I could only laugh, shaking my head, for there are those who can never be schooled in the obvious.
“Yes, but they are defeated men,” I said at last. “And once a man is beaten—defeated in the core of his soul—nothing can save him. If need be, we will pull them from their ‘stronghold’ by the hair.”
. . . . .
The brigands haughtily rejected our terms of surrender, so I was forced to make good my boast. My friend Maelius spoke for me to enlist the Sikel peasants in the downfall of their oppressors, and with their aid we dug tunnels until we reached the outer perimeter of Collatinus’ stockade, which we carefully undermined. When we were ready, the whole line of log fortifications simply collapsed like the walls of a tent, and the Greeks stormed in to slaughter the defenders. The brigands, most of them, simply stood about, as if trying to grasp what had happened to them. Some did not even have their swords, and these who did seemed to have forgotten how to use them. The air was rent with screaming. I cut down men that day as if I were harvesting wheat.
All of us, we were like demons, our arms smeared with dirt and gore, the lust of slaughter upon us. There was no place for fear. We killed until our arms ached.
And then, in perhaps less than half an hour, it was over. Somehow we simply lost the taste for bloodshed, and quiet swept over the ruined stronghold like cold wind.
The surviving brigands, those twenty or so who had been lucky enough to be allowed to surrender, were herded out onto the plain and left there, sitting on the ground under a light guard. They would cause no one any further trouble.
As we searched the stockade we found the body of Collatinus. It was Enkidu who found him, lying crushed to death under a fallen log. True to my word, I took his head and left his body for the crows.
We also found boxes filled with gold and silver coins, and women.
One of these, dark-haired and young, I recognized as the girl whom I had seen being led away the day I had walked to Naxos to fetch fire for the consecration of my hearth. She stared at me with large, terrified eyes, as if she expected nothing better at my hands than she had known among the brigands.
“Are you Greek or Sicel, child?” I asked. For a long moment she could not speak at all, and then she nodded.
“Greek, Master.”
“Do your parents live, or did the brigands kill them?”
“I know not.”
“Well, if they live we will return you to them, and if they are dead we will find a place for you among your own people. You are safe now. You will return with us.”
She wept. She could not control her tears. She tore at her face with her nails and wept.
An hour later I saw her again. She was drinking wine from a clay cup and talking with two or three young men. She could smile by then.
“The brigand prisoners, Tiglath—what shall we do with them?” It was Epeios who asked.
“We will ask Maelius. What would you do with them, my friend.”
The old man’s brow darkened.
“Kill them—kill them all.”
“No, that is too much,” I said. “But you will see justice done, I promise you.”
I sent for Enkidu, and his ax.
“We will take the head of every fourth man—let them draw lots among themselves to see who will live and who will perish. The others will have their right hands struck off, that they may be marked as thieves and shunned.”
Men too cowed even to struggle against death knelt on the ground to give their necks to the ax. While the corpses of these were still twitching, we took the rest and with our swords we hacked through their wrists. The air stank with blood and the only sound was the low moan of helpless fear, yet they stretched out their arms upon the block, not daring to resist.
At last the thing was done, and the severed heads and hands were presented as trophies to Maelius, in payment for his son’s life, and the surviving brigands, after their bleeding stumps had been seared shut in the fire, were whipped out of camp.
The Greeks who had died numbered only twelve men. We collected their bodies for burning and put their ashes in copper jars to be carried back for burial in their own lands. We collected plunder from the stockade, paid the Sicels for the food they had brought us, and divided the rest equally among ourselves, no man’s share greater than any other’s.
That day and the next we feasted and held games in honor of our fallen friends. All doubts were banished. We had achieved a great victory. All was well with us.
At noon, on the day we had chosen to begin our journey home, we saw an eagle dropping down towards us from the sun, flying east. I help up my hand to shade my eyes from the sun and, just as the eagle’s shadow passed over me, a drop of blood fell and struck me on the palm.
I looked at it, and my bowels went cold. The blood on my palm covered perfectly the mark that the gods had left there in the hour of my birth—the blood star was now blood indeed.
Men gathered around to see, and the sight filled them with fear.
“What does it mean, Tiglath—is it an omen?”
“It is an omen, but I do not know what it means. I will not know until the time for remedy is past.”
“Are the gods angered against us? Have we committed some offense?”
“No. The Greeks are without crime or impurity. This was meant for me alone.”
XXVIII
But what do forebodings of evil mean to those drunk with their own glory? The eagle had hardly disappeared over the horizon, nor I washed its blood from my hand, before this strange omen was forgotten in the general triumph of men who now, and for the first time in their lives, knew the sweetness of victory.
It was better so, for this dark business concerned not them but myself alone. I cannot say how I knew as much, but I knew. I could hear the god’s voice whispering in the wind’s very stillness.
I could hear his voice, but the words were lost in silence. Yet again he had given me a sign and kept its meaning hidden. There had been five eagles in my dream, each with a severed talon dripping blood—five assassins sent from Nineveh to be the means of my death. Four had met their own instead, and thus one remained. Was his coming now foretold? Then why had this eagle flown out of the sun and east, seeming thus to return to the Land of Ashur? And why had his blood dripped on the stain of my birthmark?
