by Talbot Mundy
“I want an interview with Balbus. Do you think your master could persuade him to come to my ship?”
Chloe shook her head violently.
“There have been too many plots against his life of late,” she answered. “In some ways he is careless, in others he is like an old fox for caution. If you were an informer, if you had some tale to tell him about new conspiracies—”
Tros grinned. She had touched his genius. His hero was the great Odysseus. He knew the Odyssey by heart. He could make up a tale on the spur of a moment to meet almost any contingency.
“Tell Balbus I bring him opportunity to be a greater man than Caesar!” he said confidently. “Bid your master tell Balbus to trust me, that he may stand in Caesar’s shoes.”
She smiled, stared, smiled at him, her eyes astonished.
“Are you a seer?” she asked. “Those lion’s eyes of yours — I — I—”
“Go do my bidding!”
He had aroused her superstition. If superstition might assist the pearls to bind her in his service, he could play that game as well as any man.
He rose from his chair and took Herod ben Mordecai by the neck. The Jew clutched at his wrists and tried to struggle. Tros shook the senses nearly out of him and dragged him out on deck, where he called a Northman.
“Fasten this man in an empty water-cask.” Then suddenly he thought of Horatius Verres and turned to Chloe. “Fetch your Roman.”
She led out Horatius Verres by the hand. They looked like handsome children in the darkness.
“Verres,” said Tros, “you may earn my favor. Go below. Stand guard over this Jew. See he doesn’t escape from the cask and that none has word with him.”
There was a smile on Verres’ face as he followed the Northman. The fellow had the Roman military habit of obedience without remark. Tros decided he liked him. He turned to Sigurdsen.
“Put this woman ashore. Nay,” he said, taking his cloak from her, that stays here! You may have a blanket.” He returned to the cabin, took a blanket from his bunk and threw it over her. “Now, I will be in Gades harbor with the morning tide, ready for action. If Balbus is friendly, be you on the beach. If you are not there, I will send a threat to Balbus that unless the Lord Orwic and my man Conops are on board by noon, unharmed, I will burn all Roman shipping. I make no threats that I will not fulfill. For you, in that case, there will be no pearls, no freedom, no Horatius Verres, for I will sail away with him! So use brains and be swift.”
Chloe went overside like a trained athlete, hardly touching the rope- ladder that Sigurdsen hung carefully in place. Tros watched the boat until it vanished in gloom at the edge of the path of moonlight, then returned to Simon in the cabin.
“Simon, old friend,” he said, sitting down beside him, “in the fires of friendship men learn what they are and are not. I have learned this night that you are not so rich as I believed, nor yet so bold as you pretended. No, nor yet so wise as your repute. Tell me more of this Herod ben Mordecai.”
Simon drooped his massive head in the humility of an oriental who acknowledges the justice of rebuke, and was silent for as long as sixty labored breaths. Then, wheezing, he revealed the sharp horns of his own dilemma.
“Tros, that Herod is a professional informer. Now he acts spy for the tax- gatherers, now he betrays a conspiracy, now he plays pander to Balbus. Now he buys debts and enforces payment. Now he lays charges of treason, so that he may buy men’s confiscated valuables at the price of trash. And he has found out what is true — that there are weapons in my warehouse!”
Tros thought for a minute, drumming with his fingers on the table.
“Simon,” he said at last, “you are not such a fool as to have let that happen without your knowledge.”
In silence Simon let the accusation go for granted. He stared at the table, avoiding Tros’s eyes.
“Tros,” he said presently, hoarsely, “I am a Jew. I am not like these Romans who open their veins or stab themselves when their sins have found them out. Yet mine have found out me. I let myself be called the friend of Pkauchios, that cursed, black-souled dog of an Egyptian, a sorcerer! Hey-yeh-yarrh! It is the fault of all my race that we forever trust the magicians! We forsake the God of our forefathers. Too late, we find ourselves forsaken. Adonai! I am undone!”
“But I not!” Tros retorted. “I am not a Jew, so your god has no quarrel with me. Tell me more concerning Pkauchios.”
