The Eagle and the Dragon, a Novel of Rome and China

by Lewis F. McIntyre

  CHAPTER 32: MURDERS FOR A POT OF GOLD

  Hasdrubal made landfall at the dusty Parthian port of Hormirzad, on the north side of the Persian Gulf inside the straits of Hormuz, after spending about a week at sea in the small open fishing craft. He was dirty, he stank, and he was bone-tired, dozing only intermittently while single-handing the lateen-rigged fishing dhow.

  Late in the morning of the first day at sea, he had experienced an hour of sheer terror, as the distinctive blue-camouflaged sail of a Roman galley scout had passed within a mile or two of his boat, close enough for him to see the black hull as it pitched on the swells. He had doused his sails, but the galley continued on, dismissing him as another fishing boat. After that, nothing but endless sea.

  Hasdrubal had inventoried the cache that the ill-fated Francius had put together. A handful of silver denarii. Probably all of the young fool’s savings, given his meager income. Not even a hundred sesterces, all told. What a waste! Hasdrubal did not comprehend how some people could live their entire life within such narrow horizons.

  But the food and water, intended for three, was ample for the trip, and Hasdrubal was a competent small-boat pilot. He sailed at night to avoid detection, picking his course by Polaris, and put in during the day at the various fishing villages and landings along the Arabian coast until he reached the conspicuous mountainous promontory marking the southern end of the strait. At this point, he struck out due north, covering the hundred miles of open sea by dead reckoning. He raised the Parthian coast, and headed westward along the shore until Hormirzad emerged from the sweltering monsoon haze.

  Hasdrubal tied up the boat along the fishing docks, inconspicuous in his Arab burnoose. No one questioned him - just another itinerant fisherman. He made his way along the bustling alleyways of the busy town, past mud brick buildings in various states of repair until he reached the more affluent business district. Here he found the offices, and above them the luxurious apartment, of his contact in Parthia, Rani Ben Barca.

  Hasdrubal stepped into the rear servants’ entrance, where his disreputable appearance would attract less attention. A burly servant glowered at him, barking something in Parthian, which Hasdrubal didn’t comprehend, and again in Aramaic, which he did.

  “You there! Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

  “To see Ben Barca,” answered Hasdrubal, with authority. The servant was taken aback, then laughed, mockingly.

  “Sure, and I’m going to see the king of Parthia! Get your ass back out on the street, and don’t come back until you’ve had a bath! You stink!” The other servants laughed at him.

  Hasdrubal’s ears burned. “YOU get YOUR ass upstairs, and inform your master that Hasdrubal is here to see him. And if my smell annoys your nose, perhaps I’ll have Rani Ben Barca remove it from your face, as a lesson in manners! Now, go!”

  The servant gaped at the impudent response, made a move toward Hasdrubal, then reconsidered. “You better be who you say you are, or I’ll remove your whole head!” The man went upstairs, none too quickly. The other servants stopped laughing and stared.

  “Go on about your business!” barked Hasdrubal, and the gaggle disbursed.

  Ben Barca hurried downstairs from his apartment. “Hasdrubal, oh my, oh my! Upstairs quickly, and don’t talk to anyone!” he hissed quietly. And louder, so all the servants could hear, “I am eager to see your catch of fish. I hope you’ll sell at a good price.”

  Ben Barca slammed the door behind him as they entered the apartment. He dismissed his bodyguard, and waved the house servants away. “Here, sit. No, please, not on the sofa! It cost a fortune and you’re... well, please sit on this leather chair here.” He motioned Hasdrubal to a folding wooden chair with a leather seat.

  Hasdrubal sat down, wrapping his stinking robes around him. “Rani, sorry for the appearance, but I’ve had rather a run of bad luck. I didn’t bring the ships I promised.”

  Ben Barca sat himself down on the elegant white sofa, made of bleached lamb’s wool. “I’ll say! What happened to you?”

  Hasdrubal lied adroitly, “Ibrahim turned the tables on me. Took the ship for himself and set me adrift in a small boat. I barely escaped with my life. I’m going to need some help getting back to Alexandria.”

  Ben Barca eyed him suspiciously, his hand nervously toying with the narrow beard that fringed his chin. His other hand tapped nervously on the sofa.