I knew not—I could not even guess. Once again, the god’s warning would remain a riddle until the time had passed to profit from it. Thus did he jest with me.
Besides, I too was a Greek and had tasted the heady wine of victory, and I was as drunk with it as the rest. Once more, when I had thought all that behind me forever, I had known what it was to be a soldier, to feel the swelling exultation at the nearness of danger, to have cheated death yet again and to have ended by carrying the lives of my enemies on the point of my sword. It was easy enough to surrender myself to this, and to let my lingering fears die away like the sunset. It was easy enough.
So we made our way back over the mountains to Naxos and our homes, where we could expect the reception due to conquerors. In our train walked twelve Greek women whom the brigands had carried off, and like us they were going home. On our shoulders we bore the urns holding the ashes of our fallen comrades—this was our only burden, but even this was lightened by the knowledge that the family of each dead man would receive a four-fold share of our booty, which was not inconsiderable. We had much to be cheerful about.
The mountains of eastern Sicily are beautiful and, although we kept a good pace—it is always so on the way home from a successful campaign—the march back was like a holiday idyll. We had no sense of danger, so we sent out no advance patrols. I can only reproach myself for such blind folly, for I had been trained up as a soldier and should have known better. Yet as the mercy of the gods would have it, we came within sight of Naxos before encountering a hint of trouble, for we did not deserve such luck.
We were already on the long sloping foothills that led down to the sea, perhaps a three hours’ march fro
m the harbor, when Callias trotted back through the lines on his fine gray stallion to tell me that he had seen a pair of horsemen riding toward us.
“They are holding almost to a gallop,” he said. “Uphill like this, their mounts will be broken-winded by the time they arrive. It is a cruel and senseless thing to push a horse like that.”
“How far away are they?” I asked.
“Half an hour—no more.”
He shook his head disapprovingly and then rode back to meet the approaching horsemen, doubtless rehearsing to himself how he would reprove them for their lack of proper consideration. Callias had once raced in the games at Nemea and treated his animal as another man might his bride.
“Half an hour then,” I said, glancing at Enkidu, who walked at my side. “Doubtless they are sent by the assembly for news of how we fared against the brigands.”
It was a reasonable enough assumption, but Enkidu only growled, as if somehow he could smell the truth.
And, as always, that instinct for danger served him well, for by the time I could hear the pounding of horses’ hooves against the hard earth I recognized the lead rider as Diocles. And he did not look as if he came to congratulate us.
“By the Mouse God’s navel, I thought you would never get back,” he cried, sliding from his horse to crouch on the ground, gasping for breath. “What kept you? We expected you days ago. Why have you stayed away?”
“We won.”
He only stared, as if he could not understand what I was talking about.
“We won,” I repeated. “The brigands are utterly defeated, and Collatinus is—“
“Yes, yes—we know all that!” He shook his head with impatience. “A rider came to Ducerius’ citadel twelve days ago, and by sundown word had reached every house in Naxos that the Greeks had conquered. Ducerius is in a great rage and takes his revenge on us every hour.”
“What do you mean, Ducerius takes his revenge?”
“He is sending patrols of his soldiers out to raid Greeks farms, quite as the brigands did. He boasts that Collatinus may be defeated but we will hardly notice the change. He means to destroy us now, Tiglath. Did you say that Collatinus is dead?”
“Enkidu, show him.”
Enkidu carried a leather sack tied to his belt. He opened it and dumped out the contents. Collatinus’ head struck the ground with a thump—his eyes were still open, and he looked as if he felt the insult.
“By the Mouse God’s navel. . .”
“You had half the militia in reserve,” I said, perhaps a little impatiently, for, until Enkidu picked up his trophy and returned it to its leather sack, Diocles seemed to have attention for nothing else. “Has nothing been done?”
“What could be done? The men were anxious to be home that they might protect their families and property—I could not hold them. Besides, what are a hundred men to do? We could not fight Ducerius, not by ourselves. Not without you. What kept you?”
I told him, in as few words as I could, all that had happened on the Salito Plain, and at the end of my narrative he nodded.
“Indeed,” he said, “you have conquered. Yet I fear now you will need to again. Ducerius expected the brigands to do his work for him—he laughed at us, calling us dung-rakers. And now he does not dare to let matters rest as they are, for we are a challenge to his power. He thinks to goad us into facing his army straight on. It is an army, Tiglath, not a band of brigands. And he has two men for every one of ours. He means to crush us forever.”
“Was my farm attacked?” I asked—I was a man and selfish, and I had to know.
“Yes.”
“Was anyone killed?”
“I know nothing of it, Tiglath. I only heard this morning. One man tells another, who tells another—you know how it is.”
“Yes, I know.”
I thought of Selana. If she was dead. . .
A glance at Enkidu was enough to settle the matter as far as it concerned us.
