Seize the Day, page 11
But the worst of this ordeal was the way they seemed to insert uncertainty into everything.
“Septimus is confessing to all your crimes. He’s trying to extricate himself by blaming you. Says this is all your fault. You know he’s not proving himself your friend at all. A friend doesn’t act like that. Save yourself before he buries you completely. Confess!”
“Confess what? I’m innocent! All we tried to do was to report some piracy.”
“But how did you know it was piracy? If you were not a part of it? Perhaps you were spies for the pirates.”
“What, at an out-of-the-way place like Sagitus?”
“Don’t convoys stop there overnight? How better to pry information out of sailors than in an unimportant, innocent looking small place?”
No matter what Marcus said, it was twisted around to make it sound incriminating. He tried to say nothing but that started up the beating again. “Wait till we stick splinters under your fingernails, you’ll tell us everything then.” But when he talked, they called him a liar and beat him some more. Or they deliberately misunderstood, or bombarded him with questions, hardly allowing him time to answer or finish an explanation. They interrupted him and accused again and again. Cunningly, they offered him a way out. “Just say it was all a mistake . . . everybody makes mistakes, they can be overlooked. Say that you didn’t understand . . . that you were misled . . . that you were coerced . . . just don’t say that you are innocent for all the facts speak against you . . . your friend has already turned on you and confessed your guilt.” But when Marcus asked for proof, they turned it around claiming only the guilty looked for loopholes and excuses, only the guilty concerned themselves with proof.
The hardest, most insidious part was that Marcus never really knew what they wanted from him. Confess, but confess to what? There was never anything clearly said, everything was cloaked in great ambiguity. Confusion clouded his mind and he began to doubt even his own recollections. Perhaps they were right; they must be guilty of something. Eventually, they returned him to an empty cell and he did not see Septimus again.
Several very confused days and nights followed. When he fell asleep they threw cold water on him to wrench him awake and then dragged him off to interrogation, again bombarding him with questions, not even waiting for a reply. As if they were no longer even interested in what he had to say. But then why all this effort and cruelty? Marcus wondered, even more bewildered. He lost track of time and how often they beat him.
They fed him little, a bowl of thin soup, sometimes a piece of bread and a pitcher of water. Left alone in the darkness, he waited and listened. It was like the inside of a tomb, still, silent, every sound an echo. Was that him breathing or was someone else near? He was not sure. He welcomed even the scampering of mice near the wall, or a rat exploring the cell.
Alone in the darkness he fought the growing disorientation as his life was stripped from him. “I am Marcus Aurelius Camponelli. Named after Marcus Aurelius, the great warrior general and Emperor, who fought the Germans. My great grandfather was a Centurion and all my family served in the Roman Army since then . . .” He repeated his genealogy over and over, as an anchor for his sanity. Then all the places he had been and all the people he knew. But he soon ran out of these milestones and hard facts, and fancy again took over. He argued his case, coming to the same conclusion. Surely they would realize their mistake soon and hurry to free him. In the heart of his heart he knew that it was a vain hope but a drowning man clutched at any straw. One time they gave him better food and wine instead of water and the guard even spoke to him in friendly tones, “Here eat this. This is all hard and unfortunate but necessary to get at the truth.” Marcus seized upon this incident and built an elaborate fantasy upon it, that in the end he would walk away a free man. Perhaps the Commander of the IInd Maniple of the IIIrd Legion had put in a good word for him. Perhaps they had apprehended the real criminals and unmasked those who covered for them. In any case, it was just a matter of time.
Disbelief changed to despair then back to disbelief. He just could not understand what was happening to him. How could justice be corrupted to serve the unrighteous so well? Surely even the gods must be appalled by such a perversion of justice. “Great Juno, raise your mighty arm against such evil, utter judgment against them, punish the guilty and succour the innocent . . .” He filled the darkness of his cell with prayers, driven by a sense of outrage. But a part of his mind mocked the pious in him. “You insignificant little worm! The Greeks have a concept of divine justice, the Romans have only a sense of melodrama on a divine scale. You would do better to make a deal.” So he amended his prayers, promising years of faithful service for deliverance. He prayed to every god he knew, to enlist divine help.
