My father was a smith. We lived behind the forge in a little workshop-house in a cluster of olive trees in tiny Dodona.

I was part of our little menagerie of chickens  goat  and small donkey  entrusted with their feeding. At age five  when my little sister was old enough to walk  I cared for her too  showing her how to find the hens’ eggs  and how to milk the goat. Momma was weak and getting big with another baby.

A few days after I turned twelve  my father woke me  shaking my foot as he sometimes did. “Get dressed."

My dream suddenly interrupted  I clothed myself and found he and my mother talking in muffled tones. Her eyes leapt to meet mine  her lips twisted in pain.

“Momma?" I cried out  in fear for her.

“You’ll be leaving us  Costas." Costas? Father always called me Yios! Son!

“Daddy?"

No warning. No anger. No tears. Just: “There’s not food enough for us all. Find your way now; you’re a man’s age. Your mother says goodbye." His big hand clamped onto my shoulder and forced me to the door.

His grotesque shadow followed me out the door. I found my bag and cloak lying on the threshold. The loaf of bread and bit of cheese on top of the cloak were the last food in the house.

Concealed in a nearby copse of woods  in my play shelter of happier times  I craved to see my mother emerge from the house. When she fed the animals with my little sister  I inwardly protested that I ate no more than the donkey. My father stoked the forge with the precious coal. That had been my job. Broken-hearted  I wrapped myself in my sheepskin and alternately cried and slept for three days.

Father made a living selling pins  hasps  and latches for a few lepta each. He had taught me how to repair the broken tools that every household required and brought to him. Nothing could be wasted. Craning past his massive arm  I would watch him steadily beat the ripple pattern of circles on a copper sheet until it became a shapely pot worthy of his skill and of the smithing God  whose hammer icon hung in the forge. Hephaestus and his disciples  the metal shapers  were revered throughout Hellas.

Father's master had been a Guild smith who died before his eager apprentice could be Journeyed  so father’s craft sprang from glimpses of techniques he was never fully taught  leveraged into what he needed to know.

Our family lived with the beat of hammer and anvil  and the longer pulse of heating and cooling. Poor  we embraced the rhythms of starving a while until we were no longer as hungry  collapsing exhausted  until we were merely tired. My mother foraged meals from thin air  and I worked at the fire from a tender age.

The tall oar planted alongside our path near the road belonged to the grandfather I never met. He had sailed as a freeman on the galleys. One long absence had become his last. Father wouldn’t talk about Grandpa or the sea  referring only to those 'hard and bloody salt-water times.’ I dreamed him up and rode on his shoulders through the oaks and ate dates from his bag and traced his white scars with my pink finger.

The fourth day after father dismissed me  I trekked to the marketplace of Ambracia in southern Epirus  where we had sold jewelry. I carried loads  unpacked donkeys  and stacked produce for handouts of fish  olives  or bread. No one glanced at an apparent orphan in a town of poor fishing families  farmers  and expatriates.

The loss of my family was a dark lake at the center of my heart  and I was without boat or raft to sail it. Weeks of loneliness went by.

A wave's trough invites the crest to
pause  A mated pair  outbound from
birth. Flat? No choice? Then no exciting
cause  Only placid lack of pain or mirth.

I got impatient and caught the same day. Sick of scraps and  being a metal-smith’s son  I devised a ring that allowed a small blade to protrude inward from my fingers  something that would cut a cord when I closed my hand around it and pulled the blade towards me. Swallowing my fear  I walked the bustling market with my ring knife. I rejected the spice merchant as too wary  like a mother bird. The melon farmer hadn’t enough money to be worth the risk. Finally  after midday  I settled on the gourd-nosed leather peddler and tried to separate him from his coin bag. He surprised me with a very long blade at my throat. He was alert and quick for a big man.

The court could have exiled me or taken off my hand.

Instead  a merchant bought the rights to me. He had forty trading ships with oar and sail in constant motion from the cold seas north of the Tin Isles to Tomi and the waters east of Thasos. Free sailors on those voyages could make a profit based on the success of the trip  if they survived. As a debt-slave  I had to work to pay a hundred drachmae debt. Ten thousand lepta!

I would learn to row on a galley with thirty-five other trainees who had been everywhere  if you added them up  two or three boys from every region in Thessaly  one from Thrace  four from the Peloponnese  others from far away Illyris  Arabia and the southern shores. Some smelled of curry  some of cloves. We were dwarves and giants  brown and black. Cassil was from my hometown. We had been clever and full of life. Now we were trapped on an island jail in the mouth of Pagasae harbor  as spiritless as oxen hitched to a wagon  no fences required.

