by Talbot Mundy
Tros gulped wine, coughing to disguise embarrassment, so nervous that he could not even make believe to like her company. Her morals were no least concern of his; he knew his own strength. But he dreaded feminine intrigue as some men loathe the presence of a cat; it was indefinable but no less an obsession — almost superstition — probably heredity, due to his father’s austere striving to prepare himself for the higher Samothracian Mysteries.
Helene studied him and laughed.
“Lord Tros,” she said, “I like you better than the best in Rome! You challenge me! Are you a Stoic? I will wreck your stoicism! Come, drink to me — and smile a little while you do it — because I will certainly do you a great service. I perceive you are not to be won by being beaten but by being helped to succeed.”
“Pearls you shall have,” Tros answered, and she nodded, her eyes smoldering.
“Beware of me!” she said. “I am a great gambler. I play fair. I risk all on a throw. I would wreck Rome for the sake of what my heart is set on — aye, Rome and Alexandria, Caesar and Pompey — and you and me! Now craftily — here is Zeuxis!”
Naturally, Zeuxis was not taken by surprise; the eunuch at the gate had warned him. He affected to be pleased — ran forward to embrace Tros — let his jaw drop with an exclamation of astoundment when Tros held him off.
“I heard you had been seized. I have rushed here and there endeavoring to find friends who could help you. I — Tros, I—”
Tros drew out the tessera and held it under Zeuxis’ nose.
“Now — no lies! Zeuxis, I can call eight witnesses to prove that your father and my father took oath of hospitium. There is Xenophon the banker for one, and there are doubtless temple priests who will remember it. If you have burned your tessera or lost it, that is no affair of mine. The oath holds — father to son, father to son — and you have broken faith. No lies, I said! Don’t make the matter worse!”
“You never claimed hospitium,” said Zeuxis, stammering.
“I had no need. The oath holds whether talked about or not. Two hospites have no need to repeat their obligations to each other, more especially when you, whose life my father saved for the oath’s sake, received me open-handedly. You said your house was mine. You bade me enter and possess it. Should I then have pinned you, like a lawyer, to the details of your obligation?”
“Tros, what does this mean? I have done you no wrong,” Zeuxis stammered, glancing at Helene, and his eyes were shrewdly speculative although fear blanched his cheeks.
Helene, dangerous for very love of danger and in love with Tros and with intrigue and with amusement, nodded, reassuring him. He jumped to the conclusion she was loyal to himself.
“I have done you no wrong,” he repeated, meeting Tros’s gaze. “Who has lied to you?”
Conceiving that Helene was his friend, he let his mind slip sidewise like mercury to another possibility, but Tros now understood the man he had to deal with and interpreted the changed look in his eyes.
“Neither poison nor dagger nor any other kind of treachery will help you any longer, Zeuxis. You have shot your bolt! Nor will it help to have me waylaid and returned into the prison, where my men lie at the risk of plague. Your infamy is known! If I die, that will not absolve you. Mark this — masticate it — let it become all your consciousness and govern you. You have but two alternatives, death or my mercy!”
“You threaten me?” Zeuxis stuttered. Fear had robbed him of his wits at last; he was trembling.
“Aye, Zeuxis! And a threat from me binds me as inescapably as any other promise! You are watched, so you can not escape abroad. The Roman who knows of your crime against Jupiter hospitalis itches to make an example of you, but I begged the chance for you to make amends. I have not yet repudiated my share of the vow, although you broke yours. I will still protect you, if you turn about — now — smartly — and undo your sacrilege by helping me, as you have harmed me hitherto, with all your zeal and cunning! I will even lie for you in that event; I will deny that my misfortune was your doing.”
Zeuxis’ face changed color. Pride, resentment, fear all fought for the control of him, but fear prevailed — fear and perhaps a grain of gratitude.
