Lod the Galley Slave (Lost Civilizations) (10 page)

“
Wrestler.”

When he had seen the Master studying him, Eglon fell groveling.

“You’ve feasted well these many years on my largesse. Will you now dare the outer world as a galley captain?”

Of course he had said yes. With the Master
’s pupil-less gaze upon him it would have been folly to say anything else. So he had been one of the few to actually leave Poseidonis, to sail across the open ocean in a merchantman and back into the world of mortals. There on the stone quays of Mangalore he had been introduced to his soldiers and crew. From there they had journeyed overland three weeks to the jungle ruins of Krung Thep. The long-ago Southern Vendhyan sailors who had fled their plagued ship had given the disease to the city’s former inhabitants and wiped out the people. A day of hacking through jungle vines with machetes had brought him to a rich lagoon full of crocodiles, where a barge full of rowing slaves had been waiting along with orders to arrive at Iribos in three months’ time.

Standing now on the prow deck with the pilot, watching the first streaks of dawn, Eglon heard his belly rumble. So it had those dreadful days in the lagoon. It was one thing to clutch weaklings, lift them high and crack then over your knee, to watch them flop and contort for the Master and his clapping courtesans
, but another to command sullen slaves to obedience and make them wade into smelly water filled with man-eating monsters. Failure had been inconceivable. So he had practiced his favorite trick on the first slave who hadn’t jumped fast enough, breaking the spine and tossing the fool into the water. Two reptilian beasts had broken the scummy surface and tugged and yanked the screaming slave apart. It had been a fascinating performance; one he knew the Master would have loved—and it had wonderfully motivated the others. In fact, he had found then that he had a talent for making men
move
. Perhaps the Master had known that. In any case, although twenty slaves had become crocodile fodder, along with three soldiers, everyone together had dragged the rotting hulk out of the ooze and into deeper water. Hot tar and ropes had done wonders for the old galley until several days later he had sailed the vessel into the sea.

Not only did he have a talent for command, but for piracy as well. The huge red ruby that usually adorned his turban and the scarlet cloak warming his shoulders were but
a small part of his newfound treasures. Howling with glee and with a sword in hand he had rampaged across several merchantman decks. Looting was an incredibly delicious experience, immensely heady and pleasurable. Yet all this and his virgin captaincy were about to be lost because they couldn’t get to Iribos in time.

“
Seems foolish to sail in late,” said the pilot.

An icicle of fear stabbed Eglon
’s chest, making his heart thud faster. “You’re not suggesting we run out on the Master, are you?”

“
I’m not daft,” said the pilot, who glanced at him sidelong.

Eglon dared consider the idea; then hastily shook his head. Yet how otherwise could he keep his captaincy, his very life? He grinned suddenly, his corpulent features wreathing into a smile, exposing strong white teeth.
“We need rowers, yes?”

“
More than half have been pitched overboard,” muttered the pilot. “Just as I predicted would happen.”

Eglon turned around and lumbered at the nearest sailor curled in sleep. With his fine rhinoceros-hide boot he gave the Vendhyan laggard a kick.
“Wake up, you lout!”

The sailor jerked awake, trembling to see the captain over him.

“Run to the rowing hold!” shouted Eglon.

“
C-Captain?”

“
Don’t gawk at me, you dog! You’re going to row!” Eglon lifted his head. “Commander!”

“
What are you plotting, Captain?” whispered the pilot, who had crept near on soundless feet.

“
Everyone is going to row.”

“
Even the soldiers?”

“
Are you deaf? I said everyone.”

“
The soldiers won’t appreciate that.”

Eglon turned on the pilot, grinning evilly and smacking one of his huge fists into his palm.
“When I start worrying about what people like is the day on my own free will I sink my arse onto the impaling spike.”

