The slap still stinging on his cheek, Eujal was shoved towards a dark, narrow hatchway reeking of stale sweat, bilge water, and human misery. Rough hands pushed him down steep, ladder-like steps into a suffocating gloom, the sounds of the upper deck fading, replaced by a low and uncomfortably rhythmic groan of timber. He had a bad feeling about this. The slap of water against the hull was audible, and there was something else… a steady, pounding beat.
He stumbled onto a narrow central walkway. On either side, rows of long, heavy benches stretched into the oppressive darkness, illuminated only by the faint, shifting light filtering through the round oar ports near the waterline and the occasional smoky lantern swaying overhead. Three men were Chained to each bench, stripped to the waist, their backs glistening with sweat and marked with old and new scars. Before them, massive oars angled out through the ports, their inboard ends thick and hard to grab due to their girth.
The air was thick enough to chew, heavy with the stench of unwashed bodies, stale urine, and the ever-present damp rot of the lower hull. Heat radiated from the packed bodies in a manner that caused the space to turn into a sweltering pit.
"Get him chained! Bench seven, right in the middle spot!" a harsh voice growled from a raised platform near the stern. Eujal saw the silhouette of a man standing there, a long and intimidating whip in his hand. It was clear that he was the Hortator, the keeper of the rhythm that these slaves must keep up with.
Before Eujal could fully process the horror, he was seized again, shoved onto the indicated bench between two other wretched figures. A heavy iron shackle, cold and unforgiving, was clamped around his ankle, the chain bolted securely to the bench frame. There was barely enough slack to shift his weight. His neighbor, being a gaunt man with haunted eyes, didn't even look at him; his gaze was fixed dully ahead.
"Hands on the loom, maggot!" the Hortator shouted.
Hesitantly, Eujal reached for the massive wooden shaft of the oar before him. It was rough, worn smooth in places by countless hands, and sticky with sweat and grime. Its sheer weight felt impossible.
THUMP... THUMP... THUMP...
A large mallet struck a wooden block near the Hortator, setting a relentless pace.
"Heave!" the Hortator roared.
Instinctively, Eujal threw his weight back along with the men beside him. The oar was incredibly heavy, resisting, demanding every ounce of strength he possessed to move it through its arc. His muscles screamed in protest almost immediately. His soft, calloused-from-fishing hands felt inadequate, raw against the rough wood.
"Dip!"
They leaned forward, pushing the oar handle down and lowering the blade outside the hull.
"Pull!"
Again, the agonizing strain, leaning back, dragging the blade through the water. The bench scraped against his bare legs. Sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes. His back felt like it was tearing.
THUMP... PULL... THUMP... DIP... THUMP... PULL...
The rhythm was everything. It dictated breath, movement, and existence. Falling out of sync meant disrupting the bench, earning the immediate, searing attention of the Hortator's whip. Eujal saw it lash out further down the walkway and heard a choked cry as it bit into flesh. Fear, cold and sharp, cut through his initial shock.
This wasn't the Zhardokhan mercenary life he'd vaguely, foolishly envied. This wasn't freedom or adventure. This was a living hell, a machine made of wood, iron, and broken men, fueled by agony and driven by the merciless beat of a mallet.
Hours bled into each other, marked only by the changing intensity of the rhythm. Sometimes, it was a steady, grinding pace for cruising. Other times, a frantic, lung-bursting tempo spurred on by shouts from above and the stinging kiss of the whip drove the warship forward at speed. His body screamed. Muscles he didn't know he had seized and cramped. Blisters formed on his hands, broke, and bled, the saltwater spray seeping into the raw flesh. Thirst became a constant, tormenting presence, only occasionally alleviated by a ladle of brackish water shoved towards their bench by a guard. Food was a handful of gritty, stale bread tossed onto the bench, devoured without thought.
He learned to move with the oar and anticipate the beat. He would hoard his strength for the moments the Hortator's eye swept over his bench. He understood the way of surviving in the ship: pull, dip, breathe, endure. Don't falter. Don't attract attention. Don't think about the life he'd hated but which now seemed like paradise. Don't think about his father's pleading face, left behind on their small, insignificant boat.
The men beside him were silent machines. They pulled, dipped, and occasionally groaned but rarely spoke. Sometimes, during the brief lulls when oars were shipped, or the pace slowed, he'd catch a glimpse of the man chained next to him. He noticed the hollow cheeks, the vacant stare, the group of scars telling a story far longer and harsher than Eujal's seventeen years. How long had they been here? How long could a man endure this?
Can I endure this?
He looked at his hands, now ruined unlike ever before – so red, swollen, bleeding constantly, the fishing callouses long since torn away. These weren't the hands of a fisherman anymore. They were the hands of a beast of burden that was chained to the timber. He was now a part of the ship's engine. The bearded man's mocking laughter echoed in his memory. Slave.
Days turned into nights, nights into days. Or perhaps it was the other way around. Down here, time lost meaning, measured only in the strokes of the oar, the ache in his back, the gnawing emptiness in his belly, and the relentless THUMP... THUMP... THUMP that pounded not just on the wooden block but inside his very skull to the point that it was literally drowning out everything else. He was no longer Eujal, the fisherman's son who dreamed of escaping Khardouth and living a life that was fashioned after his own desires. He was Bench Seven, Middle. He was the oar. And the oar was agony.