by Ben Blake
Chapter Eight
Built on Riches
“Tarhun’s Hand is late.”
“Only by a day.”
“I don’t care if it’s by an hour, or a minute,” Crescas said crossly. “She’s late, when the other ships have all made good time. My own, and the vessels of my rivals too. Why should the Hand be dawdling?”
They both knew the possible reasons, of course. Tarhun’s Hand was making her way home from Naxos, or should be, unless something had gone wrong on the outward leg. But it was a long run, the sort of journey Crescas’ ships only made once a summer, because time-consuming trips to smallish settlements weren’t very profitable. It was risky too. There was a section with no land for miles, making the ship vulnerable to sudden storms, and Poseidon Earth-Shaker’s bad temper could whip up waves at any time. In another place the route jumped from island to island, perfect water for pirates, who seemed to reappear as soon as they were cleared away. Either could have snatched Tarhun’s Hand as she voyaged.
Sometimes ships vanished without anyone knowing why. Crescas loathed that. A ship being late at all made him edgy and irritable.
“What about Nereid Borne?” he asked. “Will she be unloaded before dark?”
Eteon consulted his slate. “She should be.”
“I don’t want to hear should,” Crescas grumbled. “Make sure those amphorae are packed into wagons and stored in the warehouse by sundown. And tell the men to be careful. Greek olive oil is the best, we’ll get a good price for it in Colchis or Sarmatia.”
“Right,” Eteon said. He made a note on the slate.
The warehouse they stood in was mostly empty, with five of Crescas’ six ships away. Several were due in over the next few days though. One was Tarhun’s Hand, assuming she hadn’t been smashed on rocks or looted by pirates; Scaean Sail was returning from Egypt, hopefully with a cargo of cut glass and ivory; and Troas was coming home from Phoenicia laden with faience and lapis lazuli from far India. The stockroom would be packed to bursting then, until the wagons could pick the goods up or they could be shipped on to another destination. But you couldn’t send the ships out again right away. The sailors needed time to waste their pay on wine and whores, and Crescas liked to have the hulls checked too, whenever possible. He lost fewer ships when he took a little extra care, which was better for profits and better for the crews too.
Best to get the olive oil jars on their way immediately, then. They could go east along the Trojan Road tomorrow morning, following the coast north-east to Dardanos and Arisbe, then on to Priapos and transfer to other ships. Crescas didn’t concern himself beyond that point; he had no ships on the Euxine Sea, nor any plans to buy some. It was the Aegean and the Greensea he knew, and had sailed in his day. At times he still missed those days. Salt in his hair, and arrows of sun darting off the waves into his eyes… a man couldn’t ask for much more.
Except a good wife and children, he reminded himself, and a life of moderate wealth in a fine city. Yes. That was what he was glad of now.
“Excuse?” someone said from the doors.
Crescas turned, but he couldn’t make out anything about the visitor while he stood there, outlined by the sun. “Yes?”
“I am look for,” the man paused, glancing at a paper in his hand, “Crescas the Argive?”
He’d lived in Troy for fifteen years now, and still they called him ‘the Argive’. He supposed they always would.
Crescas had been born in Argolis, across the sea in the south of Greece. A land of nested valleys with sharp ridges between, rocks protruding from them like broken claws. There long ago had lived Argus the Hundred-Eyed, a Titan who never slept and who defied Zeus and the Twelve Olympians. He’d even defied them in battle, refusing to be beaten. Finally clever Hermes lulled him to sleep by playing on his flute, and while the giant slumbered cut off his head. Hera then placed the eyes in the tail of a peacock so they should not be lost.
Crescas had been born in the south, on the coast where young boys learned the sea from their fathers, generation after generation. He’d never seen a Titan. Or a peacock, for that matter.
He’d seen ships, and loved them, from an early age. By the time he was thirteen he was sailing the Greensea, or more usually hauling at an oar because the wind was too soft or blew in the wrong direction. By twenty he was captain of his own ship. Three years later he owned two vessels and had become a merchant, spending steadily more and more time ashore while other men did the sailing. He regretted that often, though he told himself it was silly. There were dangers on the sea, and beneath it. A man would have to be a complete fool to want to face them just to feel that salt in his hair.
Most of the time on land was spent in Troy, and just before he turned thirty he married and settled in the city. He had a daughter now, two years old and toddling, and already trying to speak. Althea’s first words would probably be Luwian, not Greek.
