by Talbot Mundy
Were the Northmen with her? Very likely. They would certainly prefer the prospect of plundering Memphis to the dreary, unpaid task of mining through the sand for the loot, for someone else, from ancient tombs. Surely they would rather fight anyone, anywhere, than toil under the whips of Egyptian overseers.
Tros made his decision. “Conops! Take your boat up-river, and set fire to their shipping. Scuttle and burn.”
“Aye, aye, master. What then?”
“Return downstream and follow me. I’m going to march toward the pyramids and make a demonstration in the rear of those soldiers. I intend to burn their barracks. Get going. I’ll attend to the landing party.”
“Aye, aye, master.”
Conops vanished upstream, with a boat-load of dry reeds and a very carefully tended earthen fire-pot. Neither he nor Tros would trust the brimstone matches that were becoming so common in Alexandria and Rome that fire-pots were old-fashioned. Tros ordered his men ashore, selected the badly blistered ones to stand by the boats, distributed the Northmen’s battle-axes and armor, and was on the march almost before the thump of Conops’s oars had died away around the bend of the river. It was after midnight — the shadows shortening — he had to make haste. He wasted no time avoiding Egyptian huts that looked, and stank like hog-pens, where the peasantry lay silent, quaking in dread of rape, forced porterage and all the other incidences to the march of armed men.
No stragglers. The weird moonlight stirred superstition. They marched in terror, in close order, wondering that Tros should dare to lead toward such monstrous, mysterious things as pyramids, from which they expected to see devils come forth. Word went down the line in whispers that the column they could see in the distance on their left front was fleeing from the ghosts of the ancient dead. They had heard Conops’s tale of the mummies lying stripped and desecrated. So they crowded one another’s heels. It was cool, so the weight of their armor was no impediment. They marched swiftly. But though they marched in shadow, in the lee of a long ridge, on dusty earth that smothered sound, the moon shone on their helmets, and Tros did not know whether they had been seen or not when, at the end of an our and a half, he halted them within the awful shadow of the Great Pyramid’s western side.
He advanced alone, forth from the shadow, until he could see past the pyramid in the direction of the Nile, and twice he almost fell into an open tomb. The horizon blazed smoky crimson. Conops had succeeded; a whole fleet of boats was burning. Tros returned to his men, but he couldn’t get volunteers to cross the moonlit waste of sand and set fire to the soldiers’ barracks; the men were too overawed by the monstrous pyramid that loomed and seemed to lean against the starry sky.
He had to pick a dozen men and knock their heads together; even so, they followed like frightened children. He fired the roof-thatch with his own hand. Then, as the dry stuff caught and roared skyward, all the laborers stampeded from the other barrack — fled like ghosts, scattering. He had to go alone to fire those other roofs; his men were willing to fight lions, or even dragons, but not phantoms; they were sure those fleeing shapes were the mummies that Conops spoke of.
But when they saw Tros stand alone in the glare of the blazing thatch they were ashamed and approached him. He pointed up-Nile to the glare of the burning boats, where Conops had done his duty.
“So now! I have served my challenge on the Lord Alexis! He can march on Memphis if he pleases, but I think he will first come here to slay me, and perhaps to try to win you to his side against the Queen of Egypt.”
“We are few, Lord Captain. We are very few indeed to fight a battle,” said someone.
“Shall I fight alone?” Tros answered.
“Nay, nay. Do you doubt us?”
Whether or not Alexis was a traitor to the Queen — and Tros had small doubt on that point; whether or not Alexis was in control, or could make his advice prevail, it was an absolute certainty that the rebels knew knew they had Tros and a hundred men to deal with, at their rear, before they could dare to attack Memphis. If Conops had burned all their boats, their retreat, as an organized force, toward Upper Egypt, was out of the question, at least for the time being. Irresolution might encourage Memphis to attack them, whereas, if they should act swiftly and defeat Tros, that would discourage Memphis; it might even cause the immediate surrender of the city — an initial success that would probably bring over to their side whole regiments of the Queen’s corrupt and discontented army, from the Red Sea ports, and Pelusium, and from places higher up the Nile.
