Seize the Day, page 1
Seize the Day
Paul Telegdi
Dedicated to my wife, Melanie Telegdi
and my late mother-in-law, Jean Smith for their help
Published by Paul Telegdi on Smashwords Publishing
Copyright © 2008, Paul Telegdi
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This book is a work of fiction, not a carefully-researched history manuscript. Although real events were used as backdrop for the story, their context and placement in time were made subservient to the plot. It is the author’s visualization of how things could have been.
To enjoy other books by Paul Telegdi please visit www.seeWordFactory.com
Dreamcast I, II, III, IV and V (paranormal)
The Call at 3:18 am (paranormal)
14-, 15-, 16-, 17- and 18 Stones (prehistoric)
Seize the Day (Roman)
Strike the Red Hammer (Norman)
The Locksmith’s Dilemma (medieval)
Where Arrows Fly (medieval)
Dark Fires (medieval)
Learning Berserk (Viking)
Unlearning Berserk (Viking)
Chance Encounter (a life in progress)
On the Razor’s Edge (prison novel)
Remembering PT-927 (WWII)
The Lady Bug (WWII)
At the Point of the Quarrel (100 year war)
Peoples’ Spring 1848 (revolution of 1848)
Insula: Trouble with the Sky (cataclysm)
Shamrock: Under the Big Sky (western)
Foreword
I love anything Roman so it was an easy pick to start this book in that time period. Also going with legionnaires, for they travelled the length and breadth of the Empire. I picked Africa for no reason and the year around 210 AD when the Empire was still thriving.
Out of these seeds the story grew into a book. I wanted to find answers to a host of questions. Why was Rome so successful? And why did it decline? Listen to Septimus, he’ll tell you more than you want to know. Marcus is the main hero with Septimus his side-kick. In tracking their relationship it proved to be an eye-opener how essential a side-kick is to a story, especially one as wise and all-knowing as Septimus is. Be sure to look for him.
I hope you bring along all your imagination for I will make demands on it. After all, a book is a collaboration between writer and reader, and how much you get out of it depends as much upon you as on me. I guess I’d better let you read on and not waste your time any longer.
Chapter 1
The man stirred into a higher level of consciousness. With small sounds the darkness welcomed him. He did not know where he was and worse, he did not even know who he was.
That was ridiculous, the man protested; everyone had a name, an identity. But his mind remained blank, frighteningly silent.
“My name is . . . ? My name is . . .?” he tried prompting himself into recall, but to no avail.
If he could get hold of the last memory fragment, find the end and reel it in like a fish on a line, then perhaps all would become clear. He listened into the emptiness, told himself to concentrate, remember! An echo returned, recoiling from some resistance; did he really want to know?
Of course, he wanted to know! He strained; he had to know! But there was only a maddening stillness. The memories remained just out of reach.
He felt around in the darkness, exploring. He found himself lying on his side on hard wooden boards. Above him he felt a bench, beside him a long pole. Where was he? He heard an indistinct moan, but without a context, he was not sure if it was he or someone else.
What was happening to him? Why couldn’t he remember?
He felt the boards beneath him heave, then inexplicably tilt down to the right, then swing back again. A ship riding the swells! With that familiar motion, everything instantly found its place. He was Marcus Aurelius Camponelli from Toscana. A legionnaire. Serving Rome. In the seventeenth year of the reign of Emperor Septimius Severus. But these memories came with a flood of pain. He had been a legionnaire, but no longer. He was now a criminal. Condemned to ten years at the oars. A fate worse than death, chained to rot, slowly surrendering his sanity to mindless effort and boredom. Worse, his past was erased, overdrawn with the shame of his conviction, branded a galley slave.
Waking into this nightmare, he shook his head in despair. Gall rose from his stomach, burning his throat. A sudden stench invaded his nose and then just as quickly faded away. He was used to it by now, everything was all too familiar. Near him someone was snoring loudly, and a little deeper into the darkness someone continued to moan. No, no, no! Marcus tried to hold onto the refuge of his past, tried to block out the reality pressing in on him. No - he was back in his barracks in Sagitus . . . just waiting for Decurion Castor to come to rouse them. He turned over, the chain on his ankle resisting him.