“Tros, you are very generous. It is true that I lost the tessera and it escaped my mind; but you exaggerate the wrong I did, which was an indiscretion, not deliberate treachery. I took a slave into my confidence, who went and sold your men to Licius Severus, Pompey’s master-of-the-horse, and it was too late then for me to—”
“Lie me no more lies!” Tros interrupted. “You intended to divide my pearls with Licius Severus! I will make him party to the sacrilege and have your slave’s testimony taken on the rack if there is any doubt in your mind as to my earnestness! I know the law. An offense against hospitium is treason against Rome; so your slaves can be tortured against you — and you also! But I blame myself a little, Zeuxis; I should not have tempted you by telling you of all those pearls — which are in a safe place now, where neither you nor any other rogue can get them.”
That last argument, like a knife that cuts two ways, instantly converted Zeuxis. Where the fear of punishment alone had undermined his will but left him infinitely capable of treachery, information that the pearls were out of reach removed all motive for infidelity. He wept and kneeling, clasping Tros’s knees, begged him for forgiveness.
“Tros — honored hospes — I am dying of the shame this day has brought on me! Accept my—”
But Helene knew no sentimental qualms, nor had the slightest patience with them.
“Tros!” she exclaimed, rising. “What have you done with the pearls?”
She poised a wine-cup as if taking aim. She pointed one hand at Tros’s eyes. Her own eyes glared. “Are you a pauper? Is your wealth gone?” She was much more beautiful in that guise than when trying to seduce. Beautiful — unlovely! Artificiality was stripped off. Her nature was more naked than her body had been when she fought the gladiator. She was a human cobra — honestly venomous — openly baffled and angry and revengeful.
“Tros!” she said. “Have you deceived me?”
“Aye,” he answered. “It appears I made you think I fear you!”
He seized her wrist. She sprang at him, but he jerked her arm and twisted it behind her back until she bit her lips in agony — then lifted her by arm and leg and threw her sprawling in a corner, where she caught the curtain to break her fall and tore it from its rod.
“Bring me a whip!” he commanded. “Swiftly, Zeuxis! Did you hear me say a whip? This slave shall learn—”
But there was no need for the whip. The word “slave” whipped her better than the strongest arm could have. She was a slave pretending to be free. No doubt the hold that Caesar, or more likely Caesar’s secret agent, had over her was just that fact, that she was slave-born. In an instant she could be thrown down from whatever pinnacle she might attain. Society protected itself ruthlessly against its victims. The slave found taking liberties with freedom could be sure of nothing less than scourging — would be lucky if not crucified — lashed to a gibbet, that is, and mocked by other slaves as death came slowly of thirst and flies and gangrene.
Helene groveled. She was too much of an artist in emotion to waste blandishments on Tros in that mood, and her slave-birth carried with it, as almost always, the peculiar slave-consciousness that crisis could bring to the surface, however deeply it was buried or however artfully concealed. The free man’s scorn of slaves was not totally unjustified; tradition of the centuries, heredity, education, had instilled into the slave-born a subconsciousness of slavish spirit that mere manumission rarely overcame. It was not without inherent justice that the slave set free was still the former master’s client and in many ways still bound to him, as well as denied many of the rights pertaining to a free-born citizen. Society had bred the slave and brutalized him, but it understood the problem. The slave wars that had nearly ruined Rome had served to unite all free and freed men into one close corporation, ready to endure extremi
ties of any kind in preference to imposition by its subject human beings. If discovered, it would not have helped Helene that her owner was of high estate and her abettor in the crime against society; not even Caesar could have saved her then.
She laid her hands on Tros’s feet, abject in submission on the floor in front of him. Her silence was a stronger plea than any words she might have spoken; she was pleading not alone for Tros’s silence but for his protection, too, from Zeuxis who had heard the word “slave,” who understood, and was incapable of not exploiting the discovery unless Tros should prevent.
“Get up!” Tros ordered. She obeyed, with all the cobra-venom gone — a piece of merchandise, worth nothing if denounced. Not Pompey, with his power to impose his will on four-fifths of the senate, could have saved her if the truth were known. For the moment she was too submissive to imagine the alternative that she had threatened through the grating of the praetor’s cell; she did not feel sufficiently her own to kill herself.
