Of Merchants & Heros

by Paul Waters

  Meanwhile, Philip’s dark, amused eye stripped me of my clothes.

  I knew my face had reddened to the ears; and the more I tried to stop it, the worse it became.

  I stumbled to a close. Philip smiled, then broke into a grin. ‘Well I have heard you out, and now I have a city to take. But it won’t take long. Why don’t you wait in my tent? The bed is big enough for two, and I’ll soon be back.’

  He looked round with bright amused eyes at his generals and officers and clerks, and, dutifully, they joined in his laughter.

  ‘Do you mean to kill every Abydean then?’ I cried, furious at being mocked.

  The laugher stopped. In a different voice he said, ‘If the Abydeans want to end the siege, let them open their gates.’

  ‘They have already offered you their city and their gold.’

  ‘Why should I stop at half, when I can have all? I shall kill their men, and take their women and children as slaves and playthings.’

  ‘They will kill themselves first.’

  He tutted. ‘Will they? Then they had better make haste.’

  ‘Is this your answer to the Senate, sir?’

  At this he paused. His eyes became fierce and dangerous, and for the first time I knew the stories of how he had murdered his family were true.

  ‘It is time,’ he said slowly, ‘that you western barbarians were put in your place. You may tell your Senate they rouse me at their peril.

  And if they do, they will find Macedon is more than a match for Rome.’

  I returned to our ship, and for the rest of that day, I watched as the Macedonians attacked the city. War-engines, lined up in rows, fired massive bolts of stone and bronze into the crumbling walls. Troops with scaling-ladders surged forward, scrambling over the fallen masonry.

  I could see the Abydeans fighting them off. But each hour the defenders were fewer, and each hour the Macedonians advanced. It was the longest day of my life.

  By the time night came finally on, the Hellespont was bright with reflected fire, and through the orange glow we set out once more for Abydos. The captain eyed the Macedonian triremes clustered at the harbour entrance and shook his head. But we made it past them, and when we reached the town the fighting on the walls had ceased for the night, and an uneasy silence had descended.

  I returned to the house of Iphiades. As the slave led me inside, I heard the unmistakable sound of Pasithea’s voice in the courtyard.

  All the way there, along the coast and through the Macedonian blockade, when I was not thinking about Menexenos, I had wondered how she would be. I pictured her half starved, or broken like the city, with all her dignity gone.

  But when I saw her, it was as if nothing had changed since Tarentum. She was sitting poised on the edge of the garden-seat, with Menexenos on one side and Iphiades on the other, deep in conversation. She was wearing a dark Ionian robe, and her hair was bound up just as I remembered it.

  ‘My dear, dear Marcus,’ she cried when I appeared. ‘How kind of you to come.’

  Then from the porch two other men stepped forward, whom I did not know. Iphiades said, ‘This is Glaukides, and this is Theognetos.

  They are members of the Council.’

  They greeted me somewhat coldly, and I sensed a wariness or tension in them. Iphiades asked about my meeting with Philip, and when I told him the one called Glaukides said, ‘Then it is as we expected. Who can be surprised? The man is a barbarian.’

  He spoke with an air of finality, as if there were no more to be said, and beside him the man called Theognetos nodded solemnly in agreement.

  Iphiades slowly shook his head. He looked crushed and exhausted. But it was Pasithea who spoke.

  ‘By the gods, Glaukides,’ she said, ‘will you not reconsider?’

  Glaukides gave an impatient sigh, like one who is forced to repeat his words to a child or a fool. ‘This is the home of our forefathers.

  What should we be elsewhere but slaves and wanderers with no place of our own, for ever strangers? No. A man may not choose the time of his coming; but it is in his power to choose his end; and we have chosen.’

  Pasithea said, ‘You set yourself too high. It is not your place to make that choice for another. Such things cannot be decided by a vote in the assembly.’

  ‘She is right,’ said Iphiades.

  ‘It is done. The question is closed.’

  ‘Then reopen it,’ retorted Pasithea, ‘while there is still time.’