But alas, his circumstances did not change, in fact quickly worsened as the small cell filled up with his dirt and rank smell. His skin itched maddeningly and he was suffocating in his own filth. He grew bitter, daring even to rail against the uncaring gods. Yet, he recoiled from the final repudiation of them. “Well if you won’t help me, then help Septimus for he has strived to set wrongs right and to uphold justice.” Where was Septimus? His heart worried for his friend, wishing him a better fate than was served him.
But when they came again it was to drag him to interrogation. This time there was a professional torturer present, who made a great show of freshening the fire in a brazier. Soon he had branding irons and thongs glowing red. Marcus started sweating with fear and mumbled, “I know nothing. I am innocent. I am telling you the truth.”
“No doubt. But which truth? The one that serves you or the one we are looking for?” The torturer passed a glowing iron in front of the prisoner's face singing his hair just a little.
“The only truth,” Marcus persisted. But they obsessed over the word, for truth for them was not some absolute quality but more a matter of convenience and expediency. They were searching for a truth that would uncover this man’s guilt and they were determined to find it. They had patience and experience on their side. In comparison, Marcus was a novice, and kept naively insisting, “I know nothing.”
“You admit knowing about piracy, do you not? That is already more than nothing! If you really didn’t know, then you wouldn’t even know that you did not. See? It’s more complicated than it appears on the surface.” They never burned him or left a mark on him. They just threatened. They raised a blister on his nose but that was all. The caning and whipping was allowed to them by law.
Bruised and battered, that night Marcus felt the full uncertainty of his future. He was beginning to question his own innocence. Maybe they did do something wrong . . . something they should be punished for. What unkind future awaited him? A stint in the salt mines of Iberia? Hard labor in the limestone quarries of Sicily? Or worst still, the galleys? No, that could not be! He was innocent!
According to Marcus’ best estimate, four days after his arrest he was taken in front of a magistrate who sat high above the accused with the insignia of the power of his office, the fasces, an axe in a bundle of rods.
“You are Marcus Aurelius Camponelli. Yes?” The voice demanded coldly. Marcus nodded yes. “Charged with spying for and abetting the enemies of the Empire, namely the pirates who raid this coast. Yes?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“You are not so charged? But I hold these charges in my hand and I tell you that you are so charged!” The magistrate waved the sheet in his hand.
“I mean, Your Honor, that I am innocent.”
The magistrate furrowed his brow and his eyes pierced the accused. “Yet the evidence is irrefutable. All recorded, pieced together from your testimony and of the other, Septimus Tallen, also a legionnaire.” Again the sheet rattled accusingly. Aside from two guards, there were two clerks in the room, and one of them leaned over to whisper to the magistrate. “Let’s not waste time on this Your Honor, the man is undeniably guilty, the record shows it. Other cases await your attention.”
At the words, the magistrate sighed wearily, shifted the papers in front of him to the left and took the next roll from a sizable pile on his right. He plucked his cheek and addressed Marcus in a regretful voice, “You unfortunate wretch. You should have admitted your complicity and should have thrown yourself on the mercy of the court and I could have exercised some leniency. But your stubborn denial forces me to be harsh and sentence you . . .” he looked toward the clerk whose quill was poised over the paper to record the sentence, “to ten years on the galleys. May you at least serve the Empire.” He waved his hand and the guard led Marcus away. Ten years! Ten years! Marcus’ heart pounded, ten years with every beat.
He was thrown into the dark cell again, and told he would be transported to the slave quarters the next day. Marcus lay down on the stone bench and for the first time slept soundly. In a perverse way he was relieved; he needed no longer to fear the worst, for the worst had already happened. By a few short words of the magistrate he had become a condemned galley slave. In reality, a death sentence, for few slaves survived the hard usage more than five, six years. Still, he was angry at himself for not begging the court’s mercy and perhaps earning a reduction of his sentence. But even five years would not be enough to save him.
