by Talbot Mundy
Tros led the ten Jews into the office and lined them up in front of a long counter, at which sat seven of the most efficient bureaucrats on earth—three to watch the three who did the business, and one to make sure that the watchers themselves did no thieving.
There was no astonishment, no comment, no expression of special interest. It was quite usual for Alexandrines to select festival days for rewarding faithful slaves. Tros was abrupt and businesslike:
“Give these ten men their freedom. Here are the certificates of ownership. Here are the receipts for the tax on previous transfer, showing the value at which they were then assessed.”
“Ten per cent again,” said an official.
“This is taxed as a transfer of ownership to the slave himself.”
Tros paid it, wincing. The officials signed and countersigned ten certificates on parchment. There was a charge for the parchment. The chief official sealed the ten certificates. There was a charge for the seal. A corresponding entry was made on the archive-scroll. There was a charge for the entry. Then each Jew received his utterly unexpected certificate of freedom. Tros cut short their jubilation.
“Fall in! Stand at attention! Have I loosed a lot of sentimentalists? If I buy garlic, do I kiss the seller? You have paid for your freedom— earned it, like men, in battle. Now earn friendship, by obedience as freedmen. rather than as slaves who must obey or be whipped. Form two deep! Right! Forward, by the right, quick march!”
Outside Conops returned their weapons. He observed their faces. He detected symptoms:
“Sulphury Cocvtus! Up-snoots, is it, proud and lofty? Which of you wants to fight me for who buys wine? Which two of you? No takers? Swallow this, then: what a slave does well, a freedman does exactly twice as well, or he hears from me about it with the butt-end of a crank-bar! Stand dignified— this isn’t Yom Kippur, or the Feast of Esther.’ By the right—dress! Cock your helmet straight, you! And for the love of your mother Jezebel, try to march as if you never wore leg-irons!”
He was talking for time and to distract attention. There was something going on that Tros might not wish to be noticed by his escort. A slave had slipped a note into Tros’ hand just as he was getting into the litter. A very well-dressed Alexandrine, in a two-horsed chariot at a street corner not far away, was watching, expecting a signal from Tros or an answer by the slave, and Tros appeared to be considering what to do or to say.
Then at last the queen’s eunuch came, sweating and very indignant; he had evidently been mocked and not too gently handled by the crowd as he traced the litter through the swarming streets. He tried to reach Tros, to give him a piece of his mind, but Conops interfered, blocking his way:
“Hold hard, capon! You’ll be spitted soon enough without crowding your betters! What’s the excuse you have to offer? What d’ye mean by sneaking off and leaving the Lord Captain in the streets without a peacock to show his importance? Betting on tomorrow’s races, were you?”
The eunuch was half-hysterical with anger. He minced thin-lipped profanity:
“Sailor!” Alexandria knew no worse epithet. “This is a royal litter! The queen’s!”
“Can the queen go where she pleases?”
“Certainly!”
“Well, here’s her litter, where its rider pleases!”
“Drunkard! I have orders to convey your master to the palace!”
“Then why didn’t you? I’ve half a mind to hand you over to the Civil Guard for—”
Tros had made his signal, and the very well-dressed man had left his chariot; he was talking fast and Tros was listening, in a deeply recessed doorway. Conops kept the eunuch too indignant to observe what was happening; he imagined Tros was behind the litter-curtains, but he couldn’t get past Conops to discover his mistake, and when he screamed to the bearers to march they were prevented by the Jews.
Tros, done listening in the doorway, thumped his fist into his left hand:
“No, I tell you! Do you know what no means? I will have no part in treason. You take advantage of my hatred of bearing tales to come and tell me of a plot that would cost the lives of dozens of you, were I even to whisper your name!”
“As for that, Lord Tros, your life is as easy to take as other men’s. Betray me, and sign your own death warrant!” “Keep your threats for cowards, Aristobulus! I will give you a piece of information— not for your own sake, for I think you a loose-tongued lecher who would sell his best friend, but for the sake of better men, who might be swept into the same net with you: the Princess Arsinoe is not in Egypt. I left her in Cyprus—”
“But I say she is in Egypt!”