  ‘Time for what?’ Glaukides flared back at her. ‘You heard our Roman friend.’

  ‘Sir,’ I said, stepping forward, ‘the city is not only a parcel of land, not only stone and marble. It dwells in your hearts too. Is it not better to let the people live? Cities have been refounded before, and surely it can happen again. But if every Abydean dies it is finished for ever.’

  ‘You have tried to help us,’ said Glaukides, ‘and I thank you for it.

  But you have seen now for yourself what kind of man Philip is. This is not merely a defeat where one can wake the next morning and think, “So what now?” This is annihilation, an end to all, the destruction of our city, our home, the temples of our gods, our place in the world, the community of our people. Forgive me, but you are young still. Have you witnessed a city taken? Children torn from their mothers’ arms and butchered before them? The mothers themselves raped in front of their daughters, knowing their husbands are already dead? And if one should survive the massacre, it is to nothing but a life of inhuman servitude, all dignity gone, the thrall to some brutish master.’

  He turned to Iphiades and Pasithea, and raising his voice went on, ‘Do you think I do not know what choice we face? Do you think I order lightly the deaths of those we love? I do it to spare them the agony, the moment of decision when the dagger hangs heavy in the hand, and the final cut is too hard to make. We are powerless before Philip’s force. But this is a victory of sorts, a victory over fear of death, and over his greed and malice. Future generations of men will come to this place; they will walk upon the grassy ruins and they will say, “Remember Abydos!” ’

  He fell silent. The lamp in the wall-sconce spluttered in a sudden breeze that blew up from the harbour. From somewhere far off, I heard a baby crying.

  Pasithea said quietly, ‘You have let your fine words blind you, Glaukides, to what is real.’

  He rounded on her angrily. ‘So you say, woman; you who have chosen to make another place your home.’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘That is true. Sometimes it takes distance to see a thing for what it is.’

  I said, ‘Rome will come.’

  ‘But not soon enough.’

  Before I could speak again there was a din in the street outside: men calling, the running of feet, and then a loud hammering on the outer door. The slave hurried off, returning moments later with two soldiers. Their uniforms were ragged. They were filthy with dust and old blood.

  ‘What now?’ asked Glaukides, turning to them.

  ‘A night attack, sir. The Macedonians are massing at the crosswall.’

  I said, ‘I will come with you and fight.’

  The soldier in front began to say something, but Iphiades, who had been sitting with his head in his hands, broke in. ‘No, Marcus, that is not what we need you for. You must leave us now. Go and speak for us at Rome. Tell them what happened here.’

  He got to his feet and from the deep shadow within the colonnade brought out a sword in its scabbard, and began buckling it on around his waist. The old slave ran forward, and cried out in a voice torn with emotion, ‘Oh no, sir!’

  ‘Come, come now, Antiphon,’ said Iphiades, turning to him. ‘You have been a good friend; but now you are free to go. Save yourself.

  The Macedonians will let you through the lines.’ Then, turning to Glaukides and Theognetos, ‘Will you be joining me, gentlemen?’

  Before they could answer there was a great crash, followed by the sound of falling masonry. The catapults had started up. Iphiades shook my hand, an
d then Menexenos’s. ‘Farewell. Go with God.’

  We left him standing in his courtyard, an old man clad in his old armour, noble in defeat, on his way to meet his death.

  Down at the harbour, the captain was almost frantic. He had half put out already; the tender was held to the quay only by its thin bow-lanyard.

  ‘Hurry!’ he cried as soon as he saw us, ‘the triremes are closing on the harbour-mouth; we shall never get out.’

  Then he saw Pasithea. He took one look at her long dress, scowled, and said, ‘We are not going to a banquet, madam.’

  ‘No, we are not,’ she replied. ‘But I may be going to my death; and if I must travel to the underworld tonight, then I wish to arrive looking my best.’

  He raised his eyes at the sky and muttered. She walked past him, stepped into the tender, and took a seat.

  We set out and sped across the still water of the inner harbour, towards the line of sunken piles at the harbour mouth, and the Macedonian triremes waiting like wolves in the open water beyond.

