by Talbot Mundy
Tros nodded gravely.
“Then he made me that proposal. And I tell you, Tros, you would do well to consider it.”
“I am an opportunist,” Tros said. “I will do whatever fortune indicates.”
“I objected to murdering Balbus,” Orwic went on. “But the Romans invaded Britain. They killed our men. And he said Balbus is doomed anyhow but, according to his reading of the stars, if he should be killed by the prince from a far country who steps out of the ship with the purple sails, it will mean the end of Roman rule in all Hispania and Gaul. Whereas, if he is killed by a common murderer, no good will come of it.”
Tros frowned. No trace of incredulity betrayed itself as he answered solemnly:
“Few men can read the stars with such precision.”
“That is exactly my opinion,” Orwic agreed. “He speaks like a Lord Druid.”
Simon had made very little of the conversation, but he was watching Tros’s face with a sort of blank expression on his own, as if his intuition rather than his ordinary faculties were working. He had suppressed his noisy breathing.
“Get me my money, Tros! Get me my money!” he gasped suddenly, noisily in Aramaic.
But his expression had changed and his eyes were brighter; Tros interpreted the remark to mean that Simon could see light at last. He answered him in Greek, speaking very proudly.
“I will put the illustrious Pkauchios to a test, as a man throws dice to solve a difficult decision. For I think that in such ways the gods are willing to indicate a proper course to us in our perplexity. If he shall grant me the first favor that I ask, and faithfully perform it, then I will let him guide me in this matter. But if he shall quibble with me or refuse or, having promised, fail to do what I shall ask, then no. So, let the gods decide!”
He made a gesture as of throwing dice and turned his back to the window, striding the length of the room with measured steps. He had paced the room three times before he saw Pkauchios standing in the doorway, not the doorway near the throne — the other one.
“I welcome you. Peace to you!” said Pkauchios in Greek. “But I foresee that you must snatch peace from the fangs of war!”
“I thank you for your courtesy,” Tros answered, bowing.
He did not bow so deeply that his eyes left Pkauchios’ face. He hated the man instantly, and hid the hatred under a mask of eager curiosity.
The magician’s dark eyes seemed to be trying to read into his very soul, but Tros knew nothing better than that men of genuine spiritual power are careful never to display the outward signs of it and, above all, never to distress strangers with a penetrating stare. The astrologer’s robes and the air of superhuman wisdom were convincing, but not of what Pkauchios intended. The Egyptian spoke again pleasantly, with the air of a wise man condescending:
“I regret I should have kept you waiting, but I observed the flight of birds, from which much may be foretold by those who understand natural symbology. Why do you come to Gades?”
“You are a magician. You should know why I came,” Tros answered.
“And indeed I do know. But I see there is a question in your mind,” said Pkauchios.
The pupils of the Egyptian’s eyes contracted into bright dots. He made a gesture with his hand before his eyes, brushing away veils of immaterial obscurity.
“Doubt? Or desire? One blended with the other, or so it seems. You have a request to make,” he went on. “Speak then, while the vision holds me.”
He had not moved. He was standing before the curtains like a dignified attendant at the door of a mystery.
“There is a slave,” said Tros, “who at great risk brought me information. Speak for me to Balbus that he manumit that slave.”
“I will,” said Pkauchios, without a second’s hesitation. “Whose is the slave?”
“Do you or do you not see that the slave should be set free?” Tros countered.
“I see it is just and can be accomplished. But how shall I urge Balbus unless I know the slave’s name and his master’s?” Pkauchios answered.
“Speak to him thus—” said Tros. “‘It would be well if you should order manumitted whichever slave Tros the Samothracian indicates.’”
“It shall be done,” said Pkauchios. But he did not quite retain his self- command. There was a twitching of the face muscles, a discernible effort to conceal chagrin.
Tros did not dare to glance at Simon or at Orwic. He was so sure now that the Egyptian had been spying through an eye-hole in the wall behind the throne, that he would have burst out laughing if he had not bowed again and backed away, biting his lower lip until the blood came. That gave him an excuse to break the tension.
