Complete Works of Talbot Mundy, page 958
“Yes, master.”
Tros gave him a handful of silver coins and with an ominous growl commanded him to free the victims of his bestiality. He stood then to acknowledge the salute of the royal guard, and when the drum-roll and the trumpet clamor ceased he turned to help old Esias down the steps.
Conops pocketed most of the silver, somewhere up under his kilt, and thrust his arm between the guardsmen to give a small coin to each of the five obscenely screeching females. Then he followed Tros down the steps, let loose the painter and shoved off, taking his place in the stern at the steering oar. The Gauls, under Tros’s eye, rowed like one oarsman and seven copies of him, with one inseparable thump of oars on tholes and a swing that made the longboat leap. Conops leaned forward over the back of the stern seat, thrusting his head between Tros and Esias.
“Master.”
Tros made a courteous gesture to Esias and slightly turned his head to signify he was listening.
“A man named Lars Tarquinius—”
“The Etruscan? What of him?”
Esias looked startled. Tros irritated.
“He came aboard with a letter from the Queen’s secretary, saying we are to give him passage to wherever he pleases. He asks more questions than a court scribe when the torturers put the hooks to a witness.”
“Has he been in my cabin?”
“No, master. He said he had leave to sleep there. So I doubled the guard at the cabin door. I told him you reserve your spare bunk for the goddess Aphrodite Kallipygos when she’s tired o’ gods and craves a man to comfort her.”
“You scurrilous rogue. Has he examined the war engines?”
“Not he, master. All the paulins are one and the crews standing by. The new deck decurion, Paniscos, let him kiss the butt-end of a crankbar, for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. But he’d two teeth missing when he came aboard; so if he lies about it, master, all that happened to him was a cut lip, and now you know.”
“The magazines?”
“Nay, nay, master. I drew two chalk lines on the deck and bade him keep between ’em. I told off two young Scythians to treat him rough if he should set toe a skin-breadth too far. But I remembered what you’ve always said about hospitality, so I set a Greek — young Orodes, of the starboard after-catapult — to answer his questions. That’s as likely a lad as there is this side o’ Charon’s ferry, so the biggest lies ‘ll be all used up by now, if I know Orodes.”
“The young puppy dared to lie to me about the grease on the lower trunnions,” Tros answered. “I have my eye on him. Well, what else?”
“Nothing, master; only that the Etruscan asked, as it might be casually, which is your scribe that writes letters for you and keeps the ship’s accounts, and where does he sleep. So we fetched him up a blackamoor from the lower benches, and we showed him how a blackamoor has a ring in his nose to hang by, in the salt-fish locker, when he isn’t writing poetry and love messages from the crew to the queens of foreign lands. And about the queens, too, we told him plenty. But he keeps on questioning. And, master, if, you should ask me, ours are seafaring lads and as simple-minded as fish. Sooner or later, unless you clap a hatch on him, he’ll find out what he wants to know, and without us learning what that is until after the harm’s done.”
“Keep your eye on him. But I’ll have no interference with his personal belongings. Mind that. Is his luggage aboard?”
“Yes, master. In the midship deckhouse. Two canvas packages, roped by a landsman. Nothing in them but some clean rolls of papyrus; fish-ink in a bottle; a set of pens; three suits of underwear; a pair of Gaulish trousers; three shawls; two pair of sandals; three changes of roman street-wear and two red togas, one soiled, a leather bag of money — total, including staters and tetradrachms, about eighty-three denarii; three — no, four tunics, one torn; a bunch of rings tied together with wire, all cheap stuff; two books in wooden boxes; a couple of spoons and a good dagger; lots of bits of cloth to wipe his nose on, some letters—”
Conops paused, about the space of seven oar-strokes. Then, as they neared the great vermilion-sided trireme, and since Tros made no comment, he continued:
“Similax wrote down what’s in one of the letters. It’s on your cabin table, underneath the box of books. The Etruscan’s luggage is roped and sealed as he fetched it aboard.”
The boat entered the trireme’s shadow. Conops saluted:
“Tros oars, you tow-haired druids — do you think you’re fishing? — smart, bow, with your boat hook — hold her! — deck ahoy! Lower the bight of a rope for the merchant Esias.”
A trumpet sounded, then a roll of drums. There was a grand metallic thump and crash of arms at the salute, as Tros’s head appeared at the top of the boarding ladder. Puzzled, impatient, worried, baffled and involved in invisible toils he might be. But on his own ship he was master. He was captain of the lives and wills and destinies of men whose pride it was to do his bidding.