  The moon was up, almost at its zenith; but we passed through the barrier of chain-linked piles unseen. The triremes were so close I could hear the voices of the Macedonians on their decks. They stood lining the rail, their eyes were on the spectacle unfolding in the town.

  The captain at the helm-oar steered a course between the warships on one side and the rocky coast on the other. It was a narrow channel with strong, dangerous currents. From Abydos the noise of battle carried in the air, mingled with the thuds and crashes of artillery. We pressed onwards, the captain intent on his steering; the rest of us at the oars, or watching the rushing water.

  Just as it seemed we were almost through, a lone Macedonian trooper on the nearest trireme ambled across the deck. He paused, fumbled with his clothing, and began to relieve himself over the rail.

  As he did so he looked up absently. I saw his face change. He started back from the rail; then began yelling out at the top of his voice.

  His comrades came running. We were so close I could hear the beat of their feet across the trireme’s deck. At the helm-oar the captain cursed, and shouted, ‘Pull for all you’re worth.’ There was no more need for silence.

  On the trireme the thud-thud-thud of the drumbeat began, and from within came the sound of shouted orders and men running to their stations. The banks of oars creaked, and stirred into life.

  In the tender the captain fixed a judging eye on the current, frowned, looked again at the jagged coastline, then decisively swung the steering-oar, taking us in towards the rocks. The tender shuddered. The crewman on the bench beside me called out, ‘There are rock-shoals there, sir.’

  ‘I know; I know,’ snapped the captain, without taking his eyes from the dark water ahead.

  The nearest trireme was gathering way. There was a commotion on deck, and some sort of rigging appeared.

  ‘What is that thing?’ I cried, pointing.

  ‘A ship’s catapult,’ replied the crewman next to me. ‘Can you swim?’

  The trireme was turning, its banked oars sweeping the water like some heavy bird labouring into flight. On the deck, archers took up positions and began firing arrows of burning pitch. They scythed through the air around us, trailing tails of light in the blackness, hissing as they struck the water.

  One fell an arm’s length from me. The pitch floated and burned.

  Then, in its light, I saw a great round-backed swelling mass.

  ‘Rocks!’ I shouted.

  Immediately the captain threw the helm around. We heaved in the starboard oars, just in time to save them from being snapped off by the protruding boulder.

  There was a loud crack. The whole tender juddered and groaned as the reef scraped beneath us. The crewman next to me began muttering some sort of a charm. Then, with a dull bass twang of taut leather, the trireme’s catapult fired.

  It was the rocks that saved us. If it had not been for the smooth mossy shoal, bulging up beside us like a turtle’s back, we should have been smashed to pieces. But the catapult-ball glanced off the rock, skimmed and bounced, then shattered. Even so, the tender leapt and heeled over, and a great wave broke upon the stern, throwing me forward and sending me sprawling across the deck.

  All about me the crew were shouting and struggling with the oars. The captain fought with the helm. Then, as I scrambled back to my place, I heard Menexenos cry out, ‘Where is Pasithea?’

  I jerked my head round to where she had been. There was nothing but empty space there.

  Already Menexenos was up, pulling off his clothes.

  ‘Have you lost your senses?’ yelled the captain. ‘The current is too strong; it will drag you down.’

  Menexenos ignored him, and, naked now, prepared to leap.

  ‘Wait!’ I cried. ‘Menexenos, look!’

  Hearing my voice he turned. Just behind the stern, in the swirling water, Pasithea’s head broke surface. She was swimming strongly, her hair flowing out around her like a spreading lily.

  We ran aft and threw out a line, and stretched out our arms to her. She reached us, and with an agility I had not thought her capable of she leapt up the side and over the bulwark.

  ‘Hold fast!’ shouted the captain as another missile flashed through the air.

  This time the bolt from the catapult fell further off. The warship was at full battle-stations now, its black-and-white striped oars striking the water in unison, the crew and soldiers at fighting positions on the deck.