  “Hasdrubal, I’m afraid you’re going to need more help than that.” Ben Barca paused, gauging Hasdrubal’s reaction. “Much more. Perhaps Astarte can help you, but I cannot.”

  Hasdrubal looked surprised. “Why? You and I have helped each other out of tight spots in the past. A few hundred aureii, a change of clothes, and I’m on my way. I’m sorry the deal didn’t come through as planned, but that wasn’t my fault!”

  “You don’t understand, do you? You really don’t, I think. But then, I could never tell when you were lying, anyway. The Romans were here, Hasdrubal... three days ago one of their galleys from Masirah pulled into port under a flag of truce. Their squadron commander met personally with the governor and told a slightly different version of your events. You’re wanted for treason and a couple of other state crimes that the Parthians don’t care much about. But piracy, conspiracy, jailbreak, murder... the Parthians took them really seriously. Do you want to tell me what really happened?”

  Hasdrubal looked aghast. It was an admirable act. “Impossible! You know me, I could never do those things! It’s a lie! Ibrahim set me up, I told you!”

  “Well, I would believe you, but I don’t see how even Ibrahim could get the Roman navy to corroborate his story to the Parthians. And take the risk of sailing into an enemy port under truce to warn them of a highly dangerous individual. They distributed your likeness, too. A reasonably good one, I might add. I recognized you right away. Who was the artist?”

  “That son of a bitch!” sputtered Hasdrubal. “What do they say I did?”

  “That you connived with pirates to hijack ships under your command, that you personally hijacked two freighters under Imperial orders, kidnapped a high-ranking Roman ambassador on a crucial mission, escaped from prison, killing a Roman marine and an Arab sailor. Stole a boat. Most importantly, the squadron commander, one Titus... Titus... oh what was his name, Hasdrubal?”

  “Cornelius,” Hasdrubal blurted, completely off balance.

  “Oh, so you have met,” said Ben Barca, smiling. “Well, Cornelius requested the governor pass on that Rome would view with concern your being sheltered in Parthia. Which, in non-diplomatic language means the consequences of your staying here are more expensive than the king sees as worthwhile. That was a stupid stunt, Hasdrubal. I thought you were bringing me a run-of-the-lot Indian Ocean freighter with the usual gold and silver, not likely to attract much attention. You hijacked not one, but two, top-of-the-line freighters with tens, maybe hundreds of millions of sesterces worth of gold, with a high-ranking Senator on board, on an Imperial mission. What do you think I would have been able to do with those ships, and what do you think the Parthians would be able to do with them?”

  Hasdrubal glared sullenly. “Money can buy anything here!”

  “Including trouble. The whole country is on a war footing now, and the question of war with Rome is no longer if, but when. And the king prefers it later to sooner, when he can win the big prize, Alexandria, and a truce that will kick the Romans out of Asia Minor.”

  “So? Fifty million sesterces outfits a lot of troops.”

  “Yes. And invites a Roman strike before Parthia is ready. That was stupid. You misled me, Hasdrubal, and you could have got my neck in the strangler’s noose. That didn’t happen, fortunately. Now on to your problem. Your face is going up all over the coast, and the border with Syria, as fast as the governor’s servants can make copies. It’s all over town, and riders have already been dispatched to the other coastal towns. There’s a sizable reward for your capture, and you don’t have to be breathing when delivered. Don
’t worry, it’s not big enough to tempt me, but it is several years’ pay to the commoners. The Romans identified all your banks, even a few I thought only I knew about. Anyone that extends you credit will forfeit his life.”

  “You know a lot about this,” grumbled Hasdrubal. The seriousness was sinking in.

  “The governor is a personal friend. In fact, I was visiting him when the Roman squadron commander called. He allowed me to remain. Particularly since he knows I know you. That friendship didn’t keep me from being grilled for several hours by the captain of the guard at the palace. This house has been searched, once openly and at least twice covertly. So you can’t stay here. You need to continue to look just as you do now, a disheveled dirty Arab. And keep your mouth shut, so your Phoenician accent doesn’t give you away.”

  “What the hell am I going to do then? Sleep in the streets with the dogs?”

