Mid-morning toward the south, far out in the Sofjorland Strait, the sound of wood creaking, matching the slow rolling waves as they passed under the Nevan slaver ship, provided an ambient background to the usual soothing sounds far out to sea. The gulls screeching as they circled astern created a harsh counter note to the soothing sounds of the ship’s passage through the gentle waves. Diving sporadically, they picked out what food they could from the refuse trailing the ship. Occasionally, a lucky gull would grab a small fish surfacing for the same reason.

The ship, a mid-sized Nevan galley, had a crew of thirty fighting men, and double that number of galley slaves for manning oars. Of the fighting men, half of them were competent seamen, paired with the not-so-competent ones in order to teach them the ropes.

From the bow, just below the waterline, protruded a bronze ram. This attachment punched into the hulls of merchant ships unlucky enough to be caught unescorted. Just behind this, attached to the keel, was a clicker, a device that worked like a miniature water wheel, making a constant clicking noise underwater that kept sea creatures away to prevent them damaging the ship. On the prow above the ram was a painted pair of eyes over a gaping, sharp-toothed mouth. The ship itself had a wide beam with a single mast halfway between the bow and midship. Attached to the mast and crosspiece was a large black cloth sail billowing in the wind.

The sail on a Nevan galley was only useful for tailwinds blowing in a forty-five degree arc on each side of the centre line, otherwise known as a ‘quartering wind’. Wind in any direction outside this arc would require furled sails and deployed oars. Such were the limitations of ship designs in the Neven Empire.

After Gracchus gave the order to ‘ship oars’, the galley slaves pulled the oars inside the vessel, making the most of the respite. Although there was only a mild wind, it blew in the direction Gracchus wanted. He believed this a good omen, despite the sour taste this ‘mission’ left in his mouth. If nothing went wrong, the rewards vastly exceeded what he could earn during any two-year period. But the risk of capture by those Halder barbarians constantly haunted his thoughts.

The Nevans were a tough and disciplined people, and their battle tactics had won them a vast and mighty empire. One could forgive the average Nevan a certain level of arrogance, considering these things. Unlike those people, Gracchus understood the danger of overconfidence, as he had witnessed firsthand the humiliation that kind of hubris could bring.

He paced the deck and checked to make sure the galley slaves kept their place. A callous man, Gracchus was a product of mean streets in the city slums, scrounging and thieving to scrape by. At thirteen, authorities caught him pick-pocketing, and the sentencing praetor presented him with the choice of either losing his right hand to the chopping block or using it to wield a sword for the Empire. He was further hardened by his experiences during the ten years he served in the Imperial Legions. He did not feel for the people he and his crew captured and sold; they were merely livestock, nothing more, nothing less.

To keep the others in line, he would not hesitate to slit the throat of a disobedient slave. Nor would he hesitate to slit crewmember’s throat for sullying a virgin as a warning to the other crewmen to prevent them devaluing his merchandise. The Captain sparing captives from the whip was not an act of compassion, but to avoid damaging the slaves. A slave’s value decreased if they had marks or scars. For male slaves, it showed potential buyers a disobedient slave. For women and children, well, the reasons for that were obvious. The whip he used for motivating his galley slaves when he needed more speed out of them.

He glanced about, occasionally tugging ropes here, checking some rigging there, and with a last glance towards where the Nevan shore lay beyond the southern horizon, called out to Vannur. The muscular, bald man came over to the Gracchus and snapped to attention. In his salt-seared gravely voice, he asked, “Yes, Captain?”

“Let’s go below and inspect our friend’s cargo.”

“Aye, sir.”

Both men disappeared down the hatch leading to the hold near the ship’s keel. Lining both sides of the hold were barrels. Gracchus grabbed the lantern hanging next to the hatch frame, passing it to Vannur. “Hold the lantern for me so I can see what I’m doing.”

“Sure thing, sir”

Gracchus spied what he sought, a barrel marked with a red circle, and bashed in the lid. He moved the broken wood out of the way and drew in a sharp hissing breath. “Oh, fuck me!” he said in a strained, hushed tone.

“Sir?”

“That shit! That utter shit! What in the bleeding blue blazes game is he playing?”

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“What is it, sir?”

“Look inside, Van. Tell me what you see.” Vannur held the lantern aloft, as he manoeuvred into a position where he could see into the barrel.

“Oh, Phestis’ breeches. Are those…?”

“Yes, they are.” Gracchus pressed the back of his hand against Vannur’s chest, forcing him to move aside, and then shuffled some items around in the barrel, until he found what he sought – a tightly bound scroll, which read:

Salutations, Captain.