All of us were to train for thirty days under a Rowing-Whip  a company Drummer  and a Supplicant  our sea-going Priest. A day’s training earned us ten lepta paid into our accounts. Lodging  however  cost three lepta each night  food two lepta per meal  and water one lepton. If the weather was too foul to venture out  the day deepened our debt. If we needed sandals  a tunic  or a doctor  we owed the Owner. Most of us would die in chains  still in debt; the game was rigged.

The first days on our training galley  Cormorant  were grueling. Marsyas  our Rowing Whip  pushed us until our arms felt like logs. He cursed us to work together’. Far from being a cohesive crew  we did not 'click’  did not make friends. We were a pile of rock's  not a wall.

“Oars high!" Marsyas shouted. It was our seventh straight day of training.

Docking  we banged the Cormorant into the training float in front of our barracks. On the same bench with two other sweating  panting boys  our ankles shackled and raw  we forced the thick pole down with our remaining strength. When it thunked on the deck  we shoved it forward under the oar-keep. We released our grips  relieved.

“No! Free your oars by the count!" screamed Marsyas. “Not when you feel like it! Again! Around the course  twice  without mistakes  or we’ll do this all night!" His peeling bald head and scarred cheek frightened me.

“Together  you garbage eaters! Pull! Dip! Feather! Drop! It’s a four-count! … Cadence!" Marsyas

yelled  and the drum began its beat from the foredeck. Marsyas demanded silence from us.

Stavros of Thessaly  one of my oar-mates  talked like a rushing stream when he first arrived. He had pumped my hand and said: “I’m glad to meet you  Costas. Shaking hands reminds me of milking goats. I’ve milked them since before I was born  since there were so many goats and it was either help or go hungry  and I got so sick of sleeping with goats and waking up in the dark and milking those steaming goats that my brother and I decided to lie about our age and join the army rather than face another day of it  and  of course  right away we had to walk for days to Thessalonica  which wasn’t so bad itself because at least it wasn’t snowing when we went through the mountains -- and on he went. Marsyas stripped language from Stavros like skin off a rabbit.

Our Drummer was thin  sunbaked  and long past drumming on war galleys. Even his drum sounded old  mmph  mmph  mmph  as he beat time sleepily  as though just for his pension.

Mornings on the Cormorant started with a sacrifice to the Cabeirii  protectors of sailors. Our hooded hollow-faced Supplicant held a pigeon over his head and spoke to heaven  but what he said was unintelligible. We assumed that he asked for calm seas and safe return in the gods’ language. When he lowered his arms  he drew an ornamental blade from its sheath and made swift cuts that destroyed the bird  adding to the stains of the deck. He dripped blood in the water and tossed the carcass onto a charcoal brazier that hissed in gratitude. When he took his accustomed seat  he wasn't to be addressed at all.

“Don’t look at him! Don’t talk to him!" bellowed Marsyas.

Day after day under the grueling sun we stirred the waters of the bay. Our joints and muscles strained  backs ached  and blisters formed on our palms and buttocks.

On a return trip from Oreus  Vallus lost the grip of his oar. Marsyas was alongside him instantly.

“Clumsy fool!" He struck Vallus’ head with the knob of the lash. “Incompetent - waste - of - space - on - this - boat!" Marsyas spat out each word and struck the groaning trainee with every breath.

Vallus lay motionless over his own knees. Vallus’ oar-mates kept time with us  though they almost died.

That night  after a somber meal  I crawled into the thatch of straw that was my bed. Aching and slightly dizzy  I closed my eyes and invited unconsciousness. Instead  memories of my old Dodona home vied for attention.

Hanging off my father’s strong outstretched arm like a little monkey.

Watching my tall mother  regal as an egret  slicing cucumber at our eating table.

I saw their bed through the doorway and heard their murmured voices. My bed was gone from the hallway. The eating table was set for two. My parents smiled at each other. I was missing from their lives and they had adjusted.

My stomach twisted into a fist.

My family was lost to me.

The long nights were unbearable; rowing was only hard.

Let my fellow captives grieve. In my pain  I wanted to see my father slapped in rowing irons.