Miserably, it had been all too real. All of it. He was now a galley slave, condemned to die in chains. A terrible sense of abandonment overtook him. He realized that the officials would inform his parents of his crimes and sentence, and they would be mortified. A Camponelli at the oars? What a disgrace!
He had wanted to remember and now that he did, he wanted to forget. Forget that not so long ago he had been thrust into a long hall crowded with three hundred slaves tethered on chains. An overseer had come to receive the new wretch. “About time they send me some fresh meat; I had four die on me last week and I’m still short,” he told the escort. He signed a paper for the prisoner and then led Marcus to the back all the while instructing him in clipped tones, “You are now chain three link two, sitting on the upper bench right, inner row. You’ll not talk, now or ever. You have no questions to ask, no answers to receive. But have no fear, you will always be told what to do.” A chuckle sounded in the voice. “Keep yourself clean. Fit in. We’re one happy family here.” With another jailer, they threaded a long chain through the loop in his ankle iron to a line of slaves, making him the second man on a chain linking twenty others. Link two chain three, by some horrible irony mimicking his military designation Second Maniple Third Legion.
Still in shock, he was prodded to move along with twenty men forced to march as one. At first, he found it difficult to fit into the well-rehearsed steps of the others, more like a shuffle, synchronized by long experience. All slaves were similarly fettered and at times it was hard to sort out how to get one chain past another without getting tangled. Aside from the clinking of iron and the shouting of the overseers it was quiet in the hall, though Marcus at times caught a murmur but not its source as no mouth seemed to shape the sound.
Marcus moved when the others moved, but mostly they sat in forced idleness, just waiting. There was a great sense of lethargy about the place, and the masters preferred it that way. People did not even look about, letting their heads droop, keeping their eyes to themselves. What was there to see anyway? A lot of bodies with unkempt hair, men with scars, bruises and scabs. Marcus tried to scan the crowd for his comrade Septimus but there was just an indistinct blur of bodies, wrapped in tattered loincloths and quite a few entirely naked. What did modesty matter anymore? These people had been stripped of their dignity and treated like animals, and now reacted like one. Do this! Do that! The whip if you don’t! The whip even if you do.
They were fed twice a day, some odd-tasting porridge and onions, sometimes a piece of bread and perhaps some fruit. Later, buckets of water were passed around for those who wanted to wash, but few bothered. Most neglected their hair, letting a matted thing grow into their eyes and faces. A galley slave needed to see little. He needed only to pull and guide his oar to the rhythm set by the drums. The world beyond the reach of his chain was denied to him.
Twice a day they were allowed latrine privileges, a chain at a time. Other times a bucket was passed around for those who could not wait.
Thus it was on the first day, and same ever since. Then one day blurred into the next and still Marcus could not believe that this was happening to him. “There is a mistake,” he wanted to shout, “I’m innocent!”
There was a tide of anger building behind the disbelief. His case was a mockery of justice; the law was used to serve the criminals instead of protecting the innocent. Surely people could see through such a farce. Surely the gods would not allow such a miscarriage of justice in their names. Marcus knew that gods had a warped sense of humor, often toying with humans for amusement. But wasn’t Mithras the god of truth and honesty? Would he allow such lies to prevail? “Dear God, free me from this bondage, punish the guilty and I’ll dedicate my life to your service . . .” He filled his despair with praying . . . to deaf gods.
Chain two was waiting its turn for the latrines; beside them waited chain seven. A man adjacent to Marcus looked with wide staring eyes and babbled incomprehensible phrases into his beard. His whole face was overgrown, only his eyes burned through the tangle of hair with a gleam of madness. “They are coming for me . . . Have you heard of my case? I'm innocent.” The rest was lost in a mix of languages. Dear Minerva, how long had that man been in this hellish place to be reduced to such a state? Marcus was reminded of a quote that Septimus liked to throw at him, “Those whom the gods would destroy they first make crazy . . . or was it mad?” This place could easily do either. Where was his comrade and friend, Septimus? Here perhaps, sharing his fate. He scanned the crowd, looking for a small head, the hair short in a military cut, like his own. He found a few shaven heads but not Septimus.