I take it that as you are reading this; you are well underway. And no doubt within this barrel you would have seen that it contains uniforms and weapons of our glorious legions. Unfortunately, I couldn’t include shields, as they don’t fit in barrels, and are therefore not so discreet. However, the tunics, helmets and breastplates should be sufficient for our purpose.

Any of your fighting men that will put ashore for this venture, I require they don these uniforms.

I need witnesses to see them, and of course, should the unfortunate happen, that some of your men die there, all the better. I am sure that I needn’t tell you it is imperative that none of your men left behind can remain alive. They must avoid capture at all costs.

Once you have selected your target, taken any captives you can, and are on your return voyage, I will need you to sink all uniforms to the bottom of the sea.

I shall toast to your success in this undertaking, and upon return, you shall be all the richer.

The letter was unsigned. Gracchus chuckled, thinking to himself, ‘He’s a crafty bastard. Didn’t even sign it in case I don’t burn it.’ Turning to his first mate, he said, “Count how many uniforms, and then round up that many of our most capable fighting men, plus five or so more. Tell them to muster outside the hatch after supper. That’s when we’ll let them know the plan and their tasks.”

“Maybe we should just go. We can wait it out along the south-east coast. We shouldn’t go through with this, sir.”

Gracchus looked at Vannur and said in a tone that would brook no argument. “You will do as you are told, clear?”

Vannur lowered his eyes. “Aye, sir, I’ll take care of her.”

With that, Gracchus returned to the main deck and headed aft to his cabin, the scroll scrunched in his meaty left hand. As he made his way there, some of his crew stood too and touched clenched right fists to their left shoulders in the traditional Nevan salute as they greeted him. He nodded to them in reply as he rushed aft. Yes, it was a slaver vessel, but Gracchus ran a disciplined ship, crewed by many who served with and under him in the legions. He shortly arrived at his cabin door and cast a last glance around before stepping inside, pulling the door shut behind him.

Once he was inside, he tilted his head back with his eyes closed and took a deep, steadying breath as he clutched the scroll to his chest. A mixture of anger and apprehension swirled in his mind as he tried to steady himself. ‘four hundred gold’ repeating over in his mind, serving as a mantra to steal Gracchus’ resolve.

His cabin, although it was for the captain, was not overly spacious. It had enough room for a couple of chairs, a small table at its centre for meals, and viewing sea charts. There was a narrow cot in the corner for him to sleep on, and a cabinet with some personal items stowed within.

He muttered a few more choice curse words toward his mysterious benefactor and then walked over to his cabinet, grabbed a wine vase and a cup. After filling his cup, he downed it in one go, and poured himself another.

Turning to his cabin lantern, he opened the cover, and with a shaking hand, held the scroll to the flame. Being careful not to burn himself, he tilted the parchment to ensure it was catching nicely and then returned to his table, dropping it on the metal dinner plate at its centre. He sat down, eying the burning parchment as he continued drinking from his cup.

Gracchus was not a coward, by any stretch. However, he had a very reasonable fear of Halder ships. He had seen firsthand what happens to an armed vessel that takes hostile actions in their waters. Fortunately, he was at the rear of the last invasion fleet the Nevan Empire sent attempting to expand the empire into Halder lands. He shuddered inwardly at the memory of those poor souls who were not as fortunate as he.

It was twenty-three years ago when he was still a sergeant in the Nevan Imperial Legion. The fleet he was with deployed as an advanced party of thirty ships to establish a beachhead on the nearest Holvelan coast, near the town of Penbach. They didn’t even make it halfway across the Sofjorland Strait before a group of six Halder ships came upon them. Six ships! Within the space of two hours, the Nevan fleet of thirty ships had lost almost two-thirds of their number. While it was certain the six Halder ships would have found themselves overwhelmed eventually, the sight of three more Halder sails on the eastern horizon was enough to break the Nevan’s spirits and send them scurrying home.

Of the twenty ships that the Haldermen boarded, only one returned to the Nevan Empire. Its crew had been ‘dragon winged’- a Halder practice reserved for the worst of criminals and for invaders. They would slice down the centre of a man’s back from his neck to the crack of his backside, flay the skin outwards, and hang him up from his skin until he died from whatever took him first, be it blood loss, thirst, or exposure.

The Haldermen towed one ship to the vicinity of Paqurineva, the Nevan capital, and then pushed it toward the city. It was a vision of nightmares, a crewless Nevan galley propelled by a mainsail made of men with their flayed back skin stitched together, some of whom were still alive. Because of this gruesome display, the Nevan Empire had no choice but to enter guileless, formal diplomatic relations with the Halder nations. The story of that crew circulated widely, ensuring that if the Nevan Empire talked about invading Halder lands again, their entire military would revolt.

The rest of the ships and crew disappeared without a trace. Gracchus presumed they were burnt hulks, come tombs, lying on the bottom of the Sofjorland Strait.