Two days later  during a rest  as we ate some bland slop and tossed a skin of water back and forth  my heart was light with distraction. As I watched the water skin dance above the heads of the crew  I smiled at our game: the unwary would catch the goat skin in the side of the head. Across his meal of soft bread and small fish  I noticed our Drummer looking at me. The old man’s eyes glanced from my eyes to my feet and back He had apparently noticed my feet tapping a song that had been running through my head  a song of childhood. He smiled.

Whap!

My head jerked  stinging  to one side  even as my hands caught the re-bounding water skin. I flung it behind me over my head  but my eyes never left my Drummer.

He was the first adult to pay attention to me since my father cut me adrift. His drumbeats permeated my dreams  took over my waking hours  synched with my heartbeat  the cycle of my breath. I sensed a message beyond the rhythm; I couldn’t think it into the open. I sensed a purpose in it.

We had heard about the Red Galley  the flagship of the merchant’s fleet  and its oarsmen  the Red Serpents. The strength of their synchronized strokes and unity were legendary. I longed to connect with my fellows like that.

Each Red sailor was handpicked  proud and strong  ready to prove his dominance over a village idiot  if that were the only target.

The first time we saw them  we were Half-Stroking out of the harbor toward the second point to the north.

Marsyas suddenly shouted: “Oars high! Backwater! Double Stroke!" in such a rush that Flavus’ entire bench tumbled to the deck. Many of us lost our grips  and flailing oar handles knocked some of us silly. A blood red hull with flashing red oars slid past our starboard bow to a double-time beat. Marsyas shouted a curse at the passing Red Rowing Whip.

His stare silenced Marsyas  who shrank like a shopkeeper. He didn’t berate us at all while we completed our round to the second point.

A week after our almost-clash with the Red Galley  we were idle in our morning seats in the Cormorant  waiting unusually long.

Cassil whispered: “I just heard Supplicant tell the Drummer that Marsyas is gone."

“What do you mean gone?" I asked. “Whips don’t just disappear."

Atua leaned in. “Last night  I saw a boat come in the dark. A bunch of men got off."

“What kind of boat?" asked Tito  interested now.

“I couldn’t see much  bent when I heard it scraping on the beach  I looked out. They headed straight up to Marsyas’ hut." Atua squared his big shoulders back with the importance of his contribution.

“Did they start fighting?" we all asked at once.

“I didn’t hear any." Atua looked at our faces to draw more questions.

“Next time  wake me up " said Tito  leaning back and looking at the sky.

“I hope they kill him  whoever they are " muttered Vallus.

I was stunned that Marsyas was vulnerable.

And now I was adrift again  scared  since Marsyas was the only certainty I had had.

He was apparently nowhere on the island.

As next in authority  the Drummer directed us out of the harbor at Three-Quarter Stroke  south toward the Cyclades. Behind the third point along Euboea  he started a torturous arm exercise that had us raise our oars off the water  gently slap the oar behind us  then the one in front of us  and then knife back into the water for a pull stroke. Though we thought ourselves toughened by relentless days of open water rowing  a couple of hours of this new stroke made our arms burn.

The Drummer announced: “Oars high! That style is called 'Scudo’s Wings’. It’s usually reserved for the royal galleys!" That got a laugh.

“Some morning  you’ll see that your lives are still yours  still waiting to be lived. You have a chance to learn to row like men! For mastery. To reclaim your lives." He paused. “Oars ready. Now let’s go home." And he began the familiar monotone beat of Standard Stroke.

We thrashed a bit  but different. We were learning to row for this Drummer and ourselves.

Marsyas was discovered the next morning  naked and witless  on the rocks by the harbor mouth. His treatment was a reminder to the whole fleet of the Red Galley dominance. A black shadow fell over our training. We were Whip-less  while Marsyas recovered on shore. We shivered silently in the breeze until the Drummer took us out. We took pride in perfecting Scudo’s Wings  the oar-clapping royal Stroke. Sometimes we cajoled him into beating it for us with calls of “Scudo  Scudo  Scudo" until he gave in. Other codes we developed were Danae  a sudden stop  and Lanaea  back by Half.

We craved new maneuvers. Our arms and backs were soon as strong and tireless as legs of infantrymen  quick and snappish as rabbit snares. Our mentor directed us to channels and bays that it seemed no man had ever seen and so distant from harbor that he steered us home by the stars.

After one twilight return  as I was leaving the boat with our shuffling  grunting group  I passed our Drummer  adjusting his sandal. I dropped back  hoping he would talk to me.

Without even a hello  he said  “Count to one hundred steadily and without speaking  keep the rhythm  start with me: One  two  three" and nodding for me to continue  he went silent.

