Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “Don’t follow him! Let’s fight our way out!”

  “No,” said Tros, “let’s find the Northmen.”

  He preferred to follow Nepos rather than be torn with iron hooks and clubbed. He took his hand off his dagger and touched Orwic’s arm to reassure the younger man. Together they strode behind Nepos down a narrow corridor that stank of ordure and wet straw. There were cell doors right and left, and at the end, below a candle on a bracket, a peculiarly narrow opening protected by an iron grille — so narrow that if the grille were swung clear on its heavy hinges only one man at a time could possibly have passed.

  “Do they know your voice?” asked Nepos over-shoulder, his voice rumbling along the tunnel.

  “Sven! Jorgen! Skram! Olaf!” Tros shouted.

  There was instant pandemonium. A deep-sea roar of voices burst out through the grille:

  “Tros! Tros! Ho, master! Lord Tros! Come and rescue us!”

  The prisoners in two score cells all added to the babel, clamoring for mercy; they supposed some great official had come looking for a lost retainer and on the spur of the moment every man invented reasons why he should be set free. Nepos struck his iron club against the grille and threatened to send for hot irons, but the Northmen did not understand him and their chorus roared louder than ever. An arm protruded through the grille and Nepos struck it, arousing a curse that sounded like a taut rope bursting suddenly.

  “Silence!” Tros thundered, again and again; but not even his voice quieted them.

  “Master, we sicken! We die, Lord Tros! Release us! Let us out!”

  But it suddenly occurred to them that if he spoke they could not hear, and there was no sound then except their breathing as they crowded at the grille. Tros let his wrath loose:

  “This is what I get for trusting you!” he growled in Gaulish. “Fine men! Follow the first lousy Greek who lies to you! Hopeless fools! Now I must buy you back like a job-lot of left-over slaves!”

  He glanced at Nepos who was standing in between him and the grille.

  “Whom should I speak to about freeing them?” he asked in Latin. Nepos grinned sourly and turned a thumb down.

  “They’re due to die in the arena. If you like good advice, I’d say to you: leave Rome in a hurry!”

  Tros held his breath. He thought of madness — of plunging his dagger into Nepos, loosing his Northmen and fighting the way out.

  “It’s too late to befriend them now,” said Nepos. “This is the gate to the land of death.”

  Something in the tone of his voice reminded Tros that Nepos was a man of strangely mixed peculiarities and loyalties.

  “What I have, won’t help,” he said. “I have this tessera.” He drew up a broken disk of engraved ivory that hung on a cord around his neck, beneath his shirt. It was approximately half of an ancient ornament, irregularly broken off, its ragged edge inclosed in a thin casing of gold to preserve it. “My father exchanged tessera with Zeuxis’ father—”

  “Eh?” exclaimed Nepos. “What? Here, let me have a look at that. Has that Greek tricked me into sacrilege? If he and you are hospites—”

  He gestured with his arm along the passage and pushed Tros in front of him.

  “Go back there where it is lighter. I must know the truth of this.”

  They returned to the echoing half-light where the slave still blew at the brazier, the men with iron clubs retreating backward and then standing near to protect Nepos. But that grizzled veteran seemed totally indifferent to danger. He kept muttering:

  “Jupiter hospitalis!”

  Tros slipped off the cord over his neck and gave the tessera into his hand. Nepos pulled off with his teeth the gold band that protected the jagged edge and held the piece of ivory toward the candlelight.

  “That might be genuine,” he muttered. Then, sharp eyes on Tros: “Do you swear to me that Zeuxis has the other half of this?”

  “Not I,” Tros answered. “I am from Samothrace and therefore take no oath at random. But I swear to you—”

  “By Jupiter hospitalis?”

  “Aye, by Jupiter hospitalis, that my father and Zeuxis’ father exchanged tessera, of which that is the one that I inherited.”

  “And has Zeuxis never given notice of repudiation?”

  “Never. To the contrary, he welcomed me with such effusion that we never spoke of tessera at all. There was no need. I arrived at his house without sending him warning and he welcomed me with open arms.”

