V

Around midday, far out in the Sofjorland Strait, the sound of wood creaking with the slow roll of the waves as they passed under the Nevan slaver ship. The gulls screeched as they circled astern of the ship, diving here and there to pick out what food they could from the refuse trailing the ship, and occasionally getting lucky enough to pick off a small fish surfacing for the same reason.

The ship was a mid-sized Nevan galley, with a crew of around sixty fighting men, and around double the number of galley slaves to man oars. Among the fighting men, half of them were competent seamen, and they were paired with the not-so-competent ones so they could learn the ropes.

Attached to the bow was a bronze ram for punching into the hulls of merchant ships unlucky enough to be caught unescorted. Above the ram was a painted pair of eyes above a gaping sharp-toothed mouth. It 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 generally only useful for tailwinds heading forward from the rear of the ship in a roughly forty-five-degree arc on each side of the centre line. Wind in any direction outside this arc, and they would have to furl the sail and take up oars. Such were the limitations of ship design in the Neven vessels.

The oars were raised as although the wind was not strong, it was flowing in the direction Gracchus wanted. He felt it a good omen, considering the sour taste his 'mission' left in his mouth. Surely the rewards are more than he could hope to earn in two years with no setbacks, but oh, the risk should something not go according to plan.

The Nevan people were strong, hardy and disciplined. Their battle tactics had won them a vast and mighty empire. One could forgive an average Nevan a certain level of arrogance considering these things. But Gracchus, more than most people, knew the folly of overconfidence.

He paced the deck and checked to make sure the galley slaves were kept in their place. He glanced about, occasionally tugging a rope here, checking some rigging there, and with a final glance towards where the Nevan shore lay over the horizon called out to Vannur.

The muscular, bald man came over to the Gracchus and snapped to attention "Yes Captain?" he said in his gravelly, salt-seared voice.

"Let's go below and inspect our friend's cargo."

"Aye, sir."

With that, both men disappeared into the hatch leading to the hold near the ship's keel. Lined along both sides of the hold were barrels. Gracchus grabbed the lantern hanging next to the hatch frame and passed it to Vannur.

"Hold the lantern for me so I can see what I'm doing."

"Aye sir"

Gracchus spied the one that he sought, 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, bugger me!" he exclaimed in a barely restrained, hushed tone.

"Sir?"

"That shit! That utter shit! What in the bleedin' blue blazes game is he playin'?"

"What is it, sir?"

"Look in that barrel, 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 help me. Are those…?"

"Yeah, they are." Gracchus gently pressed the back of his hand against Vannur's chest, indicating him to move aside, and then started to move some of the items in the barrel, until he found what he was searching for – a tightly bound scroll, which read as follows –

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 it is filled with the uniforms and weapons of our glorious legions. Unfortunately, I couldn't include the shields, as they don't fit in barrels, and are therefore not so discreet. However, the tunics, helmets and breastplates should more than suffice.

Any of your fighting men that you intend to put ashore for this venture, I require to don these uniforms. I need witnesses to see them, and of course, should the unfortunate happen, that some of your men happen to die there, all the better. I am sure that I needn't tell you it is imperative that none of your men can be left behind alive for capture and questioning.

Once you have selected your target, taken what captives that you can, and are on your return voyage, I will need you to ensure that the uniforms are sunk 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 as he thought to himself 'He's a crafty bastard. Didn't sign off in case I don't burn it.' He turned to his first mate and instructed him "Count how many uniforms, and then round up that many of our most capable fighting men, plus five or so more. Tell them meet down here after supper. We'll let them know the plan and their tasks then."

"Aye sir, I'll take care of 'er"

With that, Gracchus returned to the main deck and headed aft to his cabin with 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 with "Good day to you, sir" or similar.

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.

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. Poured himself a drink, downed it in one go, and then poured himself another. He then turned to his cabin lantern, opened the cover, and with a shaking hand held the scroll to the flame.

He tilted the parchment to ensure it was catching nicely and then returned to his table, dropping it in the metal bowl at the table's centre. He sat down, eying the burning parchment as he continued drinking from his cup.

Gracchus was not generally a coward. However, he had a very reasonable fear of Halder ships. He had seen first-hand what happens to an armed vessel that takes hostile action in their waters. Fortunately, he was at the rear of the last invasion fleet the Nevan Empire sent to expand the empire into Halder lands.

It was twenty three years ago when he was still a Sergeant in the Nevan Imperial Legion. The fleet he was with was sent as an advanced party of thirty ships to establish a beachhead on the coast of Skord. They didn't even make it halfway across the Sofjorland Strait before a group of six Halder ships came upon them. SIX SHIPS! And within the space of two hours, the Nevan fleet of thirty was reduced by two-thirds. The remaining captains turned their ships to head home, almost whipping their galley slaves to death to get the best speed out of them.

While it was certain that the six Halder ships would have been overwhelmed eventually, the sight of three more Halder sails, with their distinct bicolour vertical striped pattern, on the eastern horizon was enough to break the advanced fleet and send them scurrying home.

Of the twenty or so ships that the Haldermen boarded, only one returned to the Nevan Empire. Its sail was replaced by the crew, who 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 sight of a Nevan galley propelled by a mainsail made of men with their flayed back skin stitched together ensured that from that point on, the Nevan Empire entered into actual, guileless, formal diplomatic relations. The story of what happened to that crew ensured that if the Nevan Empire talked of invading Halder lands again, their entire military would revolt. The rest of the ships and crew were never seen or heard from again. Gracchus presumed they were burnt hulks lying on the bottom of the Sofjorland Strait.

Gracchus startled at the noise of thumping on his cabin door. He realised he must have dozed off, as he spilled the quarter of the cup of wine he was drinking onto his tunic. He muttered to himself some choice swear words as he tried to brush the wine off before it soaked in. After this futile attempt, he stopped bothering, as he decided a slightly darker shade of red on a red tunic wouldn't be all that noticeable.

"Captain? Permission to enter?" came the query in Vannur's voice.

"Come!" replied Gracchus. "What is it?"

"It's time. The men are gathered in front of the hold hatch. Twenty five in total, twenty for the mission, plus the five additional you asked for."

"Good, good. Now, when we brief the men, I need you to stand to the rear of them. If any start to protest, I will give you the signal. On that I want you to take care of them. I can brook no doubt or dissent. There is too great a risk to put up with any nonsense."

"Aye, sir. I'll get 'er done."

"Right, go and get them into the cargo hold, so I can give them their orders. I'll be along shortly."

"Aye." And with that, Vannur moved to the table and grabbed the plate of ash to remove it and have it cleaned in the scullery, turned to leave but paused briefly and said "I figured you didn't want to be disturbed until now, so I made sure to keep your supper aside. I'll bring it here after you brief the men."

"Very good. Carry on."