Poseidon's Spear (Long War 3) (4 page)

I was chained in the very depths of a trireme – as a thranite, the very lowest tier of oarsmen. Air came to me through my oar-port, which was mostly covered in leather and leaked air and
water in equal profusion.

When the men above me relieved themselves, the piss and shit fell on me. Oh, yes. That’s the way in the lower decks of a slave-driven trireme.

I lay quietly for as long as I possibly could, because I knew that as soon as they noticed me, I would be made to row. But a man can only stand so much piss in his hair and beard. I moved my
arm, and the oar-master was on me. He struck me several times with a stick, grinning with delight, and put an oar in my hands. It took time for him to bring it from amidships.

He seemed to speak a little Greek, and I barely understood him, but the man above me in the second deck leaned down.

‘He’s a killer, mate,’ he said. ‘Obey, or he’ll gut you.’

For a moment I thought he was talking
about
me, rather than to me. I thought perhaps he was telling the oar-master that I was a killer.

Hah!

Pride goes first, when you are a slave.

The oar-master grinned at me, took a knife from under his arm and poked it into my groin. Smiled more broadly.

‘Tell him I know how to pull an oar!’ I shouted. Instant surrender.

The oar-master laughed. And hit me.

I’m sure you are waiting to hear, my friends, how I recovered my wits, rose from my bench and slaughtered my enemies.

Well, you haven’t been a slave, have you? Any of you.

In a week, I was used to it. I was strong enough, and there was food – badly cooked fish, barley bread, sour beer.

I ate. I no longer wanted to die. Or rather, I only wanted to live to kill the oar-master, whom I hated. And I hated him with a pure, searing hate. But I was a slave, and he laughed at my hate.
He was big, and very strong – fully muscled like a Pankrationist. He enjoyed inflicting pain – on us, the slaves, but he even enjoyed inflicting petty, verbal hurst on his subordinates
and the helmsmen and the deck crew.

I was ridden like a horse. For the first week I rowed in the depths of the ship, with water and shit over my ankles, the smell enough to stop a man from work. But even exhausted and injured, I
was strong compared to other men, and that crew had seen better days. After a long pull – I have no idea when, or where we landed – I was ‘promoted’ to the top deck of
rowers, the ‘elite’. I, who had commanded my own ship, who could steer and make sail. And fight.

The top deck was not an improvement, except for the clean ocean air. Here I was constantly under the eye of the oar-master and his minions, the six men he used to impose his authority. The ship
carried no marines – or, just possibly, these men were the marines – a surly, churlish lot. They proved their manhood by tormenting the rowers.

It is a thing I have often noted, how the stamp of a leader imprints itself on his followers. Hasdrubal – the captain – was a beak-nosed Phoenician from far-off Carthage. He was
tall, he was strong and he was a vicious bully. He never gave a direct order – rather, he wheedled and manipulated when strength would have done better, and then turned into a right tyrant
when some persuasion might have served the trick.

He was handsome, in a burly way, and had the pointiest, heaviest, most perfumed beard I’d ever seen on a man. Well, a man at sea, anyway. I’d seen such things on Thebans.

But his bad command skills transmitted themselves to this captain’s officers as effectively as Miltiades’ were transmitted to his. The oar-master was a torturing tyrant, the
sailing-master was a weak man with a drink problem who knuckled under to the oar-master in every situation and hated him for it and the helmsmen – a pair of them, both Carthaginians learning
the trade – were young, silent, morose and bitter. My guess, from the yawning chasm that separated us – you can’t imagine I ever talked to these bastards – was that the two
helmsmen were better men, just trying to survive under the regime of a bully and a madman.

For Dagon, the oar-master, was mad. Mad with power, mad with rage, mad with the cunning, plotting madness of a long-time drunkard, or a man who enjoys the pain of others.

It was days before I truly felt his displeasure. I know now that we were somewhere on the coast of Dalmatia, rowing north. I had gathered from talk on deck – slaves were forbidden to speak
unless spoken to – that we had a cargo of Athenian hides and pottery and some Cyprian copper, and that we were going to bump our way up the coast until we found someone to sell us iron and
tin.

