Hannibal's Elephant Girl. Charley Brindley
Two
It was dim and stuffy below deck, without even a whiff of fresh air coming through the scuttles. The stink rising from the bilge was almost overwhelming. I tried to hold my breath or breathe through my mouth, but still my stomach rolled and I felt as if I would throw up.
Earlier, up on the top deck, when Calogo had told me and Tin Tin he was going to carry water to Obolus and Turanyu, I suggested Tin Tin should help him.
“While you two care for the animals, I’ll start giving water to the slaves.”
Neither of them voiced any complaint about that arrangement, and I thought it might be nice for them to have some time together. They could come help me when they finished with the elephant and horse.
Most of the slaves were silent as they watched me carry the heavy wooden bucket along the narrow board that ran down the center of the compartment. The springy plank, barely wide enough for a person’s feet, lay across the beams supporting the two banks of rowers. Each bank consisted of three staggered rows of slaves. Some of the men groaned in agony as they bent their backs, straining hard to pull the heavy oars. There were three men to an oar and they wore only ragged loincloths.
The close space, packed with sweating bodies, was also filled with sound; the moans of the slaves, the oars creaking in the rowlocks, and the synchronized splashing of the oar blades cutting the water, all in perfect rhythm with the hortator’s drumbeat. This man sat in front of the eighty slaves, next to the scowling slave master.
The drum was made from a section of hollow log, the size of an earthen kettle, with pigskin stretched over the top. The little man beat out the cadence of the slaves’ never-ending labor. The hortator’s pounding, like an evil heart pumping misery rather than blood, drove the ship relentlessly forward.
Boom, boom, boom-paboom, boom, boom, boom-paboom...
Even though their wrists were chained to the oars, the men were able to continue rowing with one hand as they took my water bowl and drank thirstily, sometimes saving a bit of their water allotment to pour over their heads.
Most of the slaves whispered a furtive ‘thank you’ to me, but some sneered and bared their teeth, as if I were the cause of their misery. Perhaps the slave mark branded into my face softened some of their hearts toward me.
I wasn’t a slave, but I carried the mark by my own choosing because my friend Tin Tin Ban Sunia was once a slave and the evil Sulobo had seared his brand into the side of her face. I glanced at him as he sat beside his drummer; he stared at me. I looked away and dipped more water.
Tin Tin was no longer his slave. Yzebel had purchased her from Sulobo, then set her free to sail with me to Iberia. This, too, was another thorn in Sulobo’s side, which he blamed on me.
I was saddened to think of Yzebel. She had done so much for me, and I didn’t know if I would ever see her again. She took me in when I was lost and alone, teaching me how to trade for goods and how to cook. And something else: She gave me character and pride when I had none.
She paid three gold coins, plus a silver one, for Tin Tin, then she treated us both as her daughters, even though she had two sons of her own to worry about.
Helen of Troy might have been the most beautiful woman in the world, but Yzebel was more than beautiful; she was at once teacher, protector, provider…and she loved us all, no matter what.
Lost in my thoughts, I had forgotten about Horus, the Egyptian slave. Calogo had warned me to stay clear of him, and to give his drinking water to another slave, to be passed along to him. But while thinking of Yzebel, I had set my bucket down, dipped water into the drinking bowl, and leaned across the first man to offer a drink to Horus. Without warning, Horus grabbed my arm, wrenched the bowl from my hand, and gulped the water while still holding me in his rough grasp. He then threw the bowl, hitting another slave in the back of the head, and he pulled me over the chains and oars to get both hands around my neck.
I screamed and kicked, trying to get away from him, but he only laughed at my puny efforts to escape. He growled like a wild animal as he pressed his thumbs into my windpipe. Men struck his back with their iron manacles, and the slave next to him tried to pull me away. The uproar caused the hortator to cease his drumming as he stared at the struggle taking place. Without the drumbeat to command them, all the slaves either turned or stretched sideways to see around the other men, leaving their oars to clatter and clash in complete disorder.
I twisted around and reached for the dagger in my purse, but before I could get my hand on it, Horus wrapped his leg around my waist, pinning my arm. He then pressed me backward over his other leg, trying to break my back.
My scream stuck in my throat as a whip slashed down over Horus’s shoulder and wrapped around my forearm. I felt my skin tear when the lash was yanked away, then I saw the whip wrap around Horus’s head, just below his eyes. But still he held me in his ever-tightening grip.
The next pop of the whip circled the lash around Horus’s neck and pulled tight. He cried out as he let go of me and clawed at the braided leather cutting into his throat.
With the help of the other slaves, I scrambled over men and oars to jump onto the center board, where I backed away to the end of the plank, gripped my bleeding wrist, and stared at the ugly event unfolding before me.
The slave master, Sulobo, had taken his time to come to my rescue, and I knew if Hannibal had not been aboard the ship, he surely would have let the crazed slave tear me to pieces. Thankfully, his fear of Hannibal was much greater than his desire to inflict his revenge upon me.
Sulobo was employed by Hannibal to control the slaves and also to replenish their ranks as many of them died from the inhuman misery of their labors. At each port he purchased the strongest men the slave markets had to offer.
Sulobo pulled himself along the length of the whip, keeping it tight. He cursed Horus with every step.
“You Egyptian blood-sucking leach. I would let my whip cut through to your rotten throat if I did not have need of all my slaves to push this stinking boat to shore.”
He stood directly behind the struggling slave, yanked hard on his whip, then uncoiled it from Horus’s neck. Horus gasped, and his chains rattled as he rubbed his neck. When he saw the trace of red on his fingertips, he glared up at Sulobo.
“Your whip does no more than…” he paused for a quick breath, “…than to tickle my skin.”
Sulobo reached to his shoulder, as if to straighten his ragged tunic, but then, quick as a cobra, he struck Horus’s jaw with his clinched fist.
The slave’s head snapped sideways. He tried to stand and if his chains had not restrained him, he would have attacked the fat slave master.
Sulobo stepped back. “At Hippo Regius, I’ll find a fresh slave to take your place and heave your dead body into the sea for the sharks to feast upon.” He rolled up his whip while staring at Horus. “Give me any more trouble, and I’ll throw you over before we get to port and put that half-wit slave girl in your place.”
Without waiting for a response from Horus, Sulobo stepped to the board and advanced on me. He shook his whip in my face.
“Cause me any more difficulties, you filthy little tramp, and you may find yourself accidentally becoming a playmate of the sharks, along with your friend there.” He jerked his thumb toward Horus.
“He attacked me, Sulobo.” I rubbed my neck. “I did nothing wrong, you stupid kusbeyaw.” I still didn’t know what that word meant, but apparently several of the slaves did, because they snickered, elbowed one another, and shot quick glances at Sulobo.
He grabbed my shoulder, squeezing hard. “Shut up, and get on with your water duties, but give none to that putrid Egyptian for the rest of the day. Do you understand me?”
I understood well enough, but didn’t acknowledge him. I shoved away his grubby hand and took up my water bucket, wanting nothing more to do with the ugly gorilla.
When I glanced around for the