“Blood?” he exclaimed, frowning, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and examining it.
“Aye, blood!” said Pkauchios in a hollow voice and walked in front of him to near where Orwic sat.
By the window he turned and, after greeting Simon with a stare and a gesture of condescension, spoke again:
“Blood! Mars with Saturn in conjunction! And a red ship on the morning tide! The blood must flow in rivers-full! But whose?”
He stared at Simon balefully until the Jew in nervous resentment gaped at him and tried to force himself to speak, but failed because the asthma gripped his throat.
“I know your danger!” Pkauchios remarked. “There are weapons in your warehouse—”
“Yours!” Simon interrupted, pointing a fat finger at him. “You—”
The Egyptian cut him short.
“Jew! Have a care! You come to me for help, not for recrimination. At a word from me you would be tortured with the rack and charcoal. Rob not opportunity!”
Tros kept staring through the window at his great ship in the distance. She summoned to the surface all the mysticism in him and he muttered lines from Homer as he gazed. The blind poet who once dwelt on rocky Chios, when he stamped on to the racial memory that character of crafty, bold Odysseus, hymned a hero after Tros’s own heart. The Egyptian seemed to read the tenor of his thought.
“Tros of Samothrace,” he said, turning his back on Simon, “you have impelled yourself into a vortex of events. You — your ship — your friends — your crew — are all in danger. Win or lose all! Forward lies the only road to safety!”
“It appears you have a plan,” said Tros. “Unfold it”
The Egyptian nodded.
“We are few who can interpret destiny, but to us is always given means with which to guide events. I have awaited you these many days.”
“I am here,” said Tros.
“And you have men with you! You will sup tonight with Balbus; that I know, for I advised him to invite you. Listen. There is a quarry close to Balbus’ house where you can hide your men. There is a wall between the quarry and the house, where no guards are ever posted. It is easy to scale that wall from the side of the quarry. It is simple to bring unarmed slaves into the city. It is easy to bribe Balearic slingers to see and to say nothing after darkness has set in. There are weapons in Simon’s warehouse. There is only a small guard at Balbus’ house at night — not more than twenty or thirty men. You have, I think, two hundred and fifty men who could hide in the quarry and at a signal overwhelm the guard.”
Simon was growing restless, trying to catch Tros’s eye and warn him against being caught in any such network of intrigue, but Tros trod on his foot to signal to him to keep still. Orwic, who knew no Greek, was walking about the room examining strange ornaments. The Egyptian after a pause continued:
“Balbus, who envies Caesar, has sent emissaries into Gaul to murder him! Hourly he awaits the news of Caesar’s death! The stars, whose symbolism never lies, inform me that Caesar is already dead, and the news will reach Gades tonight! But if Balbus lives, he will blame others for the murdering of Caesar. Therefore, Balbus shall die, too!”
Tros nodded. Not a gesture, not a line of his face suggested that he knew it was the Egyptian himself who had sent slaves to murder Caesar. His lion’s eyes
were glowing with what might have been enthusiasm. He stood, hands clenched behind him, making no audible comment.
“It is expedient that Balbus shall die tonight,” said Pkauchios. “He has received word of a conspiracy against him. Sooner or later a witness in the agony of torture will reveal names. The conspirators are fearful; they lack leadership. But if Balbus were slain, the whole city would rise in rebellion! I have a plan that at the proper moment will draw away the legionaries from the camp outside the city.”
He paused, and then dramatically raised his voice:
“By morning messengers will have gone forth summoning all Hispania to rise. Good leadership — and I, Pkauchios, will guide you, Tros of Samothrace — good, ruthless leadership! Hispania and Gaul will throw off Roman rule!”
Tros grinned. He had made his mind up, which is a difficult thing to do in the teeth of an expert in personal magnetism. He succeeded in convincing even Simon.
“Well and good,” he said, folding his arms. “But I will not kill Balbus until he has set that slave free and has repaid Simon what he owes.”
“Those two preliminaries granted?” said the Egyptian. He seemed quite sure that Tros had committed himself.