“You call me a liar? Are you armed?”
“No.”
“Then govern your speech. I say, I left Arsinoe in Cyprus, well watched, guarded by Roman soldiers and a company of pirates— eighty men whom I made prisoner and turned over to her for a bodyguard.”
“Couldn’t she come with her pirates to Egypt?”
“About as easily as Daedalus flew from Crete to Sicily. Give her wings and a fair wind, scare away the eagles, and she might get half-way. Then she’d have a long swim, Aristobulus.”
“So you are on the queen’s side.”
“I am not on your side.”
“Did you know the queen has denounced you as a pirate?”
“I know she hasn’t.”
“Well, her minister did.”
“That is different. The Queen of Egypt doesn’t denounce. She kills, and explains or is silent. Denunciation is the cackle of a sail-trimmer, guessing himself into the queen’s good graces. No one will ever need to denounce you, Aristobulus. Your friends will find your mangled carcass on the city trash-heap, unless you can think of a less clownish plot than this that you have told me.”
“Look to it, Lord Tros, that you tell no one!”
“Look to your own tongue. Mine obeys me!”
Tros returned to the litter, and was into it, behind the curtains, before the eunuch saw him. There was a crowd eagerly listening to the argument between him and Conops. The Alexandrines despised sailors, and a sailor in armor, with bow-legs and only one eye, was an obvious buff for anybody’s humor, from a safe distance.
And court eunuchs were as much despised as hated. The local wits were doing their ribald utmost to incite Conops to use his weapon.
But no two pairs of landsmen’s eyes were as good as the one that glinted beneath the rim of Conop’s helmet. He had seen Tros return to the litter. He saw another man, not so well dressed, approach and whisper through the curtains. So he invented a brand-new set of reasons for delay.
He accused the eunuch of having demanded money, and of having decamped because Tros refused to pay him. Tros had spoken through the curtains to no less than three different whisperers before Conops suddenly cut short the argument by ordering the Jews to fall in again and resume the march.
He put himself at their head. The eunuch, unable to force his way through the crowd, had to follow the procession, fuming.
CONOPS led toward the palace by short cuts. He avoided the densely thronged Street of Canopus and made for the guardhouse at the main gate by a route forbidden to the public. There were armed guards lurking, ready to pounce on intruders and either rob and beat them or turn them over to the police, but they recognized the royal litter, and besides, eleven well armed men were too many to tackle. But the main gate was another story.
There the mercenary, polyglot, magnificently accoutred guards were lined up to keep petitioners from invading the palace grounds, and to keep a way clear for the going and coming of palace traffic. Captain Leander in leopard-skin and crimson strolled to the litter and drew the curtain.
“Mystery of mysteries!” he lisped. “So Tros is with us!” It had been “Lord Tros— Lord Captain Tros” six weeks ago, and “Remember me, Lord Captain, when you need a favor!” He pretended to study a list of names on a parchment scroll. “You have a permit?”
“I have access to the palace.”
“Ah
! But there have been changes recently. The old list has been canceled, and I can’t find your name on the new one.”
“Send in my name to the queen.”
“She is absent.”
“I will wait for her.”
“She has left no command to admit you.”
“Why, then, was the litter sent to bring me hither?”
Tros got out, and Conops came and buckled on his sword. The officer was as tall as Tros, and looked taller in his plumed helmet, but he looked frail in comparison. He stepped backward, and two of his men stepped forward, before he could resume his careless ease of manner and vaguely contemptuous tone of voice.
“I believe the Lord Chamberlain wished to let you know that there have been reports concerning you that make your presence at the palace not so welcome as formerly.”
“So!”
Another officer approached and whispered. Leander nodded.
“There is a law against armed slaves. Have you anything in writing, Tros, to establish your right to ignore the law? These Jews of yours were given to you by Esias. They are armed, unless my eyes deceive me. I was drunk last night at the palace banquet, but those look to me like swords and armor.”