  “I will take one last risk for you, Hasdrubal, and then I don’t know you. Not here. Not for a long time to come. You met Gyges, my head bodyguard, when you came in?”

  “Yes,” said Hasdrubal, now humble and feeling increasingly afraid.

  “He was expecting you. We have contacts with the lower strata of society as well as the higher. I have some friends that do some... smuggling and other less savory tasks for me from time to time. They’re a rough lot, but would not live to spend their reward if they turned you in. And right now, you don’t have enough money for them to rob. Gyges will take you to them. I’ll loan, no, give you some Parthian silver coins, several hundred in fact. In memory of our past adventures. Don’t stay in Hormirzad. And don’t go west. Try to go up east to Bactria. You won’t be expected up that way, and no one will even know you’re wanted. There’s a caravan going up that way in week. Be on it, keep inconspicuous. And don’t come back here. I’ll have to turn you in if you do. I’ve already taken too great a risk.”

  Ben Barca clapped his hands. “Gyges!” The big servant appeared from the shadows behind the elegant drapes. “Take my friend here to our prearranged place. Then come back, pick one servant that saw him here, and cut out his tongue in front of the others. Let them know what happens if their tongues get to flapping!”

  Gyges nodded.

  “May the blessings of Baal and the Lady Ishtar be upon you, Hasdrubal. Goodbye... and good luck!”

  Hasdrubal did not leave Hormirzad. He bribed one of Ben Barca’s lower-strata mercenaries with a silver coin to arrange a low-class room for him. He settled in, bathed, as he really did stink, shaved off his black beard, and cut his hair short, almost Roman style. He knew he had not sat for any sketch, so any drawing circulated by the Romans would be from memory, by someone who did not really know him. After a week, he felt comfortable enough to go about the city without looking over his shoulder, and passed several soldiers and urban cohorts who did not look twice at him. If asked, he introduced himself as “Mehdi,” a common enough name in Parthia, and avoided Aramaic in favor of Parthian, which he spoke not too well. But many outsiders in Hormirzad spoke worse… he blended in.

  He would be going east, but not with just a few hundred in silver. Ben Barca had quite a bit of money, most of which he kept in the house.

  About a month later, he went back to Ben Barca’s house a bit after midnight, when all the neighborhood was shuttered and dark. He began banging on the door, and calling out as loud as he could, “Ben Barca, wake up, it’s me, Hasdrubal! I need you!”

  The night watchman opened the door shutter to get a glimpse of the loudmouthed oaf outside, believing him to be some drunken acquaintance of Barca. He was not Gyges, but an older slave. At the same time, a lamp flared in the upstairs bedroom and Ben Barca threw open a window.

  “Shut up, you fool, you’ll get us both killed. Bazarges, let him in and I’ll be right down.”

  The door opened.

  Hasdrubal brushed past Bazarges and felt in his pocket for a weapon chosen for just this moment. He pulled out a sack filled with lead balls, held it by the end, and struck Bazarges solidly on the right temple from behind. The blackjack worked as well as the street thug who sold it to him said it would… a crunching sound indicated that it had done more damage than he had hoped, and the night watchman crumpled to the floor. He would be out for a long time, perhaps forever. Hasdrubal then drew his dagger and waited for Barca.

  Barca rounded the corner in a nightshirt, carrying a lamp. “Why the hell are you here? I told you to get out and never…” the words died in his throat as he eyed both the prone night watchman, laying in a pool of spreading blood about his head, and the shiny dagger in Hasdrubal’s hand, pointed at his midriff.

  “It seems I left something behind, some money I think. And don’t call out for Gyges, because I’ll spill your entrails on the floor before the words leave your throat. Anyway, I waited until he left to visit the brothel around the corner about half an hour ago. I want you to go quietly to where you keep your money, the big gold coins, not a few silver shekels.”

  Hasdrubal’s body was hardened by years at sea, firmly muscled though a little soft with fat. Ben Barca’s was the soft body of a merchant, who seldom did anything that a slave could do for him, other than eat or drink. He swallowed hard and nodded, “Follow me.”

