Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “Crassus! Crassus!”

  In his absence Crassus’ agents were neglecting no chance to make money for their master; they preserved Rome from the flames, but he was richer by each fire they extinguished, though they forced the passers-by to form the bucket gangs and drove the neighbors’ slaves into the hottest smoke.

  And Pompey not yet. It was two hours after dawn before he came, on a big bay horse, magnificent in golden armor, attended by a host of friends and followed by a roaring crowd that choked the Via Sacra, thundering his praises. There was no name too good; imperator was the mildest; half the crowd was calling him dictator, he occasionally making modest efforts to take the crowd at its word. He shook his head repeatedly.

  No armed men followed him. There were a dozen men on horseback and at least three times as many walking, all wearing the deep blue-bordered toga of the equites and each man followed by his personal attendants. Pompey’s own slaves were innumerable. It was their task to keep the crowd from swarming in on the procession, and their method varied from remonstrance to the use of heavy cudgels.

  In among the horsemen behind Pompey was a litter borne by slaves and loaded heavily with gifts; between the folds of linen that protected them from dust the glint of gold shone now and then; it was not Pompey’s way to ask a favor of the gods without enriching their establishments with plunder from the fanes of other gods less fortunate.

  The crowd swarmed in among the statues, yelling, and a company of Pompey’s slaves ran in among them, handing out free tickets for the races and the ensuing combats between gladiators in the Circus Maximus. Speculators bought up the tickets promptly. Tros and Orwic each received a ticket as they worked their way into the crowd toward the semicircle formed by Pompey’s friends and attendants facing the shrine of Vesta. It was only by dint of struggling that they came within two paces of a horse’s heels.

  Pompey, in the middle of the semicircle, swung down from his horse and strode with all a Roman’s dignity toward the entrance of the shrine, his white cloak that he wore against the dust revealing as it fluttered in the wind flashes of his golden corselet. The slave-borne litter followed him. In the porch before the shrine the slaves knelt, waiting until the Vestals’ women came, white robed and wearing rosaries, to bear the gifts within. At each gift that they took up from the litter all the women bowed to Pompey, he saluting with his right hand raised. He was a splendid figure. He stood like a god in armor — which was two-thirds of the secret of his influence; the mob roared satisfaction at the very way he walked.

  When the gifts were gone he strode into the shrine alone, as if he were the sun-god come to visit the undying fire. As imperator, triumvir and priest, his eyes were hallowed and his person sacrosanct. He never doubted it. No shrine was closed to him — although the very Roman brothels gasped when it was known that in Jerusalem he had invaded the Jews’ inner shrine to look, as it was said, into the face of Jahveh. Pompey, but not many Romans other than the ritually ordained priests — and they but seldom, at appointed times — might see the sacred fire and the historic image of archaic Pallas, brought by Aeneas from burning Troy; but there was skepticism on the faces of his friends, and there were dry jests on their lips. Tros heard some conversation:

  “Gemini! If Julia dies in spite of all this, he’ll regret those costly gifts!”

  “What odds? The Vestals will find some suitable explanation. Even Vestal Virgins die, you know.”

  A shrew-faced man, between the two who had just spoken, laughed.

  “The point is, Pompey has paid handsomely for something. Wait and see. If he should win the Vestals’ influence—”

  “Phagh! All he can expect from them is ‘thumbs up’ if his fancy gladiator gets the worst of it. The Vestals serve their pontifex. I told him only last week, he must find some way of weakening the Vestals if he hopes to outbid Caesar for the mob’s vote. Bury one of them alive at the Porta Collina — you can prove a case against any one by torturing a dozen slaves — and—”

  “Sh-sh-sh-sh!”

  “What frightens you? Convict one of unchastity, and for a year to come the sweet unsensuous crowd would talk about abolishing religion! That would cost Caesar his grip on the plebes. It’s the plebes who—”

  “Who would have you crucified if they could hear you talking! Have you placed your bets yet on the races? Which team do you favor?”

