by Paul Waters
PAUL WATERS
OF MERCHANTS & HEROES
MacMillan
First published 2008 by Macmillan
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ITALY
GREECE
THE AEGEAN BASIN
HOTSPUR: . . . the time of life is short; To spend that shortness basely were too long . . .
Shakespeare, King Henry IV, Part 1, Act 5, Scene 2.
It is in the capacity to love, that is to see, that the liberation of the soul from fantasy consists.
Iris Murdoch, The Sovereignty of Good
ONE
WHEN I WAS FOURTEEN I put aside my boy’s tunic and assumed the plain mantle of adulthood. We held a ceremony at home on the farm, at the shrine of the Lares beside the olive grove. The slaves and the farmhands stood by while my father sacrificed a goat-kid, and afterwards poured wine and incense for the god.
I had supposed, without knowing how, that from that day everything would be different. But next morning, when the feast was over and my new white toga had been folded and packed away in the old bronze-bound clothes-chest in my room, I felt just as much a boy as before. It was only later that year that I learnt what it was to leave childish things behind, when I killed a man.
I daresay, if you are a Roman, this will not surprise you greatly, for at that time the remnants of Hannibal’s army were still scattered all over Italy, raiding farms and setting upon unwary travellers. But the man I killed was not one of Hannibal’s men, nor was I in Italy when it happened. And though I was glad he died, I had not intended to kill him.
My father was a quiet, pious, learned man. He could have gone to Rome and made a name for himself, and a fortune with it, as many men were doing then. But he used to say that fame among fools was no fame at all, and chose instead to stay on our farm in high Praeneste, reading his books and living with the steady turn of the seasons, as his ancestors had done before him. He was at that time about fifty, lean and grey-haired and old-looking. But for all his gentleness he had a core of iron.
When I grew up, and had learned a few things for myself, I came to realize that he was a good man, and his quiet came not from dullness but from wisdom. But at the time, like any boy of fourteen, I merely thought him distant and austere, and I longed for something new.
Change came soon enough. In that same year, the first of my manhood, he called me one day to his study and announced he intended to pay a visit to my uncle on the island of Kerkyra, where the Roman naval base was. Saying it was time I saw something of the world, he took me with him. And so it was, that spring, when the ewes had borne their lambs and the snows had melted from the high passes, that we took the coast-road south, and at Brundisium boarded a merchantman bound for Greece.
I remember on the prow was carved a fearsome gaping serpent’s head, Carthaginian work with blood-red eyes and bared teeth. The Libyan crewman with the gold hoop earring and oiled black hair laughed when he saw me staring, and whispered in my ear that it was to ward off the evil spirits of the sea, of which there were many.
So much for magic charms. I have never put my trust in them since.
The other passengers were businessmen mostly – traders and merchants on their way to Kerkyra and Greece, full of their affairs, and measuring their worth by their neighbour’s. They sat about under the awning at the stern, or hung over the rail looking gravely at the water, mumbling prayers for luck, or talking loudly with false confidence. For a sea crossing is always uncertain.
And there was the girl.
She kept herself apart, standing at the far rail with her elderly, fussing Greek tutor. I smiled at her once, but she did not smile back.
She was fine-boned, with a mantle of white silk pulled up over her hair. Even while her things were being carried on board, the Libyan had his eye on her. I saw him sitting on a coil of mooring line, picking at his glistening hair with his long nails and staring like a lizard. Once, she turned and caught him, and then he looked away.
He had a strange expression on his face, like hunger. I have seen it many times since; but then I was young, and did not know it for what it was.
As for me, I liked the way she kept to herself and ignored the chattering merchants. She had a natural dignity, complete in what she was, like someone old caught in a child’s body.
Little did I know, on that bright morning, that she would tear my life apart. Such is the blindness the gods grant to men, to spare them from madness. The Fates weave what they weave, and not even a god can undo their handiwork.
The pirates came on the afternoon of the second day.
We had already crossed the open water between Italy and Greece, and were sailing south, following the coast of Epeiros with its dark cliffs and pine-clad hills. Already, far ahead, the shadowy peak of Kerkyra island loomed on the horizon, and the passengers, anticipating the end of their journey, had begun to spread about the deck. I could see my father, his face serious, nodding as one of them bored him with some business talk.
I turned back to the sea. I was sitting by the anchor in the prow, with my legs dangling over the side, looking out for dolphins. The girl had come forward and was standing nearby, under the shade of the great square sail. Suddenly she stepped up and said, ‘What is that?’
I looked up at her, then followed her gaze. At first I could see nothing except the still, rocky coastline, pink and purple in the slanting light. I shaded my eyes with my hand.
‘No, there,’ she said, pointing.
