Of Merchants & Heros

by Paul Waters

  ‘What matters,’ said Villius, sitting forward, ‘is that these cities are on the route between Europe and Asia. If Philip succeeds in taking them all, he will link up with King Antiochos in Asia, and will be in a position to hold all of Greece to ransom. The Senate has finally woken up to what is happening. They see another Carthage in the making, just as Titus has been warning.’

  I said, ‘Do these cities not fight?’

  ‘They are too weak, too disunited. He picks them off, one after the other: Elaious, Alopekonnesos, Kallipolis, Madytos have all opened their gates to him. But – and that is why I am here – the city of Abydos has refused.’

  The name stirred in my memory. But before I could place it, he went on, ‘I have been discussing all this with Pomponius. I will show you the map later. But now, let me tell you what we should like you to do . . .’

  He talked for some time. When he had finished, he stood and said, ‘But come, Marcus, let us take a turn in the garden, and I will tell you all my private news, such as it is.’ And to Pomponius, ‘Will you excuse us?’

  When we were outside he cast his eyes around the wide court, taking in the ornate flowerbeds, the fashionable painted sculptures, and the liveried slaves who came and went along the far colonnade.

  ‘I see,’ he said with a quick smile, ‘that our ambassador does not spare himself the necessities.’

  We walked to one side, where there was a little bronze figure of Pan, and beside it a stone bench and a tinkling wall-fountain. Here we sat.

  ‘Forgive me for that little subterfuge,’ he said. ‘In truth I have no private news that would interest you. But I could hardly say what I want to say with Pomponius present. Tell me, how well have you got to know this ambassador of ours?’

  ‘Well enough,’ I answered, giving him a look.

  He laughed and nodded. ‘Then you will understand why we feel he is not the man to undertake this mission. He has caused enough trouble already. First he tells everyone who cares to listen that Rome will not stand up to Philip. Then, at the wrong time, when we are not ready, he loses his temper and threatens war. Well, he has forced us to advance our plans. Our agents in Macedonia tell us Philip believes we lack the will to stand up to him. But be careful on this mission, Marcus. Philip is dangerous and hard to predict. Stick to what I have told you. It is no time to play the hero.’

  Menexenos was waiting back at the house. ‘What did Pomponius want this time?’ he asked with raised brows. Pomponius had become something of a joke in Athens.

  I said, ‘Philip is besieging Abydos. The consuls want me to go there and warn him off.’

  He stared at me. ‘Abydos? Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course.’ I relayed to him what I had been told, about Philip’s progress through Greece, and the cities that had fallen. ‘But Abydos,’

  I said, ‘is refusing to surrender like the others, and Philip is laying siege . . . What is it? What is wrong?’

  ‘But don’t you remember?’ he cried. ‘Pasithea is in Abydos!’

  I looked at him, realizing now why the name had caught in my mind. Then I said, ‘What will Philip do if it falls?’

  ‘It will fall,’ he said. ‘It cannot stand alone, not against the whole Macedonian army. And when it does he will sack the city and enslave the citizens, for daring to resist him.’

  I sat down on the bench and frowned at the flagstones under my feet, trying to think. Then I looked up. Menexenos’s eyes were upon me still.

  ‘We cannot leave her to that,’ I said.

  ‘No, we cannot. Nor can you go marching in to rescue her alone.

  So I am coming with you.’

  Just as it is impossible to sail from the Middle Sea to the Atlantic Ocean without passing the Pillars of Herakles, so it is impossible to enter or leave the Black Sea without passing the city of Abydos. A distance of only two stades separates Abydos on one side of the Hellespont from Sestos on the other: a distance a man could swim.

  Indeed, if the old story is true, Leandros swam the strait each night to visit his woman, the priestess of Aphrodite on the other side, until one night a storm blew up that drowned him.

  These facts, and this story, I heard from our captain, who was a regular on the Black Sea route, and knew every port and inlet and stream like the palm of his hand. Abydos, he said, had an excellent harbour, sheltered from the dangerous currents that ran through the narrows of the Hellespont, and it would be easy to get us inside.

