Memories long suppressed suddenly flooded into his consciousness. He could feel the cold waters of the raging river as he clung to his mother’s back. She was the best swimmer in their village, aside from his father. Wrought with exhaustion, she collapsed on the far bank, shielding him as she watched the Roman soldiers storm their village, burning huts and killing all who were unable to escape their wrath. Alaric’s father was most likely already dead by this time. With his mother shielding his view he could not see what was happening, but he could still hear the screams of the villagers, even over the roar of the river. He had vague memories of both his grandfather, as well as his mother’s sister, who had given birth just days before the Romans attacked. Years later, his mother would not give him the brutal details, but she did finally tell him that his grandfather, aunt, and newborn cousin were all killed by the rampaging legionaries.
“Oars in!” the drummer shouted as he ceased his cadence.
There was a collective sigh of relief from the oarsmen as they quickly pulled their oars into the galley until just the large paddles protruded from the sides of the ship. Alaric could not recall how long they’d been rowing, but he was suddenly exhausted. His mates stood and stretched while bantering amongst each other. The young man felt claustrophobic. He scrambled over the long oars that now ran across the deck, stumbling past the other oarsmen as he made his way to the steps leading to the surface.
“Permission to go up top,” he said, panting.
“What do you need to go up top for?” the drummer, who was in charge of the deck, asked. “You can wait until off shift like everyone else. Besides, if I let you go up top now, then I have to let everyone go! And with all those damned legionaries crowding the deck, there’s not enough room for the sailors as it is.”
“I feel sick,” Alaric confessed, his face pale. It was not a lie, though his nausea had little to do with the incessant rowing over the rolling seas.
“Let him go,” an oarsman at the front of the deck said. “If he spews down here, the whole bloody deck will stink all the way to Caesarea.”
“Go on,” the drummer nodded towards the stairs.
“Thank you, sir.” He stumbled up the steps as the ship lurched through an oversized wave.
Up top, crewmen manned the sails, keeping the ship on course. Orders were shouted by Hansi, as well as the other officers who supervised the maneuvering under sail. No one even seemed to notice the young man as he leaned against the short rail that lined the top of the stairs.
The sea air was a reprieve, though it was short-lived. Crowding the deck were dozens of legionaries. Their armor and weapons were all stacked at the center of the deck. All wore red tunics, belted in the middle. Some lounged against their packs. Others played dice or other games, while a number had their sandals off with their feet hanging over the side of the ship. And then there were those who hung over the rail for a different reason, the seas already wreaking havoc on their stomachs. Alaric looked from one to the next. It was hard to guess most of their ages. He did surmise that a large number were his age or younger. And then there were some, plain by the weathering of their faces and the visible scars, who had seen numerous campaigns.
Whenever he saw a legionary who looked to be older than thirty, Alaric suddenly envisioned the man, eyes filled with rage, screaming in fury as he plunged his sword into his father, grandfather, aunt, or even his baby cousin. And yet, even if some of these men had slaughtered his family, the soldiers themselves would never know it. After all, they had wiped out entire villages during the Germanic Wars. And besides, that was sixteen years ago. It was a difficult paradox to grasp, that these men who laughed and joked amongst themselves were monstrous killers.
Suddenly the sea air no longer comforted Alaric, and he felt violently ill. Gasping for breath, he sprinted past the elevated cabins to the back of the ship. He practically fell over the rail as he doubled over, the contents of his stomach spewing forth as he retched over and over. His vision clouded with tears, and all he could see was fire and death. Though the only actual sounds were the loud creaking of the ship and the rolling waves of the sea, in his mind he could hear the crackle of raging fire and the piteous screams of his people as they were brutally murdered by the very men who were now aboard this ship.
“Alaric!” It was Hansi, who was doing a walk around of the ship.
The young oarsman bolted upright and quickly ran his forearm across his bloodshot eyes.
“What the bloody hell, man? One would think you’ve never been out to sea before!”
“Sorry, sir, I don’t know what came over me,” Alaric lied.
“Well, you have been land-bound for the past year,” the sailing master reasoned. “Another day and you’ll be fine. At least you had the good sense to vomit off the back of the ship! I pity any oarsman sitting next to a port opening who gets splattered in the face whenever some poor sod spews his breakfast over the side. Just so you know, with this good wind we’ve picked up, we’re running under sails for the time being; so that will give you all a bit of reprieve.” He then patted the young man on the shoulder. “Now, I have to go pay respects to another one of my relatives who happens to be aboard ship.”
Alaric could only nod, collapsing to the deck and hugging the support post of the rail as the sailing master bounded back towards the front of the ship. The raised decks with the officers’ cabins shielded Alaric from the rest of the ship, though in that moment he did not care. As he clutched the post and contemplated throwing himself off the back of the ship, he let loose the tears that had been building for sixteen years.
At the prow of the ship, Optio Valens leaned over the rail, watching the endless seas before them, relishing the spray of saltwater in his face. He was able to tolerate sea travel readily enough. His main concern was keeping the men out of trouble. The sun was red as it slowly sank into the west. They had not even been at sea a full day yet and with nothing productive to do, the men were already becoming restless.
“Oy! You must be Valens!” a loud voice shouted.
The optio cringed for a moment, knowing that sooner or later he’d have to meet the other member of his wife’s eccentric family. He had, of course, known her brother Magnus for years before he even met her. Her father and eldest brother lived in Rome, though they were more ‘Roman’ in their dress and demeanor than Nordic. Her grandfather, affectionately known as Mad Olaf, gave many people the impression that he was completely insane. Despite being in his nineties, decades past the age that he should have passed on to the halls of his ancestors, the long-retired auxilia centurion still enjoyed physically brawling with his grandsons. Given the type of greeting Hansi had given Magnus, Valens surmised he took after his grandfather far more than his civilized relatives.
He turned and apprised the Nordic sailor. He did have a bit of resemblance to his younger brother, though he was taller, leaner, yet still very large. His thick mop of blonde hair was kept short in the back, and like Magnus, he was clean shaven.
“And you must be Hansi,” Valens said with a trace of apprehension.
The Norseman gave a boisterous cry and embraced him hard, slapping him hard on the back. “Welcome, brother!”
“Well,” Valens said as they stood apart. “I wasn’t sure if I was going to get the same greeting you gave to Magnus.”
“Bah!” Hansi retorted with a wave. “We save that for him. Oleg and our father think we’re all completely mad.”
“And are you?”
“Probably,” Hansi nodded. “Yet I look at our grandfather, who is likely to reach a hundred before the Valkyries come for him. While Father is only in his late sixties, soft living in Rome has done bad things to his health. Would not surprise me if Grandfather outlives him.”