‘You’re both young and strong. Should fetch a good price on the slave block.’
‘Please,’ begged Suniaton, but the pirate captain had already turned away.
Hanno hawked and spat after him, and received a heavy blow across the head for his pains. They then had their arms tied tightly behind their backs and were bundled unceremoniously below decks, into the cramped space where the slaves sat on two tiers of benches. Slumped over their oars, and with barely enough room to sit erect, they sat twenty-five to each row, fifty on each side of the bireme. At the base of the steps, on a central walkway, stood a lone slave, the man whose chant had woken Hanno. Near the stern, a narrow iron cage contained a dozen or so prisoners. Hanno and Suniaton glanced at each other. They weren’t alone.
It was hot outside, but here the presence of more than a hundred sweating men increased the temperature to that of an oven. Countless pairs of deadened eyes stared at the newcomers, but not a single slave spoke. The reason soon became apparent. Bare feet slapped off the timbers as a short barrel of a man approached. The friends stood head and shoulders over him, but the crop-haired newcomer’s muscles were enormous, reminding Hanno of Greek wrestlers he’d seen. His only garment was a leather skirt, but he exuded authority, not least because of the knotted whip dangling from his right fist. His scarred features were roughly hewn, as if from granite, his lips a mere slit in the stone.
Still winded, Hanno couldn’t stop himself from meeting the overseer’s cold, calculating eyes.
‘Fresh meat, eh?’ His voice was nasal and irritating.
‘Two more for the slave market, Varsaco,’ answered one of the men holding Hanno.
‘Consider yourself lucky. Most prisoners end up on the benches, but we have a full complement at the moment.’ Varsaco gestured at the long-haired wretches all around them. ‘So you get to stay in our select accommodation.’ He jerked a thumb at the cage and laughed.
Hanno felt a thrill of dread. Their fate would be no better than that of the oarsmen. They would be totally at the mercy of whoever bought them.
Suniaton’s eyes were pools of terror. ‘We could end up anywhere,’ he whispered.
His friend was right, thought Hanno. The Carthaginians’ weakened navy no longer had the power to keep the western Mediterranean free of pirates, and thus far the Romans had not bothered to police the high seas. The bireme could roam wherever it wanted. There were few ports indeed where the security inspection was more than cursory. Sicily, Numidia or Iberia were possibilities. As was Italy. Every decent-sized town had a slave market. Hanno felt as if he was drowning in an ocean of despair.
The Egyptian’s voice carried from the deck above. ‘Varsaco!’
The overseer answered straightaway. ‘Captain?’
‘Resume former course and speed.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Hanno and Suniaton were ignored as Varsaco bellowed orders at the oarsmen on the starboard side. Leaning into the task, the slaves used their oars to back water until the overseer gestured at them to stop. At once the figure on the walkway began singing a chant that set the oarsmen into a steady rhythm.
His duties in hand, Varsaco returned. There was a predatory look in his eyes that had not been there before. ‘You’re a handsome boy,’ he said, running his stubby fingers down Hanno’s arm. He slipped a hand under Hanno’s tunic and tweaked a nipple. Hanno shuddered and tried to pull away, but with a man either side of him, he could not go far. ‘I prefer those with a bit more meat on their bones, though,’ Varsaco confided. He moved to Suniaton’s side and roughly squeezed his buttocks. Suniaton twisted away, but the pirates holding him tightened their grip. ‘But look, you’re hurt.’ Varsaco touched one of Suniaton’s still oozing earlobes, then, to Hanno’s horror, licked the blood off his fingertip.
Suniaton wailed with fear.
‘Leave him alone, you whoreson,’ Hanno roared, struggling uselessly to free himself.
‘Or what?’ teased Varsaco. Abruptly, his voice hardened. ‘I am the master below decks. I do as I please. Take him over there!’
Tears of rage streamed down Hanno’s face as he watched his friend being dragged to a large block of wood nailed down near the bow. Its surface, approximately the length of a man’s torso, was covered in irregular, dark patches, and heavy iron fetters were in place at each corner at floor level. Releasing Suniaton from his bonds, the pirates slammed him face down on to the wood. He kicked and struggled, but his captors were too many. An instant later, the manacles clicked shut around his wrists and ankles.
Varsaco moved to stand behind him and, realising what was about to happen, Suniaton began to scream. His protests intensified as the overseer was handed a knife and used it to slit his breeches from waistband to crotch. Varsaco did the same to Suniaton’s undergarment, laughing as the tip of the blade snagged in his flesh, causing him to moan with pain. Finally, the overseer pulled apart the cut fabric, and his face twisted with lust. ‘Very nice,’ he muttered.
‘No!’ cried Suniaton.
It was too much for Hanno to bear. Summoning every reserve of his strength, he twisted and bucked like a wild horse. Engrossed by the spectacle, the two men holding him were caught unawares, and he slipped their grasp. Sprinting forward, he reached Varsaco in a dozen steps. The overseer’s broad back was towards him, and he was busily unbuckling the belt that held up his leather skirt. It dropped to the floor and he sighed with satisfaction, shuffling forward to complete the outrage.
Panting with fury, Hanno steadied himself and did the only thing he could think of. Drawing back his right leg, he swung it through the air and between Varsaco’s thighs. With a meaty thump, the front of his sandal connected with the soft mass of the overseer’s dangling scrotum. Letting out a high-pitched scream, Varsaco collapsed to the deck in a heap. Hanno snarled with delight. ‘How do you like that?’ he screamed, stamping his iron-studded sole on the side of Varsaco’s head for good measure. He managed to deliver several more kicks before the men who had been holding him came barrelling in. Hanno saw one raising the butt of his sword. He half turned, awkward because of the ropes binding his arms, but was unable to avoid the blow. Stars exploded across Hanno’s vision as the hilt connected with the back of his head. His knees buckled and he toppled forward to land on the semi-conscious Varsaco. A rain of blows followed and he slipped into the darkness.
‘Wake up!’
Hanno felt someone nudge him in the back. Slowly, he came to. He was lying on his side, still trussed up like a hen for the pot. Every part of his body hurt. His head, belly and groin had obviously received special attention, however. It was agony to breathe in, and Hanno suspected that two or three of his ribs were cracked. He could taste blood, and warily he used his tongue to check that all his teeth were still in place. They were, thankfully, although two felt loose, and his top lip was bruised and swollen.
He was prodded again.
‘Hanno! It’s me, Suniaton.’
Finally, Hanno focused on his friend, who was lying only a few steps away. To his surprise, they were on the forecastle deck, under the cloth awning he had spied earlier. As far as he could tell, they were alone.
‘You’ve been unconscious for hours.’ Suniaton’s voice was concerned.
The temperature had dropped significantly, Hanno realised. In the gap between the gunwale and the awning, he could see an orange tinge to the sky. It was nearly sunset. ‘I’ll live,’ he croaked. His last memories came flooding back. ‘What about you? Did Varsaco…?’ He couldn’t finish the question.
Suniaton screwed up his face. ‘I’m fine,’ he muttered. Amazingly, he grinned. ‘Varsaco couldn’t stand for a long time, you know.’
‘Good! The fucking bastard.’ Hanno frowned. ‘Why didn’t his men kill me?’
‘They were going to,’ whispered Suniaton. ‘But-’