That mood, Tros understood, would not last long. Her elasticity would set her scheming presently. Unless he guided the reaction she would turn more desperately dangerous than she had been. He supplied the necessary ray of hope:
“I go to Caesar soon,” he said. “I have obtained a lien on Caesar’s influence. Obey me wholly — without flinching — and I will not only give you the pearls I promised, but I will also demand that Caesar shall manumit you.”
“Caesar doesn’t own me,” she said dismally. “I am only rented to him by Rabirius.”
“Good. Caesar shall instruct Rabirius, who is in fear of an impeachment and will bid high for Caesar’s influence with the judges. Meanwhile—” he turned on Zeuxis— “Silence! Spare that woman as I spare you! As the gods are all about us, I will ruin you if you betray her!” Then he swung around again and faced Helene. “Fail me in one batting of an eyelid and you shall see what happens to the slave caught posing as a free-born woman!”
He began to pace the floor as if it were his own poop, striding the length of the room and back again, to judge, under lowered eyelids, when he turned, the speed and the extent of Zeuxis’ and Helene’s recovery — intending they should not recover too far before he yoked them, as it were, and set them working. He had handled far too many mutinies at sea to let much time lapse between victory and imposition of a task.
“My men lie rotting in the dungeons,” he said suddenly. “My ship makes Ostia, and my man Conops very likely has been picked up by the praetor’s men or by some of Pompey’s followers. I need help. Where shall I find it?”
“I have influence with Nepos,” Zeuxis began, and paused. The smile on Tros’s face was sardonic; there was something enigmatic in the way he stood with folded arms. “Nepos might—”
“Let us talk about today, not yesterday!” said Tros, “and of what you will do, not what Nepos might do. What is this about the races and the team of Cappadocians? Are you so situated you can enter that team?”
“Easily,” said Zeuxis.
“In Helene’s name?”
“Yes, under red or white, but she has no charioteer except the Sicilian who keeps the horses exercised — a freed man — a good trainer, but sure to lose his head when an opponent crowds him to the spina and the spectators begin yelling. He would also certainly be bribed to lose the race.”
“What if a charioteer is found?” Tros asked.
“Who knows? If I knew the man I would bet on the Cappadocians. Otherwise I would bet just as heavily against them.”
“Here is the man,” said Tros. He laid a hand on Orwic’s shoulder. “This is the best horseman from a land where chariot driving is the measure of a man’s worth. I have seen Prince Orwic drive unbroken horses. He has magic in his hands, or in his voice, or else he owns an extra sense akin to seamanship, that says ‘yes’ and can make the horses say it when the gods themselves appear to say ‘no’! Let him see those Cappadocians, and rig them in a chariot, and feel their helm a time or two. Let him con the course and memorize the landmarks. Then there is utterly no doubt who wins, if those four Cappadocians can run!”
It took an hour to stir enthusiasm. Zeuxis and Helene were both crushed; he had to coax them back to confidence. Zeuxis could think of a thousand doubts as to the value of the plan, and of its outcome even if successful. It was all discussed in front of Orwic, who ignorant of Greek or Latin — and they talked both — did not understand one word of it.
“Most charioteers are slaves,” said Zeuxis. “Some are freed men, and the rest are of the type of gladiators — that is to say, regarded with contempt. But your friend Orwic is a prince. What will he say when he learns that the mob, which roars itself hoarse for the winner and heaps flowers on him, nevertheless thinks a charioteer no better than a gladiator — meaner, that is, than itself?”
“Who cares what a mob thinks? No task can lower a man,” Tros answered. “It is men who lower their profession. If the Lord Orwic were an upstart or a mere inheritor of titles he might flinch from such a stigma, but I brought no flinchers when I picked my crew! If he had thought whatever he might do for Britain possibly could be beneath his dignity, believe me, he would be in Britain now, not sharing my adventures! Orwic!” he said suddenly, “how long is it since you made sacrifice to any god whatever?”
Orwic rose out of a chair and yawned, then shrugged his shoulders.