“He has a hold on Balbus, through his sorceries. He knows that Balbus owes me a million sesterces. He knows I need the money. He knows Balbus would like to indict me for something or other in order to confiscate my wealth, such as it is — such as it is. I have a thousand slaves I can’t sell, some millions I can’t collect! Pkauchios plans an insurrection by the Spaniards, who will listen to any one because they groan under the Roman tyranny. But forever they plot, do nothing and then accuse one another. I would have nothing to do with it. But Pkauchios knew of nowhere, except in my great warehouse, to conceal his weapons from the Roman spies. He offered me a price — a big, a very big price for the accommodation. And he threatened, if I should refuse, to whisper a false charge against me.”
“And you were weak enough to yield to that?” Tros asked him, wondering.
“I grow old. I needed money. Tros, I have sent much money to Jerusalem for the rebuilding of the Temple. Aie-yaie, but will it ever be rebuilt! Pkauchios swore that when Balbus is slain his debt to me shall be paid at once out of the treasury. I let him use my warehouse. And then Herod’s spies! Ach-h-h! Herod came to me tonight with your letter in his hand. He would not say where or how he had obtained it. He said, ‘What does Tros of Samothrace require of you? Tros is a pirate, proscribed by Caesar, as all know. There is a reward of three talents set on the head of Tros of Samothrace.’ He offered to share the reward with me — two for him and one for me. He said, ‘Let us tempt this fellow Tros ashore with promises. Let us tempt him into your house, Simon, and then send for Balbus.’ And he made threats. He said, ‘Balbus would be interested to learn where those weapons are hidden in barrels and bales and boxes!’ So I came with him, bribing the guard at the gate. And Tros, I don’t know what to say or what to do!”
Simon bowed his head until it nearly touched the table, then rocked to and fro until the strong oak chair groaned under him. Tros closed his eyes in thought, and for a moment it appeared to him the cabin was peopled. There were Fflur, Caswallon and the druid, bidding him goodbye. He could see Fflur’s gray eyes. He could hear her voice— “Be bold, Lord Tros!” And then the druid— “In the midst of danger thou shalt find the keys of safety!”
Tros leaned and patted Simon on the shoulder. “What of Chloe?”
“A slave. A Gades dancing girl,” said Simon as if that was the worst that could be said of any one. “From earliest infancy they are trained in treachery as well as dancing. That one has been trained by Pkauchios, than whom there is no more black-souled devil out of hell! None in his senses trusts the dancing girls of Gades. Balbus, so they say, trusts Chloe. He is mad — as mad as I was when I trusted him and Caesar with my money! Uh-uh! Trust no dancing girl.”
“She seems to have trusted you with her money,” Tros remarked.
“Aye, and shame is on me. I took her money at interest, even as I took yours. I can not repay her.”
“But I think you shall!” said Tros, and shut his eyes again to think. “You shall repay her and you shall repay me.”
For a while there was silence, pulsed by Simon’s heavy breathing and the lapping of light waves against the ship’s hull.
“Simon!” Tros said at last. “I need the keys of Rome!”
“God knows I haven’t them!” said Simon. “Until Crassus went to Syria I had a good, rich, powerful friend in Rome, but now no longer.”
“But you have influence with Balbus since he owes you so much money?”
“Influence?” said Simon, sneering. “He invites me to his banquets, to over-eat and over-drink and watch the naked-bellie
d women dance. But I asked a favor only yesterday — only a little favor — leave to export a few hundred slaves to Rome. If they had been women he would have said yes, but he has placed an embargo on male slaves, to depress the local market so as to have cheap labor to rebuild Gades. He knows I have no female slaves, so it was no use lying to him. He answered, he would give permission gladly, only that Tros of Samothrace, the pirate proscribed by Caesar, is at sea and might capture the whole consignment, for which he, Balbus, would be blamed. Bah! So much for my influence! He let Euripides, the Greek, export a hundred women only last week, and that was since Caesar’s letter came. Pirates! What he fears is a rising market! He knows I need money. He knows I have a thousand Lusitanii that I bought for export. At his suggestion, too. I bought them at his suggestion! Tros, it costs money to feed a thousand slaves! That dog Balbus waits and smiles and speaks me fair and watches for the day when I must sell those slaves at auction, so that he may buy them dirt cheap for his labor gangs!”
