Was this the answer to my prayers or my ignominious end? Is anyone on this craft looking out? If it ship does not turn soon it will drive me asunder. I managed to cry out in the instant before my tiny skiff was crushed beneath the prow of the immense sea craft… then all was black.
My next memory was still quite dark. I could hear the sound of wood and ropes; of creaking and flapping. Was that the sound of rushing water: a river, an oar? Perhaps I was on my way to see my friends and family in the next world… But something was amiss. What was that god-awful stench? There was a sharp cracking sound, and men’s voices, some loud and some hushed. The crack again, and now water was all around me. Was I drowning? Why can’t I move? Soon enough the world became light again. I had been unconscious, but now I was coming to. A bucket of water had been poured on me by a man standing overhead. Perhaps he had seen me returning to life and simply wished to help me wake up. But why are there ropes around my hands and feet?
There was daylight, but not very much filtered down to me. I was at the bottom of the great boat looking up at row upon row of planking where many men were seated. Above the seated men, on a narrow gangway that traversed the center of the craft from front to back, several other men stood or walked around carrying whips or canes. One of these men was standing at the back of the craft, holding his whip to his side and staring down at me through a space between the rows. He had a great aged beard and a suit of turban and robe, and he was laughing, but in a way that gave me no comfort. Standing immediately above me was this other man, dressed similarly, this time with a cane, and holding an empty bucket.
On rare occasions during my prosperous youth, larger sea-craft would visit my island and engage in peaceful trade. Our beautiful perla were appreciated by all who visited our shores, and the people of my community were able to acquire luxurious resources of an exotic nature in exchange. Some craft were larger versions of my own skiff: a single large tree that had been hollowed out by carving. Oftentimes one or more smaller trees would be attached out to one side by an ingenious design that imparted stability to the craft in rougher waters. These craft most often came from a few nearby islands that people in our community had visited as well. However, the journey was perilous and the expeditions only took place perhaps once in many years.
A second kind of craft had visited our shores as well. These were much larger than a simple skiff. They were built of many trees and could hold a vast number of men. Several very long oars could be plied on each side of the vessel, and despite their tremendous mass, they could move at a surprising rate of speed that rivaled even the fastest of the skiffs. But the most amazing thing about these craft was not the sheer size or number of men and oars. It was the tree that stood upright in the middle of the craft that could be used to support a great broad cloth. By some ingenious means the power of the wind could be harnessed to move the craft even faster by raising and lowering cloths upon this upright timber. It required the use of a great quantity of ropes, and a great deal of human coordination and strength. We called these craft “galea”.
Until my eleventh year, I had only heard tales of the galea, and was frankly unsure whether or not they really existed at all. I became all too convinced the day that I saw such a craft with my very own eyes. It floated like the wind upon our shores and spilled forth what seemed like fifty men. There was a great fight in which several members of my community were beaten. Three men were killed, and fifteen more were captured, including my uncle and two distant cousins. Several of the women were traumatized and most of our perla were taken from us, as the men from the boat ransacked house by house. The children were left alone mostly. It appeared that the people of this craft sought only to steal our riches from us, and to use some of our men as part of their crew. They left our shores less than a day after they arrived, and we never saw them again.
I was recalling my few traumatized glimpses of that galea and comparing it to what I saw before me. If anything, this craft seemed to contain even more men. My thoughts were thrown to one side very quickly however. Without touching me, the man standing overhead brandished a knife and cut loose the ropes about my hands and feet. Through the liberal use of his cane, he quickly managed to communicate to me that I must stand up, a truly difficult task. Persecuted by the cane, on a heaving boat in a living sea, and with a terrible ringing in my ears, I was thrown about quite shockingly in my first attempt, bringing more laughter from the bearded man above. The cane was a fine motivator however, and on my second attempt I managed to stand, leaning against the great post in the middle of the craft. All around me and indeed all over me was semi liquid filth. Apparently the men above simply relieved themselves where they sat at their oars. The man with the cane held his nose and screamed at me. I made a motion for water to slake my terrible thirst, but his only response was to lash out at my hands and my face with his cane. He pointed to the empty bucket that now lay on the ground, and then to the filth that was collecting at the lowest points of the craft. After a few minutes of wild gesticulation, screaming, and the use of that god-forsaken cane, the man ultimately convinced me that it was my job to remove the accumulated filth by filling the bucket, and then emptying it out of a large port near the middle of the craft.
As the great port-lid was opened sunlight and fresh sea air streamed in, mingled with little splashes of water from time to time. Bucket by bucket, I stood in and gathered the accumulated filth and emptied it over the side, pausing at the portal to breath in the good air. In my glimpses I could see the sky turning to evening shades, and miles of blue water flecked with bits of white. I could only pause for a single second, or the man with the cane would begin screaming and threaten to come back down. Eventually however, I found that there was less and less filth to remove, and I looked up at the man with the cane questioningly. He came back down to where I was and prodded me over to the portal, where by another series of gestures and cane strikes for emphasis, I realized he now wanted me to dip the bucket into the water outside. To accomplish this a short segment of rope was attached to the bucket, and by hanging the bucket over the side by this short rope I could collect sea-water. The bucket would now serve as my means of a bath. Once I had cleaned away the filth to the best of my ability, I was prompted by the cursed cane to climb up the ladder to the deck area above. Once above, I was directed towards an empty spot on a plank. My ankles were shackled to the plank, and my hands to the now silent and unmoving oar, and I was instructed to sleep where I sat along with the rest of the men. I was so exhausted from the last week of tribulation I had no trouble complying.
