by Talbot Mundy
Tros glanced and grinned. “I think he strikes. Do you know the cost of ammunition?”
“Sink him!” she commanded. “Burn him like the other! Go in and fight! Do you fear him?”
Tros was watching the Roman. He went ahead slowly, aware Of a rising wind and a strong drift shoreward. He gave the Roman ample time to back out of view beyond the belching crimsoned smoke-cloud of the burning bireme.
“A good soldier!” he said. “A bad sailor! Ahiram!”
“Lord Tros?”
“Send a man forward and warn the archers not to waste arrows. That Roman means to beak us as we come by-looking for him. I’m going around, on his side of the burning ship, to catch him stern on. He fights his ship from the midship citadel, so bid them sweep that when they get the word.”
The trireme, with the port oars backed and starboard oars ahead at full speed, turned in a length and a half and then curved in a short parabola until the Roman was in full view again trying to keep station with a rising wind on his beam. He had drifted downward; had he gone straight ahead now his beak would have crashed the burning ship. He saw Tros too late and tried to turn and meet him He was caught, mid-turn, by the screaming bronze-tipped hail of all Tros’s starboard arrow-engines, that swept the citadel. A marksman on Tros’s midship deckhouse shot down the Roman helmsman. The Roman’s stern ballista smashed one arrow-engine with a lump of quarried quartz and an archer was dragged along-deck by the heels to be dealt with by the surgeon, but the concentrated fire from all the other engines struck down the Roman commander. There was no control. The oars splashed purposeless. She beaked the burning bireme and swung sideways, opening seams in the burning ship, whose frantic crew let go the corvus, spiked the other’s deck and rushed over that narrow bridge to imagined safety. Others, who could not reach the corvus, threw out grapnels to try to haul, the ships closer together.
Tros ordered “cease fire.” Flames from the burning bireme, wind-blown, licked, scorched and set fire to the other, as the locked ships drifted shoreward.
“Catapult them!” Arsinoe struck Tros’s shoulder. “Fire them a parting kiss from me!”
He ignored her, staring seaward, calculating how close he dared approach the shoals at harbor mouth to pick up Conops before the rising sea should swamp the toiling longboat. The biremes were no longer of any importance, but Conops, coming at top speed, meant news.
“Now you go to fight Ahenobarbus? Give me armor. I need armor.”
Tros made no answer; he was thinking while he studied the sea and watched the arrows being counted and the baskets replenished. The Levanter had come, blowing straight toward Salamis, kicking up seas like foaming hills that surged on one another, raging against the confused waves from the storm of the day before. Ahenobarbus would be bottled, on a dangerous lee.
He glanced at the ten Jews, who looked dejected, ashamed to have had no share in the fighting. He sent one of them to bring the armorer, and when the armorer came, at last he faced the princess.
“Can you fit her?”
“Yes, Lord Captain. Chain mail. One of the new crestless helmets. It was made for the young lad who died off Cyrenaica.”
“Do it.”
“And a good sword!” said Arsinoe.
“Sword, shield and dagger,” said Tros.
“Aye, aye, Lord Captain.”
Then: “Ahiram, we’ll make sail as soon as we’re clear of the shoals. Get in the lower oars now and bid them close the ports. See that they’re tight. Bring the men from the lower bank on deck and let them stretch themselves. Inspect arms.”
“Aye, aye, Lord Captain.”
Arsinoe waited until Tros turned and could not avoid meeting her eyes. Then she stood at attention, saluted him, smiled, spoke:
“Lord Captain Tros!”
Her eyes shone. She was as full of excitement and reckless dare-devilry as a boy about to enter his first battle. Tros, who had had his belly-full of battles before she was born, again made no answer. He went to the rail to signal to the helmsman while the laboring longboat came alongside, under the trireme’s upper banks of oars, using three of them as booms — a seaman’s miracle, all in a day’s work for Conops.
CHAPTER VI. “Dirty weather for a battle!”
Manners? They are like a cloak, that either illustrates its wearer’s self-respect, or masks his vileness; popinjays his vices, or reveals his taste. I have observed that decent manners are invariably fitting the occasion — blunt and direct when causes are at issue; civil to the verge of gentleness where nothing but another’s momentary comfort is at stake. Too smooth manners in the face of issues is a sign of fear, or treachery, or weakness or of all three.