He supposed she was Trojan, in fact. And still people called him ‘the Argive’, even while he worshipped at Trojan shrines and knelt to the Trojan king when Priam passed in the street.
“I’m Crescas,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
The man came into the warehouse, which meant he wasn’t silhouetted by the sunlight anymore and Crescas could see him clearly. He turned out to be a little fellow with brown skin, probably from somewhere in the interior of Anatolia. Perhaps a Phrygian or Hurrian, it was very hard to tell. He was new to the city though, to judge by his halting command of the language.
“Am Mursili,” the man said. “You sell iron?”
“No,” Crescas answered. “It’s not worth bringing by sea. It’s too heavy and takes up too much space. You need to speak to merchants who run wagon caravans to the south.”
The man shrugged. “Too slow. Need iron quick.”
“I can’t help you,” Crescas said. He’d begun to turn away when something connected in his brain and he twisted back to stare at the little fellow. “You’re the Hittite. The ironsmith.”
“Work iron,” Mursili said. “Yes.”
There had been talk about this man. Hattusa had never allowed the secrets of iron working to leave the capital, but now Hector had brought an expert west with him, apparently as thanks for his heroics in the battle against Assyria. Crescas, made sensitive to changing political realities by the nature of his work, had pricked up his ears at that. It sounded as though the Hittite Empire was in trouble, despite the victory at Emar. Sole access to iron weapons had been a major reason for their power over the past hundred years, perhaps the major reason. They wouldn’t let the secrets or ironwork go if there was any way they could prevent it, and that could only mean their strength was fading.
But Crescas didn’t trade with Hattusa, at least not directly, so he’d forgotten the story until the Hittite walked into his stockroom. Not that it made any difference.
“I still can’t help,” he said. “Iron is just too expensive to transport by sea. The weight means a ship can’t carry anything else, which makes the voyage unprofitable. You need the caravan masters, as I said.”
“Need you,” Mursili said in his halting Luwian. “For speed. Hittites won’t sell. Must come from Cyprus mines. By sea.”
“You’re not listening,” Crescas said. He wondered if the man understood him, actually. “It can’t be done, all right?”
The little man handed over a second piece of parchment, this one still rolled up. “Look.”
The parchment was sealed with wax. Only the very wealthiest bothered to do that, and Crescas frowned as he broke the seal and opened the letter. A token fell out and he caught it automatically as he read.
The Royal Treasury will pay the merchant Crescas the Argive in silver for any iron he ships to Mursili, weight for weight, until summer’s end.
Crescas looked at the token. It was an engraving of a stylised horse, just a few curving lines to convey the impression of an animal at the gallop, more speed than shape. He knew it, of course; the symbol of the city. Only Priam used it; n
ot even Hector was allowed. This permission had come from the king.
He handed the letter to Eteon, who read quickly.
“Weight for weight?” the factor said. His voice had gone slightly hoarse. “In silver, in return for iron?”
“So it seems.” Crescas managed a fairly normal tone. “We give Mursili here a pound of iron, the treasury gives us a pound of silver.”
“But must be soon,” the Hittite said.
Soon. Yes. Crescas closed his eyes, rearranging schedules and plans in his mind. It could be done. “Eteon.”
The other man waited, chalk poised over his slate.
“Get Nereid Borne unloaded tonight,” Crescas said. “Have the men work in the dark if you must, ask permission to keep one of the gates to the city open, whatever it takes. Stack the amphorae in the moat, if you must, but get that ship unloaded. I want her ready to sail at dawn.”
“Captain Bienor won’t like that.”
“I’ll speak to Bienor.” The man wouldn’t like it at all, that was true, and his crew would like it even less. Men just back from one voyage wanted a few days before they set out on another. But this contract would make Crescas’ fortune, turn him from a reasonably wealthy man into a rich one indeed. He might one day watch his little girl marry a prince, perhaps not of Troy itself, but of one of the lesser cities: Pedasos maybe, or lovely little Lyrnos. He didn’t mind sharing a little of that good fortune around. Perhaps the crew could be paid double wages when they went to Cyprus for iron.
Crescas’ mind was racing. Three more ships were due back within days, and all could be sent to Cyprus. The king’s seal hadn’t set any limit on the amount of iron he’d pay for. Each ship might be able to bring back half a ton. More, possibly, but even with the prospect of such riches something in Crescas rebelled at the idea of taking too big a risk. Four ships’ worth meant two tons. For which Priam would pay two whole tons of silver.
Two whole tons. Crescas felt his palms begin to sweat as he wondered just how rich the king of Troy actually was.