by Talbot Mundy
When the rain ceased, Arsinoe appeared clean, on the quarterdeck, in one of Tros’s best cloaks and still wearing armor, but without the helmet, drying her hair in the wind. She made no attempt to speak to Tros. She ate her meals alone in the cabin. Tros gave her a bodyguard — six men, in three watches of two; but she ignored them, though she did acknowledge Tros’s and all the afterguard’s salute when she came to the quarter-deck, coming and going whenever she pleased, gazing at the storm, the land, the plunging quinquireme.
“She is dangerous,” said Conops. “Master, mark my word: a silent woman is worse than a lee shore, a tempest, the scurvy, short rations and bad water, a foul anchor, a leaky hull, mutiny — and a mystery added to that! The only good ones are the shrews that let you know what they’re thinking about! It’s always mischief! Did you see her use that dagger? I did. A pirate struck her sword up — out of her hand — but she daggered him sweet as a skewered kabob — through the liver — not the first man she has killed, I’ll wager! I’d as lief trust a Cretan pilot!”
“Aye,” Tros answered. “Little man, you’re a wizard at reading women. I am warned. I will be careful.”
The Levanter died the second midnight, and the following dawn broke splendid on the hills of Cyprus. Tros was on the quarter-deck before daylight to smell the weather and judge the weight of the ground-swell. So he saw a boat leave the quinquireme and waited for the young cockerel in a plumed helmet who stepped from the stern-sheets, clambered aboard and came up the steps to the quarter-deck without saluting. He did make a sort of gesture to Tros with his right hand.
“Are you the ship’s captain? Admiral Ahenobarbus bids you let go our hawser.”
Tros eyed him, signing to Conops to keep still.
“Tell your admiral Ahenobarbus he may come and see me or take the consequences.”
“He is at breakfast.”
“I will give him exactly six times as long as it took them to row you from ship to ship.”
“Bold talk from a pirate!”
“Battle stations!”
Conops’s golden trumpet blared. There was a clangor of arms and a thunder of bare feet. Paulins came off, as the whip-crack-voiced decurions marshalled their men. The great catapult weights went climbing, and Ahiram’s seamen sent the yards up, with the sails brailed, ready to be sheeted down in an instant. The red-plumed cockerel in the equestrian cloak went overside without ceremony and his boat’s crew did a good job of rowing, for panicky slaves. Very soon indeed Ahenobarbus put his ten-oared barge into the water. He was followed into it by two officers-splashes of splendor against the quinquireme’s black freeboard. Ahenobarbus was wearing a general’s cloak and a helmet that shone in the morning sun.
A veteran. He was hardly more than Tros’s age, but a veteran — an old-style republican Roman, with bad teeth. At sea he had let his beard grow; it was prematurely gray, but his slave had trained it neatly. Gray eyebrows. Deep-sunk eyes, as gray and flinty as ever old Cato’s were. He climbed aboard with dignity and stood still, expecting a salute from the entire ship’s company. He received none, having neglected himself to salute the quarter-deck. Ahenobarbus would not have saluted a king who didn’t first salute the majesty of Roman arms. He stood staring about him. From behind him on his left hand, Lars Tarquinius watched Tros with the eyes of a doubtfully daring jackal. He appeared to be wearing a borrowed helmet; it was a bit big for him, plumed like a tribune’s. Less than half a pace behind Ahenobarbus, on his right hand, stood his flag-lieutenant, pock-marked, short, square-shouldered, with a snub nose and eyes like agates, devoid of sentiment or humor — eyes that missed nothing. All three wore the short Roman sword and regulation military armor. Two paces behind them stood a Greek slave, a scribe, a shortsighted, elderly, almost bald Sicilian in a gray woolen smock, with a knitted shawl over his shoulders and a brass-bound box for his writing materials.