CHAPTER II. Tros takes counsel with Esias
I was born and taught upon the threshold of the holy Mystery, and all my days I have been faithful to the duty laid upon me to pursue peace — aye, and to forego my own advantage if thereby peace might come. But I have found no peace on earth, nor any honourable way of avoiding war.
— From the Log of Lord Captain Tros of Samothrace
The cabin below the poop was dim, although it was painted with bright colors. The ports, which were slot-shaped and could be closed by bronze shutters and wedged tight, were narrow enough to protect archers aiming at the rowers of an enemy vessel. Across all the openings were bronze brackets for the big yew bows that were stowed in racks against the forward bulkhead, between boxes of bronze-tipped arrows.
There were broad bunks on either side of the cabin, some big chests, heavily hinged and strapped with bronze; a curtained closet where Tros’s clothes were hung swinging in bags from a brass rail; and in the midst, with an armchair on each of three sides, was a heavy, oak table kept spotless, like the floor, by constant scrubbing. Barbaric embroidered hangings covered the after-bulkhead, and the bed-covers on the bunks were of Gaulish wool, dyed woad-blue — almost sky-blue. There was a box of books on the table — consisting of papyrus rolled on wooden sticks, each one thrust, end downward, in a circular container made from a section of bamboo.
Old Esias sat at Tros’s right hand, leaning against the chair-back, with his eyes half-closed, watching Tros’s face. His full beard and the locks that fell beneath his almost Arabian headdress were ash-gray. His ageing figure looked frail. But there was a very bright gleam beneath the lowered, wrinkled eyelids. He was a handsome old man, whose great wealth had not frozen his sense of humor, although it had made him suspicious and panicky. Salves,’ of which he owned hundreds, had not flattered away his judgment. At the age of seventy he could enjoy power, and he plainly had it, of a kind that suited his temperament. He was much more than a typical Jew of the diaspora; he was an exceptional man in, any company, the richest merchant in Alexandria, with connections all over the known world.
A Syrian steward, whose other job, his battle station, was at one of of the starboard-side arrow-ports, entered and set wine before them, seaman fashion with brusque courtesy, and two goblets of turquoise-blue glass from a Theban tomb, which he took from a chest and unwrapped as carefully as if they were red-hot. Tros mixed the wine with water. He and Esias sipped, spilling no libation to anyone’s gods, to the great scandal of the steward, who stood watching, his lips moving in silent supplication, or perhaps apology to invisible presences, until Tros ordered him to get forward and use his eyes on the dirt on the pantry floor.
“And mark me! Let me see a beetle when I make my rounds, and you shall eat it for supper! Ever let me catch you at prayers before your day’s work’s done, and you shall see whether praying balms a sore hide! Poseidon’s trident! Have I shipped a crew of Osirian acolytes? Gods worth praying to love clean ships and diligent men. Fall away. Send in the deck decurion.”
Old Esias sipped wine to hide a smile. Tros noticed.
“A good enough sailor, Esias, but if I let him, he would have me on my knees to half the gods of Homer.”
A young Phoenician, from Sidon, with gold ear-rings and a knife at his belt, entered and faced Tros at attention. He was kilted like a Greek, in Tros’s livery of unbleached cloth with a dyed border of Tyrian blue.
“Post your sentries six full paces from the cabin door with their backs toward it. No interruption except by Conops if he chooses, until I sound the gong.”
The Phoenician saluted, fell away and shut the door with a thud. Tros waited until he heard the sentries ground their spear-butts at the proper distance. Then he grinned at Esias. He had a grand grin.
“Fifty corn ships, Esias! That means how much money?”
The old Jew made a wry face. “Too much. I and my syndicate had to pay higher than last year’s price, though this year’s crop is heavier. You know the law of Egypt. Corn is royal revenue — royal monopoly. They won’t let us buy from the grower direct. The Queen’s new finance minister forced us to buy at his own figure, and to pay in advance.”
Tros nodded “That thought was the Queen’s, not his,” he answered. “That tricky eunuch would rather have borrowed the money from your people at twenty per cent, for the sake of a half per cent commission on the deal.”
Esias corrected him: “One per cent! But she has eyes, ears, imagination. She learns quickly. Caesar taught her. But now Caesar has been dead more than a year and I think she remembers his daring, forgets his caution. Hey-yeh! Was there ever a woman of the Ptolemies like this one? Her elder sister Berenice was a wanton who thought of nothing but loans and lovers. She died the death of a Jezebel, and good riddance. Arsinoe, the younger sister is more beautiful, and in a way more dangerous, because more ignorant; but perhaps as Queen of Cyprus Arsinoe can’t do much mischief. Cleopatra is not ignorant. No woman ever had vaster knowledge. None ever had greater difficulties. Instead of grieving for dead Caesar, Cleopatra emulates him. She seizes power. But what will she do with power? She has the grasp of a man and the guile of a woman.”