“But you stand well with Caesar,” Tros suggested. “You say Caesar owes you three million—”
“Phagh!” Simon’s face grew apoplectically purple. “Caesar is the greatest robber of them all!”
“But he has brains,” Tros retorted. “Caius Julius Caesar knows it is wiser to keep an old friend than to be forever hunting new ones. Why did you lend him the money?”
“Because his creditors were after him and he promised me his influence. Of what use to me now in Gades is Caesar’s influence in Gaul? Tell me that! I wrote to him for my money, for a little something on account. No answer! I suppose a secretary read the letter. Tschch! With Caesar it is face to face that counts. Nothing matters to him then but the impression he makes on bystanders. Vain! He thinks himself a god! He acts a drama, with himself the hero of it. Approach him, flatter him, ask for what he owes you in the presence of a dozen people and he will pay if it takes the last coin in his treasury. Pay if he has to capture and sell sixty thousand slaves to reimburse himself! That was how he repaid Crassus. Sixty thousand Gauls he sold in one year! Tschah! With a smile he will pay, if he has an audience. With a smile and a gesture that calls attention to his magnanimity and modesty and sense of justice! But a letter, opened by his secretary, read to him, perhaps, in a tent at night, when his steward has told him of a nice, young, pretty matron washed and combed and waiting to be brought to him — Tshay-yehyeh! None but a Jew, but a Jew — would have let him have three million sesterces!”
Tros tried to appear sympathetic. He leaned out of his chair and patted Simon on the shoulder. But the news of Simon’s difficulties only strengthened his own confidence. When he was sure that Simon was not looking, he permitted a great grin to spread over his face.
No Roman warships in the harbor, conspiracies ashore, Simon’s warehouse full of weapons, between decks two hundred and fifty first-class fighting men, demanding shore leave and agreeable to act the role of slaves for the occasion, Balbus the Roman governor ambitious, greedy, superstitious and in the toils of an Egyptian sorcerer whose slave, Chloe, a favorite of Balbus, was in a mood to betray her master — it would be strange, it would be incredible, if the gods could not evolve out of all that mixed material an opportunity for Tros of Samothrace to use his wits!
“Simon,” he said. “Once you did my father a good turn in Alexandria. You did it without bargaining, without a price. I am my father’s son. So I will help you, Simon. You shall pay your debts—”
“God send it!” Simon muttered.
“You shall be spared the shame of not repaying Chloe—”
“S-s-sheh-eh!” Simon drew in his breath as if something had stabbed him.
“We will both of us have our will of Balbus—”
“Uh-uh! He is all powerful in Gades. If they kill him, there will only be a worse one in his place!”
“You shall have your sesterces, and I, the key to Rome!”
“God send it! Eh, God send it!” Simon answered hopelessly. “But I think we shall all be crucified!”
“Not we!” Tros answered. “I have crucified a plan, that’s all. A plan that can’t be changed is like a fetter on a man’s foot.”
He arose and kicked out right and left by way of illustration that his brain was free to make the most of its opportunity.
CHAPTER 73. The Cottage in Pkauchios’ Garden
If a man insults my dignity by seeking to make me the tool of treachery, let him look to his guard. For if he need it not, that shall be because I lack the skill to turn his treason on himself.
— from The Log of Tros of Samothrace
ORWIC and Conops lay flat on a tiled floor with leather thongs biting their wrists and ankles. The only sound was the quiet breathing of the Jews who squatted with their backs against the wall. Thought was tense, speculative, almost audible, but Conops was the first to speak in a whisper to Orwic:
“Roll toward me. I can move my fingers. Maybe I can untie your—”
A Jew leaned through the dark and struck him on the mouth with the end of a leather strap. After that there was silence again — so still that the rats came and the slow drip-drip of water somewhere up behind the gallery began to sound like hammer blows on an anvil.