He made a gesture. A platoon of twenty men stepped forward and grounded the butts of their spears with an ominous thud. The crowd of onlookers became excited; all Alexandrine crowds became excited at the least excuse, but to see Lord Captain Tros descending from a royal litter to be put under arrest by the queen’s guards was sheer drama. They began to shout:
“Pirate! Samothracian! Traitor! Judo-phile!”
That last word was a danger signal. Almost the easiest way to start a riot was to insinuate that Jews were in some way involved. One-third of the population, Jews were two-thirds of the political problem, popular and unpopular in about equal proportion, always enjoying special privileges, always being persecuted.
That the crowd accused Tros of befriending Jews suggested that Esias might be in trouble. The crowd took its cue from the court. Perhaps the queen had turned against Esias.
Tros began to wish he had left his Jews on board the ship, not from fear of the crowd, nor of the queen’s guards, but because he needed to be less conspicuous in order to learn what he wanted to know. A man in the midst of a racial riot isn’t likely to learn much more than a possible way of escape.
He commanded his Jews to produce their evidence that they were freedmen. Leander examined the documents, flicking his teeth with his thumb-nail, at an obvious loss what to do or to say next.
“You may tell the queen,” said Tros, “that I won’t submit myself to further insult from her lackeys.”
Without saluting he turned his back and marched away in the midst of his escort, grim faced, leaving the stuttering eunuch to take the litter where he pleased and to invent what lies he pleased. The crowd made way for him, gaping, doubting whether to enjoy his embarrassment or to marvel at his heroic bearing.
He looked not at all like a man in disfavor, disgrace or distress. There was scorn in his eyes, and on his shoulders an air of relief. He looked free of the earth, as if he foresaw great events and a wide horizon.
His ten Jews looked crestfallen, for it was a poor start for their first day’s freedom; and Conops, with his helmet a bit to one side, resembled nothing on earth but a Levantine sailor alert for trouble, glancing backward, suspicious, in fear of pursuit.
But Tros, too splendidly contemptuous to shrug his shoulders, strode like a conqueror.
They had marched all the way along the waterfront and reached the Heptastadium, where a wide street crossed the city at right angles to the Street of Canopus, before Tros halted. For a minute or two he stood with his back to the city and stared at the gigantic marble lighthouse on Pharos Island, and at the gay-hued crowd that swarmed along the connecting causeway— that causeway from which he had seen Caesar plunge and swim for his life.
“One has followed us, master,” said Conops.
“Man or woman?”
“Eunuch.”
“From the palace?”
"Aye.”
“Let him draw near.”
“Master, he appears to have no weapon, but be careful! Such as he would pretend to deliver a note and produce a cubit’s length of poisoned Damascus dagger!”
“Little man, if my name were on the death-list, we should be in a dungeon now, awaiting the executioner’s convenience. Since we set foot ashore, four different men have tried to fathom me. We are no use dead. The queen needs living legs for her endangered throne.”
“Sail away, master! We could haul out in the Piraeus.”
“Aye, within range of Brutus’ agents!”
“Very well then, in Tyre.”
“Within Cassius’ grip!”
“Then through the Gates of Hercules and—”
“Aye, and refit on the broad Atlantic!”
“Master, we could get plenty of men from the Balearics.”
“Does he draw near?”
“Aye. He looks treacherous. He seems to be waiting his chance to approach unnoticed.”
“What is he?”
“A blackamoor—one of the bath attendants.”
“Demand his business.”
Tros didn’t even turn his head. He was still staring at the Pharos— he and his escort forming a little island in the midst of the stream of people swarming toward the city— when Conops returned.
“Master, he bade me say this: The queen is on Lake Mareotis.”
Tros nodded. For a minute or two he was silent. Then he turned and they stared at each other.
“Little man, were it not for my good Northmen, who must be found and rescued, I would burn this ship and go elsewhere and build another. But the queen has us cornered.”
