But he wriggled like a worm, caught me a blow to my head with his right elbow, slammed the shaft of his spear into Nestor and he was away from us — back three steps. If even one oarsman had aided us But none did.
He grinned. ‘I knew you’d try, lover,’ he said, in Phoenician. ‘I’d have thought less of you, if you hadn’t.’
And then — only then — did we all notice that another ship was coming alongside, up from our stern. She was a beautiful low trireme, her hull black with new pitch, with a long line of woad-blue painted down her side along the upper-deck oar-ports and eyes over her ram. Her oars were beautifully handled.
The oars came in, all together, even as we watched. I backed up two steps, looking for anything to use as a weapon. A boarding pike, a staff for poling off another ship, a stick What I got was a bucket.
A wooden bucket.
And the other ship was boarding us.
Her marines came at us — ten men in bronze, with aspides and fighting spears and greaves. They leaped onto our catwalk and our stern like experts, and I retreated to the bow, looking for a place to hide — I didn’t want to die at the hands of Greeks. I didn’t know what they intended, but I assumed they were Greek pirates — men of my own kind — who would at least take me as a slave.
Their lord — it was obvious, from the rope of lapis and gold beads at his throat to the solid-gold hilt on his sword — shouted at Dagon.
And Dagon nodded and grinned. ‘My slaves,’ he shouted. ‘They rose against me. Thank the gods, lord, for your rescue!’
The Greek lord — I now knew he was Greek by the long hair emerging from under his helmet to the shape of his feet — laughed. ‘I hate you Phoenicians like I hate poverty and fear,’ he said. ‘But we are at peace.’ He grinned wolfishly, turned to his marines and pointed his spear.
‘Clear away the riff-raff,’ he said.
Nestor grabbed his knees. ‘We’re Greek!’ he said. ‘Master, this man-’
The Greek put his sword into Nestor. ‘Tell them in Carthage of the service I do for you,’ he said, and his men set about killing the Sikels.
Two men chased me into the bows, where I turned at bay.
I put the bucket into the helmet of the first to reach me, swinging it at the end of its rope handle, and he fell without a sound.
The other man stepped back and yelled for help.
Just for a moment, I felt as if I were Arimnestos. I stepped forward, and he stepped back.
And then Dagon came up. He had an aspis on his shoulder, and his spear licked out and caught me in the meat of the thigh, quick as thought. Ares, that wound hurt, and I stumbled.
He stepped back, laughed and spiked my other thigh.
I fell to my knees.
As fast as I can tell it, he put his fine spear point through both of my hands, so that I dropped the bucket and waited for death.
He laughed.
‘You think I’m going to kill you?’ he asked.
He didn’t kill me, obviously. What he did do was to help the Greeks kill all of the Sikels on board. Then he bartered half his cargo of iron ore for twenty of the Greeks’ rowers — men of a race I didn’t know at all.
I wasn’t paying very close attention by then, because he had me crucified on the foremast and spar, my arms and legs lashed far apart. The pain of my wounds was enough to make me puke.
Unfortunately, it was still early morning and the sun rose, higher and higher, as the slaves rowed us towards the shore. From my new vantage point I could see the land — a low smudge to the north. Sicily.
We rowed. Or rather, I bled and burned, naked in the sun, and the men beneath me rowed, and the corpses of the Sikels stank. Dagon wouldn’t let the slaves throw them over the side. He insisted on leaving the dead men at their benches. He trod the catwalk, muttering and laughing, and from time to time he would come up behind me — remember, I was crucified and couldn’t see him — and he’d strike me with his staff. Or place the butt of it against my back or my stomach and just rub it up and down.
‘We will have such fun,’ he said. He used a pleasant tone, as a man might talk to his wife, and it made my skin crawl. Even in exhausted despair — his tone made me afraid.
But the sun was worse than the mad oar-master. The sun scorched me. I had never been exposed without water to the sun all day, and it stripped me of everything except the desire for water.
And that was only the first day.
Night fell, and I awoke. I hadn’t been aware that I had passed out — who is? But I came to hanging from my wrists, and the pressure on my abdomen and lungs was uncomfortable, and the sunburn on my stomach and groin was painful, and the wounds in my thighs and hands. Ares, it all hurt.
We were riding at anchor in a great bay under a vast mountain — Aetna, I know now. Even in the state I was in, I looked long at Aetna in the full moon and it was beautiful. And I prayed to the gods that someone would avenge me. I managed to pray for Nestor and Skethes, good companions who had died trying to be free. I had no idea what had happened to Neoptolymos.
The Greek ship was ten horse-lengths astern of ours. I didn’t see it for a long time, until the tide moved us at our anchor and I caught a glimpse of her.
I began to pass in and out of life. I cannot describe it any other way. My life unrolled before me as if I were facing a jury of gods, except that there were no voices, no figures, but merely the strongest feeling, every time I surfaced to pain and the real world, that I had been judged.
And then it was morning.
Dagon came and stood in the bows, and another voice called orders as the rowers awoke to the stink of the corpses. Seabirds came and tried the corpses — a great gull ripping at a dead man’s face can interfere with anyone’s rowing.
The bully-boys used their canes freely.
The ship moved, and we went inshore.
There was a breakwater, well to the west along the great bay, and we pointed our bow at it. The sun crested the horizon, and my torment began in earnest. Now the weight of my body was on my abdomen. My feet couldn’t really support my weight any longer. And breathing started to become difficult. Not really difficult, but painful. There was another body pressing against mine, at my back — it took me hours to realize that Neoptolymos was crucified against me.
‘They say that if you survive three days,’ Dagon said, ‘your chest and back are so ruined you can never be a man again.’ Dagon raised his face and looked at me. ‘And then I can sell you to a brothel. You won’t even be able to fight a brutal client. Isn’t that what you deserve, eh?’
I could feel it happening, that was the worst of it. I could feel my muscles dying. The strain was gradual, but the result was brutal.
And the sun By noon, we were up with the breakwater, and our charnel-house ship entered the harbour and very, very slowly docked at the pier — a well-built stone pier.
The Greek ship came and anchored close in, almost across our stern.
I could no longer speak. I may well have done some screaming, in there somewhere, but by this point I couldn’t even thrash in my bonds, and from time to time I’d make an effort and raise myself on my ankle ropes, just to get the pressure off my wrists and my lungs, and for a few brief moments I would have some clarity and then, gradually, I would collapse again.
I assumed Neoptolymos was dead.
One time, Brassos, one of the bullies, watched me raise myself and then slammed his spear shaft into my groin. I collapsed onto my bonds and choked.
Dagon struck the man. ‘He could die of your carelessness,’ Dagon said.
When I had the ability to use my head, I prayed to Apollo, to Herakles my ancestor and to Poseidon for release.
Just after the sun reached his awful height, men came and began to unload the iron ore from the ship. Then the slaves were taken out of their benches, with twenty guards watching them, and they were put ashore, three at a time, and tied with heavy ropes inside a palisade.