  But when we arrived, we saw that Philip had sunk huge wooden piles in the harbour mouth, and linked them with iron chains, blocking all shipping in and out.

  The captain frowned and gave the order to put about. We turned south, and made landfall at a small inlet concealed by rising ground.

  Disembarking here, we climbed to the top of the grassy ridge, and looked out over the plain.

  Twilight was coming on. Abydos lay in the distance, with torches burning on the walls. All about, scattered over the flat ground between, the Macedonian cooking fires flickered like evening stars, and the siege-engines stood like monstrous slumbering beasts along the line of the encircling trenches.

  I turned to the captain. ‘Is there any way you can get us in?’

  He rubbed his beard and frowned at the sunset. ‘Not through those entrenchments, I can’t. And you saw the harbour for yourself.’

  He paused and paced along the ridge, considering. Then he turned and said, ‘The tender would be small enough. But there is no way at all it could outrun the Macedonian patrols.’

  We all looked seawards. Out in the bay the Macedonian triremes were sitting at anchor, dark silhouettes against the last glimmer of the day, like hunting dogs waiting at a rabbit’s burrow.

  I turned back to the captain. ‘But first,’ I said, ‘they would have to see us. What time does the moon rise tonight?’

  We set out as soon as night had fallen.

  The tender was a small, oared boat, used for carrying stores, and for running passengers to and from the quay. It was hard work against the strong opposing current; and without light we were in constant danger of being drawn onto hidden rocks.

  But the Macedonian warships were not looking for something so small, and we slipped past them unseen.

  The current dropped as we passed into the shelter of the bay. We eased ourselves under the great linking chains that blocked the harbour and rowed in. As we passed the sea-wall, two Abydean night-guards who had been watching at the end of the mole shouted down a challenge, directing their spears at us. But we were ready with our answers, and they let us through.

  We tied up at the waterfront. The city was deep in fear; which was no surprise, once we discovered what had happened there.

  Eventually we were brought to the house of one of the city magistrates, and stood waiting in the unlit courtyard while the slave went inside to call him.

  The night was drawing on. We paced on the flagstones; but soon he stepped out, an elderly white-bearded man, still dressed in his day-clothes.

  Even in the moonless night his eyes were like dark shadows, and I wondered when the last time was that he had slept. But he greeted us civilly, saying his name was Iphiades and sending the slave for refreshments.

  He sat down, and listened in silence while I told him why I had come. When I had finished he said wearily, ‘It would have been better if you had come to tell me the Roman army was on its way.

  That is the only thing Philip will heed.’

  Then he told us his dreadful story.

  Although, he said, Philip’s army was many times stronger, the Abydeans had managed at first to fend off his attacks. He had brought up great war-engines, mounted on ships; but against these the Abydeans had launched boulders from catapults, and had set fire to the ships with burning arrows.

  Then, thwarted in this first assault, Philip mounted an attack from the landward side. The walls of Abydos were strong and well maintained; but over time his sappers had undermined them with tunnels and trenches; and at the same time h
e had blockaded the port, cutting the food supply.

  When the outer wall began to crumble, the Abydeans had built up a second wall within the first. ‘But,’ said Iphiades, ‘by then everyone knew the end could not long be postponed. The people were beginning to starve. The Macedonians were undermining the walls faster than we could shore them up. The Council met, and I was sent to speak to Philip.’

  He stared into the shadows and drew a long breath. In the brief pause, from somewhere in the town, a solitary dog bayed into the night. It sounded hungry.

  I said, ‘Yet you remain. Would Philip not come to terms?’

  He gave a dry laugh. ‘We hardly demanded terms. We offered surrender. We told him he might have the city – the buildings, the treasury, everything. We asked only that he let us go, to seek exile where we could. As you have guessed, he refused. He made a joke of it, saying we would make useful slaves in Macedon, and bedfellows for his troops. We could either fight to the death, or we could submit to slavery; he would leave the choice to us.’

  He paused, and pressed the flats of his hands against his closed eyes. Gently Menexenos said, ‘You are tired, sir. Let us speak again in the morning.’