Off to one side was a small wooded islet. It was so close to the coast that I thought at first it was no more than a headland jutting out into the sea.
A low sleek craft had emerged, speeding out from under its lee, bearing down on us, its black oars thrashing on the water.
I stared stupidly out at it, not understanding, wondering why a fishing boat was in so much hurry, and why it needed so many men.
A second craft raced out behind the first, and the first spiders of fear crept up my spine.
There was a silence. Then, from the stern-house, one of the passengers screamed, and suddenly there was shouting and running everywhere. The helmsman dropped the steering-pole; the ship began to veer towards the shore. Over the din the pilot was barking out orders; but no one took any noti
ce.
From my place in the bow I stared back appalled, trying to see my father, and found myself looking into the face of the Libyan. He was sitting calmly to one side. I thought at first he was asleep, until I saw him turn and look at the girl with his cold, staring eyes.
There was no time to consider this. Her tutor came rushing, flailing his arms and pushing at the passengers who stumbled into his way. When he was close enough he began wailing that we were all about to die.
So far I thought the girl had not understood the danger. But now, in a sharp, clear voice, she said, ‘Yes, Gryllos. I have seen. Can you swim?’
He looked at her, then gaped at the water with horror.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Nor can I. So we shall have to see what these pirates want.’ She cast her eye over the deck at the panic around her.
Then she said, ‘You are a man, and a slave, and I am a senator’s daughter. So calm yourself. It is me they want most of all.’
She turned back to the rail, and her eyes met mine. She was older than I, but only by a year or two; yet all around us men three times her age were tearing their hair and crying out to the gods. It was not that she was not afraid; her face had turned ashen, and I saw, before she steadied it on the rail, that her small hand was trembling. But somehow she faced down her fear and mastered it, young though she was.
All this I comprehended in an instant; and I knew then that it was more than my life was worth to let her see me afraid. So I swallowed my rising terror and stood beside her, and solemnly said, in the voice my father used when he addressed the gods, ‘I will not let them hurt you. I promise.’
She looked into my face with surprise. Her mantle had fallen back from her head. The breeze rippled in the folds, and stirred the wisps of her hair that strayed out from beneath. When I think of her, that is what I remember. ‘Thank you,’ she said after a moment, and she smiled, as a mother might smile at the innocence of a child.
Then, turning sharply to the whimpering slave, ‘Be quiet, Gryllos! Shame on you.’
The pirates fell upon our ship like hounds on a wounded stag. The pilot protested and they killed him. They greeted the Libyan as an old friend, slapping him on the back and laughing and joking with him as they towed us ashore and marched us up the hillside. I listened to them. At home, I had learned enough Greek to know they spoke some version of it; but their accent was strange and uncouth. I asked my father who they were.
‘Illyrians,’ he said, casting a grim look at our laughing captors. ‘A nation of pirates and thieves all of them.’
We were being led up a steep narrow path that rose between the cliffs, and could only talk when they were not close by, or they would slap and punch us, and threaten us with their knives. I could see the girl up ahead, being led by the Libyan, and presently I remarked under my breath, ‘The girl said it was her they wanted.’
‘What they want is gold,’ said my father. ‘They will demand a ransom, in exchange for her life.’
I tilted my head towards the Libyan. ‘That man knew.’ And then, as my mind worked, ‘But what of us, Father?’
For a moment he did not answer. Then he said, ‘We have no gold to give them.’
I looked up at him and considered what this meant. I was young, but I was not a fool. I closed my mouth on my next question.
Ahead I saw a sudden movement as the Libyan’s arm went up and he snatched the veil of thin white silk from the girl’s head. She had bound her hair at the back with a small enamelled brooch, white on gold; the delicate filigree work glinted in the sunlight. Now he tore it roughly from her head, not even troubling to undo the clasp.
Even from so far back I saw the fair strands of her hair come away with the brooch; it must have hurt, but she did not flinch. She walked on, not lowering herself to notice.
But my father had noticed. His face was stiff and expressionless as carved wood, and his eyes glared with anger.
The pirates had made their camp in the ruins of some once-great city. Some ancient cataclysm must have made the citizens flee. It stood abandoned, crumbling whitewashed houses and caved-in roofs spread out across the plateau to the edges of the pine forest. Their leader was waiting in what must once have been the marketplace, standing on the steps of a ruined temple, looking out to sea.
He was not like the others, who were dark and thickset and festooned with looted jewels. His face was broad and boyish, and he had a mass of flaxen hair that fell curling about his shoulders.
A charcoal fire was glowing in a bronze bowl on the altar. As we drew near he seized a fistful of incense from a casket and tossed it in.
The incense spluttered and hissed, sending a plume of blue smoke up between the bleached columns. Then he turned and grinned at us.