After an interminable time the Jews began to talk in muttered undertones. Then a woman brought food to them. There was a reek of pickled fish and onions that they guzzled in the dark. Orwic took advantage of the noise to try to chafe the thongs that bound his wrists, rubbing them against the floor tiles. But a Jew heard the movement and struck him. After that there was silence again, until one of the Jews fell asleep and snored.
There was no way of judging the time, but no light shone yet through the shutter-chinks when a furious knocking began at the street door. It boomed hollow through the house and brought the Jews to their feet, whispering to each other. One of them leaned over Orwic to examine his thongs and another kicked Conops in the ribs by way of warning to be still. A woman leaned over the gallery and whispered excitedly. One of the Jews went out into the passage, lighted a lantern after a dozen nervous fumbles with the flint and steel and shouted angrily, but Conops, who knew many languages could not understand a word he said.
The knocking continued and grew louder, until the Jew with the lantern began talking to some one through a hole in the street door. He was answered by a woman’s voice in Greek. She seemed to have no care for secrecy and Conops could hear her without the slightest effort.
“I say, admit me! Keep me waiting and I’ll call the Romans! I tell you, I have a letter from Herod ben Mordecai! Open!”
The door opened. Several people entered. There was excited conversation in the passage. Up in the gallery the unseen Jewess fluttered like a frightened hen. The wooden railing creaked as she leaned over it to listen. Then the girl’s voice in the passage again, loud and confident, speaking Greek:
“No use telling me lies! I know they’re here! You’ve read Herod’s letter, so out of my way!”
“Give me the letter then!”
“No !”
A scuffle, and then a girl in a damp Greek chlamys, with a thick blue blanket over that — and it surely never came from Hispania — stood in the doorway, holding the Jew’s lantern. Over her shoulders two male Numidian slaves peered curiously.
“So there they are! Untie them! If they’re hurt, I’ll speak to Balbus and have him crucify the lot of you!”
Conops cried out to her in Greek
“Get me my knife, mistress! Then no need to crucify them!”
She laughed.
“I am Chloe,” she said. “I came from—”
Suddenly she checked herself, remembering the Jews were listening.
“You will do exactly what I say!” she went on. “No fighting! They shall give you back everything they have taken from you. Then come with me.”
She looked like a princess to Orwic, although the blanket puzzled him. It did not for a second occur to him that she might be some one’s slave, although her sandals were covered with filth
from the barren land outside the city and he might have known no woman of position would have walked at that hour of the night. Had she not slaves of her own, who obeyed her orders? Did the Jews not slink away from her like whipped curs? Was her manner not royal, bold, authoritative? Her Numidians took the weapons off the table — they had none of their own — and cut the thongs that bound wrists and feet.
“Now count your money!” she said, pointing at the purse. So Conops shook out the money on the table.
“Ten gold coins missing!” he remarked, chafing his wrists, rubbing one ankle against the other. If he might not use his knife, he was determined that the Jews should pay in some way for the privilege of having put him and Orwic to indignity. Instantly he wished he had said twenty gold coins.
The woman in the gallery began to scream imprecations in a mixture of Greek, Aramaic and the local dialect, which itself was a blend of two or three tongues. Chloe silenced her with a threat to call the city guards.
“Who will take more than ten gold-pieces,” she remarked, “if I tell them I have authority from Balbus.”
After a few moments, still noisily protesting, the woman threw ten coins down to the floor, one by one, and Conops gathered them, well paid for a night’s imprisonment, but grinning at himself because he had not been smarter. Chloe took Orwic’s hand and smiled to him, chafing his wrist between her palms.
“Are you ready? Will you come with me?” she asked engagingly in Gaulish.
Orwic would have gone with any one just then. To go with Chloe, after lying in that smelly room with hands and feet tied, was such incredibly good fortune that he almost rubbed his eyes to find out whether he were dreaming. When she let go his hand he took his Roman sword from one of the Numidians and followed her into the passage; there he drew it to guard her back against the Jews, his head full of all sorts of flaming chivalry. She turned and whispered to him, raising her arms to draw his head close which, if he had thought of it, a princess hardly would have done on such scant acquaintance.