What’s this game? seven eight. He’s slipped his anchor! Does he think that I’m sixteen seventeen four? nineteen twenty A has-been drummer playing children’s counting games? twenty-seven twenty-eight twenty- nine You should tell me salty stories of sailors saving virgins  ladies cheering thirty-eight soldiers forty merchants sharing booty  owners choosing peasant partners. Everything is fifty nifty fifty-two but all that ever changes is whose foot is on my neck  and I seem to always miss a trick or sixty-five two. sixty-seven Come on  drummer man  don’t let me down! What are we doing? seventy-seven seventy-eight I know you planned this little meeting. What on earth for? eighty-six What do you say? ninety I’ve played your game! ninety-five Now you come across!

“One hundred " I said  decisively.

The older man shook his head minimally. “One hundred one." He watched me like a statue of himself. I thought I’d lost some game that might have bridged a gap to God- knows-what human contact. There was nothing I could say.

“Not bad " he said with a half-smile. He tossed me something  a dark  ripe fig. “Now catch up with the others." As I turned to go  he smiled and touched my elbow. “I’m Lucius " he said.

My stomach flipped like a fish on a hook. Had I made a friend?

He left into shadows  and I stared after him  the fig sticky in my fingers  and the warm evening breeze on my face.

That night after the torches were extinguished  I told Cassil about counting with Lucius. “Don’t let him get you alone to count." He rolled his eyes. “Next thing  he’ll want to see if you can count bending over."

My smile somehow slid to my throat.

Pull!
Pull!
Be blind.
Be deaf.
Be fire.
Be blade.
Beat back doubt.
Don’t die.
Push down pain.
Face fear.
Don’t flinch.
Row bold.
Go fast.
Pull!
Pull!

Several days rushed by  each one filled with greater distances  more speed  more bone-weariness than the one before.

Pulling up to our beach one night after a long zig-zag course through strong winds and heavy chop on the water  Lucius had us stay on our benches after our chains had been removed.

He stood alongside his drum  silent  while the Supplicant gathered his robes  sat on the rail  swung his legs over  then dropped like a load of laundry onto the gravel beach.

“Men of the Cormorant." Lucius’ focused on each trainee as though memorizing his face  recalling that boy’s time on the boat.

“You will shortly be apportioned to other galleys " he continued. “Your training is almost over."

Too soon! Someone started a cheer and was met with a barrage of curses and Idiot! and Shut Up! Some protested to Lucius: “No!" “We aren’t ready!"

“You have courage. You have strength. You have determination. Those are qualities you keep  to take with you. Use them." And he stepped to the rail and leapt lightly to shore.

Divided. More aloneness. I felt cold  small.

Too soon  as well  Marsyas came back as our Whip  damaged. He was skinny now  more angular.

His blue tattooed skin hung loosely like bad drapery. The jerky puppet movements of his limbs initially aroused our sympathy. Then  he opened his mouth. “In two more days  you will be rowing alongside free men whose livelihoods and very lives will depend on how you perform. There you will follow orders or die. Cadence!

The drum sounded our cruising beat  and we soon left the harbor mouth. Marsyas had narrow habits and planned a Double Stroke to the third point and back  probably grueling for most trainees.

Tito  our natural spokesman  shouted: “Hydra!" We switched flawlessly to stroking on the upbeat  every man. Lucius allowed himself a miniscule smile. The Whip spun to look at Tito. Without a word and while we were still at cruising speed  the Whip went to Tito’s bench and unlocked his ankle shackle. One by one  Tito’s oar-mates and others of us raggedly stopped rowing  though the beat kept on.

Dom  Dom  Dom. Only a few benches were rowing now.

Dom  Dom  continued the drum.

Twisting Tito’s ear  Marsyas forced him to the bow rail near the Supplicant  who stared forward blankly.
“New leader  are you?" said Marsyas. “Climb up!" he ordered  sticking the point of a short sword into Tito’s ribs. Tito didn’t seem to comprehend. “Onto the rail " said the Whip.

As Tito started to comply  the drum said Da-DOM and stopped. Every man looked at Lucius.

“If these boys are going to challenge the Red Galley tomorrow  we will need every oarsman " said Lucius.

“What challenge?" asked the Whip.

“Tomorrow  the Red Galley leaves for Tunis. We will leave the island  as they approach us  and beat them to the third point."

“Impossible " spat the Whip.

“I am Lucius  son of Scudo " said the Drummer. “I’ll wager my freedom these boys can beat the Red Serpent from harbor to the third point. It will happen."