Arsinoe came from the cabin, dry-haired and tidy, with her sandals re-gilded by the armorer from Tros’s store of gold-leaf that he kept for the serpent on the trireme’s bow. The sudden clank as her bodyguard stood to attention startled the flag-lieutenant; he nudged Ahenobarbus, who glanced at her and then stared at Tros. Tros came down from the quarter-deck with Conops behind him. The ten Jews, lined up below the steps, saluted; Conops gestured to them; they followed Tros, who followed Arsinoe into the cabin. Conops approached Ahenobarbus with studied insolence, omitting the slightest gesture that might be mistaken for respect.
“This way, Romans. My master grants you personal protection.”
He led the way to the cabin. Ahenobarbus, totally unruffled, unimpressed, too insolent to care to flatter Tros with the slightest display of pique or irritation, strode through the doorway, entered without greeting, and sat, with a clank of body-armor, uninvited, in the chair at Tros’s left hand. Tros was already seated at the end of the table, facing forward; Arsinoe sat at his right hand; Ahenobarbus, facing her, stared at her without the slightest change of expression. She returned the stare, equally unembarrassed. She appeared amused. Conops stood behind Tros. The Jew were lined up, five on either side, with their backs to the bunks. There was no place for the flag-lieutenant and Tarquinius except a long chest that had been placed between the table and the door; Conops signed to them to be seated on that. The slave stood behind Ahenobarbus’s chair.
Tros gave his helmet and sword to Conops, but Ahenobarbus ignored the hint; all three Romans sat covered.
“Who is this woman?” Ahenobarbus asked suddenly in a quarter-deck voice, harsh, authoritative. When he spoke he looked ready to fight.
“Has Lars Tarquinius not told you? I am the Queen of Cyprus.”
“Are you this pirate’s prisoner?”
“The nobleman whom you dare to call a pirate is Lord Captain Tros of Samothrace.”
“So I have heard. I asked, are you his prisoner?”
“No. What is your business, Roman?”
“I command in these seas. I am here to demand the tribute, two years owing, and to take away the corn fleet, fifty ships, lying in Salamis harbor.”
Not even her eyelids flickered. “By whose authority?”
“Marcus Junius Brutus, proconsul in Asia and general commanding the army of the senate and the Roman people.”
He removed his helmet, revealing a close-cropped head of iron-gray. Arsinoe had impressed him. Tarquinius and the flag-lieutenant also removed their helmets. But Ahenobarbus seemed to think that concession enough; he growled at the slave, who produced a raw turnip from under his shawl. It had already been pared. Ahenobarbus bit it, carefully because it hurt his stumpy teeth.
“I was at breakfast,” he remarked.
Arsinoe spoke with a changed voice and with scorn in her eyes:
“It would interest me just for once to meet a Roman whose first thought wasn’t money! You say ‘tribute.’ How much? What if the Roman senate should ignore your presumption and demand a second payment?”
Ahenobarbus looked at her as if she were a slave for sale. He took another bite of turnip. Then, in a matter-of-fact voice:
“Your assent, young woman, is a mere formality. In the name of General Brutus I will issue a receipt in exchange for all the treasure that I know is in the vaults of the Temple of Aphrodite.”
His slave whispered and passed him a slip of parchment. He handed it to Arsinoe.
“Lars Tarquinius has bestirred himself for once. Those are the figures.”
Never a Ptolemy lived who cared for treasure out of reach. Arsinoe shrugged her shoulders.
“You agree?” asked Ahenobarbus. “Sign that—”
“In exchange for what?”
“For being Queen of Cyprus. I will answer for Serapion and Cinyras. If they have forgotten Cato’s lesson they shall leant it again.”
The slave leaned forward and pushed pen and ink toward her. She glanced at Tros, who looked straight before him.
“Shall I?” she asked.
“Princess,” Tros answered, “I am neither King of
Cyprus nor your legal advisor.”
“You are a pirate,” Ahenobarbus remarked.
Arsinoe signed, recklessly scrawling her name at the foot of the parchment. Promptly Tros produced a parchment of his own and thrust it in front of the Roman.
“Now you have money, Ahenobarbus! This — here — is the price of the corn, all reckoned, counting interest and charges until tomorrow noon. This other document is my authority to hand over corn against money.”