There was almost no doubt what the army would do, there being almost nothing else that they could do. But there was plenty of time now. It would be hours before they could unite and attack. They might wait until daylight. They probably would.
No sign of the Northmen. The great wooden gate in the mud-brick wall between the pyramids, that Conops had described, stood wide open. So did the gate in the inner wall.
No guards, no sentries. Half in moonlight, half in shadow, the great enclosure lay forlorn and silent.
“Too late!” Tros muttered.
He cursed himself for having let the flotilla rest too often on the way, for the sake of arriving fit for action. For a moment he was almost irresolute — almost ready to retreat to the boats. Then he began to consider a plan of battle, and his eye fell again on the long, high mud-brick wall that enclosed the space between the two great pyramids. If there was water in there, it would do; and for the moment in any event, it would do to give his scared men a sense of security. He decided to lead them into the enclosure through the open gate. With his frightened squad behind him he crossed the moonlit open ground and strode into the gloom.
He almost jumped out of his armor. It took every scrap of iron self-control he owned to stand still and not show himself stunned with astonishment.
“Hail! Hail! Hail!”
“Tros! Tros! Tros!”
Eight-and-thirty battle-axes swung aloft and trembled to the thrill of their owners’ welcome. Seven-and-thirty. Northmen, bearded, unkempt, lean, stood in line behind Sigurdsen, their leader. All Tros’s other men had broken ranks; they had become an almost invisible audience that crowded to see what would happen. They could see Tros’s face; his feet were in shadow, his head in moonlight.
During six full seconds he stood rigid with his hand at the salute. Then he spoke:
“Brawlers! Your breaking of Romans’ heads has put me in a fine predicament! Am I to thank you that I didn’t need to search all Africa to find you?”
But he was grinning. He held his voice to the gruff, good-humoured note that carries the full weight of ungrudging welcome. He went and shook hands with Sigurdsen, who was older than Tros, and a full head taller. Sigurdsen was sobbing. Tros punched him, friendly fashion, then walked along the line to shake hinds with each in turn, until, at the end of the line, he came to Angsgar the skald, a shorter, thick-set, thoughtful-looking man. Tros laughed then.
“Gold-beater!” he said. “Bracelet maker! Smasher of relics!”
“Aye, Lord Captain. I had to do that in the dark; but I knew the guards would take it from me, and I thought perhaps you might see it someday and guess where we are—”
“Good work, Angsgar.”
Tros returned to his place in front of them. He was not blind. He had seen there was someone else in armor, in the gloom near Sigurdsen, about six paces from him, on his right hand — perhaps even slightly in front of Sigurdsen — small as compared to those Northmen, and slight, but very straight in armor. He knew perfectly well who it was. He knew what courtesy demanded, even common kindness. But his normally quick wit failed him. He stood silent until the moon’s rim rose above the pyramid and moonlight shone on the crestless helmet and the pale, girl’s face beneath. Then he spoke:
“I left you Queen of Cyprus!”
“Am I unwelcome? I am no longer Queen of Cyprus. I command your Northmen!”
Sigurdsen looked sheepish, head and shoulders in moonlight. He nodded — spoke:
“She was
a god-send to desperate men.”
Tros ignored him. He spoke to Arsinoe:
“I have been sent to find you and kill you.”
“Very well, Lord Captain. I have done as I pleased. Rule, you said, or get out. You will do as you please.”
Kill her? Since his Baltic wife died on a beach in Gaul, he had never seen a woman whom he liked as he did this one. But what could he do with her? How save her from Cleopatra’s malice?
“I gave you one chance,” he said, “to die in battle.”
She laughed. “Did I refuse it — noticeably?”
“You are my prisoner.”
“Whatever pleases you, Lord Captain.”
“Come.”
She strode beside him, like an armored squire, silent, when he fell in his men and led them into the moonlit enclosure.
CHAPTER XVIII. “Did you think to win Egypt with two dozen men?”
I know no reason why a woman’s quality should not be tested as severely as a man’s.