About a week later, several overseers pushed into the hall, shouting and sorting the chains. The head overseer pointed with his whip to the chains he wanted. “You, you and you. Get up and follow.” Chain after chain was led out, the iron clanking, whips snapping. There was a certain order to the chaos, and the hall was half empty when it was chain three's turn. The whip cracked and Marcus felt the burning sting of the lash on his back. He stumbled into the man in front, who snarled irritably at him. The chain clanked forward through the iron-plated doors into the bright sunlight. Blinded, Marcus covered his eyes with his hands. They lurched forward in unison, their feet joined by the chain which, like some umbilical cord, connected him with his brothers in misery. There were few people on the streets to gawk at this sad procession. Who cared anyway? Slaves being led to the galleys was too frequent a sight in a busy port.
His eyes adjusting to the brightness, Marcus looked about, interested, momentarily forgetting his plight. The body was in chains but the mind had still not adjusted to its prison, it was still curious. There were ships on the turquoise water of the harbor, and people bustled about moving wares on and off the boats. There was an eerie sense of normalcy to the view, as if the great injustice had never happened. His eyes looked back toward the city, at the gleaming buildings and at the red-tiled roofs in the distance, cypress trees standing tall and proud. “Keep your eyes down, slave!” and the whip snaked across his back. Hastily, Marcus lowered his head, tears of pain flooding his eyes. His step faltered, and the rest cursed him for upsetting the rhythm. The chains were led up a gangplank onto a navy ship. Sentries with spears watched their awkward progress. They were driven below deck into the maw of the ship. Blind for the moment in the gloom, Marcus stumbled about in the unfamiliar interior. He hit his head on a low beam. Swearing to himself, he followed the tug of the chain leading him.
“Here!” someone hissed and pulled him down onto a bench. He felt the chain on his leg iron jerk as the rest found their places, and an overseer came to lock the chain to the boat’s timbers. From now on, the fate of the slaves and the ship became one.
Slowly Marcus could see again in the light that filtered through the vents above them. Beside him was a smallish man with a bushy mane. He stared straight ahead, disinterested. There were two rows of slaves on each side of a narrow gangway and two rows just below. “A bireme,” Marcus calculated, “two chains long, forty men each on four banks, then again so on the level below . . . that makes 320 altogether.” He was on the top bench, inside row, at the rear of the ship, facing backward. At his feet was an oar, pulled in, the blade stuck in an oar-hole in the hull, the other end slipped under the central catwalk. With a sinking feeling he realised that from now on, this was his life. Chained to this place, made part of this oar, next to this other man, until death. He again cast a sideways look at his benchmate, link number two on the other chain, chain seven? What did it matter anyway?
Then they waited in the gloom and waited in the growing heat. The air became stifling but luckily there was a vent near Marcus providing a flow of fresh air from above. Buckets were passed around to whoever needed them. The overseer strode up and down the catwalk in the centre addressing them jovially. “For the few who do not know me I am Bruno. I am delighted to recognise most of your faces, as it is so gratifying that you have chosen to rejoin our pleasure cruise. We serve a discriminating cuisine with the finest vintage wines. And of course there will be plenty of exercise to keep you fit.” He chuckled pleasantly then stooped to lean over Marcus. “Almost a virgin back. I’ll enjoy drawing a new geography on it. You must meet Lucinda, my very favorite. She has a kiss no man forgets.” He swung the whip and Marcus almost fainted from the flash of searing pain across his back, reaching around his shoulders. His eyes filled with tears and he sucked in his breath. The overseer just laughed, “Wait until Lucinda becomes really passionate.” He then went off to entertain some other lucky man to catch his attention. Marcus could not see him without turning around. In front of him was a bony back criss-crossed by welts, link one, chained to the timber bulkhead of the ship.