I was slack jawed. Was this to shift focus from Tito? That had worked. As oarsmen  we were steadily improving  but they were Red Serpents!

“Show me " said Marsyas.

“Cadence!" called Tito  taking his seat without his ankle chains.

Though we flew back to our island  fast even for us  Marsyas neither commented nor grunted  which fed our fears.
The next morning  a falcon flew over  going somewhere in a hurry  as we were being chained to our benches. Our challenge was part foolishness  I decided  but not entirely. The Red Galley was loaded with trade goods and tribute for the noble houses of Tunis. Our training galley was lighter  and we had an additional four oars in the water. The fact that their crew was twice our weight might tip the scales in their favor  of course  but it also made their boat heavier  didn’t it?

We watched another pigeon sizzle on the burner at the bow  anxious for the Supplicant to be done. Marsyas had buttressed our self-respect by trying to diminish it. We were men on the Cormorant  and this was our goodbye. We welcomed this now.

Lucius’ drum sounded our beat  and we were off  Quarter Stroke  a bit of haze on the water. Marsyas stood at the bow.

“There!" he pointed slightly off the stern to port. The Red Galley’s serpent head streaked through the water. Still in the harbor  they were at Full Stroke. They should still have been at Half  at best.

Lucius quickly switched sticks.

Tito yelled: “Marsyas  call it!"

Immediately  Marsyas called “Half Stroke moving to Three Quarter " and after eight beats: “Full Stroke moving to Double Time by Fours!" We had practiced this quick acceleration. Lucius’ drum called us each by name  and we sped across the water like a polished stone.

“My God!" said Marsyas in admiration.

The Red Drum was also audible now and had increased to Double. The Serpent was four lengths ahead to port and an arrowshot away.

Our Drum went to Two-and-a-Half  unbidden. Lucius took us there gently but insistently  leaving us no choice. Then  emerging from the insane cadence of Two-and-a-Half  we heard grace notes  triple beats  staccato rim shots that clacked but counted  beats that said: You are born to row  you were made for this race  for this moment  with these mates! Pull for your lives  not to avoid dying  but to live!

I glanced to port-side. We were two lengths behind and gaining slowly. The Red Drum was still at Double. The Red Whip was striding down the walk  slashing one man after another with his knotted whip.

We pulled within a half-length of the Serpents  so close our sun-bleached oars were almost clashing with their gleaming red ones. Just as our bow was about to match theirs  the Red Whip barked an order. Every starboard oar of the Red Galley snapped upright. Without that starboard power  the massive red hull veered sharply into our port side  shattering our oars like twigs. The force flung some of us against the hull  but others  chained by the ankle to their benches  were snagged like animals  bloody. The side of the Red boat screeched and shuddered down the length of our smaller hull. As the Red Galley swept away  oaths and screams and disbelief filled our world. Many lay groaning and twisted. Skulls lay open where bits of wood had flayed them. Legs had shattered like our oars. Cassil lay crooked and motionless. Blood spurted from Vallus’s thigh. I numbly pulled bits of skin from my shredded ankles.

Was this battle? Would my friends die?

Marsyas surveyed the disaster that was our crew. “The Red Galley has never been beaten " he said with hatred and pity.

Lucius spoke: “They were at Full Stroke  four lengths off the dock."

Marsyas nodded. He turned to the Supplicant. “How did they know about the challenge?" He waited  like a cat  crouched at the mouth of a gopher’s tunnel.

The Supplicant stared in front of him  trembling. My bench mates moaned and cried for help.

“Stand up " said Marsyas.

Involuntarily  the Supplicant rose and said: “You can’t touch…"

With one motion  Marsyas swept forward  gathered fists full of the Supplicant’s robes and hurled him over the rail. The man splashed once like a diving pelican but made no more sound.

“He was lost in the crash " he said  as he unchained Tito and handed him the leather lash. “You call the stroke " he said. “Head back." Marsyas bent to the nearest wounded man.

Only stunned for a moment  Tito spoke to Lucius. Lucius left his post and brought water skins to where Marsyas was binding Atua’s head. The Drummer knelt to help Cassil.

Tito threw the lash aside. “Marsyas  the keys " said Tito.

As though expecting those words  the older man threw him his ring of keys. Tito handed the ring to Petros at first bench. “As soon as you are free  six of you help our men to the stern for treatment  then come back to your benches. The rest of you clear the broken oars overboard and fill benches from amidships forward by pairs until we run out." He skipped half a beat. “Let’s get them home."