He seemed almost friendly, until you saw his eyes, which were dark and cunning.
From beside me someone spoke, in a voice charged with anger and disgust. ‘You dare to do honour to the gods, who uphold order in the world?’ It took me a moment to realize it was my father.
The other passengers stared at him. But the blond pirate threw his head back and laughed.
‘Do you suppose,’ he cried, ‘I am honouring Zeus the Cloud- Gatherer, old man? Or Far-Shooting Apollo? Or Harmony? Or Justice?’
He swept his arm to and fro through the incense-smoke, scattering it. Then he leapt down the remaining steps.
Close up, I could see his boyish prettiness was flawed. Under his short beard his cheeks were pockmarked, and there were lines about his eyes, making them look oddly older than the rest of him, like an old man’s eyes planted in a young face. With a sudden wild movement he gestured back at the temple. The roof had collapsed long ago; the faded columns pointed up to the empty sky, supporting nothing. Within, in the cella where the image of the god should have stood, were piled up glittering heaps of stolen treasure: strong dark- wood chests bound with brass and iron, tall amphoras of wine and oil, inlaid caskets of the kind men keep their savings in, and women their jewels; and, strewn all about, great piles of embroidered linen, silks, and fine dyed wool, cloaks and dresses spilling from open chests and tossed about on the flagstones like worthless rags. If their owners had been ransomed, they had left without their clothes.
‘The gods are gone!’ cried the blond pirate at my father. ‘So I choose my own gods – what could be better? Shall I tell you their names? They are Lawlessness and Impiety! Great Lawlessness, who orders the world, and Impiety, who suckled me at her lush breast.’
He laughed, and slapped his thighs, greatly amused, and the other pirates joined in.
‘Does that shock you, old man?’ he went on, suddenly serious.
‘But look at me!’ He spread his arms out sideways like a man showing off a new tunic. ‘I am rich and powerful; I have all I desire.
And you? You are my prisoner, a broken crushed old fool like all the rest. I live and thrive, and you will soon be dead.’ His face twisted in a parody of confusion and he thrust up a questioning finger. ‘So, tell me, whose gods are greater, mine or yours?’
He began to turn away; I do not think he expected an answer. But my father pointed to the sheer edge of the plateau, where an ancient twisted olive tree was growing out of a fissure in the rock. The tree was half dead. On one of the fractured, leafless branches there was a lurid growth of fungus. With a bravery and a depth of anger I never knew he possessed he said in a cold, steady voice, ‘There are some creatures that live by drawing their life-force from another. For a time they thrive, but when the host they feed upon dies, they die too, for they are nothing in themselves.’ He nodded at the tree. ‘Do you recognize it? It is a parasite. And so are you.’
There was a stunned, appalled silence. The passengers stared wide-eyed at my father. The only sound came from the harsh rasping of the cicadas.
The pirate’s brow creased and the grin melted from his face.
From behind, the other passengers began to protest, crying out to this barbarian that my father did not mean what he said, that h
e spoke only for himself, that fear had unhinged his mind and they would find money to pay for their ransoming. They went on and on, pressing forward, stretching out their arms in entreaty. But my father did not turn, or pay them any heed. His face was set in an expression of calm contempt.
Suddenly the pirate rounded on them. ‘Shut up!’ he yelled.
They ceased as if struck by a thunderbolt. All except the Greek slave, who was beyond controlling himself. He continued with a high-pitched quivering whine, like a keening woman, or a bitch’s pup.
The pirate was still standing in front of my father, studying his face. There was a pause. Then he reached into his matted golden hair, searched around, and brought his hand forward once more with his thumb and forefinger pressed together. Between them he was holding a louse. He held it under my father’s eyes.
‘Look!’ he said, grinning, ‘a parasite; a brother of mine.’ He crushed the creature and wiped his fingers on his leather tunic. Then he laughed, and after a moment the passengers, in an effort to ingratiate themselves, laughed with him.
All except my father and I. And the girl. We just looked at him in silence.
Eventually the laughter died limply away. It was forced and artificial enough; but no one, it seemed, wanted to be the first to stop. Then the Libyan stepped up.
‘Well?’ said the blond pirate.
The Libyan manhandled the girl roughly forward. With a flash of his white teeth he said, ‘Already, Dikaiarchos, the message has been sent. I saw to it myself, before we left Brundisium. Her father will have it by now.’
The girl said, ‘He will pay you nothing.’
The blond one, the one called Dikaiarchos, pouted at her. ‘No? Oh, but I think he will. He is a very rich man, and you are his only daughter. He can spare me a ship-full of gold; but he cannot do without you.’
He gave her a sweet smile, and she glared back at him. Beside her the Greek slave was still whining, biting his hand in terror.