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Year of the Oar
By Clare Seven
Part 1
“Name?”
She asked me again as I glanced about the drab office.
“Justine…Justine Laing. It’s written on the form.”
The large bespectacled woman looked up from the pink form in front of me, her
manner betraying the fact that she was having a bad day, in a bad week, perhaps in a
bad life.
“Thank you Miss Laing,” she replied, her voice dripping with venom.
“Now,” she continued. “You are out of work yes? And what was it you’ve been
doing?” She glanced at the form. “You’re 33 now is that right?”
I nodded. “Yes. I’ve been a professional triathlete, with lottery funding. I injured a
knee last year. I’ve recovered but, I won’t be at my peak again.”
The regret bit at me as I looked away. A career, a life; over completely since the
injury, and now I was forced to talk to some fat angry office jerk in order to try and
get a job.
“I see. A failed athlete then?”
I stared at her, bit my tongue. No point getting angry.
I ignored her comment. “I have some coaching skills.”
“Can you type?” she interrupted.
“What? No of course not.”
“I see,” she said, face now fixed to the notepad on the black file.
“So you have few skills then, would you agree?”
I nodded. “And so, what would you recommend?”
“Oh we have many courses that you can…”
“But I need a job now!” I retorted angrily.
The woman stared back at me.
“Well shouting won’t get you anywhere Miss Laing.”
I remember storming out of the employment office with a high heartrate. Training
over the years had helped me listen to my body. I hadn’t been that stressed in such a
long time. Well, not that type of stress anyway. At least before a race I knew that I
would burn up the frustration and fear as soon as we got started. The end of my career
as a triathlete could have gone better I guess. The knee was better, but the prospects of
getting back into the national team, and achieving funding were a lot less hopeful. I
had considered focussing on one element of the sport aside from running which the
knee put paid to. Cycling, swimming maybe. But I was thirty three, recovering from
injury, and despite my experience, I would never be as fit as I had been and less
competitive that the twenty somethings who were looking for places on the
international squad.
I mulled over my future as I sipped the glass of wine in my apartment. I’d been
invited to a party by a friend, who promised that I could get a job with some of her
‘networking contacts’. Great, I pondered, a desk job somewhere working like a slave
for some exec who didn’t really give a damn. I couldn’t wait. I’d go to the party of
course. What the hell else was I going to do?
***
The little black number that I’d chosen to wear was a poor fit. Either it was the muscle
around my buttocks or the small amount of weight that I’d put on during my
convalescence for the knee injury. Dresses weren’t designed for triathletes with large
thighs, wide shoulders and arms and legs like pistons. I felt distinctly uncomfortable
as I stood in the corner of the bustling room. Jennifer had been kind enough to invite
me, even make me feel welcome, though the site of a well built, muscled redhead who
looked angry enough to bite the head off any potential suitors seemed to make the
prospective approach of most a little unwelcoming.
I sighed as the party got into full swing and as I found a seat near the kitchen of the
well furnished apartment. Jennifer gave me an awkward smile, as if she knew that not
only was I not enjoying myself, but every attempt that she had made with one of her
‘friends’ to approach me about a job had so far failed. It didn’t look like the situation
was about to improve anytime soon either.
I stood up to leave, and placed the empty glass on a nearby table.
“Jennifer tells me that you are looking for…employment?”
I gasped and spun around. The man had appeared behind me. I must have seemed
visibly shocked. He was tall, dark, middle aged and obviously fit.
“I…yes…well I’m not desperate yet,” I grunted, immediately regretting how the
words might sound.
“Oh, do I appear to be desperate. I do apologise.” He laughed a little.
“No, not at all. I’m sorry.” I extended my hand. “I’m Justine,” I said. I could feel my
face reddening.
He took my hand lightly and bowed to kiss it gently. “I am Joshua,” he said, in a
smooth voice.
Oh tell me he’s trying to pick me up, I thought idly.
“You…mentioned a job?”
“Yes,” he said, his eyes boring into me. “It would be a one year contract”
“A contract, oh.” I found it hard to hide her disappointment, I had been hoping for
something a little longer term.
“Well yes, but a very lucrative one, if I might say so.”
He sipped at his wine, glancing at my hips and thighs. Was this guy some sort of
pervert?
“Doing what exactly?”
“Well, Jennifer tells me that you were a top, well, a professional triathlete. A business
partner of mine has need for your…skills, shall we say.”
“Skills?”
“Yes. Your fitness and physique for a start?”
“Oh, coaching or something?”
“Not exactly, more…labour.”
“Labour?”
“Yes. But trust me,” he said smiling. “the amount of money concerned is
considerable.”
“How much?” I said.
“Well, for an athlete of your standing, working for one year.” He paused to consider,
again looking at my hips, legs, shoulders.
“One million pounds!”
I almost choked on the wine, but tried to remain calm. I wasn’t going to give away the
fact that I was needed the money and the distraction, never mind a direction in my
life.
“That’s a lot of money for…labour, as you call it.”
“Yes,” he replied. “It’s exhausting, a high pressure environment, with extremely bad
hours. So much so that your benefactor would seek to financially reward you
handsomely for each year that you do. It would be a challenge, but then, I thought you
were the type of person who might respond to that.”
He sipped at his wine, taunting for a reaction.
“So, what is the job?”
He paused.
“You would row on a galley.”
I stared at him. My first thought was that he meant a galley kitchen on a yacht. But he
had said row, hadn’t he?
“Row?”
“Yes, like in Ben Hur. Have you seen that movie?”
“I…I have. You mean where the slaves row?”
“That’s it yes. You employer has had a replica ship rebuilt. He uses it to cruise
around…well, some of the more isolated areas of the med.”
“Sounds like good training?” I said, sipping from my own glass.
He laughed, smiled at me. Again I noticed how he looked, as if sizing up my
potential..
“Are you checking my physique, or is it some sort of pervert thing?” I heard myself
say.
“Neither. I am imagining you at the oar, Assessing whether your frame would take the
workload, over time.”
“Oh I think I’d be fine,” I said.
“You’d be surprised. We’ve had athletes before. A lot of them show even less
endurance than the prisoners.”
“The what?”
“The prisoners. Oh they’re locals for the most part. They get a reduction in their
sentence for agreeing to row on the Master’s galley. But of course, he loves to employ
those more, shall we say, fit, western women.”
“It’s a prison ship?” I said, a little too loudly.
“After a fashion. But you need not fear the prisoners, discipline is swift and
effective.”
I nodded, apparently understanding, but not entirely sure that I did.
“I see. And the volunteers? They are protected in some way?”
“That is often a question that the volunteers ask,” he answered, considering his
response.
”The paid rowers are treated exactly as the prisoners in all ways. They are paid for
their service after all. And you are all there to work. All rowers are chained, lashed
when they falter, punished if there is persistent poor performance.”
“Lashed? You mean they are whipped?”
“Of course. It is very much a traditional slave galley. Did you expect something
else?”
“That can’t be...allowed?” I blurted, astonished at his blasé tone. “So we…they sit in
chains and rags and get whipped as they work?”
“Oh no,” he sniggered. “No rags. All rowers are completely naked.”
I gasped, wide eyed as I stared at him, finding it hard to believe that he actually
wanted me to go through with this. I put down the drink, conscious that I might throw
it over him.
“So let me get this straight,” I said. “You want me to row naked, in chains and have
people whip me, for a year, for a million, is that it?”
He nodded slowly, a smile growing on his face as I stared back at him.
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