  “I don’t know yet. I usually bet on white, but I have heard Helene the Alexandrian has a team of Cappadocians that she will enter, and they say she has adopted red — the gods know why! You’d think a woman of her laxity would choose the virgin’s color! I have heard, too, that she wished to drive the four-horse team but was forbidden. If I knew who is to take her place I might bet on those Cappadocians — I’ve seen them — gorgeous beasts! And besides, I consulted the auguries—”

  “Hah! And were informed, no doubt, that red might win unless the white should have the best of it! Who wouldn’t be an augur! They make money either way — no need to bet! I’ll wager you weren’t warned that the praetor’s men would seize Helene yesterday! There’s a rumor that Cato means to have her scourged and driven out of Rome.”

  “Jupiter omnipotens! Is Cato crazy?”

  “Probably. He’ll do it, if he’s sure it would annoy some political enemy. He likes to be pelted with stones and vegetables. It makes him feel honest. And he thinks nobody will dare to kill him.”

  “He’ll discover his mistake if he scourges Helene! If he threw her to the beasts the mob might stand for it, because they’d have the spectacle. But scourge her? I think not. If he did that, whoever killed Cato could be sure of the mob’s verdict.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me to know that Cato would enjoy death if it came to him in that way! The man isn’t in his right mind. Did you hear how he gave his wife to young Hortensius? They say Alilia, his new wife, can’t endure him; he goes bare-footed through the streets and thinks she ought to do the same! I’ve heard — Venus! Look at Pompey’s face! Has he been trying to seduce a Vestal? Somebody has slapped him!”

  Pompey was looking indignant. He was flushed. He tried to hide embarrassment by adjusting his cloak as he strode from the shrine, but he only succeeded in looking too proud to share his annoyance with any one else. His very gesture, as he drew the cloak around him, was a service of warning to friends not to question him. His lips were shut tight.

  Tros tugged the nearest Roman’s cloak.

  “I have urgent business with Pompey. He expects me. Make way.”

  “Jupiter, what insolence! Stand back!”

  “If I should have to shout to him,” said Tros, “you might regret it. I am Tros of Samothrace.”

  “Oh. He who stopped him at the bridge last night? Save yourself trouble then. Pompey has changed his mind; your news, whatever it is, has ceased to interest him. Stand back!”

  It was no use courting dagger-blades, and from the rear the crowd was roaring a new tumult, drowning speech. Though Tros had shouted at the limit of his lungs there was no chance that Pompey’s ears would pick out one voice from the din. The crowd had swarmed up on the statues. There were men on the backs of other men — all yelling, and the pressure from the rear to catch sight of Pompey as he mounted his horse was prodigious. Dust was mixed with the sweat on men’s faces. Tros could hardly breathe.

  However, Orwic was beside him, smiling, masking his emotions.

  “Stiffen yourself! Seize my foot!”

  Tros sprang on Orwic’s shoulders, balancing himself by setting one foot on a man’s head, sparing his victim a swift smile that excused the liberty. Then Pompey could not help but see him; he was gorgeous in his cloak — a black-haired, handsome figure, like a gold-embroidered god, miraculously raised above a sea of faces.

  Pompey hesitated. Tros — salt-sea-taught to use his helm between the waves — made up his mind for him. He sprang, as if thrown by the roars of the mob, and came down like a wedge between two of the horses that blocked the way. They reared and shied away from
him and through the opened gap between their shoulders, quicker than a horseman could have drawn a dagger, Tros strode up to where the slaves held Pompey’s horse. Still Pompey hesitated, frowning.

  So they met on level flagstones, eye to eye. Pompey lacked the great advantage of the night before, when he could talk down proudly from his horse and Tros must look up like a poor petitioner. True, if Pompey had made but a sign, there would have been a dozen daggers buried in Tros’s back before he could have turned; but Pompey was a lot too proud to trifle with that sort of cowardice; he threw his hand up to restrain his men and faced Tros with a curling lip.

  “Mercury! You reach your goal!” he said, eyeing him steadily. Then he lowered his voice, so that not even the slaves who held his horse could overhear. “So you are Caesar’s man! You come here plotting against Caesar — and yet serve him? I have heard you bearded Cato. Cato himself said it! Fool! The very whispers of the senate reach my ears! And now what? I am told that I must not harm Tros of Samothrace! I come to read the embers for an augury — my wife is ill — I seek foreknowledge of her destiny — and I am told I must give no offense to Tros of Samothrace! Have you the ear, then, of the Vestals? Are you Caesar’s spy?”