“Long enough for all the gods to have forgotten me,” he answered.
“Are you willing to make sacrifice?”
“Aye, to your necessity. Some gain might come of that. But you have taught me not to whimper to the gods. I do nothing by halves, Tros. I have come to expect the gods to serve me, not I them.”
“They will serve you best clean-shaven,” Tros observed, “because the praetor’s men are very likely looking for a prince with a moustache! The gods might prefer the Gaulish costume to the Roman, when the praetor’s men are looking for a Briton in a Roman tunic! It is easiest to coax the gods by doing what one does best.”
“I can hunt, ride, fight and drive a chariot,” said Orwic, “nothing else. I am one of those unfortunates born out of time — as useless as a pig’s tail. Two or three hundred years ago I might have amounted to something.”
“Go and let Zeuxis’ barber shave you. We will see what you can do,” said Tros. Then to Helene, “Go and give your thanks to Pompey. Overwhelm him with your gratitude for having freed you from the praetor, and beg leave to reward him for his generosity by entering your Cappadocians in his name, to be driven by a Gaulish charioteer named — named — let us see, Ignotus.”
CHAPTER 92. Ignotus
I was born among wise men. My father was a Prince of Wisdom. In Alexandria I attended the schools of philosophy, by nature nonetheless observant of the uses to which wisdom may be put, and never fond of thinking without doing. Unused wisdom is a vinegary wine that rots its barrel. There is no end of wisdom, but a swift end for him who forgets that wisdom flows, it is not stagnant. Speaking for myself, I have never found a set of circumstances that a little wisdom could not unravel; no error that a little wisdom could not remedy. But wisdom is not in book or bag. It is a stream, and down-stream it is foul with yesterday’s mistakes. Let a than look toward its source, and dip thence; he shall not lack inspiration.
— from The Log of Tros of Samothrace
THE CIRCUS MAXIMUS re-echoed to the shouts of charioteers schooling their teams at the turns, and to the hum of the voices of extravagantly well-dressed loungers gathered in groups near the gate where the chariots entered, or sprawling on the seats reserved for equites, to watch the practice gallops and lay bets or learn the latest rumors about who had bribed which charioteer.
There was a new bay-colored team of Cappadocians yoked to a chariot embossed with Pompey’s monogram and driven by a young, athletic looking man in Gaulish costume who drove them at a walk around the course so many times that the observers presently lost interest. Then, suddenly, he launched the team into a frenzied gallop, reining in again before he reach
ed the turn.
“Did you see that? All four on their toes at once — as sudden as a javelin! That man will bear watching!” said a dissolute-faced youngster, leaning on his elbows over the barrier near the box reserved for patrons of the games.
“Better watch Helene,” his companion suggested. “That is her team. The charioteer is probably her slave, and she’s as crooked as Rabirius, who is said to have adopted her in Alexandria because she knew too much about his goings on! Have you heard the latest? Cato had her arrested, and Pompey interfered! Some say Pompey did it to oblige Rabirius as a desperate effort to keep on friendly terms with Caesar. And by the way, there’s news this morning: Caesar has invaded Britain. Caesar’s agent is backing Rabirius, whom Cato wants to prosecute for extortion in Alexandria; and now everybody is wondering what concessions Pompey had to make to Cato to get Helene out of his clutches.”
“Oh, didn’t you hear?” said the other, with the air of a man who always knew the news. “My steward was told by the barber who shaves Cato’s secretary, that Pompey had to agree to leave Nepos in charge of the dungeons. There was talk, you know, of one of Pompey’s veterans getting that job. They say Julia has sentimental prejudices and wanted a venial rascal in there who would substitute a corpse for any prisoner whom she thought unjustly condemned. But the doctor who physics Lavinia’s slaves was told by one of Pompey’s doctor’s slaves that Julia is dying, so I daresay Pompey didn’t think it worthwhile arguing. Old Cato is a Roman if there ever was one.”
“Nonsense! He’s a bundle of old-fashioned prejudices, with as much sense as a last year’s statue on a dust-heap!”