“Costas " he said to me. “You beat cadence at my word. Half Stroke until we sort ourselves out." He turned to the others: “Any man without an oar  help Marsyas."

The Whip’s eyes met Tito’s briefly. Marsyas nodded curtly.

I stood motionless.

“Drummer " said Tito  quietly.

I leapt to the bow and gathered Lucius’ sticks off the deck. Though I felt doomed to produce chaos  I watched Tito with excitement.
“Cadence " yelled Tito.

As one man  the trainees of the Cormorant  the unseen and worthless  plunged their oars into the water. Dom! Dom! Dom! Dom! came my beat  and we gained speed. “Three-Quarter Stroke " Tito called  obviously pleased. We were moving past the first point with a long row ahead of us.

It struck me then: they had left us unshackled. If we went back to port  we replaced our own ankle irons. We had the entire sea to choose from  free lives to be lived.

“Physicians are on land " Tito spoke just to me. “Let’s fly!"

“Full Stroke!" called Tito. Dom  Dom  Dom  sounded my drum  a rich sound  worth much. I caught a glimpse of Lucius’ face; a warm smile directly at me. I grinned back at him like an unabashed child. I thought my heart would burst from my chest with joy.

At the mouth of the harbor  I shouted: “Scudo!"¿ and allowed eight beats to prepare the stroke. The rowers shifted to Scudo’s Wings with a galley-wide shout. Oar slapped oar  then cut the water  slap  slap  plunge  rise  and even the wounded cheered as we raced toward land.

We sailed past our island to the dock of the merchant’s Red Galley. Our stroke had been observed  and a cluster of the curious waited for us to make shore.

“Three-Quarter Stroke  going to Half!" yelled Tito. Eight beats later: “Quarter Stroke" and the cadence slowed. “Back Stroke " then: “Oars high!" signaled Tito.

We released our oars by the four-count and our wooden prow kissed the Red dock. Ropes quickly snared our galley before a crowd of Greeks  sailors  and cargo handlers on the dock.

The Owner of us all  a short pale man in a rich white tunic stepped  out of the gathering. He looked at Lucius across the gunwale of our shallow boat.

“Drummer " said the merchant. “They tell me you bet your freedom on victory."

Lucius stood quietly in the open bow  surrounded by our battered shipmates.

“Fortunately  no one accepted your offer  the merchant smiled. He looked at our sweating  bloody group. “A formidable crew " he said to us. “Well done."
"
As he left  he nodded to a tall  bronzed older sailor  calm as a cloud. I knew instantly it was Scudo that now stepped forward  our Drummer’s famous father  not just a legend  but the Drummer of Drummers for kings and heroes  up to that very day.

A pang of envy shot through me. Such a father! To have been the tail of such a comet would be to have bypassed the chains I wore  the abuse I’d taken  and the pain I carried. He looked noble in his sea-colored tunic.
My father wore the skin of a goat. And he smelled like one. I made father even uglier by growing imaginary horns on him to disguise how much I wanted him to be on this dock. To be proud of me.
Scudo stepped to the edge. Marsyas clambered awkwardly to his level and whispered to him.

Scudo gave orders over his shoulder and several men jumped into our boat and began lifting the least injured onto the dock. Others ran for litters.

“Your most dramatic class yet Ã‚£he said to Lucius  with a half-smile that reminded me of the Drummer himself.

“Best I’ve ever seen " said Lucius.

“Oarsmen!" said the older man. “My name is Scudo. I began following your progress when you lost your Rowing-Whip after just a week. Lucius has given me details about all of you  and I have an announcement. Your training is complete."

No one moved. Separation. New strange galleys. Hazed by horny sailors and attacked by pirates? Shackled for the rest of our lives with no Tito  no Lucius  no hope.

We were suddenly silent. Empty. What now?

As the sea floor exposed before a tidal wave  our ebullient camaraderie had disappeared. Our fear and hopelessness flopped on the seabed.

Had my heart stopped? I was holding my breath.

“All of you will have two days of recovery  with pay." He paused for the cheering. “Four of you are being invited to apprentice as drummers at my School  at Lucius’ specific recommendation." Scudo called out: “Tito! Drax! Cassil!" An attendant spoke in his ear. “Cassil can join us after recovery from his injuries. And Costas " he said  looking at me. My knees went soft. The boat rocked.

We ring with growth
Who seem to only age.
Our scars of crisis
Balanced lives presage.

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