“Orwic shall smuggle my men into the city if you show him how,” said Tros, “and at the proper signal. But who shall give the signal?” he asked.
He was wary of definite lying. Any promises he made he liked to keep. But he had no objection to the Egyptian’s deceiving himself. “I will give the signal,” Pkauchios answered. “Let brazen trumpets peal the death of Balbus! Six trumpets shall clamor a fanfare on the porch. Then plunge your dagger in!”
“Where will you be?” Tros asked him.
“At the banquet. Where else? Behold me. I rise from the banqueting couch. I stand thus to announce an augury. My servant, squatting by the door, will watch me, and when I raise my right hand thus, he will pass out to the porch where the trumpeters will be waiting who are to make music for the midnight dance Chloe has invented. The fanfare resounds. Your men come swarming over the quarry wall. Your dagger does its work — and — and you may help yourself, if you wish, from Balbus’ treasury!”
Tros acted so immensely pleased that Orwic came and wondered at him. Simon hove himself off the couch at last and clutched Tros’s arm.
“Tros, Tros!” he gasped. “Don’t do this dog’s work! Don’t! You will ruin all of us!”
Scowling, Pkauchios opened his thin lips to rebuke and threaten the Jew, but checked himself as he saw the expression on Tros’s face. Tros took Simon by the arms, driving his fingers into the fat biceps, the only signal that he dared give that his words need not be taken at face value.
“Simon!” he exclaimed in a voice of stern reproach. “You owe me money! Yet you dare to keep me from this golden opportunity? Fie on you, Simon!”
Simon wrung his hands. Tros turned to Orwic.
“Go you to the ship,” he said. “Our friend here, the Egyptian, will provide you a guide to the beach. Talk with Jaun Aksue. Tell him all the Eskualdenak shall come ashore tonight under your leadership, and do a little business of mine before I turn them loose to amuse themselves. Say they shall be well paid. Make them understand they must be sober until midnight. I will come to the ship later and explain the details of the plan. Go swiftly.”
CHAPTER 78. The Committee of Nineteen
I am not wise. I seek wisdom. But I know this: tyranny is never slain by slaying tyrants. Let valiance first slay tyranny in its victims’ hearts. Tyrants then will die of being laughed at, quicker than any hangman could make an end of them. But a man must begin at beginnings. I have not yet learned to laugh at tyranny. I hate it.
— from The Log of Tros of Samothrace
IT APPROACHED high noon. Simon had left an hour ago in a sort of wet-hen flutter of indignant misery, with a threat from the Egyptian in his ear:
“Jew! Balbus owes you money. He would welcome excuse to proscribe you and seize your property! One word from me—”
Thereafter Pkauchios held Tros in conversation, seeking to make sure of him, promising him riches should the night’s attempt succeed and more than riches, “power, which is the rightful perquisite of honest men!” Too shrewd to threaten, he nevertheless dropped hints of what might happen if Tros should fail him.
“You are not the first. Man after man I have tested. One fool tried to betray me, and was crucified. My word with Balbus outweighed his! Another thought he could do without me, after I had made all ready for him. Those he would have led to insurrection burned his house and threw him back into the flames as he ran forth in his night clothes. No, no, you are not the first!”
“I am the last!” Tros answered grimly, and Pkauchios’ dark eyes took on a look of satisfaction. Then Tros tried to find out where Chloe was without arousing Pkauchios’ suspicion.
“Who was that woman,” he asked, “who came out to my ship?”
“Oh, a mischievous Greek slave. A very clever dancer who will perform tonight for Balbus.”
“Trustworthy?” Tros suggested.
“No Gades dancing girls are trustworthy. Theirs is the very religion of intrigue.”
“Ergastulum?” Tros suggested.
“No. She sleeps to be ready for tonight.”
However, there was plainly a mask over Pkauchios’ thought. Tros was quite sure he was lying, equally sure he was worried. All sorts of fears presented themselves that Tros was hard put to it to keep from showing on his face. Chloe might have disappeared, turned traitress. He decided he was a fool to have left Horatius Verres at large on the ship. If Chloe loved that spy of Caesar’s — or was he Balbus’ spy, pretending to be Caesar’s? — then she would quite likely do whatever Verres told her and perhaps betray every one, Pkauchios included.