  Tros answered without betraying that he recognized the danger he was in:

  “Pompeius Magnus, if the Vestals so admonished you regarding me, shall I believe they were the first to speak of me? Or did a spy report my movements? Did the man who stole my men say how it happened they stood leaderless? Then you — deliberating whether it were safe to throw my men into the arena — wondering what influence I might have — doubting your spy’s word, possibly — inquired about me of the Vestals. Is it not so?”

  “Meddler! What do you in Rome?” demanded Pompey.

  “Triumvir, I turn my back on Rome the instant you return my men to me!”

  “It seems to me that Tros of Samothrace may harm himself,” said Pompey. “Men armed with daggers in Rome in the night are not immune from interference because Tros of Samothrace pretends he owns them! Are they citizens? Are you a citizen? Are you a peregrine? Are you a citizen of any state allied to Rome or even recognized by the senate and the Roman people? Have you any rights in Rome whatever — of person or property? And, if those men are truly yours, may you possess them under the Roman law? If not yours, are they free — and if so by what right? If they are not free, then who is their master?”

  It appeared to Tros that the triumvir was lashing himself into a rage deliberately — possibly to justify a course of conduct not in keeping with his dignity, whatever law might have to say about it. Pompey’s eyes — full, lustrous and intelligent — eyes normally suggesting rather tolerant autocracy, betrayed unsteadiness. He was expecting something — bullying and threatening in hope of forcing information without actually asking for it.

  “It appears to me,” he said, “that Cato has arrested the wrong malefactor. He should set Helene free and question your activities!” Tros held his tongue.

  “It was not of your men you wished to speak when you accosted me at the bridge last night,” said Pompey.

  There was still that look of speculation in his eyes — almost of irresolution. He seemed to be giving Tros an opportunity to volunteer some information that he needed. Pompey, potential autocrat of two-thirds of the world, had far too many sources of information to make it safe to trifle with him — too many irons in the fire for any visitor in Rome to touch the right one at a guess without more luck than any reasonable man could look for.

  “You have sent a man to Ostia,” said Pompey suddenly. “How did you enter Italy? By land or sea?” Then, as Tros still held his tongue, “I am told you landed at Tarentum. Your ship will come to Ostia?”

  That prodded Tros on his Achilles’ heel! That ship was to her master and designer as a woman is to most men. Tros lied desperately — instantly.

  “That ship is Caesar’s! I have authority from Caesar to use all Roman ports.”

  He drew out from his cloak the parchment Caesar had been forced to sign in Gades — unrolled it — flourished it — thrust it under Pompey’s eyes, pointing to the seal — the beautifully modeled figure of Caesar, naked, in the guise of Hermes. Pompey did not even glance at what was written; the proud sullenness of his eyes increased.

  “Caesar’s protection? You had nothing you wished to say? No message?”

  “I demand my men.”

  “Let Caesar attend to it!” said Pompey. “Let me see that parchment.”

  He held out his hand but Tros thrust the parchment back under his cloak. There was nothing on it stating that the ship was Caesar’s; to the contrary, it definitely named Tros as the owner, merely authorizing him to enter and to clear from Roman ports for purposes of commerce. There were doubtless flaws in it that any legal mind could drive a wedge through instantly; it was even doubtful whether Pompey would need lawyers; since the war against the pirates his authority with shipping had been almost absolute.

  Tros’s back was cold; he sensed a climax now with the same nerves that always warned him of a coming storm at sea. But Pompey was an expert at deferring climax:

  “That is all then,” he said, turning to his horse, and at his gesture three intimates strode from the ranks. They pretended to help him to mount, but insolently shouldered Tros out of the way, turning their backs to him. Two horsemen beckoned, making a narrow gap in the ranks, sneering as Tros went by. The very crowd, still yelling Pompey’s praises, knew he had been rebuffed; a thousand eyes had seen him flourishing the parchment. It was usual to try to thrust petitions into great men’s hands, and though such documents were usually tossed to secretaries who ignored them, it was customary to accept them formally unless the individual petitioned wished to snub the applicant.