I was rowing. When you are in peak physical condition, it is possible to row for a long time while your mind is elsewhere. Despite despair and wounds and struggle, I was sound enough to row
– all day – without pain. But my head was in a dark place, considering my life. My life with Briseis. My life with Euphoria. My life as a hero, and my life as a smith. I wasn’t
despairing – it takes longer than three days to drive me to despair. But I had started pretty far down, and being enslaved certainly hadn’t helped.

The stick hit me a glancing blow on the left shoulder. ‘Off the beat,’ the oar-master roared, his spittle raining on my left ear.

‘Like fuck!’ I said, before I’d thought about it. In fact, I was dead on the beat – my stroke was perfect.

The next blow hit my head, and I gave a half-scream and sort of fell across my oar, and then he hit me again, five or six blows to the head and neck. My nose broke, and blood showered across
me.

‘Silence, scum,’ he roared at me. ‘Do not even scream!’

I grunted.

He hit me again. It was an oak stick.

I must have made some noise. Or maybe not.

‘Silence!’ he said in the kind of voice a man uses to a lover, and hit me again.

My oar caught in the backwash of another man’s oar, jumped and slammed into my chest, cracking ribs. I grunted.

He hit me again. ‘Silence, slave!’

I tried to gain control of the oar. Tears were pouring down my face, and blood.

He laughed. ‘You need to learn what you are. You are a sack full of pain, and I will let it out when I want to. For anything. Until you die, cursing me.’ He moved around until he was
in my sight line. ‘I am Dagon, Lord of Pain.’ He laughed.

Just then, the trierarch came up. I knew his voice already. That needs to be said, because I could barely see. And you have to imagine, I was trying to manage an eighteen-foot oar while he hit
me in the back.

‘You are off the stroke,’ he said teasingly, and hit me on my left shoulder. He was expert. He hit me so hard I could barely manage the pain – but he didn’t break a
bone.

I guess I whimpered.

Dagon laughed again. ‘Silence!’ he said, and hit me again.

The trierarch laughed. ‘New slaves are useless, aren’t they?’ he said.

The oar-master tapped his stick on the deck. ‘He can’t get the rhythm,’ the oar-master said. A lie.

‘You lie,’ I spat.

The blow that struck me put me out.

When I awoke, I was the stern oar of the thranites – the lowest of the low, and since most triremes row a little down by the stern, all of the piss and shit of the whole
slave ship was around my ankles and calves. The moment I groaned and shook, one of the oar-master’s minions threw seawater over me and put an oar in my hands, feeding it through the oar-port
– it was, of course, a short and difficult oar because of the curve of the ship. Rowing here was always a punishment, even on my ships.

I threw up.

On myself, of course.

And started rowing.

Time lost meaning. I rowed, and hurt, and rowed, and hurt. Men came and hit me with sticks and I rowed, and hurt. We landed for a night, somewhere north of Corcyra, and I was
left chained to my bench while other men went ashore. Kritias, a Greek, one of the oar-master’s bully-boys, came to me with stale bread, dipped it in the stinking brown water by my ankles and
put it in my lap. ‘I have five obols on this,’ he said. ‘That you’ll eat it.’

He got his five obols.

Then I was sick – sick with one of Apollo’s arrows in me, and shit poured from me into the water at my feet and I vomited, over and over.

And I rowed.

The sun beat down, and men above me died. I was hardly the only victim – indeed, so ill was that ship that men died every second or third day. So that after some more time – I have
no idea how much time, but we were somewhere on the coast of Illyria – we landed, and even I was allowed ashore. We ate pig – the slaves got crap, but it was delicious, and we ate
everything.

That was the night I realized we were in Illyria. A party of nobles came down to the ship, and I had the energy to pay attention. There were two men and two women on horseback, and they rode
straight down the beach.

They gave Hasdrubal the signs of peace, and dismounted warily. He offered them bread and salt and wine.

The two women were young and pretty, tough the way all Illyrians are, as blond as the sun, tanned like old leather, in fine wool with gold bracelets. The men were taller and older, with beards
and more gold jewellery. Their servants had tin. We could see it in ingots, brought by donkey from somewhere even farther north.