The slaves waited in silence for something to happen, but nothing did. Two drummers sat midship at the foot of the main mast, talking pleasantly. They were sailors and had a normal navy life to look forward to. A basket of biscuits was passed around but only crumbs were left by the time it reached Marcus. He had to have more food, he told himself for the hundredth time, to keep up his strength.
Voices were heard approaching on the quay, then the trampling of feet as the rest of the crew came on board. The boat rocked gently under the added weight. A few orders were shouted, and then there was quiet again until the trumpet sounded a greeting for the Commander’s arrival. A quick report was given then suddenly orders filled out the quiet.
Below, Bruno yelled, “Right bank. Oars.” Motion rattled through the right side, as the oars were paid out through the oar holes. Unfamiliar with the routine, Marcus was hit painfully across the chest by his oar. “Watch me and do as I do,” his benchmate hissed at him in accented Latin. Marcus did as he was told, watched and grabbed the oar. He was surprised at the smooth feel of the hardwood shaft and realised that someone’s life must have gone into polishing it.
“Push!” the command rang out and the right bank pushed away from the quay. Slowly the ship swung away from land. “Both sides, oars in water!” The rest of the oars were extended and lowered. “One, two, three, pull!” All the slaves leaned back pulling on the oars. The blades bit into the water, pushing its volume back, and a tremor went through the ship, inching ahead. At the end of the stroke the oars lifted, reached forward again, dipped and pushed against the water. In five strokes the ship started to gain momentum to angle into the gentle swell.
The drums started up, the sound reverberating through the interior, compelling all to work in unison. A heavy beat signalled the power stroke, followed by a muffled beat for the return motion. The slaves leaned forward, then back, pulling on the oars. The first strokes had been ragged, but it soon evened out as they all adjusted and became just a part of the propulsion. “Half speed!” and the drums measured out the new pace.
Marcus felt surprised how easy it all was. He had expected it to be somehow excruciatingly difficult. But after all the worry, abuse and inactivity, it felt good to move, to exert effort, put his frustration and anger into the stroke. Forward and back. Forward and back without end.
They sensed the ship swing to round the breakwater and immediately felt the higher swell of the open sea. “Stay together!” the overseer yelled as the stroke faltered in the new rise and fall of the waves coming slightly across their bow, the ship picking up a light roll followed by a lazy pitch as it slid down the back of the waves. The oars again settled in, having found the new measure. Dip, pull, lift and return. Dip, pull, lift and return . . . without question, without a thought, the ship slicing through the water, pushed on by the oars.
Up on deck the mastersailor called down the orders, the overseer loudly broadcasted it to the slaves and the drums measured out the beat, the two drummers taking turns. The slaves rocked back and forth, pulling with their arms, pushing with their feet, the bodies coiling and uncoiling in harmony and the ship moved forward by their efforts. Again and again, endlessly. Marcus soon had no need to attend to his movements; his body became an unthinking part of the machine. Dip, breathe, pull, lift, return and exhale. Dip, breathe, pull, lift, return and exhale . . .
The reflection of sunlight on the water found its way inside through the oar holes, lighting up the interior with its play. Marcus saw the body in front of him go through the endless cycle of repetition and already he felt he knew that back better than any of his own body parts. He saw the muscles bunch for effort, and then go slack as the strain was released. The shoulder blades opened and closed with the circle of motion. There were scars and welts, new and old, crisscrossing one another, much like the maps he saw during his military service. His back would also become such a roadmap of the pain, a record of all the indignities he would be forced to endure. The coming pain frightened him. With difficulty he shut his mind to those thoughts, trying to find something nearer to seize upon. He was beginning to feel a growing tenderness of his hands, and tried varying his grip. Forward and back. Forward and back. Soon, however, the new contact points also became sensitive. The hands which he had thought hardened and tough were not, needing new calluses to protect them.