Yet he decided not to return to the ship until he had spoken alone with Simon. The old Jew was possibly the weakest link in the intrigue. In terror he might run to Balbus and betray the whole plot. Before all else he must reassure Simon.
Pkauchios ordered out the litter with the eunuch in attendance and the eight white-liveried slaves. Tros saw him whisper to the eunuch, but pretended not to see. He had contrived to look entirely confident when the Egyptian walked with him to the garden gate.
“After sunset,” said Pkauchios, “there will go a messenger to the gate guards who will bid them admit two hundred and fifty slaves on the excuse that they are needed as torchbearers for the midnight pageant in Balbus’ garden. They will be shown a writing to that effect which the fools will think is genuine. Another messenger will go to the Balearic guards who line the beach. And he will take money with him, a considerable bribe. At sunset a great barge will be rowed alongside your ship. Put your men into that. They shall be led to Simon’s warehouse where they may help themselves to weapons. And the same guide will lead them afterward to the quarry outside Balbus’ garden. He will lead them by roundabout ways so as not to attract attention.”
Tros rolled into the litter and allowed the eunuch to lead as if his first objective were the ship. But he had no intention of being spied on by that eunuch, and when the litter halted at a narrow passage in the street to let three laden mules go by he rolled out of it again.
“Wait for me by the city gate,” he commanded.
The eunuch demurred, tried persuasion, offered to carry him anywhere, and at last grew impudent.
“You insult my master’s hospitality!”
A crowd began to gather, marveling at Tros’s purple cloak and at the broad gold band across his forehead. The eunuch tried to drive them away, fussily indignant, prodding with his staff at those who seemed least likely to retaliate, but the crowd increased. Tros felt a tug at his cloak and, glancing swiftly, caught his breath. He saw Conops slip out of the crowd and go sauntering along the street! His red cap was at a reckless angle and his bandy legs suggested the idle, erratic, goalless meandering of a sailor in a half-familiar port.
Tros climbed back into the litter promptly as the best means of e
scaping from the crowd. Conops, faithful little rascal, would never have left the ship without good reason. Clearly he expected to be followed. The eunuch contrived to clear the way and the crowd dispersed about its business, which was mainly to sit in doorway shadows. As the litter began to overtake Conops he increased his pace until, where five streets met, he turned up an alley and turned about to watch. He made no signal.
Making sure that Conops was not following the litter downhill toward the city gate, Tros vaulted to the ground and had made his way to the alley mouth before the eunuch, walking rapidly ahead to clear the way, realized what was happening.
“This way, master — swiftly!”
Conops opened a door ten paces down the alley and Tros followed through it. The door slammed behind him and in stifling gloom he was greeted by a laugh he thought he recognized. It was nearly a minute before definite objects began to evolve out of shadows. He could hear a rasping cough that seemed familiar, and there were other noises that suggested the presence of armed men, but the sunlight had been dazzling on the white-washed walls and there were no open windows in the place in which he found himself. It took time for eyesight to readjust itself. The first shape to evolve out of the darkness was a stairhead, leading downward; then, down the stairs a leather curtain of the rich old-golden hue peculiar to Hispania. Above the curtain, on a panel of the wall the stairway pierced, was a painted picture of a bull’s head; and there was something strange about its eyes. After a moment’s stare Tros decided there were human eyes watching him through slits in the painted ones. There was a murmur of voices from behind the curtain and, every moment or two, that sound of labored breathing and a cough that resembled Simon’s.
Conops was in no haste to explain. He slunk behind Tros in the darkness, and a man stepped between them in response to a thundering on the street door. He opened a peep-hole and spoke through it to Pkauchios’ eunuch; Tros could see him clearly as the light through the hole shone on his face — a lean, intelligent, distinguished looking man. He assured the eunuch in good Greek that he was mistaken. None had entered the house recently. Perhaps the next house or the one over the way. Finally, he advised the eunuch to wait patiently.