  ‘No,’ he said, pulling himself up. ‘The city may fall at any time, and you need to know this, so that you may tell the world what happened here.’

  A siege is a siege, full of horrors. And yet I sensed something else, some deeper horror, which he had not yet spoken of. I felt the beginnings of dread creep in my hair.

  He rose from the stool and walked the few steps down to the lower terrace, and paused among the flower-urns, absently touching them with the ends of his fingers – rosemary, bushing lavender; a flowering shrub climbing up a trellis. Then he turned and looked back at us.

  ‘To choose the time and manner of his own death is the noble act of a free man,’ he said. ‘But to choose it for another . . .’ He shook his head. ‘There is impiety in it somewhere; but they will not listen.’

  ‘But what do you mean, sir?’ I said. ‘What has happened?’

  He drew in his breath, and let out a long sigh. ‘Forgive me; I am telling the end at the beginning. The assembly has decreed that everything of value that the citizens own – their money, their silverware and gold, their necklaces, rings, amulets and every precious thing – shall be deposited in the agora. When that is done the womenfolk shall be taken to the temple of Artemis – there, up on the hill; you can see the cresset burning – and the children to the gymnasion.’

  I looked at him. ‘But why, sir?’ Yet, even as I spoke I felt my hands go cold.

  ‘When the inner wall falls,’ he continued, ‘a troop of soldiers, specially chosen for the task, will proceed to the temple, and to the gymnasion, and there they will slaughter the women and children.

  No one shall survive: the men were made to swear it on the altars of the gods. Then, when that is done, they will cast the gold and silver into the sea, and fight the Macedonians until the last man is dead.’

  ‘Great God,’ whispered Menexenos.

  Iphiades nodded. ‘That was yesterday. I opposed the motion, but I was outvoted. Since then our troops have ceased to shore up the walls. The defence is over. The walls will not hold much longer. We wait for the end.’

  There was a silence.

  I said, ‘Does Philip know of this?’

  ‘Not yet, or he would be inside the city already.’

  ‘Then I must go to him before he finds out. Can you persuade the Council to delay – to shore up the walls, at least?’

  He spread his hands in a gesture of hopelessness. ‘I shall do what I can. They are determined.’

  Menexenos said, ‘Have the women been taken to the temple yet? A friend of ours is here.’

  ‘Might I know her?’

  ‘I think not, sir. She is visiting, but her home is Korinth now. Her name is Pasithea.’

  Iphiades seemed to me no more likely to know a woman like Pasithea than old austere Kleinias. So much for appearances. His head went up immediately. ‘You know Pasithea?’ he cried.

  ‘Why yes, sir,’ replied Menexenos, somewhat taken aback.

  ‘Then I can tell you exactly where she is . . . Better still’ – gesturing to the slave who was waiting by the pillar – ‘Gyrtias will take you there.’ A glimmer of a smile appeared on his tired face – the first since we had met him – and he added, ‘When she was ordered up to the temple with the other women, she told the man to give her his sword and she would take her chances on the walls. She can be quite an Amazon when she chooses.’ He glanced at the sky. ‘But you had better make haste.’

  I followed his gaze. I had been so taken up in his tale I had forgotten. The moon was up, a cold shining half-disk in a cloudless sky. It would illuminate the harbour like a beacon.

  We hurried out. As soon as we were in the street Menexenos said, ‘Marcus, you must leave now.’

  ‘But Pasithea—’

  ‘I’ll go to her. The captain is waiting. There is no time. If you delay, you will be seen. Come back tomorrow after dark and collect us. If you cannot, I shall find another way out.’

  ‘No, Menexenos, wait! You heard the old man. I will not leave you here—’

  But I was talking to the night air. Already he was hurrying off up the street with the slave-boy. He turned and made a quick gesture of affection that we had between us. ‘Go!’ he called, ‘before the whole Macedonian squadron sees you sailing out.’

  I found the captain pacing beside the tender.

  As we rowed out I gazed back at the town. Up on the ridge, in the porch of the temple of Artemis, a great basket-cresset flared, sending sparks scattering in the breeze. I turned and shuddered, and pulled harder on the oar.