-5-

Savage yelling caused Lod to stir. Every muscle ached and his hands had become lumps of clay. Groaning, he dragged his head off his arms, which lay folded on the giant loom before him. His back muscles twitched and his head felt as it had the time that an extraordinarily cruel captain had locked a lead hood upon him. He blinked bloodshot eyes, trying to focus on the slaves shuffling down the middle aisle, their ankle manacles clanking. Each of their arms had been cruelly bound behind their backs, their garments in tatters and their faces bruised to purple welts and bleeding at the mouth.

It was then Lod noticed the
Serpent of Thep
neither creaked nor rocked, nor did its worm-infested timbers shift. Instead, the galley lay utterly still. Seagulls cried outside, and he heard the sound of sawing and hammering. Last night sailors and soldiers had rowed beside him, Captain Eglon himself prowling the middle aisle with a whip. This morning fewer than one hundred exhausted slaves survived on the benches, gaping at this new sight like men awakened from death. Beyond the benches at the stern and prow archers leered with oiled black beards and wearing the peaked hats so beloved by Yorgash’s soldiery. With their shiny eyes they seemed eager to bend their bows and loose arrows at them.

Meanwhile, soldiers with curved knives, perfect for a crowded spot, cursed shuffling slaves, spi
tting at them, daring them to rebel and shoving them against the back of their heads. They brought new wretches down into the hold to refill the emptied benches.

Twenty years of mind-numbing drudgery hadn
’t yet been able to slay Lod’s curiosity. In his lucid moments he often debated with himself over a myriad of issues. He had also become an expert on certain insect species: particularly blood-sucking lice, fleas and delicately long-legged spiders that built such beautiful webs. Occasionally, wasps flew through the wicker lattice above and snatched the spiders, drugging them into lethargy, laying a single dark egg into them and then carrying the paralyzed creature to a wattle-built nest. There, once the egg hatched, the larvae feasted upon its still aware host. Lod knew this to be true because he had broken open more than one wasp nest to find out. Rats had provided him with thousands of hours of contemplation as they scurried and burrowed in the wet sand of the ballast below.

Unfortunately, making pets of them was useless. He had tried several times. Other slaves had always killed them while he slept and devoured their meaty flesh. His most delightful pet had been a lark he had once captured by luring it with breadcrumbs. With bits of rope he had made a tiny cage, hanging it from a splinter in the wooden rib above him. The bird had soon learned to copy the different toots given by the
oar master with his silver whistle. Quite often the lark would imitate the calls, causing the rowers to undertake maneuvers that had not been ordered. Finally the captain had demanded that he free the bird—which had made the other slaves happy, for none of them had gotten any rest with the caged lark.

Lod sighed, certain that all those slaves of many years ago were dead. He alone lived on. He alone survived in this dank and dreary world.

“Keep your hands on the oar, White-Hair.” A soldier waved a curved dagger in his face, the edge keen and a bare inch from his eyes.

Lod obeyed, and he ignored a different soldier bending down and unlocking his chain. Then he shivered, which made the first soldier snarl and grab his hair and jerk back his head, pressing the wickedly sharp dagger against skin.

“Twitch a muscle, White-Hair, and I’ll slit your throat.”

Rage washed over Lod. That
’s why he had shivered. A yearning to roar and bash their heads together had filled him the instant his ankle was free of the hated chain. Almost he had leapt up to do battle—almost, but not quite. Enough sanity remained for him to bide his time, to wait for the perfect moment.

“
Slide to the end, White-Hair, to the oar port.”

Lod obeyed, even though he knew that his original sentence had mandated he always be the lead man, rowing the most difficult position. He slid over the soiled wool, over the empty places of slaves who had lost their lives last night. As he did, the new wretches were shoved off the middle aisle and to his plank. Their chained ankles made it impossible for them to step down. So they fell, one man gashing his cheek against the bench.

Lod, who had witnessed a thousand such brutalities, stared up at the whicker lattice. The sun shone high in the sky. He bent his head and peered out the oar port. No leather washer remained, so his view was excellent. To his delight he sniffed the salt sea instead of the hold’s vile stench. His eyes widened.

