Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “Lady, she’s your slave, but she was in danger of falling foul of the Lord Captain unless I’d cautioned her. The-Lord Tros doesn’t let his officers be treated less respectful than himself.”

  On the ninth day out from Gaza came the stroke of fortune that Tros had prayed for, if prayer was the proper name for such religious attitudes as his. Though he had a sort of vaguely contemptuous, vaguely skeptical belief in sub-human malignant devils, he didn’t believe in gods, so he asked no favors of them. He believed that if a man so wrought and fought as to be clean from cowardice, then the Lords of Life — and he would rather have died a dozen deaths than argue Who or What They were — would recognize him and give him all lawful aid and comfort. Virtue, in Tros’s view, and he used the Roman Stoic’s meaning of the word, was a long way from being its own reward. It was a vigorous, manly quality, whose light revealed tasks to be done and whose impelling urge denied the right to leave them undone.

  So he was not surprised, but he was gratified when the masthead lookout reported a fleet of more than fifty sail, hull down on the western sky-line. He flew his signal:

  “Fleet form squadrons, left and right of flagship, two deep.” He changed helm, heading more to northward.

  Now for a genuine test of his new command! Had he promoted wisely? Had he mastered his own inexperience? Had he competently taught his chosen men?

  Tros himself went to the masthead, to confirm his first guess. He was right. They were the thirty vessels crowded with Alexandrine Romans. Helpless. But, better than that, they were being hounded by Cyrenaican or else Mauretanian pirates, who were hanging on their flanks like wolves pursuing cattle.

  If Cleopatra had provided warships to escort that helpless fleet, it was clear they had abandoned their convoy. They had either returned home or sailed on a pirating expedition of their own — not an unheard-of venture; Cleopatra’s undisciplined navy was as greedy a menace to unprotected ports and defenceless ships as any navy in the world had ever been. Possibly even the thirty ships’ crews had deserted along with the escort. The panic-ridden ships were all huddled together, many of them dangerously close. As they hove on the white-flaked purple sea their skirts of weed were like a green stain on the long backed rollers.

  There were two of the thirty ships a long way from the others, ominously trailed by small boats that suggested killer-sharks attacking whales. Some of the boats were fast alongside and at first it looked as if loot were being tossed into them. But what loot? And why do the looting at sea? It was several minutes before Tros was sure they were men who were jumping to the boats and being promptly dumped into the sea to drown. As he watched, one of the two ships burst into flames. Then the other. There was no possible doubt of the meaning of that. Plague! They had been isolated by the fleet, whose crews had probably compelled them to keep away by threatening what the pirates were now doing. Judging by the speed with which the hulls became roaring flame, it seemed likely that the pirates had thrown Greek fire into them. If they possessed much of that stuff they might be hard to defeat. Nevertheless, Tros ordered his own store-ships to the rear, with the liburnians on either flank; his own supply of Greek fire was too valuable to waste, if he could win without using it.

  The pirate ships were long, low, shoal-draft fluccas, lateen-rigged and black with white-turbaned men, who had probably been biding time for their prey to run short of water. But when they saw Tros’s sails they made swift to establish prior rights. Custom, of necessity, was far more binding than treaties or acts of legislatures, which all men violated whenever they could. Pirates had to observe each other’s rights or be worse than outlawed; they would be ganged, rooted from their lairs and exterminated. Thieves could punish thieves, whom governments preferred to barter with, or threaten, or ignore — except rarely, when a Roman fleet had time, a free hand from the Senate and that rarest Roman prodigy, a fleet-commander who could not be bribed. It was pirate custom that a ship once grappled was the grappler’s prey. None might intervene, unless by mutual agreement, or unless summoned to lend a hand.