— From the Log of Lord Captain Tros of Samothrace
Arsinoe, without asking leave, returned to Tros’s cabin to await the armorer. However, Tros was aware that his chests were locked, and there was enough else to engage his full attention. Four oars, of each of the two upper banks of the port side, had to be brought in to make room to hoist the boat, while he kept way on the ship and navigated her between the shoals against a rising wind and tumultuous sea. It was hard work to gain an offing, but at last he had her with the wind on her beam, under three-reefed courses. The dog-tired oarsmen, helmeted and armed with sword and buckler, came on deck, each group of ten in charge of a decurion; they sprawled in the lee of the weather bulwark, doing leg-and-arm-exercises to resupple their strained tendons; the long deck was all legs in the air. Then leap-frog, around and around the deckhouse. The hatches went on and were battened. Tros listened to Conops.
“Master, I couldn’t make that hilltop. There’s a village, full of dogs and robbers — not enough of us to force a landing, and a surf that would have capsized us as sure as that the Gauls can’t swim. But there’s a high rock on yon promontory, with a bit of cove on the far side, so I swam ashore in the cove, and there’s a good view, but I couldn’t see the quinquiremes, on account of the hill between me and them. It looks, though, by the set of the sea, as if they’ve luck and might be worse off. If the wind doesn’t back any more to the eastward they can probably ride it out where they are, if their cables hold. That liburnian that went scouting has put back in a hurry; she’s running from thirty or forty sail of Cilician pirates. They look to me like River Cydnus slavers.”
Tros could already see the pirates. They could see him. If they should try to run past him into Salamis, that would give him the weather gauge; he could turn and pursue. Ahiram, as usual, offered advice. His promotion was due to Cleopatra’s having sent Tros’s Northmen to forced labor. Someday the giant Sigurdsen might escape, of be set free. It was a good idea to prove, in better Greek than Sigurdsen could use, that Phoenician wisdom was at least as good as Baltic pugnacity.
“They can’t go about,” said Ahiram. “They’d swamp. Some spy has told them of the corn fleet. There’s little those fellows’ spies don’t signal to them. They’ll have had word that the Egyptian warships went to Tyre or Sidon, and no more than two Roman biremes in Salamis. We can run. There’ll be a fair lee to the westward. Too late to put back into Salamis now. We had only a fathom under our keel, as it was, when we crossed the bar. If we did get in, they’d follow and give us a bad fight. They carry Greek fire, those gentry. With the port side upper oarbank we could bring her across the wind and run westward.”
Tros stared at him a moment and then spoke to the helmsman. He was not in the habit of spoiling officers by arguing. He gave his orders and Ahiram went to the deck in a hurry. There were plenty of men at the sheets and braces, but it was quite a trick to trim those reefed and straining sails, as Tros hauled closer to the gusty wind to gain sea-room. He had to beckon two extra men to help the helmsman, and Conops unlashed the spare steering-oar, in case the strength of three men should break the other.
There were several miles of raging sea between Tros and the nearest pirate vessel. He could count four-and-thirty sail that staggered before the wind in far better formation than any Roman fleet could have held
in such weather — felucca-rigged, two-masted, shoal-draft and rather beamy vessels, dark with men. It looked as if they carried enough armed men to spare prize-crews for every ship of the corn fleet. Their flagship, a larger vessel than the others, plunged in the lead by a cable’s length. She began signalling with arrangements of shields, painted in different colors.
Ahiram returned to the poop. “Dirty weather for a battle,” he remarked. “We can’t use the catapults. If we go close and manhandle the stink-balls into them they’ll smash our oars and grapple. Greek fire’s bad stuff — as bad as our stuff.”
Tros made no answer. It was not his idea of generalship to offer battle unless he thought he could win, and could gain his objective by winning. Cilician pirates were crafty and determined seamen, accustomed to fleet formation and unused to giving or receiving quarter. Their largest vessel was hardly more than a third of the size of his own, but even only three or four of them would be a dangerous foe to engage at close quarters.