Masses of galleys cruised upon the sea
in squadrons. Oars moved rhythmically, as if each vessel were a huge wooden centipede crawling across the water. Many had mast poles in place, with sails tied by ropes to the yardarms. Seen from this distance the galleys were beautiful; at least the largest were, with gilded forecastles and purple stern awnings. Bronze armored soldiers packed the decks of many and thousands of archers waxed their bowstrings. Sunlight sparkled off polished shields, making him blink, causing his eyes to water. Flute music drifted near. It timed the rowing in countless holds. Gulls wheeled overhead and sometimes triangular fins cut through the green sea, marking sharks that lived off the garbage thrown from the war vessels. Small punts hurried between ships, while barges struggled to move faster.

Lod leaned the other way as far as he could. They were in a bay of some sort. He saw a vine-covered seawall and behind that slender towers with pearl-colored turrets.

“Iribos,” he whispered. So they had made it after all. He furrowed his brow, deciding from the way he felt that he’d had two hours sleep.

A rowing slave, if he cared to listen, if he had enough desire, heard much from the world above, from the upper deck. Whenever he wasn
’t consumed by visions, Lod listened carefully indeed, had been listening for twenty years. He knew all about Iribos.

Several years ago Yorgash had launched a
seaborne invasion of this rocky little island. It housed the finest harbor in all the Gulf of Ammon or any found on the two rivers Hiddekel and Phlegeton, both of which poured into the gulf. The small, strong-walled city whose seawall he now stared at had survived many famous sieges. Iribos’ greatest advantage was that the only effective way onto the island was through its harbor. The rest of the island only showed tall, steep cliffs and jagged boulders. But entering the harbor without permission wasn’t easy, or it hadn’t been in the past. In years gone by the galleys of Iribos never used slave rowers and carried few soldiers, relying instead on their greatly envied seamanship to ram and sink their opponents. Knowing this, Yorgash had slyly preached peace, and to show his good will he had sent grain ships to ease the islanders in a time of famine. Heralds from Eridu had warned them that Yorgash intended deceit. As if to belie the warning, yet more grain ships, seven mighty leviathans, had sailed that day into the harbor. They had been monstrous vessels, and the city elders of Iribos had mocked the heralds of Eridu with the sight of them. That night the grain ships had disgorged hidden soldiery: merciless warriors led by the Gibborim, Yorgash’s dreaded children. Gold had greased the palms of certain gate captains, and into the city had poured the Gibborim, with cold-eyed, bearded warriors clutching axes following close behind.

“
I’m sorry,” whispered a slave, as he bumped against Lod.

With his reveries broken, Lod straightened, and he turned from the
oar port and peered at the man beside him. He was a small fellow with a shock of tawny hair, black circles around his eyes and a bruised face with cuts and awful purple welts. His neck and shoulders also bore the mementos of a beating. His bearing, however, didn’t indicate slavishness. It seemed rather that he had spoken out of politeness, a certain genteel spirit.

“
My name is Zeiros,” said the man, holding out his hand.

Lod frowned at it. No slave had tried talking to him for… He couldn
’t remember how long. It was forbidden for others to speak with him. That this slave hadn’t been warned… Lod’s heart thudded harder.

“
I hope you bear me no ill will,” Zeiros said.

Lod had to concentrate. He wasn
’t used to people addressing him; so-called masters yes, but not…others. He reached out and dwarfed the other’s hand with his crooked talons. They solemnly shook: the grotesquely over-muscled oar slave and Zeiros with a smooth palm and the long slender fingers of a philosopher or a master flutist.

“
My city is Larak,” Zeiros said. “I’m a moneylender there from the House of Commorion.”

“
You’re a usurer?” rumbled Lod.

Zeiros shrugged, and despite the evil of the hold, the snick of locks all around and the rattling of chains, and archers watching them, the moneylender grinned.