Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “Tros of Samothrace — as welcome as Ortygian Artemis!” he cried in Greek, gesturing dramatically at the full moon rising like a mystery between the treetops.

  “May the goddess bless your house, and you!” Tros answered. “Greeting, Zeuxis!”

  They embraced and Tros presented Orwic, who rather embarrassed the Greek by leaping from his horse and also embracing him in the British fashion.

  “All Rome would fight to kiss him if they knew how he can drive a chariot!” Tros said, half apologetically. “He is a barbarian prince.”

  “A prince among your followers — prosperity! The more the merrier, friend Tros, and the surprise adds zest. My house is yours; enter with your friend and take possession.”

  He led Tros by the arm, but paused to study him keenly in the lamplight on the porch, where slaves fawned and a steward prodded them to make them more obsequious.

  “You have aged ten years in two,” he remarked, “and yet — I will wager you bring good news.”

  Tros only grunted. Zeuxis led the way into a hall, of which he was comically ashamed. The walls were painted with scenes from the Iliad, done recently and too spectacularly. There the steward took charge of Tros and Orwic, leading them away to a bathroom, where slaves sluiced and kneaded them for half-an-hour and other slaves brought blue-bordered Roman clothing in place of their travel-stained Gaulish costumes. The luxury made Orwic talkative and it was an hour before they rejoined Zeuxis, in an anteroom beside the dining-room that faced on a tiled courtyard in which a fountain played amid flowers and young girls moved with calculated grace. There was music somewhere, not quite loud enough to make the fountain-splash inaudible.

  “You must excuse my house,” said Zeuxis. “I have baited it to catch some Roman buyer who has made a fortune selling war material. I am afraid the penalty you pay for coming unannounced is to wait for dinner, while the cook makes miracles. Why didn’t you send word, you spirit of unexpectedness?”

  Tros signified with a frown that he would prefer to keep silence until the slaves had left the room but Zeuxis laughed.

  “My slaves will have your story from your followers. You may as well talk at your ease!” he assured him.

  “I have only one man who can speak any language your servants know,” Tros answered. “If your craftiest man — or woman — can get one word out of Conops, Rome is welcome to it. I sent no word because I trusted none to carry it.”

  The Greek leaned back in a gilded chair, looked humorously into Tros’s eyes, took a goblet from a slave and held it while another poured the wine. Then he rose and, spilling a libation to the gods, smiled at Tros over the brim of the goblet.

  “I see you understand the Romans,” he remarked, and, having sipped, sat down again.

  He was a handsome Greek with quantities of brownish hair curled artificially, his age perhaps not over forty, but not less than that. The care with which the wrinkles had been smoothed out from his face, and the deliberately studied youthfulness of gesture rather hinted that he might be older than he cared to seem. He had an air of artificial daintiness; there was a sapphire on the middle finger of his left hand that sparkled wickedly, calling attention to the delicacy of his fingers, which looked more capable of handling drawing instruments than weapons.

  The contrast between him and Tros was as great as could be imagined between two men of the same race. Zeuxis’ smile suggested cynicism and ability to reach a given goal by going around obstacles, which Tros would simply smash.

  There was a desultory conversation for a while, because the slaves were Greek. Orwic, knowing neither Greek nor Latin, watched the scantily clad girls and after a while confined his interest to one, whose movements were deliberately calculated to enchant him. When the steward announced that the meal was served he followed Zeuxis with such manifest reluctance that the Greek laughed.

  “Tell your barbarian friend not to leave his heart here. She shall wait on him at dinner.”

  The dining-room was classically elegant, its walls adorned with paintings of the Muses and divided into panels by Corinthian half-columns of white marble. The furniture was Alexandrian. The food, cooked by a slave from Syria, was carried in by Greek girls.

  There was no sign of Zeuxis’ wife; Tros guardedly remarked on it.