He wondered how Septimus made out and had his friend really betrayed him? He hoped that he was still alive.
Early next day they took Marcus to the smith to fix leg irons on him. The smith blew air into his forge heating the rivets. Marcus was uncomfortably reminded of the torturer and his brassier.
The smith was a kindly man who did not like this work. He saw the mark of the Legion on Marcus’ shoulder and asked, “A soldier eh? Why did you forget your duty?”
“You don’t understand, I’m not guilty,” Marcus insisted, “I’m innocent.”
The smith looked even sadder, “If that’s true, my son, then you’re twice cursed. It would have been better if you were guilty as sin and blacker. Now you have the bitterness of innocence to add to your sentence.” He slipped a leg iron on Marcus’ ankle, closing it, inserted a red hot rivet into the lock and hammered it shut. Each blow resonated through the iron into the bones. The job done, the smith threw a bucket of water to cool the iron. “It no longer matters what you were before, whether you were innocent or guilty, now only the sentence matters, to live it day by day and not waste a day of it on regret. Ten times three hundred and sixty odd days, that’s higher than I can count.”
“Have you seen another soldier like me? Calls himself Septimus,” Marcus tried to find out.
“There are no names here, other than slave. You will learn another language: the tyranny of the drum, the hissing of the whip and the cries of the punished. You will forget even your mother tongue, for a slave doesn’t have the right to speak. What would you have left to say? Who would listen anyway?” Afterwards the guards seized Marcus and led him through the nearly deserted streets to the poor quarter of the city, where a long stone building stood with bars on the windows. This was the House of the Condemned Slaves.
*****
When the heavily shuttered gate of the House of Condemned Slaves swung behind him with a sound of finality, the flow of memories dried up, and defeated, Marcus let the threads dissipate. He knew the present all too well; he would find no lessons there, no insights, just bitter recriminations. Why had he and Septimus tried to change a corrupt world? Why had they exposed themselves to such perils? Why had the gods allowed it? Questions he had no answers to. None to unlock his chain. He was link two chain three. Until death.
Chapter 6
After a week’s stay in a shore facility in Utica the slaves were herded back on board and settled in the maw of the ship. A stint on land had got them used to fresh air, and the sharp smell of the bilge was hardly welcoming. Those who could still curse muttered maledictions under their breath, the rest stumbled into their places, adjusting to the dim interior.
The familiar routine soon claimed them, the listlessness, lethargy and boredom. No talking, Bruno reminded them; Lucinda searched for a fresh back. The silence was full of small, dissatisfied noises, of unvoiced complaints, resignation and despair.
Marcus had finally grown tired of the past and now closed his mind to it; he had learned all he could from there. The search and self-examination had changed him in ways he could only suspect. He would need to be free, to test the new limits of himself, like a person needing cold weather to test the effectiveness of his new cloak. With the past closed and the present all too familiar and brutal, he now sought a new context in the future. There had to be a way out of this hellhole! He was determined not to remain link two chain three forever. He now invested every new thought in finding an escape. And every new irritation, every new indignity only strengthened his resolve.
Marcus had smuggled in a small piece of volcanic pumice he picked up on the beach, to smooth down a hard knot in the wood of the bench that had been bothering him. With infinite patience he rubbed the surface flat. He was learning patience, if that was what the gods wanted to teach him, and humility. He wondered if he could weaken his leg iron the same way, with coarse pumice. At first it was just an idle thought, but it grew to take hold of him. He examined his leg iron and found a simple construction of an iron ring around his left leg, locked together by a rivet. The chain passed through a loop in the band. The rivet appeared to be of softer metal, and Marcus wondered if he could work on the head with sand and pumice, wearing it down. But to what end? To escape, or just for the dream of escape, to give him hope. He did not worry about that now, but set to work, rubbing the head with the pumice. Time he had, patience he had.
