Chains of the Nile

A Quintus Paulus Adventure

The crowded market buzzed. Quintus Paulus sidled down a narrow aisle pressed by people inspecting wares in haphazard stalls on both sides. Vendors grabbed at his cloak, trying to get his attention, or cut his purse. Even dressed as a civilian, he stood out here.

“They’d never do that if I were in uniform,” he thought.

The fleet was in Alexandria, and Paulus—captain of the warship Osprey—had decided to take some leave to spend a bit of prize money before they were called to action again. He moved through the market, the smell of exotic spices mixed with blood and offal wafting through the air, looking for something to catch his eye. He stopped at the store of a goldsmith and handled a delicately worked gold chain.

Paulus haggled with the merchant using hand signals and a few mutually understood Greek words before agreeing on a price. Reaching inside his tunic, Paulus shifted the pouch that he wore around his neck on a leather thong and removed the agreed upon amount of coins. He paid the jeweler, donned his new necklace, and set off for his final shore-leave destination: a brothel.

The Roman did not know where the best brothels in Alexandria were, but he had spent enough time in the navy that he was confident in his ability to find one. Port cities were all the same in that regard.

The market thinned out, and Paulus wove through alleys until he found what he was looking for. Beside a doorway covered in a red silk curtain, stood a woman. She was Egyptian, or at least dressed like one; the curves of her young lithe body only nominally covered by a thin dress of gauzy cotton. She wore a black wig adorned with a net of gold. She stared at him with intense eyes as dark as onyx.

Paulus smiled and approached. Then there was a patter of feet behind him.

Strong hands grabbed him. He made an instinctive reach for his sword, but it had been left behind. He remembered his dagger tucked beneath his cloak and tried to draw it, but someone with a vice-like grip latched onto his arm. With a sandaled foot, Paulus kicked backwards, connecting with the shin of one of his assailants. There was a howl of pain behind him, and the grip on his left arm slackened.

He wrenched his arm free and pried at the hand holding his right arm. There was an audible crack as Paulus levered back the man’s finger. But the thug held on stubbornly.

The captain felt for another finger to break, but another man grabbed his wrist and forced it behind his back.

A sack was pulled over his head, followed by a blow from a cudgel.

…

The barest hint of light was painted on the horizon as Paulus woke in a rattling cart. His hands were bound. His head throbbed and he was pressed up against several feverish bodies. They were traveling through the green fields and marshes of the delta. As the sun crested the horizon, the cart stopped at its destination.

At the bank of the river stood the largest ship Paulus had ever seen. The massive galley dwarfed the Osprey, an aging bireme with a nimble crew of one-hundred twenty men on sixty oars. This ship rose thirty feet from the water at the stern with sixty oars—arrayed in ranks of three—to one side alone. It was rigged with sails that remained furled and several canopies that were now being set to protect portions of the deck from the sun. The whole ship was ornately decorated with carvings, bright paint, and gilding.

There was shouting, and the men on the cart were ejected and made to line up in the sand. They were ten in total. Paulus scanned his surroundings. He had no intention of going along with his captors and he would make an attempt at escape given his first opportunity.

They were under strong guard. He recognized two of his attackers among them, now armed with sword and spear, and from the ship came two armored swordsmen and two archers.

One unarmed man, soft, bald, and in a position of some authority, walked the line speaking Greek and asking names and nationalities and inspecting the fitness of each man. Standing next to Paulus was a fat, weak man who had the look of a merchant.

“My name is Hippolytos, and I demand you release me. I am a citizen of Rome.”

The guards laughed, and the official smirked.

“Excellent! Tell me, Roman, can you row?”

“Row? How dare you. I could never. I am an important man in Corinth.”

The official grabbed the merchant by the arm and squeezed.

“You are right. I also do not think that you can row.”

He looked at the guard standing behind the prisoners and shook his head. Quick as a viper, a blade lashed out and across the man’s throat. Blood sprayed out across the sand and the man fell, his hands at his neck and his mouth opening and closing like a fish’s.

It was Paulus’ turn. He briefly considered giving a false name; that of one of his Illyrian sailors. But if he had to die it would be after putting up a fight with the true name of his motherland on his lips. Defiance glinted in his gray eyes.

“I am Gaius Paulus. I am a citizen of Rome.”