— From the Log of Lord Captain Tros of Samothrace
Climax had broken the spell of superstitious fear. The men rallied, obeyed, not needing to be told they were in deadly danger. Tangible, visible forces they could face, and perhaps overcome. There were no supplies. No archer had more than fifty arrows. Their line of retreat to the boats could be cut, and the boats could be seized or scuttled easily, by a mere raiding party. They followed Tros — first the Northmen, then Arsinoe’s four-and-twenty pirates, then the flotilla’s crew — in column of fours into the walled enclosure. But there was no water in there; even if they could carry enough water, the wall would not be easy to defend. Every last man knew the case was desperate. Some of them went to the well and began hauling water in earthen jars that the Egyptians had left behind.
Tros selected and posted his pickets, and waited for Conops. He stationed the men with the sharpest eyes a hundred feet up the flank of the smaller pyramid that Conops had climbed. Then he returned for the inevitable drum-head council. There was no avoiding that. He knew Arsinoe was capable of day long silences. But she was also capable of forcing issues. He didn’t know what to say to her, but he needed information that she probably had. He wanted to get it without being forced to reveal his own mind, or his own predicament. He could think of no other way than to gain time, and perhaps to exhaust her patience, by making her wait until he had the Northmen’s story.
Most of the men were already sprawling on the sand, but the Northmen had built a fire of broken baskets, straw and splinters chopped from the gate. They were squatting around it, two deep. They had left a space for Tros, and a box to sit on, so he sat and faced Sigurdsen. Sigurdsen and Angsgar the skald were the only two who could talk Greek fluently, and it was useless to expect a plain tale from Angsgar; runes were already running in the bard’s mind; he would presently sing a story, in which facts would merely be the seeds of splendid fiction. Angsgar was an artist — Sigurdsen a pessimist, who battle-axed the truth to lay bare gloom, on which to base a mood of melancholy discontent: a loyal man, unhappy unless he had something to grumble about.
It was a long box that they had laid bottom upward. Arsinoe came and sat beside Tros. She laid her helmet on the box between them and her coppery-golden hair fell loose on her shoulders. She sat with a sword between her knees and said nothing to Tros, who did his best to pretend she was not there.
“And so now we all die,” said Sigurdsen. “It is a bad end, to be buried among these mummies, in a land where no man’s word is worth the breath he uses. But it is good that you came, Tros. We had given up hope of ever seeing you, until she came. They told us you had gone to sea and left us to our fate. We had to dig, or die of hunger. And at night they chained us. But because we were chained the guards grew careless, and we were making a plan for escape to the Nile, when her man came from over-river, and stole through the dark, spying. He had word with us; and when he had learned whose men we are, he told of the fight off Salamis, and how you had given your prisoners, of whom he was one, to her. And he said she needs men who will fight to the death. And much more also he said. We bade him take back word to her that if we can we will escape across the Nile. And he went, and we made a new plan.
“So tonight, when it was time to cease work in the tomb, and the commander of the guards came and offered us freedom if we will march under his command in an assault on Memphis, we drove him forth with our picks and shovels. So he summoned men and they tried to kill us all, but we were hard to come at. So they tried to bury us alive. But they let in not enough sand, and we dug our way out, in darkness. They were marching away, so we lay still.
“Then she came. And she said she has news of you, and of your doing. And at that, we became like men who are drunk with strong drink. So we appointed her captain, being, as I say, as men drunk.
“But we hid, because you came so soon that we doubted it could be you. We crept near in the darkness. And while you were burning the barracks we called some of the seamen by name, and they knew us. And now you know all, saving what she told us. Let her tell it.”
“Though I die for it, I will not,” said Arsinoe, “unless Lord Captain Tros himself asks.”
“If it pleases you,” he said, “be silent.”
For the space of at least a minute there was no other sound than bated breathing. Then Arsinoe spoke:
“Very well. Here is my sword. Do you want my armor? If you propose to silence me forever, cut my throat now!”
She stood up. So did Tros. He was raging with emotion that felt like anger, and as such he used it.