On the other hand, he had no intention of leaving the corn fleet at the pirates’ mercy. They were capable of raping Salamis; such fleets had done that more than once, carrying off all the marketable men and women for sale in the Delos market. But in spite of their light draft and good seamanship they would find it difficult to enter Salamis with such a tremendous sea over the bar. They certainly could not do it without passing Tros to windward. Should they try to pass between him and the land he could overwhelm them one by one with arrow-fire and drive them ashore on the thundering beach.
Could they pass him to windward? They appeared to think not. Half of them changed helm slightly, heading up toward Tros, but that might be merely a strategic move to discover his intentions. If so, it was bad strategy. If they proposed to offer battle, they should have headed much more to windward, even at some risk of swamping, in order to come down on him with the advantage of full sails, speed and the ability to use whichever helm they pleased. But they discovered, several minutes too late, that Tros, even with three-reefed courses, had a weather helm. His would be the weather gauge, to seaward of them, before they could come within arrow range. That left them two alternatives: they could either enter the bay downwind and face those Roman quinquiremes, or ‘bout helm and run for shelter in some harbor on the northern or western coast of Cyprus. Would they tackle the Roman squadron?
Tros gave no hint of his own intention. With his lee rail almost awash,’ the greater part of his crew, sprawling in the shelter of the weather bulwark, were out of the pirates’ sight. The paulins had been replaced over the arrow-engines to protect them from spray and bullying squalls of rain. The keenest eyes could not have guessed he was ready for battle. On the other hand, neither could Tros see, he could only guess what the Romans were doing, whereas the pirates could see the Romans. They all changed helm again, as if they thought Tros wished to pass astern of them and avoid an encounter. But it might mean that the Roman squadron was in dire difficulties and an easy prey. And if the pirates had recognized Tros’s trireme, they would count on his not coming to the Romans’ aid. His hatred of Rome was notorious; pirates and temple priests knew more than statesmen about who was who. Whatever the pirates’ motive, their change of helm gave Tros plenty of time and full chance to avoid them if he pleased. He put the time to use, while Ahiram took charge of the helm and drove the trireme, little by little, more and more to windward.
“Conops, go into my cabin. Remember your manners. Lend the Princess Arsinoe one of my cloaks, present my compliments, and ask her to come to the quarter-deck. Lend her a hand if she hasn’t sea-legs.”
Conops’s one eye popped with astonishment, but he knew better than to hesitate, he was gone in three strides and a vault. Tros ordered a series of luffs, which cost time that he could well spare, increasing the pirates’ confidence that he meant to avoid them. He wanted them all to leeward; after that he could make up his mind what to do. Meanwhile, Arsinoe.
She needed no help from Conops. She had slapped his face for daring to touch her. He was rubbing his Cheek pretending it hurt, in order to let Tros know what had happened. Sea-legs she had, but not sea manners. She came up the ladder easily and scandalized Ahiram and the helmsmen by hauling herself along the rail to Tros’s windward and clinging there, facing him, holding the mizzen preventer backstay, as if she were the captain and he her lieutenant.
She looked, in rather loosely fitting armor, like a mischievous Amazon. Her long hair was coiled in a leather cap beneath the crestless helmet that made her face look boyish and excitingly handsome. With her back to the wind she let the borrowed cloak fly open, revealing the chain mail, sword-belt and Damascus sword in a crimson scabbard. Naked legs. The same gilded sandals, already ruined by the spray. An impudently shortened Coan himation of almost transparent linen, barely to her knees.
“How do I look?” she demanded. “There is no mirror in your ogre’s den, though I perceive you have two beds, so I suppose a woman is not so rare in your life as you like to pretend. Of course you dislike women, if you give them no means to make themselves presentable! I wager, if you paid women half the thought you squander on your ship, you would become as great a gallant as you area seaman! Am I right, is it rough or is this nothing to mention? Are we near the Romans? Where are they?”
He strode to the rail beside her, staring at the pirates, directing her gaze with his right arm.
“Are they Romans?” she asked. “All that many? They run?”
“That is a fleet of Cilician pirates. Look at me, Princess. Look straight into my eyes.”
She looked, unflinching. She was more interested in him than in anything else, at that moment, on land or sea, and at no pains to conceal it.
“The truth!” Tros commanded, as if he were speaking to one of his own decurions. “The whole truth! By my right arm, if you lie now, I will treat you as I would a drab from the Delos slave-mart!”