  The pirates’ mistake was natural enough. Tros’s ships, although originally Roman owned, were not of Roman build or rig, except for the little liburnians, whose design was common to nearly all Mediterranean waters. The foam over the biremes’ rams must have been plainly visible, but there were plenty of iron-shod ships among the pirate fleets of the Levant, nor was it anything new for a Roman ship to fall into the hands of pirates. And if there was anything rare on all the seas it was a Roman war-fleet far out of sight of land. There was no imaginable reason why a fleet of thirteen Roman biremes should be cruising westward in mid-ocean. Those were not Roman waters. Almost always too heavily manned for a protracted voyage, Roman warships crawled from headland to headland or port to port, in touch with marching troops who dug the necessary wells for watering the ships. A Roman war-crew would mutiny unless landed at frequent intervals. They were good for a swift foray out and home again, or for such a venture as Caesar’s famous raid on Alexandria, but they had no taste for cruising without a very definite objective. Tros was within a mile before the pirates realized that his was not another pirate fleet too late on the scene for a share of the loot. They had already herded the twenty-eight ships into a helpless, colliding mob that looked likely to sink one another too soon to be properly looted. They had boarded half of them, before the truth dawned.

  Then their discipline was splendid. It was no slight feat to rally plunder-hungry crews to their own vessels, and haul off in good formation. They deployed to the northward in line ahead, under oars, racing to get to windward — twenty-seven ships that presently hoisted sail and made a soldier’s breeze of it, with their oars easy, ready for instant use. Tros changed his signal:

  “Strike the middle of their line!”

  He led. His ship was slightly faster than the fleet. He had the wind exactly where he wanted it. He held his fire until the hail of the pirates’ arrows gave him the range beyond shadow of doubt. Then:

  “All archers!”

  Every bow-string on his bireme twanged that instant. A withering squall of arrows swept two pirate ships from stem to stern.

  Tros’s four great arrow-engines and four smaller ones each let go three or four volleys before the ships were within javelin range. The pirates couldn’t stand to their grapnels, they were slain in heaps as they tried to hoist them on the slings. Two ships, to port and starboard, had turned inward to engage and lay alongside. Tros drove full-sailed between them, with his own oars snatched inboard. His hull snapped off the pirates’ oar-blades. His devastating volleys slaughtered the pirates’ rowers, swept their decks and overwhelmed the fighting crews.

  Tros’s fleet formation was actually three wedges. Sigurdsen and Conops, to his right and left hand, led their wings with a ferocity not less than his. Like his, their impact was increased by the pirates’ determination to grapple and lay aboard. Not a grapnel held. A full third of the pirates’ line was smashed into a mob of reeling units with broken oars and decimated crews falling away to leeward, beam on, in hopeless confusion, raked by arrow-fire; and as they rolled they were beaked by the rams of Tros’s second line, that opened up the pirates’ hulls and staggered free again on the uplift of the lumpy waves.

  Then Tros’s, Sigurdsen’s and Conops’s trumpets blared the order “Out oars!” Tros changed his signal. The staggering fleet rallied again into line, let go its sheets and came about, dousing its sails as the oarsmen swung to work to windward, with eleven broken pirate ships astern and the remainder of the pirate fleet — sixteen ships — in a double line, racing parallel to get the weather gauge and turn the tables on Tros. The pirates kept just out of range. Theirs were the lighter ships. They were trying to wear down Tros’s rowers. Their commander, a dark-skinned man in a striped cloak, on the quarter-deck of their largest ship, at the rear, on the left of their double line, appeared to be having trouble with his signals. Men on the deck beside him were semaphoring with their arms and getting no response. Tros
ordered the starboard forward arrow-engine to rake his quarter-deck, but the volley was short; the arrows skittered on the sea like flying-fish and buried themselves in his hull as it hove on a wave.

  But the pirates had no arrow-engines. Nor had they bards to whip the spirit of the oarsmen into frenzy. By the splash it appeared they were using the kind of whip that can produce a spurt but no enthusiasm. Strokes missed, throwing a whole bank into confusion for an irrecoverable minute. Gradually Tros’s fleet gained on them, and suddenly their commander decided to run.

  They understood his signal then, but so did Tros. His entire fleet’s sails were hoisted, set and sheeted home, and he was off the wind in full pursuit before the pirates had begun to gain headway. It was a long chase, and as soon as he came within arrow-range they broke up into three squadrons. But he concentrated on one, the largest, bringing all his fleet and all his arrow-fire to bear against the pirate chieftain and his squadron of seven ships. They surrendered, helms hard over and sails aback — and, away in the distance, a Roman ovation roared from the decks of the eight-and-twenty ships that Cassius had hoped would bring Tros within range of Ahenobarbus’s quinquiremes.