The next day began long before the first light in the east. The whip and the cane brought everyone back upright including me. The great cloth was limp and providing no thrust, so the oars were obliged to be run out. The great bearded man would yell out “All praise be to” to which the men at the oars would respond “Oceanus” as they strained at the power stroke of the oar. This rhythmic repitition of the words “All-praise-be-to ; O-ce-a-nus” along with the oars was quite hypnotic and kept the craft moving at a brisk pass. With the rising of the sun, the breeze revived, and we were ordered to ship our oars. Now the men in charge walked up and down the gangway five times. The first time they carried pots of a food that I would describe as a watery gruel. The men shackled to the oars would hold out their hands, cupped together, to receive the gruel and slurp it down before it escaped. I managed to eat most of mine, though I regretted a particular glob that escaped my clutches and fell into the depths below. The second pass yielded more gruel to my outstretched hands. This time I held my hands over my thighs, so that if any food escaped my hands it would be preserved. The third pass yielded water to my surprise and I lost much of it to my infinite regret. The fourth and fifth passes were also of fresh water, and I was able to preserve much more, though not nearly enough.
The routine of passing out gruel and water occurred five times each day. When we were tasked with rowing we might be given a little more water, but much depended on the water supply in the very few barrels aboard, which in turn depended on the sky above. I was beginning to think that the rest of my life would be defined by a battle between thirst, hunger and fatigue, to determine which misery would occupy my waking mind, and which would haunt my broken dreams.
The other rowers were of all different shapes colors and sizes. The men in charge were darker, and all possessed long hair (usually up in a turban), and robes. I did not understand the language of the men in charge, nor that of many of the rowers, but some rowers spoke a language similar to my own, and all were kind in gesture and intent. At certain times, very low, very small communication was possible. At other times it was sure to bring the whip or the cane. On the plank above me was a man about ten years my senior. He was a big, strong, broad-shouldered man with long golden hair and beard similar in shading to my own, but much fuller. He spoke a language identical to my own in a voice that was gruff but entirely understandable. He explained to me that my life as a free man was over, that we were slaves, and we would likely die where we sat. I asked him how long he had been here. He told me this was his second ship, that it was a new voyage with a specific mission, and that he had been on another ship before this for three or four years. I asked him to describe his home and how he came to be captured, but he did not wish to tell. Instead, he and the other slaves aboard wished to hear my tale. How had I come to be in the middle of the sea, in such a tiny and ridiculous shore-craft? How long had I been adrift, and how did I survive?
I related my tale as I have told it to you. This caused quite a stir of subdued excitement among the couple of nearby slaves that could understand my language, and the story was being retold in bits and pieces, in crude translation, according to each slave’s ability to understand the other. The man in front of me was listening and translating pleasantly enough for the men in front of and beside him. Later, they would share and translate with the men in the next row, and so on, throughout the ship. Although any communication among the slaves was strictly forbidden, this chain of storytelling and translation seemed to be an exception, and even the men in charge seemed very curious to know how I happened to be floating in their path in the middle of the sea.
When I named my home island of Atalantia the man in front of me gave a very significant jerk, he quickly relayed the information to two men across the central gangway from us who looked at me very hard indeed. When I mentioned what happened to my island the entire ship erupted in bit-part translation, shock, confusion, and incredulity. This was too much excitement and the whip cracked out and the cane struck hard, but in a subdued whisper the questioning and arguing voices could be heard in many languages. The old bearded man in charge walked down the gangway until he stood across from me and spoke questioningly as he pantomimed what I could only imagine was the eruption of the earth. I nodded and reproduced the gesture affirmatively. To this the man in charge began yelling to the others, and they all seemed to be talking at once, pointing over one of the rails and arguing about something.
While the men in charge were arguing the man in front of me asked me abruptly, “what is your name?”
“Aaronius” I said, “What is yours?”
“Aaronius”, said he “it is I, your uncle Poeitus. Across the gangway, that is your cousin Zanadis, and another member of our village, Bizzu, next to him. We are all that survive from four years ago when the great craft came to the village and took us away.”
I could not believe this incredible change in my fortune. Suddenly I was no longer alone in the world, and the thought gave me a happiness that I had almost forgotten how to feel. While my uncle and I were talking, the men in charge continued their debate. My uncle had learned the language of the men in charge, a people who lived on a landmass so vast that one could walk an entire lifetime in any direction and possibly not reach a coast. All of the men on the ship had seen a great light below the horizon ten nights past. This strange phenomenon had been followed by ominous black clouds the next day. The nature and meaning of these omens is what the men in charge were so passionately discussing at this moment.
My uncle continued in a hushed whisper. “This craft is destined for an island not far from our own, on a mission quite similar to the one that took me away. However, this time the prize is not men, but women.” I raised my eyebrows at this, but my uncle continued. “The men of this ship have had their wives and their daughters taken from them by a great and powerful army in their great kingdom. They are now sailing for the island we call Lesbos. Surely you can remember our village trading with Lesbian craft when you were younger? At any rate, Lesbos is much larger than our own island, with many more people upon it. In the past other ships from this kingdom have raided the island for men, just as they did our island. Now, they expect to find the island overpopulated with women, and they plan to carry back as many as they possibly can.”
Women - My mind began to drift at the thought. My mother…. Haephe…. Calypso.
“We must continue your tale later young Aaronius”, my uncle concluded. “According to the men in charge we should raise the island of Lesbos at first light tomorrow. For now, we must rest, for tomorrow promises to be wearisome in the extreme”.
Before dozing off amidst my thoughts the last thing I saw was the old man in charge, staring at me intensely while his men continued to debate in strident but more subdued tones.