  By the time we arrived back at the ship, the first hint of dawn was showing in the east. I went off to sit on the shore alone, and watched the shooting stars, and the lapping water of the Hellespont.

  At first light I stirred myself. I stripped and washed, and prepared to be conducted through the Macedonian lines.

  King Philip was waiting with a group of courtiers and military men in front of a great square blue-dyed pavilion, painted on its side with the golden sunburst emblem of the Macedonian royal house.

  He affected not to notice as I approached with the escort, though he had been warned I was coming. But when the captain of the guard announced me he turned with raised brows and gleaming eyes and said, ‘Greetings, Roman. Have you come to witness the end of Abydos?’

  I had seen him from far off at Athens. Now for the first time I saw him close. He had a short-trimmed black beard, and shining curling hair tied with the royal diadem. His eyes were the colour of old bronze, like a wolf’s.

  I recalled the stories of how he had had many lovers in his youth, both men and women. One saw the attraction still. He had animal good looks, like a smell, and an insolent half-amused expression, as if to say: ‘What I want, I take.’

  But there was something chilling about him too, something feral and destructive. He had too many lines around his eyes, like a man who has slept too little, or drunk too much.

  I knew what I had been told to say, and had spent the dawn thinking carefully how to say it. I began now, neither submissive nor vaunting, informing him that I had come on behalf of the Senate, asking him to hold in mind the common peace, and to cease to make war on the cities of the Hellespont. The Senate, I told him, did not wish for war between Rome and Macedon, but was resolved to fight him unless he drew back. I urged him to end his siege of Abydos.

  As I spoke he kept glancing over my shoulder at whatever was going on in the plain. I realized this rudeness was deliberate, and ignored it, and carried on with what I had to say.

  But then, as I was speaking, there came a coughing and stirring from behind the leather flap that was the doorway of Philip’s pavilion. The flap parted, and a man emerged, blinking and pushing his fingers sleepily through his hair.

  Except for a towel around his waist he was naked. His chest and legs
were shaggy with curling blond hair; his body was scored with white marks from old sword-wounds. I stuttered and gaped, and my head emptied of all the words I had carefully prepared. It was Dikaiarchos.

  Philip’s eyes slewed to my face. ‘Have you finished already? Is that all?’

  ‘No, sir,’ I stammered, struggling to pull myself together.

  ‘Well go on then.’

  Behind him, Dikaiarchos was splashing his face and upper body at a water-trough. I tore my eyes away, thinking of the Abydeans.

  But it was too late. I had been wrong-footed, and I began to hesitate and stumble in my words.

  Philip sensed it at once. He fixed his keen wolf-eyes on me, suddenly intent, and when next I hesitated he broke in with, ‘No, Roman, you are wrong. It was the Rhodians who made war on me, not I on them. So too with that old fool Attalos. They attacked me first, and I have outwitted them. And now, like children running to their mother, they have gone to Rome for help.’

  He was playing with me.

  Realizing this, and feeling angry with myself, I retorted sharply, ‘And what of the Abydeans? Did they attack you first as well?’

  The murmur of voices around me fell suddenly quiet. The courtiers and generals and clerks and slaves turned and stared.

  Dikaiarchos, who had been slouching against the stone horse-trough scratching himself, came up and stood at Philip’s side.

  As for Philip, for a moment, before he concealed it, I saw in his face that it had been some time since he had been addressed bluntly by anyone.

  Smoothly he said, ‘You are too outspoken, Roman. You are speaking to a king.’

  I glared at him, and felt the colour rising in my face.

  Seeing this Philip laughed and turned to Dikaiarchos. ‘A good- looking youth, wouldn’t you say? Did you see his strong thighs and buttocks? What do you think?’

  I tried to continue, reminding him of the Abydeans, whose lives hung in the balance while he joked. But it was no good. He and Dikaiarchos were standing with their heads cocked to one side, considering my body as if I were a bull at market. I could see the mark on the back of Dikaiarchos’s hand, where my javelin had pierced him. Yet, for all his staring, he did not seem to know me.