There was no laughter this time. The force of his declaration bringing silence to the guards.

The official scowled and gave the order for the men to be taken aboard.

Paulus and the others were rushed below deck where the air was foul and the morning heat already stifling. Amidships, there was an open bench at the end of an oar. He was chained to the deck by his ankle. The manacles were not removed from his wrists, even though the rowers around him were not so restrained.

His was the topmost row in the file. As such he was closer to the fresh air of the deck than the poor wretches below. But the steep angle of his oar, and his position as the innermost of six rowers, meant that he had to stand awkwardly while rowing.

The men in his row were wiry and malnourished. They looked at him with dead eyes.

“Whose ship is this?” he asked.

A man on the oar behind him spoke.

“Are you a Roman?”

“Yes. A captain in the navy.”

The man laughed so hard that he began to cough.

“Then you’re in the right place. I’m a Roman too. This ship belongs to Lord Antinous, advisor to the queen. Rome’s greatest ally, so I’m told. He likes to put Romans on the top rank so he can see us, and beat us, and piss on us, and throw us to the crocodiles.”

“How many guards are there?”

“Guards? Haha, dozens. Then there are the…”

CRACK!

A whip lashed out striking the other Roman who cried out in pain.

“Silence! And you, eyes forward.”

The overseer struck again, and Paulus’ vision flashed red. Blood trickled down his back. He silently vowed to kill this man.

The villain moved down the aisle. The Roman rower whispered.

“It is best to put thoughts of escape out of your mind. No one has ever done it. Those who try are killed or thrown in the bilge to rot. You look strong, you should be able to last half a year if you don’t make trouble. Survive until the flood season, and maybe they’ll sell you. And friend, be careful what you say down here. Some men would gladly sell their mothers for some extra food.”

Trumpets and drums erupted in a fanfare on the deck above.

“Our master arrives. We will be underway soon.”

The man was right. Minutes later the order was given, and Paulus heaved at his oar.

…

A halt was called as the sun was setting. The sailors above made the ship fast, and the rowers collapsed down on their benches. Paulus’ arms quivered and it felt as if someone had driven a spike between his shoulder blades. His tongue felt thick in his dry mouth. Salt crusted his body where his sweat had accumulated and dried.

A dark-skinned slave boy made his way down the rows, passing a ladle of water to the rowers one by one. When it was his turn, Paulus drank greedily. He asked for more, but the boy ignored him and moved on.

“If we’re lucky, they give us more with our meal. Rest now, save your energy.”

The other rowers were all lying down where they could. Paulus slumped down, leaning awkwardly against the man next to him.

Even in that position, he fell asleep. He awoke a short while later as flutes and harps played on the deck. Torchlight flickered through the grating above, and the sounds of merriment worked their way down through the boards. Throughout the evening, he could feel eyes on him as the revelers paced above. The party lasted for hours growing more tumultuous. Men laughed, women squealed, lovers moaned. The musicians played on.

Sitting in his cramped position, Paulus felt something trickle onto his head. The smell was sweetly familiar.

“Wine! Someone must have spilled their drink.”

Paulus tilted back his head to catch the intoxicating stream in his mouth. Nothing had ever tasted so good. He stuck his tongue out for the last drops, and the stream started flowing again: bitter and salty.

A howl of laughter from above.

“How do you like my piss, Roman? Drink up! That’s all you get tonight.”

“Dog!” shouted Paulus at the silhouetted man.

“Be grateful for what I give you, Roman.”

The man shouted an order in Egyptian that was followed by heavy footfalls on the stairs leading down from above. No words were spoken, only the lash sang out again and again against Paulus’ back. His body stiffened with every painful stroke until he could feel the blood flowing down his back and his chin dropped to his chest in exhaustion.

…

The festivities were over, and the air was full of the sounds of hundreds of sleeping galley slaves. Paulus’ back was numb, feeling much like his wrists in their shackles.

Paulus looked up at the stars through the open hatch. The Milky Way gleamed like quicksilver spilled across the night sky by some careless god. For a brief moment, he felt like he was at sea back on the Osprey.

Then a shadow fell across his face.

It was a woman. She crouched over the grate above him.