The crossing from Messina to Knossos on Crete was by and large uneventful. There was a good wind and they hardly had to row, just enough to keep the slaves exercised. The day was hot, and Marcus soon broke into a sweat as they went through the speeds. First at half-speed, then at speed, then smoothly into full-speed. The drums pounded the cadence of the strokes, and the heartbeats rose to match it. They finished off with a sustained run at ramming speed. Afterwards the slaves were slack from fatigue, hanging over their oars, heaving and gasping, the sweat pouring from them. Bruno had to beat them to ship oars.
Next morning a commotion broke out forward. Bruno found a man sick with something that looked infectious. Alarmed, he called for a rasp, and one of the monkey-boys had to file off the rivet head and pry open the iron to free the man. They dragged him above and dumped him overboard like garbage. The man’s feeble cries faded as the ship left him behind. “Why did they not kill him at least?” Marcus asked in a whisper. The Galatian in front turned and asked, “And spill sick blood among us?” That night Marcus worked long on his iron, the pumice stone slowly wearing away. Afterwards, he rubbed spit and salt that he’d saved from his bread onto the rivet head, hoping to corrode the metal. Perhaps it was all a vain activity, an empty gesture, but it gave him a spark of hope.
Halfway to their next destination a storm suddenly blew up, and waves washed over the prow. The sails had to be shortened in the raging wind, and storm anchor dragged to keep the storm behind them. One time a rogue wave came from the side and nearly swamped the ship. Water came on board, pouring through the vents, and the slaves were busy bailing out the bilge, passing the buckets from hand to hand. Many were sick from the violent motions of the ship, and sat slumped, moaning that they wanted to die. Marcus felt queasy, but by sheer willpower he resisted giving in and the nausea receded. Bruno was busy lashing about, to motivate them. “Bail, you dogs! Want us to become fishes?” There were quite a few who would have welcomed a quick death.
It blew a day and a night, and two cargo ships disappeared without a trace, most likely overwhelmed by the waves. Not one of their crew was found.
By the end Marcus too was sick, willing to die to escape such misery. He had the sensation of constantly falling, nausea churning his stomach, and he threw up long after there was anything left in his guts. Bruno grabbed him by the hair and dragged him to the bucket line. “Bail, you son of a whore, if you do not want to sink.” Weakened, Marcus could barely lift the bucket. He was surrounded by sickly green faces, all hardly able to move. Only the old timers, the ones who had been to sea for four years or more were not affected by the storm. They looked on contemptuously at all the suffering. There were only two men who had survived nine years at the oars: a burly Macedonian and a tough, wiry German, both prisoners of war.
Even after the wind dropped and the waves subsided, Marcus still felt sick and nauseated, his throat burned raw by the bile rising from his stomach. One of the monkey-boys gave him a sharp-smelling drink that slowly brought relief.
Then the wind turned against them, and they had to lower the sail and row the rest of the way with the waves crashing into the prow, resisting their progress. More than once the waves forced the oars back, pinning the oarsmen to the bench. In his weakened state Marcus found the rowing nearly impossible. The man beside him took most of the effort onto himself, letting Marcus rest as much as he could.
In the lee of Crete the water finally smoothed out, and they made the harbor of Knossos without any further incident. The crew disembarked, then the slaves, who were herded into the slave compound. But it proved too small for the many slaves from all the ships crowded into the harbor, riding out the weather. The slaves were jammed in close together and had to eat and sleep in shifts. To relieve the congestion, four chains were marched over to the city granary, where they stayed under guard in an empty warehouse.
By some coincidence Marcus ended up with his benchmate right next to him. The man was silent and morose, as he had been all this time. Marcus hummed softly then sung the child’s lullaby he had practised, without much effect, but he persisted. Over and over he sang until finally the man burst out irritably, “If I hear you butchering that song one more time I will punch you.” A few other invectives followed in a mixture of languages, not all of which Marcus recognised.