  “The Greek dog!” muttered Nepos. “Are the Greeks not bound by oath of hospitality? Great Jupiter! In Sulla’s time a thousand Romans risked proscription for the sake of that oath! I myself — But are you sure the Greek knew? You say your father and his father exchanged tessera, but did Zeuxis know of it?”

  “He did. Nine years ago in Alexandria he claimed my father’s hospitality, on board my father’s ship, when Ptolemy’s men were after him for having said too much to the wrong listener. My father hid him in the hold between barrels of onions, and that was where I first met Zeuxis. It was I who took food to him, lest the crew should learn his whereabouts and drop a hint to Ptolemy’s men.”

  Nepos began breathing through his nose, his windy gray eyes glinting in the candle-light. He stood with clenched fists on his hips considering, not Tros apparently, but the atrocity that had been done to his own person.

  “Even if the Greek was ignorant, the oath was binding until publicly annulled,” he muttered.

  “Zeuxis is a Roman citizen,” said Tros.

  “Aye, that he is! These Greeks who become Romans need a lesson. They accept Rome’s credit and deny her claims! They grow rich and they — this is too much, Tros—”

  He shook his finger under Tros’s nose, as if Tros had been a party to the sacrilege.

  “You, too, are an alien and may not understand Rome’s principles. I tell you, I have seen men sent to this place, to be torn by animals, for crimes that were glorious deeds compared to this atrocity! I would prefer to see a Vestal Virgin immured living! An offense against hospitium! — If Cato knew of it—”

  “Send word to him,” said Tros.

  “No. That would do you no good. Cato is — what is it he calls himself? — not a philosopher — a logician — that’s it, a logician. He would order Zeuxis crucified, but he would not let your men go. He would say, let each man die for his own offense.”

  “Offense?” said Tros. “I haven’t heard of one. Who charged them? Who tried them? Who passed sentence?”

  Nepos stared at him, incredulous. He appeared to think Tros bereft of his senses.

  “Your men,” he said, “were caught red-handed lurking in the portal of the Vestals. They are not entitled to a hearing. An offense against the Vestals is beyond the law’s arm, even as they are above it. They may not be mentioned in a court of law. No law can touch them. They may not be haled as witnesses. How then shall a magistrate try such a case? Besides, your barbarians are not Roman citizens, nor subjects of any kingdom that Rome recognizes — are they? Pompey himself ordered the lot of them into the arena! My friend, they’re your men no longer. They must die.”

  Nepos began drumming on his teeth with horny fingernails.

  Tros spoke:

  “Then I die with them. They are my men.”

  Nepos blinked at him. “You would make a splendid spectacle,” he said. “Do you fight well?”

  “It remains to be seen,” Tros answered. “But they will fight better with me than without me.”

  “Have you broken tessera together?”

  “Nay, we broke bread. We have built and sailed a ship together.”

  “You should have been born a Roman,” said Nepos. “Once in a hundred years or so we breed a few of your sort. Well, I can do you the favor. You may die with your men if you see fit. You shall go in there with weapons. I can arrange that.”

  “You will earn my good-will, Nepos.”

  “Well, I like that better than your ill will. It will suit me; I shall get the credit for a fine spec
tacle. And who knows? If you have the Vestals’ favor you may be safe in the arena. They may turn their thumbs up when the time comes. I can send you against Glaucus. He shall run you through the thigh. One can depend on Glaucus; many a time I have used him to preserve a man’s life, but it never worked unless the Vestals had a hand in it.”

  He went on scratching at his chin. The wretches in the cells around him made noises like caged animals, all sounds uniting into one drab, melancholy moan. There was a conversation going on between cells in the polyglot thieves’ jargon that creates itself wherever criminals are thrown together — droning, wholly without emphasis, resembling an echo of what happened last week. Its effect on Tros and Orwic was as if death clutched at them, but Nepos and his men seemed not to notice it — not even when a man in agony from their inflicted burns yelled imprecations.

  “There is no place here to make you comfortable,” Nepos said at last. “Are all oaths sacred to you?”

  “Any of my making.”

  Nepos, scratching at his chin, nodded and nodded: “Swear you will be here!”

  “If my men are here, here I will be,” Tros answered.

  “And that barbarian?” He glanced at Orwic.

  “He was the first against Caesar’s legions on the shore of Britain. Yes, I answer for him.”