“The courage of a lad,” Tros added. “The imagination of a mystic. A man’s love of power. A woman’s sense of men’s weakness. No womanly fears.”
“A sphinx,” said Esias. It was not a compliment. He had a Jewish dislike of graven images.
“Aye, but not silent! Cleopatra’s voice is a weapon — a sweet sounding menace. Her riddle is hidden with laughter. Her moods are beneath the surface of gaiety. Beneath her soft speech and her flattering gentleness there is iron. Beneath her sensuousness there is strength.”
“Can you read her riddle?”
“I must, Esias. Her throne hangs by a thread. She will play me like a stake on the board, unless I use intelligence.”
“Well, you have it to use,” said Esias. “Who is this Etruscan, of whom your man spoke? Do I know him?”
Tros raised the box of books. He withdrew from beneath it a strip of soiled papyrus, on which something had been hurriedly written in Greek characters. He scanned it once and then read it aloud:
“Many of the letters in his little leather case are unsigned but addressed to Lars Tarquinius reporting simply that his letters were received by those for whom they were intended. One letter is signed by a man named Felix, who writes from Rome, saying that Octavianus, Julius Caesar’s nephew, is the leader to whom the wise are attaching themselves, because he is Caesar’s legal heir, and because he reveals great common sense and shrewdness, despite an unpleasing appearance, delicate health and disagreeable character. Felix says Octavianus has offended many of the legions by condoning Caesar’s murder, but the soothsayers nevertheless declare him to be invincible.
“Another letter is from a woman named Flora, who implores Tarquinius to find her a post in the Queen of Egypt’s household, adding that she will reward him generously. She writes from Messina in Sicily, where she says there is a strong party in favor of Sextus Pompeius who is said to inherit his famous father’s gifts and to be of a gallant disposition.
“Another letter is from a woman named Sappho, who writes Greek, saying she is in Rome, whither the proconsul Cassius sent her from Syria to watch certain people while Cassius makes ready to invade Egypt. But, says she, Marcus Antonius is the leader whose fortune it will pay to follow, seeing that he is in all respects a greater than Cassius, or than Brutus, who is in Macedonia, or than the degenerate Octavianus who is only a schoolboy, and at that a timid one with a perpetual cold in the head. Sappho adds that all the soothsayers favor Marcus Antonius, whose horoscope indicates brilliant success in all matters pertaining to politics, arms and money.
“The other letter has been written in a clear hand by a secretary, but the signature is difficult to read. It looks like Gaius Xenobarus, legatus, S.P.Q.R. The letter is short. It says simply: ‘Promises are of no more worth than threats. Neither will the one feed legions, nor the other win battles. Only deeds are worthy of a Roman’s consideration. See to it that thou be worthy of my good will’”
Tros frowned. “That,” he said, “is an important letter. Flora and Sappho can sink no ships at sea. If Xenobarus is, as I think, Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus, he commands a Roman squadron — perhaps even a fleet. There is no knowing where to look for him, but he is sure to be on the side of whoever he thinks strong enough to undo in Rome what Caesar did. Ahenobarbus’s father was one of Pompey’s captains in the war against the pirates. He led five ships against half a hundred and defeated them all in the Bay of Antioch. You remember? A ruthless victor. They say he crucified so many prisoners that he ran out of trees and nails and they had to cut the lucky last hundred’s throats. Mark Antony slew him with his own hand at the Battle of Pharsalia. He always hated Caesar. The obstinate old die-hard believed Pompey meant to reestablish republican rule in Rome! Perhaps that gives you an idea of the son’s mentality. He hates Julius Caesar dead even more than his father hated him before Cassius and Brutus and that lot stabbed him in the name of the Republic Rome, mind you, is hungry. So are Rome’s legions in Italy. So are Brutus’s legions in Asia. If Ahenobarbus is at sea with a squadron, and if I know Ahenobarbus, the cargoes of your fifty corn ships will be eaten by whichever side Ahenobarbus favors. And he will favor whoever he thinks will restore the Republic. But who then will pay you?” Tros grinned. “The Roman senate?”
“Lord Tros, what are the terms of your commission?” Esias asked.
“I have none.”
“Eh? What? You have only the Queen’s word? A Ptolemy’s word? The word of a woman of the Lagidae who plays against Rome for a kingdom?”