  So the crowd mocked. When he made his way to Orwic’s side and they began to force a way together through the throng some humorist made fun of the moustache that drooped on either side of Orwic’s mouth. Then Tros’s gold forehead-band came in for comment. In another minute he was forced to doff his cloak and fold it to prevent its being torn off. Some men thought he was a Parthian, come craving relief from Crassus’ legions; they yelled at him “Crassus! Crassus!” until those who could not see believed the fire brigade was coming and divided down the midst.

  So, down that rift, sweating and indignant, Tros and Orwic bolted into the comparative seclusion of the side-streets, where they turned at last into a fly-blown cook-shop and, discovering a table in an alcove at the rear, ate food concocted from the meat bought from temple priests — whose incomes were increased enormously by selling the fat carcasses donated by the pious for the satisfying of the gods.

  “I wager we are eating Great Jove’s heifer!” Tros remarked. “Be that an omen! Fragments from Olympus’ table fortify us! If the gods of earth and sky are not asleep they — Orwic — has it ever dawned on your imagination that the gods ought to be grateful to us men for giving them an opportunity to use their virtue?”

  “Nothing dawns on me at all,” said Orwic. “It appears to me we have a lost cause. We are two lone men in Rome, and all Rome seems to be our enemy.”

  “No, for there are honest men in Rome,” Tros answered. “I have made an enemy of Pompey. He is irritated because I went over his head to the Vestals. Arrogant aristocrat! He will hardly dare to disobey them openly, but neither will he swallow what he thinks is an indignity. A man in Pompey’s shoes needs only to nod and there are fifty men at once to do whatever work he thinks too dirty for his own white hands. Indeed, I tell you, Orwic, a whole host of gods has reason to be grateful to us for an opportunity. Let them act godlike!”

  CHAPTER 90. The Carceres and Nepos, the Lanista

  Weigh well thy motives, trusting destiny to weigh thy deeds. I have heard this — it was Caesar said it — that a captain should mother his men because he may need them later and they will die more bravely for a captain who has showed them loving-kindness as well as strength. But I think otherwise. I say a captain who has not lovin
g-kindness for his men is unfit to be died for. If he understand not that they need him, and be not ready to die with them, in an hour of worst need he shall learn that he knew not what leadership is.

  — from The Log of Tros of Samothrace

  TROS’s attitude was brave, but in his heart was nothing to support it. He was on the deepest bottom of despair. The need of keeping up appearances for Orwic’s sake alone prevented him from giving way. He was a man who lived by energy; the exercise of will invoked new powers of imagination. But now that there seemed no concrete thing to do, his very will dried up.

  Thrusting the unfinished food aside he rallied himself by summing up the facts, inviting Orwic to discover a solution. He slew flies with a spoon, arranging them in geometrical designs on the cook-shop table — one design for each fact, involutions indicating intricacy; then, thumbing off the gravy from his plate, he tried to work the calculus by smearing all the facts together into one plan.

  “Zeuxis — who doesn’t know yet that I know his treachery. That one’s Zeuxis. He believes I’m carrying a thousand pearls under my cloak. Zeuxis, or else Nepos — very likely both of them — sent word to one of Pompey’s agents that my men would make good gladiators. Probably the agent acted on his own responsibility, consulting Pompey afterwards — perfectly simple — sent one of Zeuxis’ servants, whom they’d recognize, to tell my Northmen — in Gaulish, which they’d understand sufficiently to get his meaning that I’d come out of the Vestals’ palace through a back door, or by an underground passage or some such story. They supposed I’d sent for them — and walked straight into an ambush.

  “Helene — presently at liberty and dangerous. There’s Helene — that one. Has her eyes on me — anticipates a drama of affection, and the least she’ll do will be to stir the jealousy of half-a-dozen dagger-digging sons of equites! Caesar’s spy. Probably knows enough to blackmail any one in Rome except Cato. Very likely she can help by an appeal to Caesar’s agents, of whom Memmius, a candidate for consul, is the foremost in the public eye. Call that one Memmius — a very doubtful quantity — a politician; anything that he does will be paid for through the nose by some one. All those other flies near Memmius are politicians, each with his palm itching for a bribe — which each of them would pocket and forget!