  “Very well. Here, take your tessera and keep it. Trust me to deal with Zeuxis. There is no worse sin than violation of hospitium. You swear now — no trickery — you will be back here?”

  “I agree,” said Tros. “But what of my men? Can’t you treat them better? They will sicken in that cage.”

  “Aye, they shall have good treatment. They shall be better fed. There is a shortage of strong barbarians to make a showing against the King of Numidia’s black spearmen. They tell me your men fight with axes, which would immensely please the populace. As for Zeuxis—”

  “If there’s a law in Rome, my men shall go free yet!” Tros interrupted.

  “Take my advice,” said Nepos. “Let the law alone! If you apply to any magistrate he will inform himself as to Pompey’s wishes and then condemn them legally on any trumped-up charge. As it is, they are not condemned. If the Vestals should bid them go free none could quarrel with it, could they? or with me either.”

  “Money,” said Tros, “would buy Rome. Tell me whom to see about it.”

  “Nay, nay, why buy promises that no one could keep even if he dreamed of doing it! Whom would you buy — Pompeius Magnus? Rich — proud — I suppose he bears you private enmity, but that is not my business. Whom else? The Vestals? You can’t buy them. You might petition them. You will have to do that secretly and very craftily. As for Zeuxis — if that scoundrel isn’t crucified within the month for sacrilege against Jupiter Hospitalis, then my name isn’t Nepos!”

  But Tros’s wits were working — furiously. It would not give him the slightest satisfaction to see Zeuxis crucified. Revenge on such a rascal was beneath his dignity. But if the man who had betrayed him could be made to undo the disaster at his own expense.

  “Whatever Zeuxis did, I hold his tessera,” said Tros, “and I am bound by oath to treat him as a hospes until he or I repudiate the bond before witnesses. And it is I who should accuse him, not you, Nepos. I prefer to give him opportunity to purge his sacrilege.”

  “Impossible!” said Nepos. “There is no way of condoning that offense. It is against God; it is against Rome; it is against citizenship. Zeuxis—”

  “Is my hospes,” Tros interrupted. “I implore you to refrain from interfering with him until I have my way first.”

  Nepos demurred: “If you were a Roman that might satisfy the gods, but you are not a Roman. Jupiter hospitalis looks to us Romans to uphold his dignity. However, I concede this — if you can find a way of punishing that scoundrel, do it. I will give you time before I inform Cato and have him crucified. Meanwhile, no warning him! If he escapes, I will hold you answerable! He who overlooks such sacrileges as that knave has committed is as guilty as if he had done it himself! I will set informers on the watch to make sure Zeuxis does not escape to foreign parts.”

  “So do,” Tros answered. “That will serve me. Let me speak to my men. Can you put them elsewhere? That dungeon they are in stinks like an opened grave.”

  “I will move them to the upper cells,” said Nepos, “if you will guarantee their good behavior.”

  Tros strode back to the grille, where he was greeted by another chorus of lament.

  “Silence!” he commanded. “Who shall have patience with faithless fools who run after the first Greek that lies to them? Dogs! I have had to beg a better cell for you; and now I go to buy you from whoever sells such trapped rats! Let me hear of one instance of misbehavior between now and then, and I will leave the lot of you to rot here! Do you understand that? You are to obey this honorable Nepos absolutely until I come, and if he tells me of one disobedience these walls shall be the last your eyes will ever see!” He turned his back, indignant that he should have to speak so cruelly to decent men, then followed Nepos to the steps, and to the upper iron gate, and daylight — where the stable smell was like the breath of roses after the abominable fetor of the dungeon.

  As he walked off, he smiled wanly at the thought of how thoroughly cowed he had left his men, and for a moment he felt guilty of having been too harsh.

  CHAPTER 91. Tros Forms an Odyssean Plan

  In a world so full of rubbish that even rich men’s wastrels find amusement, the most worthless trash of all is revenge. Justice knows not vengeance, or it is not justice. But I see no unwisdom in putting a spiteful fool to work to spite himself into a net, if so be that should suit my purpose.

  — from The Log of Tros of Samothrace

  TROS made his way to Zeuxis’ house in no haste, although Orwic was impatient. It was essential to take time to instruct Orwic thoroughly.