  “She is at my country place in the Aventines,” said Zeuxis. “Like many another foolish fellow I married youth and beauty instead of experience and domestic virtue. Beauty, in Rome, arouses greed; if possible one steals it; failing that one buys. If neither, then one gets the lawful owner into difficulties and converts him to a Roman point of view — which means, to look the other way. So I have sent my wife to the Aventines in charge of a virago who, current rumor has it, is a midwife; you will have noticed, however, that rumor frequently exaggerates. Meanwhile, my difficulties disappear and trade is excellent.”

  Lolling gracefully on his couch at the head of the table, with Tros on his right hand, Orwic on his left, toying with the food rather than enjoying it, he kept up a running comment for the steward’s benefit, not often praising the skill with which the viands were made to resemble something they were not, more often explaining how they might be better.

  “My Syrian cook is an artist,” he complained to Tros. “In Alexandria they might appreciate him. Here in Rome you must be vulgar if you wish for popularity. Food must be solid, in gross quantities and decorated like the Forum with every imaginable kind of ornament, the more crowded and inappropriate the better. Rome proposes to debauch herself with culture; so I have to crucify a good cook’s soul and train girls how to misbehave. I was cursed with vision when I came into the world; I foresee the trend of events, and I know I must swim with the stream or go under; so I try to guide the Romans decorously along the line of least resistance. They began by being wolves and they will end by being pigs, but that is for the gods to worry over, not me. I am a contractor. I arrange banquets. I decorate interiors for equites who grew rich lending money.

  You know the system, of course? The tax-farmers drain the treasury of conquered provinces, compelling them then to borrow at twenty-four percent compound interest; when accumulated interest amounts to half-a-dozen times the principal, the inhabitants are all sold into slavery. Most of my girls were obtained in that way. Damnable? Undoubtedly. But I might be a slave myself if I had stayed in Greece instead of coming here and flattering that rich rogue Crassus. He had me made a Roman citizen, although I might have had the same favor from Pompeius Magnus. Do you know how Crassus made his money? With a fire-brigade. There are some who say he also kept incendiaries. His men monopolized the putting out of fires by always arriving first on the scene in great numbers and fighting for the privilege. Soon nobody else dared to put a fire out. Crassus’ men would simply stand by and let the place burn until the owner was willing to sell it to Crassus for a song. Then out would go the fire, Crassus would restore the place and let it out at rack-rents. He has the trick of money-making.

  “But he is mad; he covets military honors. He has gone to fight the Parthians. He is envious of Caesar’s fame. Caius Julius Caesar, if he lives, will ruin both him and Pompey, but they say Caesar has the falling sickness. I have also heard said that his sickness is the result of slow poison secretly administered by one of his lieutenants in the pay of some patrician. Caesar is a patrician; but he has made all the other patricians loathe him by his systematic pandering to the plebes. He sends gladiators for the games and corn-doles — that might not matter so much; they all do it. His worst offense is the money he sends from Gaul to buy the election of candidates who keep Rome in political torment. He also sends presents to senators’ wives, and keeps a swarm of paid propagandists, who sing his praises to the crowd at every opportunity. Caesar has brains. One of the brightest things he ever did was to marry his daughter to Pompey. She is a charming woman. Consequently, Pompey has to pose as Caesar’s friend, whatever his feelings may be — not that they are particularly secret — he says little, but every one knows he thinks Caesar a
dangerous demagogue.”

  Zeuxis gossiped gaily through the meal, doing his best to loosen Tros’s tongue and reversing usual procedure, ordering the finer qualities of wine brought as the meal progressed. Orwic, unaccustomed to such subtle vintages, drank copiously and before the meal was over fell asleep. Tros’s taciturnity only increased as he listened to Zeuxis’ chatter. He had almost nothing to say until the meal was finished and Zeuxis wanted to leave Orwic in the woman’s care.

  “Zeus!” he exploded then. “Sober, a man needs help to save him from the women. Drunk, not all the gods together could protect him! And besides,” he added, looking straight in Zeuxis’ eyes, “I myself will tell you all you need to know. If you have a slave woman who knows Gaulish, keep her for some necessary business.”

  Four slaves carried Orwic to a bedroom and Tros sent for Conops to sleep on a mat at the foot of the bed.