Even in the low light of the moon, Paulus could see that she was beautiful. The moonlight clung to the chestnut curls piled atop her head like snow on the evergreens in the Alps. Her full lips had the blush of wine. Her eyes—either blue or green, he could not tell—gazed into his. She was dressed as an Egyptian, but she did not look like the other women Paulus had seen in this country. Paulus had never felt drawn to a woman more than he did to her at this moment.

Reaching up, she pulled something from her hair. Loose strands tumbled down onto a shoulder that could have been carved by one of the old Greek masters. She dropped the item into the hold. It glinted as it tumbled, and hitting the deck at Paulus’ feet it rang out with a clear tone.

Paulus hunched over to pick it up. It was a golden pin adorned at one end with a finely wrought griffin. The weight was substantial for such a small thing; it must have been pure gold. Who was this woman? Why would she help him?

“For Rome,” whispered a voice as sweet as honey.

He looked back up.

She was gone.

Regardless of the motives of the goddess in disguise, Paulus did not intend on wasting time making his escape. The conditions were ideal. He set to work picking the lock on his shackles. The craftsmanship of the lock was exceptional: an extravagance that only a foreign despot would waste on his galley slaves. But Paulus understood the workings of the mechanism, and with a few failed attempts and some precise bends in the pin he heard the lock click open. He quickly opened the other locks.

About to drop the pin after it served its purpose, Paulus thought of the girl who had dropped it for him. He stuck the pin through the fabric at his waist.

Free of his bench, Paulus waited for his moment of opportunity. The only way out of the hold was through one of the hatches, fore and aft. These were the only ones with stairways. Paulus had no idea what waited at the top of the stairs, but he did know that at every watch one of the overseers descended from the main deck to walk the length of each of the rower decks, inspecting the men. It would not be long until the next check.

The minutes stretched until finally Paulus heard the sound of heavy footsteps on the ladder behind him. He feigned sleep as the guard went by. Once the man had passed, Paulus gathered his chains and padded in the direction of the exit. Creeping along, he could feel dozens of eyes on him, but all he heard was somnolent breathing and the occasional cough.

At the ladder, Paulus climbed until his eyes were just above the deck. A pair of calloused feet was inches away. Paulus froze.

He waited in the darkness of the hold, hoping that the overseer would not notice him and fearful that the links of his chains might rattle or a board creak. The man’s feet shifted suddenly. Away from Paulus.

Paulus struck, as quickly as an asp. He leapt up the steep plank steps and took the guard around the neck with his chain. Pulled backward into the hold by the Roman, the overseer flailed his limbs, dropping his whip as he fell. His hands barely had time to grasp at the chain around his neck before Paulus tightened it with all the strength of his sinewy arms.

Paulus heard a wet crunch as the man went limp, never to stir again.

Paulus lowered the body down the stairs, secreting it in the shadows. No rowers called out. The traitors among them either oblivious to what Paulus had done, or biding their time until there was someone to inform. The tormentor of the rowers wore a dagger at his waist. Paulus took it and weighed it in his hand. It looked a bit impractical, being made to match the grandiose costumes of Antinous’ retinue, but it was perfectly balanced. A proper weapon. They feeling buoyed Paulus’ warrior spirit.

He crept back up the stairs. He peered out on the deck.

He spotted a few guards, but they were turned outward, stationed for show rather than any outside threat Paulus could imagine in this place. He could not see the gangplank. His best chance for escape would be to jump in the river on the bank side. The draft of the ship was deep enough that he would not injure himself, but there was still the risk of the crocodiles that his fellow countryman had said accompanied the vessel to feed on the corpses of dead slaves thrown overboard. All Paulus could do was pray and trust that the gods of Rome would hear him in this strange and distant land. Between his gods and a good blade in his hand, Paulus stood a chance.

Moving onto the deck, Paulus clung to the shadows cast by the ship’s rigging and billowing awnings. He slid down to the decking next to a large coil of rope. He saw his opportunity.

Standing in darkness at his post next to the railing, one of the Egyptian soldiers shift from foot to foot. Paulus could approach from shadow, slit his throat, and be over the side without anyone noticing. He could probably put some distance between himself and the ship—a mile if he was lucky—before anyone noticed that the soldier was missing.

Paulus stalked his prey, ready to kill in a way he had done many times before. His focus was singular. He could practically hear the guard’s heartbeat. Then the still of the night was rent by a scream. A woman’s scream.