  In the whole of Tros’s fleet there were only a dozen arrow wounds. He had not lost one man killed, and, more important yet, his captains had not misread one signal. One ship reported a leak from the shock of having rammed a pirate, but the leak was slight, and the pirate had already sunk, so the balance was well on the right side. Seven of the other pirate ships were sinking, and two more were out of action.

  Tros lowered two boats. One went the round of the fleet with the laconic message:

  “The Lord Captain is well pleased!”

  As the message reached them one by one the ships’ crews manned their rails and roared their answer. He had a right to be pleased with them, but it was just like him to take the trouble to admit it in the very moment of victory.

  Tros was too well pleased to run further risks. He forbade pursuit of the fleeing pirates. He had done their fleet damage enough. He had another problem now that would tax his uttermost resources of command and ingenuity. He sent the other longboat to summon the pirate captains to come over and surrender in person.

  He despatched Sigurdsen’s squadron to the rescue of the sinking pirate ships. Two of them sank before Sigurdsen could reach them. Another sank as he drew near; he rescued the fighting crew but the fettered rowers drowned. He saved from the sinking ships about three hundred, all told, including rowers. They had already killed their wounded, to save them from the customary fate of being turned adrift without food or water, to be eaten by rats in a derelict hull.

  CHAPTER XLII. “All great men are fools; and wise women worship them”

  Money to pay for provisions is more important to a ship’s commander than the wind. He can wait for a fair wind. He can hunt a lee in stormy weather. But unless he can pay for supplies there is no alternative but piracy, disguised or open. And whoever thinks that pirates avoid paying for their depredations is either very ignorant or void of common sense.

  — From the Log of Lord Captain Tros of Samothrace

  The first man to come up over the rail was the pirate chieftain, rather splendid in his striped cloak, curled beard, golden earrings, heavy gold bracelets and amber beads. He offered his jewelled sword to Tros with the air of a man of breeding. He had almost Herod’s calmness in calamity; almost Herod’s curiosity. Even before he spoke to Tros his beautiful brown eyes had studied Hero, observing her armor, withholding judgment.

  “I am Sophax of Iol,” he said in guttural Greek. “To whom have I the honor to surrender?”

  “I am Tros of Samothrace.”

  “Cleopatra’s captain?”

  It was hardly a prisoner’s privilege to be inquisitor. Sophax’s name was famous; it entitled him to courtesy, but not to knowledge of his captor’s allegiance. He was reputed to be the richest pirate on the entire northern African coast. He had certainly been rich enough to buy off the great Pompey’s captains, when Rome went to war against all the pirates to reduce the competition with her own marauding hosts. Later he had been able to bribe Julius Caesar not to hound him to death, and Caesar’s notion of a bribe had been nothing to sneeze at.

  “You are; held for ransom, Sophax.”

  The Numidian-Phoenician smiled. His captains, in a group behind him, stepped forward one by one and surrendered their swords — dark-faced men, all masking fear beneath an air of slightly insolent calm. They, too, studied Hero; it was possible that a woman, and a young, good-looking one, might plead for their lives if they were careful; but they were very studiously careful not to offend Tros by looking at her frankly. They murmured compliments to Tros, tactfully assuming that a victor who accepted their swords with his own hand was unlikely to order them killed. But there were other, almost equally unpleasant things that he might do, so their gratitude was guarded and almost sullen.

  Tros turned abruptly to Sophax:

  “Were there no Egyptian warships?”

  Sophax smiled. “Eleven. They fled.”

  “Homeward?”

  “No. I think they fled to join Sextus Pompeus.”

  “Are you Sextus Pompeius’s ally?”

  “No. But he invited me. If you are his friend, I will reconsider my refusal to sail to the aid of Sextus Pompeius.”

  “You are held for ransom.”

  “The amount? I am not as rich as formerly.”

  “The equivalent in negotiable currency of two golden talents.”

  Sophax almost lost the glitter in his dark eyes.

  “The amount you are pleased to demand, Lord Captain, is such as even the Queen of Egypt might hesitate to promise.”

  “You will either pay it, Sophax, or else you and your captains may consider your careers at an end. I know what business you have done of late with Jew-Esias of Alexandria.”