  “Not that I doubt your honor, Zeuxis, I am thoughtful of it. This handsome cockerel recovers like a Phoenix from the ashes of a feast. Not remembering where he is, he might remember, nevertheless, that he is a king’s nephew — which means a king’s son, less the need of self-restraint. Conops knows how to manage him.”

  Conops’ one eye glinted meaningfully as he met Tros’s glance and nodded. Hideous though he was, it took no augury to guess that Zeuxis’ women had been making love to him for information; he made a gesture with a clenched fist that meant, and was interpreted to mean, “they have learned nothing from me!”

  Zeuxis led into a room where gilded couches with a low wine-table set between them gave a view through an open window into the lamp-lighted courtyard, where a dozen girls were posing near a fountain.

  “Shall they dance?” he asked.

  “Aye — into the River Lethe! Let a slave set wine in here and leave us,” Tros suggested.

  Zeuxis laughed, dismissing the girls with a wave of his hand. The slaves retired. Tros strode to the curtain drawn on rings across the doorway and jerked it back to make sure none was listening. Then he glanced into the courtyard and at last sat down on the window-ledge, whence he could talk while watching both the courtyard and the corridor beyond the now uncurtained door.

  “I am honored!” said Zeuxis, bantering him. “These must be deadly secrets you intend to pour forth. Come and drink; this wine of Chios was reserved for Ptolemy the Piper. I was able to acquire it because Ptolemy came to Rome to borrow money when the Alexandrians drove him off the throne. He gave a feast to a number of Roman senators, for which I was the contractor and, though they lent him money, he has never paid my bill. I shall have to repay myself by roundabout means. The senate is forever obedient to the money-lenders. Mark my words — they will send Caesar or Marcus Antonius one of these days to collect. Drink! Ptolemy the Piper knows good wine, if nothing else. The old fool gave his note to Caesar for seventeen and a half million sesterces to persuade him not to veto sending Gabinius and Rabirius to Egypt.”

  Tros reached under his tunic and produced a little bag tied tightly with a leather thong. He bit the thong loose, glanced into the bag, tied it again and tossed it into Zeuxis’ lap. The Greek weighed it, eyed it curiously, opened it at last and poured nine pearls into his hand. His eyes blazed.

  “Plunder?” he asked.

  “My gift,” said Tros.

  “By Aphrodite’s eyes! By all the jewelers of Ephesus — these are better than the pearls that Pompey took from Mithridates. There are no such pearls in Rome,” said Zeuxis, rolling all nine on the palm of his hand and stirring them with a sensitive forefinger. “They are matched! Tros, they are priceless! Whom do you wish to have murdered?”

  “Are you a contractor in that trade, too?” Tros asked him sourly.

  “No, but since Sulla’s time one can always hire that sort of tradesman. Nobody is safe in Rome without an armed band at his back. Do you wish me to introduce you to a Roman who will work himself, for a consideration, into the necessary righteous frenzy? And who is the victim to be? Some one important, or my wits deceive me as to the value of this present.”

  “When I must kill, then it is I who kill,” Tros answered. “I could buy nine senators with those nine pearls.”

  “You force me to admire myself!” said Zeuxis. “Have you any more of these?”

  “Nine more for you, of nearly the same weight if — when my venture is successful.”

  “Tros, you deal a dreadful blow against the inborn honesty of Hellas! Whom do you wish me to betray to you, and why?”

  “Yourself!” Tros answered. “One who did not know me might propose to play me false. But you will not commit that indiscretion. I have chosen you to assist me in a certain matter.”

  “You oblige me to pity myself!” remarked Zeuxis. “A king’s nephew and a king’s pearls? Rome is no playground for kings; they come here begging, or to walk in triumphs and be strangled afterward. Whoever befriends kings in Rome — and yet — friend Tros, these pearls are irresistible! Have you come like a messenger from Pluto to arrange my obsequies?”

  “I come from Britain.”