Illyrians are a strange lot – they have nothing but lords and slaves, and the lords are at war with each other all the time. They look Greek, they sometimes speak Greek – worship our
gods, too. Many of them know the
Iliad
and the
Odyssey
. But they are not Greek. Or rather, sometimes I think that they are Hellenes who never found the rule of law.

But I was not thinking such rational and philosophical thoughts that night.

I was too far away to hear any of the conversation, but the style of their pins and their clothes, their horse-furniture and a thousand other little details, all made it plain where we were.

Well, while there’s life, there’s hope, or so it is said. Illyrians are the worst pirates in the Middle Sea, and suddenly, it occurred to me that if Hasdrubal would just keep sailing
up the coast, an Illyrian coaster was bound to attack us. And the gods knew that we wouldn’t have lasted a moment in a sea fight – a two-thirds crew of sick slaves and bully-boys as
marines.

It has to say something for my state that being taken by Illyrians, who enslaved all captives regardless of social status, was my
hope.

We were tied together with rope while ashore and put in a stockade, more like a pen, with two armed men as guards. When we were ashore – this was my first time ashore since my first day on
board – it was impossible to keep us from talking. Yet, to my utter puzzlement, none of the other oar-slaves would speak.

Not even a word.

It was the lowest part of the whole experience. I had never seen slaves who would not mutter – who would not rebel in a thousand little ways, even if they were too cowed to rebel in the
ways that mattered.

The slaves sat silent, every one of them with their eyes closed.

I moved from man to man, whispering, until a guard came into the pen. I froze, but he’d seen me, and he struck me with his spear shaft – heavy ash. He almost broke my arm. He hit me
so hard – I’ll just say this as an aside – that he raised a black bruise on the side of the arm
opposite
to the blow, and it covered the arm. It made a nice counterpoint
to the ache in my ribs.

I didn’t even whimper. I’d learned better.

He laughed. ‘Beg me not to hit you again,
pais
. Beg me. Offer to suck my dick.’

Sometimes, having been a slave before saved my life. This was one of those times. A man who’d always been free might have had to knuckle under and been broken – or might have had to
resist, and been killed.

I held my head and looked dumb.

He hit me lightly. ‘You know what I said!’ he grunted.

I held my head, met his eye and then cocked my head to one side.

He sneered. ‘Not even your wits left, eh?’

Outside, there were shouts – rage – a scream.

He ran out of the pen and slammed the rickety gate closed.

The palisade was hastily built – badly cut palings rammed into the sand and held together with a heavy rope woven in and out of the palings. I could see. My arm hurt, but I got myself to
an edge.

Two other slaves came to look.

The rest just lay still with their eyes closed.

Our guards were running full tilt for the central fire of the camp. One of the Illyrian servants was making for the wood line; another was face down, and experience told me he wasn’t ever
getting up.

‘You’re an idiot,’ said the Thracian at my elbow. ‘Make trouble.’

‘Uh,’ said the other, a Greek. ‘Never fucking talk when they can hear.’

‘Sorry,’ I muttered.

‘Skethes,’ said the Thracian.

‘Arimnestos,’ I said.

‘Nestor,’ said the Greek. He looked to be fifty years old, and as hard as an old oak tree.

Something was happening at the fire. A woman was screaming.

We couldn’t see anything because it was too dark. But we didn’t have to.

There was the unmistakable sound of a man being beaten with spear shafts – blows falling like hail on a tent, the hollow sound of a man’s head and chest taking them.

And the women, screaming. They were being raped.

One by one, many of the slaves went to sleep.

I couldn’t. I lay there and hated.

Towards morning, two more guards opened the pen and threw in the body. It was a man, and he was alive. I didn’t have to be a philosopher to figure out that he was one of the Illyrian men,
although his face was a swollen pulp and he was covered in weals and blood and shit – his own.

All the slaves woke when he was tossed into the pen. He lay there, bleeding, for a long time. Too damned long.

Finally, I couldn’t stand it. I guess I wasn’t broken. Again, my experience as a slave helped me because I wasn’t shocked and I was learning the ‘rules’, sick as
they were. So I stripped my loincloth off my groin, dipped it in our drinking water – well might you flinch, young woman – and started to wash the man.