  “Romans,” he said, “have certain virtues, of which loyalty to certain customs is the greatest. They respect the Vestal Virgins and the law of hospitality. Whoever offends against those ancient institutions puts himself outside the pale and they regard him almost as no longer human. That is why Nepos turned on Zeuxis and befriended us. That is also why Pompey turned so suddenly against me. I have made one mistake after another, Orwic. If I had said nothing to the Vestals about Helene, Pompey very likely would have let my men go; more than likely one of his lieutenants seized them at Zeuxis’ suggestion and Pompey knew nothing about it until afterward.

  “It is not quite like Pompey to do such under-handed work. But then the Vestals told him not to interfere with me, and they also asked him to procure Helene’s liberty. He jumped to the conclusion, I suppose, that Caesar, the pontifex maximus, is trying to make use of the Vestals, and when I showed him Caesar’s seal that made him sure of it. No doubt he had already heard of Caesar’s swoop on Gades, which is in Pompey’s province. He is beginning to feel nervous about Caesar. I ought to have known he would resent having the Vestals drawn into politics. He probably made up his mind to have you and me thrown into the arena along with my men, to teach the Vestals a lesson. If Caesar cared to take that up, Pompey could make a public issue of it and accuse Caesar of tampering with Rome’s most sacred institution. Now do you understand?”

  “No, I don’t!” said Orwic.

  “Very well, then leave it to a man who does! Observe whether we are being followed, and hold your tongue while I think!”

  But thought comes wrapped up in obscurity when men are irritated, and whichever way Tros switched his speculation difficulties seemed insuperable. He supposed Conops would be in the dungeons presently and he would have no means of learning when his ship arrived at Ostia nor any way of warning Sigurdsen to put to sea again and try some other port.

  “There is nothing for it,” he said finally, “but to try to use Helene’s wits and Zeuxis’ knavery! I have some money left, and fifty pearls, not counting the big ones I hid on the ship. Let us see what the gods can make of that material!”

  “B
ut what of me?” suggested Orwic. “I can out-ride any Roman! Get me a horse and let me find the way to Ostia. I can out-swim any Roman, too! Let me watch for the ship and swim out and warn Sigurdsen.”

  Tros turned sarcastic:

  “You who can speak neither Greek nor Latin! It would be easier for you to find one bug in a dunghill than Conops in Ostia! Nay, Orwic, we stand at death’s gate. Let us gut death together, if we can’t scheme a way out.”

  The lean, impertinent-eyed eunuch at the gate announced that Zeuxis was away from home.

  “Then he will find me here when he returns,” said Tros. “Admit me!”

  “I have no such orders from my master,” said the eunuch.

  “Shall he find a dead slave at the gate?” Tros asked, his right hand on his dagger, so the eunuch changed his mood to an obsequious, sly suavity and Tros strode in.

  And on the porch Helene greeted him, all laughter. She was dressed in pale blue silk from Alexandria, with roses in her hair and gilded sandals.

  “I am washed clean — come and smell me! It took three women’ three hours to make me know there were no longer any vermin in my hair! Tros — Tros of Samothrace—”

  “Have you seen Zeuxis?” he interrupted.

  “Yes. He went to my house to take inventory and discover how much the public custodians stole — also to turn out the landlord’s bailiffs. Zeuxis says it was you who betrayed me to Cato; but he pretends that he is sorry to hear that your men are in the carceres, and he also pretends to be worried about your fate. He proposes to restore my popularity by getting my Cappadocians entered in the quadriga race, but all the Thracian drivers who amount to anything are bought up — and besides, one can’t trust them, because owners who have backed their chariots to win bribe even an honest man out of his senses.”

  She led into the courtyard by the fountain, where she lay luxuriously on a divan and ordered Zeuxis’ slaves about as if she were the mistress of his household. Wine was brought.

  “Already some of my friends talk of stabbing Cato in the Forum,” she remarked. “They talk too loud, the hot-heads! I am here because I daren’t go home for fear they may compromise me in some foolishness. I would rather have to love old Cato than be crucified for listening to plots against him! Drink to me, Tros of Samothrace! Drink to the light in my eyes — I am told it resembles starlight on the Nile!”