  But now I saw the sense in the captain’s steering us onto the rocks. The steady beat of the drum on the trireme’s deck slowed. It faltered. Then it broke off.

  I heard urgent shouted orders. The banks of oars paused in their motion, hesitated, and then planted themselves in the water, breaking the ship in its progress.

  The crewman beside me broke into laughter. From the helm the captain said, ‘They won’t risk these shallows, and by the time they work out another route we’ll be gone.’ And then, turning to Pasithea with a broad grin on his face, ‘You swim like an oyster-boy, madam.’

  She laughed. ‘Little wonder. It was they who taught me. I used to dive off these rocks when the other girls were preening themselves in front of their mirrors, dreaming of marriage.’

  ‘Well,’ said the captain, nodding and regarding her with new respect, ‘then you are a woman of many skills indeed.’

  She smiled and answered, ‘You are not the first man to tell me that.’

  Then she pulled out a comb from her dripping robe, and began to arrange her hair.

  TEN

  THAT AUTUMN I SAILED for Italy, for the Senate had summoned me to Rome.

  Pomponius, with a great deal of solemnity and portentous self- consequence, had relayed the message that I was to brief the senators on Philip and Abydos. On a fresh, clear autumn morning, when the high-city shone like a chryselephantine jewel against an immense blue sky, and the painted hulls of the little fishing skiffs bobbed in the shining water, I boarded a fast Rhodian cutter bound for Brundisium.

  I had written ahead from Athens, to tell Caecilius I was coming; but no reply had reached me, and there was none waiting when I reached Brundisium.

  I pressed on by the official transport that was waiting, and when at length I arrived at Rome I took a room at an inn on the slopes of the Aventine, in a busy street of shops and taverns. I sent off a note to Titus, to say I had arrived, then ate at one of the taverns, and spent the rest of the day looking round the Forum and the other public places, for this was my first visit to the city my father had so disliked.

  After Athens, Rome seemed austere and colourless. I had supposed I should feel at home: instead I felt like a foreigner. I had lived in Greek Tarentum, and then in Greece itself. I had grown used to seeing traders and visitors from every city and race that dwelt about the Middle Sea, each with his own language and dress and custom. Compared with this, Rome seemed like an army barracks, a place without trade and without beauty. Even the food in the tavern was dull, served by an
innkeeper whose manner seemed to say: this is what I have cooked today; take it or leave it, it’s all the same to me.

  I returned from my explorations to a note from Titus, saying he would send a slave next morning to fetch me.

  His house lay a short distance beyond the city walls, close to the Tiber, on the edge of a grassy marsh where cattle grazed.

  It was a low, spreading, red-roofed place set on its own beside an oak wood, surrounded by a high wall. It looked more like some old rural farmstead than a town house, and no doubt that was what it once had been, before the city had begun to spread.

  I wondered, as I walked beside the slave he had sent to fetch me, how much Titus had changed. Pomponius, who followed every nuance in the political life of Rome like a gambler with his eyes on the dice-table, had said he was now a political force to be reckoned with, and might soon be consul. I knew myself that this had been his hope; but I had not realized he had advanced so fast.

  Before I left Athens, Pomponius had spent a good deal of time assuring me he had always been a supporter and great admirer of Titus, whatever false impression I might have drawn from his hasty and humorous words in the past. He hoped I would not forget to mention his name; indeed it would be a kindness if I could remember to make a point of it. I smiled to myself. After having lived so long with my stepfather, I knew sycophancy when I saw it. But still, I thought, as the grazing cows absently swung their heads and eyed me without interest, and I eyed them back, power changes men, and so does success. I hoped Titus would still be the friend I remembered.

  But I need not have worried. As soon as the servant announced me he hurried across the room and greeted me with genuine warmth, and sent the servant off to fetch a flask of the best wine in the house.

  He was dressed more soberly than I remembered him, in the purple-bordered toga of a Roman senator. His light-brown beard, which had been fair and wispy in Tarentum, was darker and denser now; and he had taken more care with his hair. But his eyes were the same: blue as a springtime sky, full of vitality and dreams.