Ahenobarbus stared. “That you sunk my biremes,” he retorted when he had recovered his presence of mind, “gives you no authority to deal in contraband. Has the corn fleet any documents such as Romans recognize?”
Tros grinned broadly. “Would you rather recognize defeat, Ahenobarbus? Your biremes in Salamis harbor opened fire on me without notice. Were there any survivors?”
“Some,” said Ahenobarbus.
“You, too, fired on me.”
“I did. I didn’t know you weren’t Anchises’s fellow-pirate. I may as well tell you, I have four hundred men on the beach. They are enough to keep you well occupied, if you should try to set a force ashore.”
“Aye, and you have a half-burned quinquireme within bow-shot! That I saved you from Anchises doesn’t make me much beholden to you,” Tros retorted. “If you think otherwise, make haste to your ship, and clear for action! I will give you enough time to haul your anchors.”
The Roman eyed him coolly: “I have always heard you are rashly magnanimous. Such conceits as giving your opponent time to make ready will be the end of you, one of these days. However, you have me at a disadvantage. My quinquireme isn’t fit at the moment to fight. I will pay for the corn. General Brutus needs that more than money — at the moment.”
“You agree to the figures?”
“Yes. I have no way to check them.”
“Sign then.”
Ahenobarbus scrawled his name at the foot of the parchment, adding the words, “legatus, S.P.Q.R.” Then his stubborn face set in what might be a thin-lipped smile or might be malice:
“Tros, I offer you a commission from General Marcus Junius Brutus.”
Tros smiled. “That assassin?”
“A noble Roman!”
“An ignoble parricide! A prig! Ahenobarbus, may the gods of ill-chance put your Brutus into Caesar’s shoes. That would mean the end of Rome. Then there may be honorable living for such Romans as are worthy of it.”
“Sententious nonsense — poetry! You talk like Brutus himself! Very well, you prefer your freedom to be caught — and crucified. You may have it. Should I ever catch you, I will crucify you. Lars Tarquinius!”
Tarquinius stood up with the glittering light of triumph in his eyes. Ahenobarbus spoke without even glancing at him:
“I have appointed Lars Tarquinius, equestrian, formerly of Gabinius’s light cavalry, to be liaison officer between the court of Queen Arsinoe of Cyprus and the headquarters staff of General Brutus. He will supply the Queen with a bodyguard. I will leave with him a tribune, a centurion and one hundred men, for whom I have no room at present on my flagship. Have you any of the pirates?”
“Yes,” said Tros.
“They should be crucified.”
“I can put them to better use than crucifixion.”
Ahenobarbus seemed to doubt that, but he let it pass. “I will give them the alternative,” he said, “of enlistment with the Queen of Cyprus. Roman discipline — my tribune shall see to that — should do them good. They fought, I thought with vigor and considerable spirit. Will you hand them over in Salamis?”
“They shall have their choice,” Tros answered. “That, or my lower oar-bench.”
“I demand their surrender to me.”
“You have heard my answer.”
“Very well then. You precede me to Salamis? I will put Tarquinius ashore. He shall march with my wrecked marines to the city. A short march. He will be there long before we are. He will have authority from me to see that the temple treasure is conveyed to the jetty, where it shall be counted in the presence of witnesses and I will take your receipt for the treasure in exchange for the corn. There will be a balance; you may have that for saving my ship in the storm.”
“You may have my lee!” Tros answered. “Give the balance of the money to the Princess.”
“Very well. She may pay the troops I leave with her. About the corn fleet. The unfortunate disaster to my squadron leaves me with only one quinquireme to escort fifty ships, only as far as Tarsus, it is true, but in pirate-infested waters. Is it within your view of the bargain to keep me in sight as far as Tarsus?”
“On whose word?”
“My commission is from Marcus Junius Brutus.”
“No.”
“Deal with me then.”
“Yes.”
“You will bring up the rear?”
“I will ease sheets to the first fair wind within sight of the mouth of the Cydnus River.”
