As the Greek Philosopher Dioklomes once quoth, "As the Red marks the passing of the Sark, so too does the Black Flag mark the death of Commerce."
Nacopta Baromer stood on the prow of his vessel. She was a fine ship; the Ridgemont. A hundred and forty footlengths long, and forteen wide. She was narrow, but stable for her size. He had two dozen rowing slaves below decks, two to an oar, and six oars to a side.
Lightning flared, cracked and wheezed what seemed like a thousand miles on the horizon. The Ridgemont swayed and buckled on the waves, each explosive current of water more violent than the last, it seemed. Rain slammed the deck in sheets.
She was carrying a load of eighty hundred Amphorae. Mostly burnt grain from the Rtas, worthless to all but the Kretens, who made a porridge of the stuff, dried it, and sacrificed it to some large cattle. He didn't know the details.
Waves crashed and rolled over the queasy deck, stopping merchant man and slave alike. Lightning flared once more, illuminating a terrifying scene for what seemed like minutes, but in fact was only half a second.
Ten hundred of the Amphorae had Ziril wine, however, which was also being shipped to Krete. It was hidden below the decks, under crew's olive oil, and behind a notch-covered plank. Only himself and his first mate, Calagan, knew about it.
A giant Koyulun man clawed his way up from the rolling sea, wicked, ugly blade in mouth. A ship bearing the black flag bobbed in and out of view, behind and above waves again and again.
He was going to make a killing on profits. The grain had been nearly free, eighteen Stirch for the lot of it. He had been promised at least eight times as much by a head priest in Krete. And the wine was being sold to some African gentleman from beyond Thebes. Quite exquisite taste, actually. Some of the best stuff of the Central Sea.
A shriek from below deck, and the screaming of men chained to the ship; to their oars, their stations; their graves. The ship had been breached, the pirate scum climbing aboard from every side, the other vessel's prow rammed tight into the side of the Ridgemont. Nacopta Baromer took down one man, two men, three men- dead - a blow to the head, he fell into the water, unconscious, unthinking. Unbreathing.
The skies were clear, the weather calm. It was smooth sailing (not literally, of course) all the way to the Aegean, Baroma thought.