“Just packing up my things,” he said quietly.
“Ever sailed on a military vessel?” Hansi asked.
“No,” the young man replied, eyes cast downward as he tied the sack close.
“After you get your personal effects stowed, report to the master of arms to draw your gladius and buckler.”
The order felt strange to Alaric but he simply nodded and walked ahead of the sailing master up the ramp and onto the crowded deck of the ship. He ran his fingers through his blonde hair and swallowed hard as he saw dozens of Roman soldiers in full armor crowded onto the deck.
“Who are they?” he asked nervously.
“First Italic Cohort,” Hansi answered, “headed to Judea. Nothing to worry yourself over. My brother is one of their centurions.” He then hailed a Roman officer that Alaric could only guess was the sailing master’s brother. Once the man turned to face them, Alaric could see the striking resemblance. The two men were blonde haired and fair skinned like he was, but they were not of his people.
Alaric was originally of the Marsi tribe in Germania. He and his mother had been two of the only survivors from his village when it was destroyed by the Romans nearly sixteen years before. Alaric’s father, whose face he sadly could not remember, had been chief of their people and, as far as he knew, had died in battle. After fleeing the onslaught of the legions, his mother gained them passage to Britannia, where Alaric grew up in the court of Brigante King Breogan and his daughter, Cartimandua. Though she was a few years older than he, Alaric was infatuated with the Brigante princess. She viewed him like a younger sibling, and he knew that any feelings he had for her were in vain. After all, as her father’s only child, she was heir to the kingdom, and he was but a refugee from a defeated race. When he was thirteen, Alaric decided to leave the safe confines of Breogan’s house and make his way out into the world.
The ship’s captain, Commander Tiberius Stoppello, was arguing with the dockhands, who were insisting they take on additional cargo that needed to get to Alexandria. Stoppello was explaining that with one hundred and sixty legionaries on board, there simply was not room for any extraneous cargo. He also emphasized that the imperial Quaestor was paying him far more for transporting legionaries to Judea than he would receive if he took the cargo instead. Alaric watched the two men argue and did not see the legionary until he bumped into him.
“Here, watch where the hell you’re going!” the man barked.
Alaric was startled and took a step back. Packs, shields, and javelins were stacked all about, and the soldier was struggling to keep his footing as he attempted to take off his armor.
Not wishing to see any more of the armored men, Alaric quickly made his way below deck and found his place behind an oar. A sad irony that after his people were massacred by the Romans, he was now serving aboard one of their warships. He had spent the past several years working aboard merchant ships, mostly smaller triremes, as he grew from boy to man. It was after a spell in Rome he took this position aboard the large Quinquereme. He had met the man named Hansi, who was on leave while their new ship was going through its initial refitting. Given his fair skin and blonde hair, he looked to be of similar ancestry as Alaric.
He soon learned that his new friend was, in fact, from a realm even further north, outside the borders of the empire. Hansi’s grandfather had served as a Roman auxiliary and earned the family’s citizenship. His brother, Magnus, who Alaric had seen on the deck of the ship, served in the legions. The Norseman had offered him a position as an oarsman, once he heard about Alaric’s previous experience. He assured him this posting would not be a contracted position, so he would not be compelled to continue to serve as a member of the Roman Navy. Of course, Hansi did make certain he knew that should he wish to formally enlist, he would have a career instead of a temporary job. As work prospects for the young Alaric were scarce in Rome, the promise of a steady wage was too much to pass up. The Norseman had been a good friend, like an older brother, during their remaining time in Rome; never asking questions about his past.
“Ready to cast off!” Hansi shouted.
It was Alaric’s first sea voyage in over a year. He was seated on the inside bench, much to his dismay. The inside of the ship was hot, dark, and stank of sweaty bodies. At least whenever he had a portal seat he could feel the cool sea breeze and catch a glimpse of the sun. The rocking of the ship also made him seasick during the initial part of a voyage when he could not see where the ship was heading. There was a pair of leather straps fastened beneath the bench where Alaric and his oar mate would secure their gladii and small round shields.
Hansi shouted some orders to the men up top and then signaled to the drummer who sat at the front of the galley by the steps. He started to beat a slow cadence, which the men on the oars used to keep themselves synchronized as they backed away from the dock.
“Hansi!” Alaric said as the sailing master walked past them, ensuring all oarsmen were in sync with the drum cadence.
“What is it?”
“Where was your brother posted before coming here? Was he there long?” the young man asked in between grunts of pulling on his oar.
“Come on lad, keep your chest up and back tight,” Hansi said, correcting him on his oar technique before answering his question. “He was in Cologne, with the Army of the Rhine for the past sixteen years.”
“Sixteen years,” Alaric replied as he leaned back into his oar once more. “Was he in the wars in Germania?”
“I’m certain he was,” Hansi confirmed with a nod.
“And I assume a lot of his men on the upper deck were as well.”
“Probably,” the sailing master shrugged. He then looked at the young oarsman inquisitively. “Why all the questions about my brother?”
“No reason.” Alaric quickly shook his head. His face was red with building emotion, though Hansi surmised it was due to fatigue.
“Control your breathing,” he directed. “I know being an oarsman is tedious work, but that’s what you draw the emperor’s coin for.” He then shouted to the rest of the crewmen, “That goes for all of you! I know we’ve been at port for some time, but get a few leagues under our belts, and you’ll be right in no time.”
“Says he who doesn’t have to man an oar,” the man next to Alaric grumbled, thinking the Norseman could not hear.
Much to his dismay, Hansi’s hearing was very sharp, and he stopped in his tracks, turned casually, and walked over to their bench. His expression unchanged, he reached past Alaric and cuffed the man hard behind the ear.
“One more insubordinate remark like that and you’ll be manning this oar by yourself, with a bloody back!” Without another word he turned and headed past the drummer and up the stairs.
“Dumbass,” an oarsman behind them said. “Hansi manned an oar for eight years before he began working his way up the ranks of the crew. He took the time to learn from the sailors and officers, and you would do well to learn from him.”
The insubordinate oarsman only grumbled in reply. Alaric said nothing, as he did not even hear the men. His breath was trembling and a single tear rolled down the side of his face. What bitter irony that a number of legionaries aboard this ship had taken part in the annihilation of his people, including his closest friend’s brother!
He thought of nothing else as the hours passed and the port of Ostia grew smaller, eventually disappearing in the distance. He was oblivious to the other oarsmen who were crowded in the confined space with him. Their grunts and muttered curses, whenever they hit a rough patch of sea, muffled in his ears. His body moved by instinct, and he was not even cognizant of the rhythmic drum beats.