  He led Hasdrubal upstairs to his bedroom and produced a small locked chest from under his bed. He fumbled around in his day clothing for a key on a thong he wore around his neck, and with shaking hands, finally persuaded the lock to open. “Here, take it all, and just leave,” he said, as the gold coins glinted in the lamplight.

  Hasdrubal picked a few up to inspect, and satisfied, put them back. “Lock it up, and give me the key. Then fetch me one of your slaves.”

  “Why?”

  “To help me carry it, of course.”

  Ben Barca led him to the sleeping quarters for the servants. A youngish one stirred at the disturbance. “That one. He’ll do”

  Ben Barca woke him up, bade him to be silent, and the three went back to his bedroom. “Please be a good lad and help carry this chest to the destination this gentleman requests,” he said. The lad picked up the chest, put it on his shoulder, and started down the stairs.

  “Thank you for your gracious hospitality, Ben Barca. You owed me much more than you were willing to give, however.” Ben Barca began to muster an answer but Hasdrubal’s dagger penetrated deep into his throat. He died gagging, but did not wake the rest of the household.

  He met the young slave at the door, where the lad was staring at the night watchman. Hasdrubal checked the man and determined that he was in fact quite dead from a massive head wound. “Say nothing, young man, and you will live through the night.

  Hasdubal contemplated the pleasure he was beginning to take in killing. Not like his timid fearful effort with the young Francius, who helped him escape from prison and certain crucifixion on Masira. There was an awesome power in the act of killing, in seeing the eyes begging for mercy, then their light fade after the stroke they never understood. He regretted the many deaths that he had ordered, allowing others to feel the pleasure instead of tasting it himself.

  At last they reached his poor accommodation. The slave carried the chest inside, and Hasdrubal flipped him a silver coin. “Thanks, you may go home now.”

  The slave, dumbfounded, looked at the coin and turned to leave. Hasdrubal grabbed him from behind and slit his throat. He was surprised at the amount of blood that gushed forth, and how long it took the boy to quit twitching. He carried the body out and dumped it in a creek that doubled as a sewer behind the building, and cleaned up the blood as best he could.

  Slaves were always the first suspects in domestic murders. The authorities would believe the slave stole the chest, killed the master and night watchman, and fled. His body would likely not be found, or if found, not recognized.

  Tomorrow, he would head east with a chest of gold to finance a new life somewhere.

  CHAPTER 33: ON THE MEANING OF LIFE

  The Europa sortied from Galle in early evening,
with just enough light left to pick her way out to the open sea. It was not Demetrios’ preferred time, because the night fell swiftly in the tropics, and there were still several hours before the ship would be clear of the rocks and shoals that lay not far away on either side.

  Demetrios put four boats over the side, ten rowers each, to begin the backbreaking job of towing the ship to open water. He posted lookouts with flaring torches on the bow, along with a man sounding for the bottom, periodically calling out the depth. Having made good their escape, there was little point in foolishly running aground in the harbor mouth.

  The Europa was broad, her round bottom far below the surface. It took half an hour to nurse the ship to a sluggish crawl, the rowers sweating and groaning by torchlight in the tropical evening heat. Fortunately, the work was short-lived, for after about an hour, Demetrios gave the call to cast off the towing lines, and the exhausted men returned to the ship. The mainsail snapped and boomed as it filled overhead, and with full sail, the Europa bore down on the swells, the west wind on her stern driving her bow down into each wave. After three weeks in port, it was good to be underway again, especially after the last two days.

  In view of the deck force’s excellent work in the firefight, Antonius had given them several days off without afternoon training. Which meant, when his men were off, so was Antonius.

  It was a splendid day ter be at sea, I can see why sailors like the life. Not another ship in sight anywhere, all alone on the open sea. The wind blew with just enough force to riffle up a few white caps on the dark blue wave tops, and the sky was dotted with just a few scattered clouds. The ship had, as the sailors called it, a “bone in her teeth,” a white-cresting bow wave that trailed behind her in a big vee. Looking aft, Antonius could see white wake extending for miles behind her, as the ship leaned slightly into the wind. Stays creaked, somewhere some sailors were talking, and up on the quarterdeck someone shouted a command. Alongside, a pod of dolphins joined in the fun, cavorting in the bow wave, taking turns doing a graceful roll out of the water.