“Master, let those toss-pot axe-men rot—aye, and the wenching Basques, too!”
“Did I leave you to rot when Caesar’s men put out your eye and made you half a sailor?”
“But—”
“Has not Esias a warehouse on the shore of Mareotis?”
“Aye, master, a whole furlong of buildings— stores of stuff from India, and from Punt—hemp, too— and sheds for the slaves. It was there that our Basques made trouble for us by breaking into the compound where Esias keeps the virgins for the household market.”
“You were with them, I remember.”
“Aye, preventing—”
“To the tune of a virgin for whom I reimbursed Esias for the loss of value.”
“She seduced me, master! She was a carroty-haired Circassian, with a pair of eyes on her like green jewels. She could see me in the dark. She—”
“Aye, aye, she seduced me. To Esias’ warehouse—forward!”
“Escort—atten-shun! Right dress! Hold your chin up, Jeshua! By the center, quick march! Right turn! Left wheel! Left! Left! Pick your heels up, Jeshua! Eyes to the front and try and look like fighting men, not bathhouse beauties! Left! Left! You’re freedmen, remember. Don’t be afraid to smash some bunions —tread on ’em—bring your feet down with a wallop—let ’em feel your sword-hilt if they won’t make way—that’s better—left! Left! And now remember who’s your captain, and when we get to Esias’ sheds, no pitch-and-toss-play with the guards for a chance at the girls. Left! Left! Straighten your helmet, Simeon! Left! Left!”
CHAPTER III
“i PREFER THE QUEEN’S TRAP TO THAT OTHER.”
AGAIN, no sign of old Esias. His block of buildings was almost a city itself, marble-walled and colonnaded where it faced a great gap in the city wall, but built of brick in the rear and divided into a maze of crowded compounds.
Alexandria lay between Lake Mareotis and the sea, and the lake-front was a long line of parks and promenade. There were a boat harbor, dozens of wine-booths, some expensive restaurants, and great gaps in the wall, planted with ornamental trees.
The wall was useless for defensive purposes. The cross-city canal emerged beneath a marble bridge not far from Esias’ warehouse; westward
of that the lake shore was reedy and unconfined by a bulkhead, but to the eastward was the royal wharf, and beyond that the entire lake front was of well-built masonry.
The size of the lake was unguessable, there were so many islands, fringed with papyrus, many of them white with the marbled roofs of villas. There was always a haze that blended lake and sky, and through that threaded countless boats, some from the Nile through the thronged canal, laden with the produce of the richest land on earth.
There were miles of staked nets and hundreds of fishing boats. And amid them all, blazing with paint, were the awninged yachts of the wealthier Alexandrines.
Leaving his escort in the colonnade, Tros entered the warehouse office— a huge, dim, mysterious chamber beamed with rough-hewn olive, stacked with merchandise and shelves of scrolls, and reeking of spice. Nathan, the third in seniority of Esias’ partners, loomed forth from the dimness, solemn as a vulture but almost painfully eager to seem courteous. Six slaves bowed behind him.
“Greeting! Greeting! Where is my friend Esias?” Tros asked.
Instead of answering, Nathan led into an inner office, a mere cabin of a place, with a window that gave a view of a compound where some slaves were being taught to read and write Greek, to increase their market value.
“Lord Captain, Esias does not dare to be seen speaking to you. Neither do I dare to say why— not even to you, within four walls. Esias is with witnesses who will prove he has not spoken to you.”
“And he sends me no message.”
“Yes. He says ‘Look to your life!’ And I add my warning to his. Lord Tros, we have been forbidden to repair your trireme.”
"By whom?”
“The less mention of names the better —but by the same minister who has proclaimed you a pirate.”
“Publicly?”
“Yes. Officially, no. At a banquet at the palace, where he made a speech to some Roman notables, who have come overland from Cassius’ headquarters, seeking money and men, he referred to you by name as a seditious alien, whom Pompeius Magnus would have known how to drive from the sea.”