Tros nodded. “The Queen’s word, flatteringly murmured in the room with the tortoise-shell walls studded with turquoise, where she and Caesar once talked philosophy and plotted together to conquer the world. The room stank of rose-leaves in Persian jars.”
“Hey-hey-hey! Lord Tros! A stout heart and a strong ship may prevail over winds and waves. But she — that woman — she had even Caesar in her net!”
Tros laughed. “She has me in a net that never could have held him. Caesar, to gain his larger purposes, would have abandoned a hostage. He often did it. I not. She has all my Northmen — splendid, loyal seamen. She sent them all — even my lieutenant Sigurdsen — to forced labor, I don’t know where, for brawling in the Royal Area.”
“She understands you!” said Esias. “Truly she understands you. A man’s scruples can become a bridle and bit to his better judgment.”
“Aye,” Tros answered. “Not that she hasn’t scruples.”
“Of a sort,” said Esias. “Of a sort.”
“Feminine,” Tros agreed. “But it was another woman who thought of this trick. Cleopatra’s ministers were not picked for their righteousness, but a man can reckon with them, servile ingrates though they be. A man can out-think the rogues, as readily as she can. But her only intimate is a woman, whom none of her ministers dares to offend.”
Esias stared, trying to read the thought behind the words. “The Lady Charmion?” he asked. “From a cub that could be petted, she has changed, since Caesar’s death, into a she-lion, snarling mateless. I have heard it said, Lord Tros, and also contradicted, that she loves you. What is the truth of it?”
The stormy look came into Tros’s eyes — the hint of red that boded unpredictable but limitlessly angry deeds.
“A bitter virgin’s barrenness is not my business in life, Esias.”
“But she has her fingers in all the Queen’s business! She directs the Queen’s spies. She knows the Queen’s secrets. Tros, you should have pretended to love Charmion! At least you should have let her love you!”
“It is enough that she loves intrigue,” Tros answered. “It was Charmion’s idea to send your corn fleet to sea under escort of a war-fleet manned by officers and crews from Cyprus. Charmion knew — for who doesn’t? — that the crews were mutinous and their officers as full of treason as a beggar’s hair is full of lice. Sphaerus, the assistant minister of marine, had been blamed. It was a woman’s trick to get Sphaerus in trouble. He was Charmion’s enemy, or she his, no matter which. He commanded what she suggested. She blamed him, and he has now been sent to Berenice to cool himself on the shore of the Red Sea, waiting to tax the yearly Greek ship from Socotra and the spice fleet from Punt.”
“And the meaning of that?” Esias asked. He knew, but he preferred to learn how much Tros did not know.
Tros surprised him. “It means this, Esias. The Queen’s younger sister Arsinoe is Queen of Cyprus. Having once been Queen of Egypt, and having a double share of Cleopatra’s energy, but less than half her statesmanship, she is not in love with a throne on an island that is actually ruled by priests, pirates and exiled eunuchs. Arsinoe has never forgiven Cleopatra for not saving her from being made to walk in Caesar’s triumph through the streets of Rome. She was in golden chains, half-naked, jeered by the Roman mob. Spat on. I saw it. The two sisters love each other like a pair of poets at a competition. However, it was Caesar who made Arsinoe Queen of Cyprus. He did it mainly to annoy old Cato. But Caesar did it, so Cleopatra puts up with it. I think she has convinced herself that Caesar really was the god-upon-earth that she taught him to believe himself to be. If she can possibly avoid it she won’t undo whatever Caesar did. However, Arsinoe’s, minister Serapion — you remember Serapion? — big, handsome fellow with a voluptuous smile — is a fool who thinks he sees a chance to steal the throne of Egypt for Arsinoe again by intriguing with Cassius. The idiot believes that his cheap treachery is good enough to outwit a man who dared to stab Julius Caesar, made himself proconsul of Syria by force of arms and who now dares to imagine himself the coming ruler of the world. Cassius has six or seven legions in Syria and Palestine. They have devoured the country like locusts. They need corn, and so does Brutus. There is news, to hand this morning by a fast felucca, that Serapion has detained your corn ships in the port of Salamis. The crews of the escorting warships have declared for Cassius and Serapion has sent them to Sidon, to get in touch with Cassius. Serapion is supposed to be urging Cassius to invade Egypt, to put Arsinoe on the throne a$ a political puppet in Cleopatra’s place, perhaps with Herod for husband, and to send your fifty shiploads of corn to Rome as Cassius’s own gift, thus making Cassius popular in Rome, where Antony and Octavian are at each other’s throats, creating anarchy and getting themselves hated.”