“Girl, I left you in Cyprus, well provided. Is it your idea of gratitude to come and raise this—”
Suddenly he realized he wasn’t angry. It was another emotion, less familiar, less easy to govern.
“But since you have come,” he said, “be seated. Tell me.”
They sat down again, side by side. Her laugh was disconcerting; she had Cleopatra’s gift of seeing through a man and of understanding his motives. She seemed utterly unafraid. That stirred him. He admired that. But he forced so fierce a scowl that Sigurdsen grew restless. Very chivalrous was Sigurdsen, toward good looking, well-bred women.
“Lord Captain Tros,” she said quietly, “do you wish to be King of Egypt?”
“No, and I won’t talk about it.”
“Neither do I wish to be Queen of Cyprus, so perhaps we can begin to understand each other.”
“Did you think to win Egypt with two dozen men?” he asked.
She mocked him: “Is a prisoner permitted to despise what is not good enough for your lordship? Two thrones, and some thought, have taught me what perhaps you only have the right to know. Am I permitted to say I would rather die than be a Queen again? It is true. But may I say it?”
“I have heard you say it. What else?”
“You have heard of Boidion?”
“We spoke of her in Cyprus. Your bastard sister.”
“Boidion is at that temple, up-river. She has called herself Arsinoe, or has let them call her so. She believes me dead — or did belive it. That Etruscan jackal Lars Tarquinius, whom you left to command my bodyguard—”
“Ahenobarbus, not I appointed him.”
“Yes, and I think Ahenobarbus told him what to do. But it may have been Serapion. Tarquinius began to speak to me of Boidion before you were gone an hour from Salamis. He suggested to me that we should encourage Boidion to call herself Arsinoe and make a raid on Egypt; it was clear that the plot had long been cooking. Cassius knew all about it. I was to lie low, in hiding. Then, if Boidion should succeed in raising a real rebellion, I was to hasten to Egypt, and they would murder Boidion, and set me on the throne. But if Boidion should fail, then I should come out of hiding in Cyprus and denounce her, and all would be well. It was a very intelligent plot, and Tarquinius said I was to be killed if I wouldn’t agree. But since I talked with you I had lost my craving to be Queen of Egypt.
“I should have died that night, I suppose, because the p
lot was well forward. But Tarquinius saved me. I think he couldn’t bear to kill anyone like me, who might have an eventual value. Perhaps, too, he is so treacherous that he can’t help spoiling any plot in which he has a hand. At any rate, he furnished a good little ship and urged me to take my four-and-twenty pirates and escape. He suggested Sicily, where Sextus Pompeius might befriend me. But he told my men, secretly, to take me to Delos, where the slave-merchant Hipponax would know how to bargain me off to the highest bidder. I escaped that night with my two women. And we set sail. And my four-and-twenty pirates reverted to type. They were civil and even respectful, but they told me frankly they were taking me for sale to Hipponax.
“However, you had given them to me, so they were my men, and I said so. It was my task to prove it. I did. It was not so difficult. They had seen me fight against them, on your ship, so they were not ashamed to obey a woman. And they were as weary of being pirates as I was weary of being used as a pawn in the game by scoundrels and cowards. I talked it all over with them. I made them promises. I said I would bring them to you if I could. But, of course, I did not dare to go to Alexandria; nor did I dare to write to you any more than I did write, for fear Cleopatra might lay her hands on the letter, and suspect you, and have you put to death. I know my sister!
“Words you had said to me burned in my mind. I might have sent a letter to expose the plot, and thus I might even have bought Cleopatra’s friendship, for what that might be worth. But I had made up my mind what I don’t want, and what I do want, and that couldn’t be had by betrayals and writing letters. I had decided I will rather die than any longer be a blackguard’s bargain piece. It was my name they were misusing. It was me they should deal with. It was I who should do as you would do and play my own hand against whatever odds Destiny sends. I would deal face to face with Boidion and her masters, who she probably supposes are her servants.
“So we came to Pelusium, pretending to be a slave ship, because the slavers can come and go where it is unsafe for anyone else. Old Esias was at Pelusium.”