  “Britain? The end-of-the-world-in-a-mist, where Caesar landed with the famous Tenth and ran away again by night? Hah! How the patricians gloated over that defeat! I was decorating Cicero’s new villa at Pompeii and I overheard him telling what the senate thought of it; they were overjoyed to learn that Caesar is not invincible.”

  “But he is,” said Tros. “He is invincible unless we can — Those pearls are in your hand because he shall not be invincible!”

  CHAPTER 83. Politics

  A man forgets his own importance, but he magnifies want and the mystery of the many moods of want, his own included. He forgets that his wants and his fears and his perplexity are unimportant, but his own importance is eternal and changeless, whereas wants continually change, and fear is the illusion of which wants are brewed like foul stink from a wizard’s kettle. If a man can remember his own importance he is saved from many unimportant but demeaning deeds. His dignity, should he remember his importance and the unimportance of his fears and wants, directs him to a right course, though it may seem at the moment lacking in profundity of rightness.

  — from The Log of Tros of Samothrace

  ZEUXIS stared, his shrewd imaginative eyes growing narrower under slightly lowered lids. He was not one who attempted to conceal emotions; he preferred exaggeration as a safer mask. But Tros’s face, as he sat still on the window-ledge, was a picture of iron resolution, unafraid although aware of danger. Zeuxis was aware of an excitement he could not resist.

  “I have a friend who is a king in Britain,” Tros began, but Zeuxis interrupted.

  “Kings are no man’s friends.”

  “I helped him against Caesar. He helped me to build my ship. Caswallon is his name.”

  “Did he give you these pearls? Beware! King’s gifts are expensive.”

  “I had those from the druids.”

  “Ah! You interest me. I have talked with druids. Caesar sent a dozen of them in a draft of prisoners from Gaul. One had a beard that nearly reached his knees. He was so old he had no teeth. It was hard to understand him, but he knew Greek and could write it. I befriended him. The others were sold as secretaries, but since that old one was a hierarch they were to keep him to walk in Caesar’s triumph; the weight of the fetters killed him before long — that and the stink of the dungeon; he was used to open air. There was a new aedile making a great bid for popularity. I was one of three contractors who had charge of the games he squandered stolen money on, so I had plenty of opportunity to talk with that old druid. I used to go down to the dungeons whenever I had time, pretending to look for some one who might make a showing against an enormous bear they had sent from Ephesus — bears usually kill a man with one blow, whereas what the spectators want is to see a fight. It was thought, if a man with a knife would defend himself against the bear for a few minutes that aedile might be very popular.

  “I didn’t find a man to fight the bear. I did not want to; I was interested in
the druid, he talked such charming nonsense with such an air of authority. He told me, among other things, that Caesar is an agent of dark forces that will blot out what remains of the ancient Mysteries and make Rome all-powerful for a while. He said if Caesar dies too soon those forces will find some one else, because their cycle has come, whatever that means, but meanwhile Caesar is in the ascendant because he typifies the spirit that asserts itself in Rome. So if you think as much of the druids as I do, Tros, you will think twice before you oppose Caesar.”

  “I have thought twice, and the second thought was like the first,” Tros answered.

  “Think a third time. Rome is violent, strong, cruel, split up into factions, yet united by its greed. They have had to postpone the elections. Pompey does nothing — I tell you, Caesar is inevitable! Let us flatter Caesar and grow rich when he has made himself master of the world!”

  “Those pearls are worth a fortune,” Tros reminded him.

  “There is no such thing as enough,” said Zeuxis. “There is too much and too little, but enough — who ever saw that? You have given me nine pearls. I covet nine more. I am Greek enough to know I must pay a usurer’s price.”

  “No, you may give them back.”

  Tros held his hand out. Zeuxis poured the pearls into their little leather bag and slipped it into a pocket underneath his sleeve, where no one would have suspected a pocket might be hidden.

  “What do you propose? A revolution?” he asked. “That would bring Caesar down on us. He conquers Gaul for money and to make himself a reputation. He corrupts Rome into anarchy so as to have the city at his mercy when the time comes. I could guarantee to start a tumult the day after tomorrow, but as to the consequences—”