Paulus dropped to the deck as the guard stiffened, but the man remained facing the darkness. He was well trained to ignore the dealings of his master.

Squeezing the hilt of the dagger until the blood left his fingers, Paulus mouthed a curse. Nothing had changed. He could still kill this captor and make his escape.

He might ignore any other scream—after all, what did the screams of a slave girl amount to in this backwards country—but Paulus was sure that he knew this voice. He could hear it whispering “for Rome” down into the ship’s hold and dropping his means of escape. He knew it was her as well as he knew the sound of the Osprey cutting through the sea. Honor demanded he take action, regardless of the peril.

Paulus worked quickly through the dark of the night, making his way to the sounds of distress on the quarterdeck that was sheathed in gauzy curtains. Struggling silhouettes were projected by flickering lamplight. A pained cry followed the sound of blows. Paulus ran, bursting through the billowing fabric.

He locked eyes with the girl.

Tears ran down her cheeks, and a trickle of blood dripped from a split lip. A large black-skinned warrior and the scarred brute that had captured him in the marketplace held her roughly. Her dress had been torn from her shoulders, exposing her nubile body to the cruel gaze of a richly adorned man of middle age, who sat in a gilt chair on a raised platform. The Egyptian’s eyes were painted and traces of jowls formed along his jaw, but he had an intelligent, hawk-like look.

“Antinous,” Paulus thought.

Seeing the Roman captain, Antinous began to sputter; Paulus charged into action. He attacked the scarred man who still held the girl’s left arm high in the air. Grabbing his raised wrist, Paulus brought the dagger in low, the sharp edge pointing up. He rammed the blade into his belly like he would send the rostrum of the Osprey into the broadside of an enemy ship. Then he heaved up with all his strength. Had the blade been dull, he would have lifted the slaver off the ground. Instead it cut through skin and muscle, scraping along the inside of the spine. The dying man blew his last fetid breath in Paulus’ face as his blood drenched the deck.

The Nubian yanked the girl away. She thudded to the planks behind him. Paulus tried to pull his blade free, but it was well lodged. The blood-slick hilt slid from his hand as the corpse fell.

Paulus’ head rang as he was struck in the face: once with the hulking guard’s quick left and again with his battering-ram right. He went down. A kick, like a shot from a ballista, drove into his back. He twisted, lashing out at his attacker, but the other guards swarmed in and added their own stinging blows.

Pain filled his body until Paulus could not tell where he was being struck. Then there was a shout and the beating stopped.

Hands seized Paulus under the arms and hoisted him up to standing. A noose was slipped around his neck to control him. Through eyelids that were already swelling shut, the Roman looked at Antinous.

“What madness brought you here, Roman? Are you come to assassinate me for the indignity of making you a slave?”

Paulus stayed silent. A guard handed Antinous the bloody dagger that Paulus had just used to eviscerate the man lying on the deck.

“Your senate would make my queen a slave. They would see our granaries empty. They would make me a eunuch.”

The Egyptian held the blade to Paulus’ groin. Something caught his eye and his face twitched.

“But you did not come for me did you?”

With a speed that Paulus did not expect from an apparently soft noble, Antinous snatched the gold pin from Paulus’ loincloth. He laughed.

“Ah, so this is why you were willing to throw away your life. But you have only just arrived! You cannot have been deprived of female companionship for so long that you have fallen for this bruised little flower.”

Antinous gestured to the girl who was now standing and looked so small as she was held firmly by the Nubian.

“I had planned to work you to death, eventually throwing your emaciated corpse to the crocodiles, but now something else is needed. A spectacle! Games in honor of the man you have killed. We won’t have a fitting audience for several days yet, so you will have time to contemplate your own death in the belly of the ship.”

“You will answer for this,” Paulus rasped through the rope, tight around his throat. “For anything you do to the citizens of Rome.”

Antinous cackled.

“Next week you will be dung carried on the waters of the Nile to fertilize our crops. There you will join every other Roman who has pulled an oar on my ship. Take him below.”

The noose tightened at Paulus’ neck and the guards forced him away, to his fate.

…

READ THE EXCITING CONCLUSION!

Want more? Read about Quintus Paulus’ secret mission in darkest Gaul.