She threw her head back and laughed. “Heracies! Unused to women? I would tell you all the truth twice over for the half of that threat! Now you look like a man! I feared you were a sort of hermit, growing barnacles instead of lice!”
“Speak, girl! Did you expect those pirates?”
She nodded, grew suddenly serious. The desperate, searching look returned to her eyes; the cat-like Ptolemy stare, inscrutable, alert. She spoke boldly, as if armor gave her reassurance.
“Lord Tros, I tired of being shuttlecock. I have been batted to and fro between that dog Serapion and Cinyras of Paphos. Cinyras is the throneless king, turned high priest, whom you kept out of your cabin. Each of them was trying to sell me to the highest bidder. I defied Serapion, and he treated me like a prisoner. He sent secret messengers to offer me to Herod, planning to make Herod King of Egypt — two foxes, eating a goose before they have it caught — two schemers who mistrust each other and who haven’t a drachma between them. Cinyras, the high priest, has the tribute money, that has not been paid to Rome since Caesar’s death. It is stored in the vaults of the temple of Aphrodite. Plenty of money. He thinks that if he saves it to send to Rome as soon as he can guess the winner of the civil war, Rome will reward him by giving him back the throne that Cato took away. So I went to Cinyras, by night, in peril. I claimed sanctuary. Cinyras was glad to give it; he hates Serapion. But he is afraid for the treasure; afraid to spend it; afraid that Serapion’s unpaid troops may come and plunder the temple before some Roman comes to demand the arrears of tribute. So I was no better off, though I tried to persuade him to pay the troops and let them slay Serapion. Sanctuary? I was a prisoner, in the hands of a mumbling coward. And I learned that the loving sister who usurped my throne had sent a priest from Alexandria to have me poisoned.”
“Were you told that by Lars Tarquinius?” Tros asked her. “If one could believe what Romans say, your sister has tried to poison the entire senate. They will be saying next that she poisoned the daggers that killed Caesar.”
Arsinoe’s lip curled. “You don’t know my loving sister. You only think you know her.
She tried to have me poisoned in Rome, when you befriended me and Caesar didn’t have me beheaded after his triumph. After being dragged through Rome in chains I was too tired and careless to understand. But a few days later, when I did understand, I pretended you wanted me, and I begged Caesar to keep you away from me. I did that out of gratitude, to keep Caesar from suspecting you and I were in a plot of some sort. And Caesar laughed, as I knew he would laugh.”
That was news to Tros. So the girl had a sense of gratitude? Or was she lying? He glanced at her sharply. She continued:
“But I am foam-born. Aphrodite is my spiritual mother. Always wise thoughts come to me, even at the last minute. Always friends appear from among my enemies. I have friends among the priests. One of them conveyed a message for me to the pirate-king Anchises of Tarsus. Yonder is Anchises’s fleet! A man of action! How should I have known that you were coming, to be my captain and my right arm?”
Tros scowled to keep himself from laughing; she was a wonderful mixture of sense and nonsense, optimism and romance. He watched the pirate fleet, until more than half of them were out of sight, and even the scattered vessels that brought up the rear were too close to the mouth of the bay to have turned back and headed seaward. Then suddenly:
“What did you offer Anchises?”
“The temple treasure. I told him how poorly defended it is.”
“What did you ask him to do for you?”
“I said I wished to go to Cassius or Brutus.”
Then Tros did laugh. “Do you know Brutus? A mealymouthed hypocrite! Do you know Cassius? A wolf! Do you know Anchises? A clever robber, who would have had you and the treasure also! Anchises has held more men and women to ransom than even his father Philon did, until old Ahenobarbus, this man’s father, cornered Philon and crucified him. Anchises would know what to do with a young queen!”
“I would rather take my chance with Anchises,” she answered, “than be any longer the dupe of that dog Serapion, who will die on a dung-heap. I think Anchises would have delivered me to Cassius or Brutus, in exchange for their calling him king, not pirate. Cassius, I happen to know, would like to see me on the throne of Egypt again, for the sake of the corn and money I could send him. However now at any rate Anchises will avenge his father’s death. He has caught the son of the man who crucified his father. He will thank me for it.”