“I am going home now,” I said, speaking to Diocles but conscious that others were listening as well. “But if Ducerius longs for a war, it seems wisest to give it to him. My six months as Tyrant are nearly over—the Greeks must decide for themselves what they want. They know where they will find me.”
I did not accompany the militia into Naxos—there would be no victory celebration, no cheers for the conquerors, since, it seemed, we had conquered one enemy only to raise up another. In any case, I found I had no taste for glory.
Enkidu and I broke off from the rest and followed the line of hills south, heading for home.
. . . . .
We were five hours on the trails, and through every minute I could feel my heart lodged in my throat like a fox caught in a hollow log. If Selana was dead. . .
What a fool I had been to abandon her thus unprotected—could I not have seen that Ducerius would single me out above all others for his revenge? Yet I had to go off like a little boy with his playmates, intent on nothing but his childish little game. I would never leave her again, if only. . .
I thought of every way I would kill Ducerius, how I would strip his life from him the way the skin is peeled from an apple. Yet I did not care—he had my permission to live forever if only Selana could be safe and I could fold her in my embrace once more.
When at last we came within sight of the farmhouse, I saw that no smoke rose from the hearth vent.
She is dead, I thought. The hearth fire was her special charge—if it is dead, then so is she.
But she was not. I found her on the porch, waiting for me, her eyes wide with anxiety, as if she could not be sure I was real.
And then she was in my arms, sobbing.
“I thought you had been killed,” she whispered at last, her voice still ragged with tears. “You were so long—I thought the brigands had won and you had all been killed.”
“You heard no news of our victory?”
“Nothing—and then, eight days ago, the soldiers came. . .”
She seemed so small, caught thus in my arms, as if she were still the child I had found on the wharf at Naukratis. What terrors had she known while I was gone? What had happened?
“Was anyone killed?” I took her by the shoulders, for she seemed suddenly unwilling to look at me. “Selana, if the hearth fire is dead. . . Was anyone. . ?”
“Yes, one, Master.”
It was Kephalos’ voice. He was standing in the doorway—I had not even noticed him. He looked gray and haggard, as if many nights had left him sleepless.
“Who then?”
“Your servant’s servant, Lord. The boy Ganymedes.”
. . . . .
“Know, Master, that I bear the youth Tullus no ill will over this, for all that happened was not his fault, since the threads of all our lives are caught up in the same web, and my poor boy was never pleasing to the Lady Nemesis. You will do me the justice, however, to remember that even when the woman Tanaquil came with her two sons I said things would end badly.”
We sat together on the porch, sharing a third jar of wine—there are times when nothing else will serve. It was almost dark, but no one had thought of food. Kephalos had grown quite drunk, and in this I had kept him company, which was no more than a friend’s office.
“The poets who sing of love as the gods’ curse upon a man have hit upon a great and mysterious truth,” he continued, his eyes damp with more than just surfeit of wine, for his grief was profound. “And the most cursed sort of love is that which lavishes itself upon an unworthy object—for know, Lord, that I was never blind to the depravity of Ganymedes’ nature. I loved him with clear eyes, which is a torment fools are spared.”
“How did he die?”
“Worthily, if you can credit such a thing. I suppose I ought even to be grateful to Tullus, for in the manner of his death my poor boy showed himself not entirely wicked. Do you suppose, Lord, that it is possible, in one final act of perfect nobility, to redeem a lifetime of selfishness?”
“I have no doubt of it. A ma
n needs but a single occasion to show his true character.”
“Or, at least, the possibility of what he might have been?”
“Yes.”
“Then I am somewhat consoled. I mixed silver coins with the ashes in his funeral urn, that he might want for nothing on his journey to the Dark Realms. Promise me, Lord, that when I am dead you will bury me beside him.”
And then he wept, long and bitterly. I put my arm over his shoulders to comfort him, even as one might a child, for the passion of his sorrow was like a child’s, untempered and consuming.
It was only slowly, like the painful unwrapping of a wound, that I heard the full story.
“That was not a night for sleeping within four walls, Lord, for the air was as thick as millet gruel and it was so hot that only the black sky overhead showed that the sun had ever set. All of us had taken our sleeping mats outside that we might live in hope of some faint breeze from the sea. Thus it was we heard the king’s soldiers approaching, the neighing of their horses and the sound of many hooves against the hard-packed earth. There would have been time for everyone to escape into the covering darkness.
“I had thought to hide myself in the vine arbor, and Ganymedes and I were retreating in that direction even as the soldiers entered our farmyard. I had seen Tullus and his brother running into the barn, which struck me as a foolish choice since the king’s men, meaning to do mischief in your absence, would surely burn it. I confess I never guessed he. . .
“Then I heard Tullus’s voice—he had come back out of the barn carrying a mattock, of all things, and he was shouting the most fearful curses: ‘Your mothers mated with donkeys, you gelded bastards,’ he yelled, ‘I will kill you, all of you, murderers of my father.’ There was more, although I hardly remember all of it. The boy was beside himself with rage.
“The soldiers, still on their horses, only laughed. Perhaps they would not even have harmed him, but who can ever know now? Yet the danger seemed real enough.
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