  Sophax made a gallant gesture toward Hero. He was a good actor. Certainly not less than fifty years of age, he could suggest that he had the amorous proclivities of youth. He looked almost as young as Herod when he made that confiding, smiling, wordless compliment. Hero promptly supported Tros:

  “If I am consulted, then double the sum! It was Sophax’s fleet that raided Salamis and levied tribute of a thousand slaves in addition to all the copper in the treasury and more than one talent of gold. I was told he demanded me also. I fled to the western end of the island, and Sophax had to go away because the fever was wasting his crews.”

  Tros spoke: “I have named the ransom. Choose your envoy, Sophax. I will await payment in the Bay of Suda. You have thirty days — not a day more.”

  There was a brief but very earnest conversation among the surrendered captains.. One was nominated. Sophax spoke with him alone and then begged writing materials. He squatted on the deck to write, and then, with Tros’s leave, gave the envoy the ring from his thumb and his amber necklace. Tros flew a signal for Conops and, when he came, turned the envoy over to him:

  “Let him have his own ship. He will have a fair wind, so take away half his rowers and all except ten of his sailors. Then let him go.”

  The Alexandrine fleet, swarming with deported Romans, was making its way in disorder toward Tros’s ships, but Tros dreaded the plague far more than he did any human enemy. He sent a boat to order the fleet to heave to and await his orders. He watched, amazed at their clumsy lack of seamanship. They had to dowse their sails and come about under oar, the oars all out of time and splashing. One of them, apparently the flagship, sent back word that they were short of water. It was the season of little, if any rain. Tros’s own men were already on diminished rations. But the wind was steady and unusually strong for that time of year. He calculated quickly and then sent another message:

  “Ration your water and wine to last for three days.” Then, by way of after-thought: “Why are you in these seas, and not headed for Syria?”

  Then action, rigorous and swift. It took an hour to strike the fetters from the pirates’ oarsme
n. Tros needed an addition to his fleet of faster vessels, so he distributed the pirates’ crews among his own ships and manned their vessels with picked men. Threatened with the customary alternative of immediate and dreadful death, the pirate rowers went to the oar-benches without any demur. Many of them begged to be enrolled in Tros’s command, but his dependable men were now so scattered in so many ships that he didn’t dare to trust new captives with weapons — not yet.

  He gave Sophax into Herod’s nominal charge, with an actual guard of two Northmen, because Herod was likely to persuade the man to talk. He sent the other pirate captains to Sigurdsen’s ship, because he knew Sigurdsen would drink with them, and lie to them with Baltic imagery and colossal exaggerations of the great Lord Captain’s feats of arms. Those pirate captains would be set free when the ransom was paid; should they spread a legend of Tros’s prowess along the northern coast of Africa that would not do Tros any damage. Not less than half of Caesar’s victories had been won in advance by the magic of Caesar’s name. That kind of victory costs less than warfare, and its results are more enduring.

  But the best was to come. The longboat brought an answer from the Alexandrine flagship, in writing, hurriedly scrawled on papyrus and hardly legible because it had fallen into the sea when the writer dropped it overside.

  Cleopatra’s warships abandoned us. After consultation, liking not Cassius nor willing to subject ourselves to Brutus either, who is equally not to our taste, we decided to try to reach Rome and to ally ourselves with with Marcus Antonius the Triumvir, under whose command a number of us first ventured to Alexandria, at the time when Gabinius’s expedition restored this Queen’s father to his throne. We salute you Tros, as a friend and fellow-sufferer from Cleopatra’s misrule. The message was signed Titus Sallustius Varro.

  Tros’s acquaintance! He laughed. He doubted he could trust those Alexandrine Romans any better than he could the spy Tarquinius. Titus Sallustius Varro was a grasping concessionaire, who lacked financial skill or honesty; he had been in constant trouble with the Egyptian Treasury about disputed or evaded taxes — a man of equestrian rank with very little military, but a lot of shady political experience. If Varro had managed to get himself elected spokesman, those thousands of ruined and desperate Romans were likely to be a difficult mob to manage; there were probably at least three thousand of them, very likely more, even after allowing for the burned plague ships, one of which still floated, smoking, on the sky, line.