first round of matches was over. I was shoved to the losers’ side of the ship and promptly choked strings of bile and red mucus over the ship’s rail.

  I missed more of the next two rounds of wrestling than I saw, but as sick as I was, I couldn’t help watching the final match. The opponents were the two Latin brothers.

  Drako gave the match a big buildup, taunting the onlookers to bet their full wages on a winner. Then noticing, as everyone had by now, that the two boys were brothers, he concluded with a rule change. “Forget the circle, boys,” he said with the mainsail snapping overhead. “Since it’s our last match, let’s add an extra thrill. Make it a fight to the death!”

  The ugly group gathered in the front row hushed, looked around, then doubled down on their bets.

  I saw the horror of it pass between the two brothers. I read the lips of the older one as they passed each other prepared to face off. “You know I can’t kill you.”

  Gnaeus turned away, then looking back, quickly whispered, “It is better to be dead than a slave. At least one of us will be free.”

  They went at it reluctantly at first. The audience got restless. Drako screamed at the brothers, “Fight or you both go into the sea!”

  Gnaeus immediately picked up the intensity, forcing his brother to respond. They were both practiced in wrestling. The match proceeded like a public contest, with no hair pulling or biting. One might kill the other, but it would be fair.

  The older boy gradually gained the upper hand. He was stronger and had longer arms and legs. He wore his brother down and finally had him doubled over, hips in the air, shoulders pinned to the deck, all the pressure on his bowed neck. The ring of onlookers edged in as close as space allowed. Some got down on their knees, slapping the deck with their hands, screaming and yelling for the kill.

  The boy couldn’t do it. He held his brother absolutely helpless, but he couldn’t go through with murder. The scene became so tense that the noise hushed, and the drama stressed entirely between the two brothers. I heard the older boy whisper in Latin—words I’m sure very few present understood—the same words he had said before. “I cannot kill you, Gnaeus.”

  Gnaeus screamed back. “Kill me or it will be both of us. Take your freedom while you can. You must!”

  The older boy, tears in his eyes, glared at the ring of men, then leaned heavily on his brother, snapping his neck. He stood slowly from the corpse and staggered up to Drako. “Some cost for freedom,” he muttered in badly spoken Greek.

  “So now that you are free, lad, where are you planning to go?” taunted Drako.

  The boy didn’t understand, nor did I.

  Drako laughed. “We are only paid to transport slaves. Now that you aren’t a slave, you must pay for your passage.”

  “You know I have no money,” replied the boy.

  The Cretan laughed again, cruel and ugly, drawing all the other sailors in with him. “Then you must remain a slave and go back into the hold with the others—or you’re free to leave the ship.” Though our voyage followed the coast, we were still several miles off shore.

  “But we are at sea,” said the boy in disbelief that he could have been tricked into killing his brother for the spectacle of it.

  “Yes, we are at sea,” repeated Drako. “So go down to the hold with the rest of them.”

  The youth looked around at the ring of rough men surrounding him, then turned his eyes to Gnaeus lifeless on the deck. He shouted out a curse to the gods, broke through the ring of onlookers, and dove into the sea.

  Drako scowled as he watched the boy swim off. “Let him drown! Chain these slaves and send them back to the hold.”

  I watched the boy in the sea as long as I could. He was still swimming when I dropped down into the hold. I felt badly for the boy, and part of me wished I’d had the courage to leap off the ship and swim with him.

  Only at night, when huddled in the wet, squirming darkness of the hull, did my fear subside enough to allow the grief of losing my parents overwhelm me with tears. This was my introduction to slavery and the horror of war. It gave me an insight into life that I would never forget: take nothing for granted—things can change as quickly as a knife can enter a man’s flesh.

  With this bit of wisdom rattling around in my head, I couldn’t help wonder what might be waiting for me in Syracuse. The island of Sicily, positioned in the center of the Mediterranean, less than one hundred and fifty miles from Carthage, provided several important ports for sea traffic headed east or west. Syracuse was one of them, really the jewel of the island. With regard to the war, hardly an asset in the region was as important to either Rome or Carthage as the port of Syracuse. In many ways, going from Croton to Syracuse was like jumping out of the kettle into the fire.

  CHAPTER 3

  After four days at sea, our ship anchored in Trogyli Harbor just north of Syracuse. We were unloaded in small boats and taken to shore. Still in shackles, we were marched into the city through the Hexapylon, the main gate on the northern perimeter. The huge entryway had four tall parapets and six individual gates. A formidable stone wall stretched out for miles from either side, defending what was obviously a very large city.

  The northeastern portion of Syracuse, where we entered, spread out on a wide plateau, populated with small homes, drinking establishments, cheap rooms, and a huge open-air market. We were taken to the far west side of this market, where a stout wooden platform of rough cut beams served as an auctioneer’s stage. Our shackles were removed, and we were herded into two cattle stalls—one for men, one for women—that were already crowded with other slaves and smelled heavily of urine. I watched the auction
from within one of these filthy corrals. Through breaks in the rough wooden fence, I witnessed first hand the base bottom of human nature.

  The ugly affair began with the strongest men and the most beautiful women, and proceeded to pretty young boys, then people of talent, and finally to whatever was left over. The first slave to mount the platform was a huge, bare-chested yellow man from Asia, with arms as thick as my thighs. His head was shaved, except for a top-knot, pulled tight at the back of his head. The rowdy crowd shouted various insults at the yellow man even before the auctioneer had a chance to begin. The man made no show of emotion as the bidding rose to one thousand drachmas, a price that would prove to be the highest of the day. I didn’t follow the bidding as closely as I watched the faces of the bidders, the twisted grimaces and greedy frowns of those who sought to purchase a human life with a few small pieces of metal.

  After the auction of twenty solid-looking men of different colors and origins, all of whom sold for at least five hundred drachmas, a tall woman from Gaul with thick golden hair was led onto the platform. The sun was out and it was warm. One potential buyer immediately requested that the woman remove her clothing. She glared at the man, and despite several more calls from the crowd to disrobe, refused to drop her rough sackcloth dress. Her spirited resistance was noted, I believe, as something positive, still she received a whack to the back of her head from the auctioneer for her courage, and the sackcloth was ripped from her body, sending the crowd into a frenzy. The wet, eager looks of the bidders revealed more of the human heart than I had ever wanted to know. There was little doubt what her first act of slavery would be. She commanded a bid of seven hundred drachmas.

  The madness built with each slave sold. The young boys, similarly stripped of clothing, caused even more lecherous jeers and catcalls than the finest women, but not the same high prices.