“Good. My commission will continue to protect you until you are out of sight of land. You shall not be pursued from the Cydnus.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
Tros stood. Ahenobarbus stood. The flag-lieutenant stood. Conops and the slave made faces at each other. Arsinoe laughed. It was Conops who broke the tension. He barked at the Jews:
“General — salute!”
The Jews clashed arms. Exactly simultaneously, Tros, Ahenobarbus and the flag-lieutenant exchanged gestures. Tarquinius was a bit late with his, he was hiding a smile. Then they all turned and saluted Arsinoe. She merely nodded, looking dark-eyed, leaning gracefully limp, in shadow, in the corner of the great oak chair. She remained in the cabin.
On deck, Tros gave Ahenobarbus all the compliment that any admiral could ask. But it was personal to him. The clang of shields — and the Roman knew it — was no acknowledgment of Rome’s authority as mistress of the sea. The manned rail roared, but the word was “Tros! Tros!” Ahenobarbus actually smiled as he was rowed away. He even waved his hand in farewell.
CHAPTER IX. “I gave you leave to die in battle”
My worst mistakes were when I doubted my own judgment.
— From the Log of Lord Captain Tros of Samothrace
The Trireme, Tolling on the long-backed swell, was halfway to Salamis before Arsinoe came to the quarter-deck. Again she stood to windward of Tros with her back to the rail. She was no longer in armor. She looked feminine and meditative. Tros understood well enough that she would launch an assault at his self-command. He awaited it, wondering what tactic she had chosen. She surprised him.
“Huckster!” she said suddenly.
He grinned, not unfriendly. He was thinking of Esias and of his own fifth of all that money.
“You have sold a kingdom for some dirty lucre!”
“Girl, you err. I crave no kingdom. I pledged my word, and I have kept it.”
“With a woman’ With Charmion’ You love that bitter-sweet virago with a flat breast?”
He laughed. “Princess, as your shrewdness perceives, I am a huckster. My love, such as it is, is in the market for the highest bidder. But the bids must be in terms of what I like, not what I need to have: what I admire, not what I can have for the mere taking. I might love you, if you had the oaken merit of that pig Ahenobarbus. Do you understand me? The world is full of women, to be had for a moment’s frenzy, or a life of plump ease, or a war of wits and poisonings and treachery and the gods know what else. But the mother of my sons shall be a woman, whom I neither doubt nor need to question. I shall know her when I find her.”
“Do you think you know me?”
“Partly. I shall know you better when I have seen your hand on Cyprus. Only a little kingdom. Mine is only a ship, but I am master of it.”
He glanced astern at the wallowing quinquireme, wondering why such a staunch man as Ahenobarbus should ally himself to such a waverer as Brutus. Ahenobarbus, like Tros, was a man of his word, and that meant he was competent to judge other men’s characters. We
re Octavian and Antony even worse impostors than Brutus and Cassius, that such a sturdy sea-dog should have turned his back on Rome and have thrown in his lot with Caesar’s murderers?
Arsinoe interrupted that train of thought:
“So now; what? To whom will you next sell your bravery? To Sextus Pompeius?”
He laughed. “Sextus Pompeius should suit you. He is a gallant youngster, who perhaps will set his heel on Rome’s neck. As for me, I have different aims.”
“Money? Or do you hunger for Cleopatra’s kisses?”
“What shape is the world?” he answered.
“Round. Did you suppose I didn’t know that?”
His leonine eyes studied hers. “I supposed you are as ignorant as the people who tutor kings arid queens. You talk of being foam-born, with a goddess mother.”
It was her turn to laugh. “How should I have known you are a skeptic? A slave taught me. Who taught you?”
“My father Perseus was a Prince of Samothrace,” he answered. “I was not initiated.”
“Why not?”
“Because the teachings I had at my father’s knee inflamed me with a passion for deeds, not meditation.”
“Nevertheless, you are a thinker.” She watched him with glowing eyes and parted lips. “When will you sail around the world?”
“I have first to keep faith with my men.”
“These men? Do you mean you let them tie you up with stipulations?”
“It is I who stipulate and command, on my ship. But Egypt, your sister, has imprisoned my Northmen. In a country called Britain—”