by Peter Tonkin
The trierarch’s cabin below and behind the lowest bank of oars was cramped but functional, containing little more than a bunk and a table. The bunk was small – but the captain was no giant. The table was large and clearly designed to accommodate maps or charts as well as food and drink. A broad-based lamp burned steadily in the centre of it. There were several wooden stools jammed beneath it and as the two men arrived, the host hooked a couple out with his foot. ‘Sit,’ he said.
Artemidorus obeyed. He sipped the water Dotos had brought him carefully in spite of the temptation to empty it down his throat by the jugful. He had seen parched men in the desert gulp down great mouthfuls in the first wadi or oasis they had found – only to throw it all up again almost at once. He would have to be careful with the food too, when it arrived. But at least the water was loosening his throat.
‘Our destination is Neapolis,’ said the captain as he laid the Persian battle axe on the table between them. ‘Not the one near Vesuvio, Pompeii and Herculaneum in Italia but the one in Thrace near Philippi.’
‘That will suit me,’ said Artemidorus easily. ‘May I ask the name of this vessel and of her trierarch, both of whom are my saviours. I hope my signal did not bring you too far out of your way.’
*
Seuthes opened up at that and, pausing only when Dotos appeared with a bowl of cold fish stew, he seemed happy enough to tell his unexpected visitor all about his vessel, his crew, his cargo and his voyage. Commanders of all sorts were notoriously isolated individuals, as the centurion - who had endured lonely nights in command himself - knew all too well. Captain Seuthes was clearly glad to have a stranger to talk to. To unburden himself of his frustrations and to discuss the plans he had for this voyage.
‘I had to pay an unconscionable amount in port charges before I could get us out of Rhodes which is where Charybdis sheltered from that infernal storm,’ he continued as the young sailhandler left and the starving soldier tried the first spoonful of the stew. ‘That’s where that grasping bastard Cassius has his fleet stationed, though he himself is ashore somewhere.’ Marching back from Egypt, thought Artemidorus, who had delivered the forged documents apparently from Brutus that had stopped Cassius’ planned invasion of Egypt – thus saving Queen Cleopatra as well as her country. ‘There are another couple on the prowl,’ continued Seuthes. ’One commanded by Cassius’ legate Ahenobarbus and the other by Murcus.’
‘Then let’s hope we don’t have anything to do with any of them. In the meantime, my passage money will help alleviate what you lost to Cassius’ rapacity,’ said Artemidorus easily. ‘What are you carrying that caused them to charge so much in fees?’
‘The main cargo was going to be grain but Cassius’ men confiscated most of it so we’re carrying statues. Rhodes has always been famous for its sculptors and there’s a ready market anywhere between here, Athens and Rome. Classical poses, gods and goddesses. Nobody seems to care that they’re modern copies of classic originals. Most of the Roman tourists don’t even know. As long as they’re marble and mostly naked they seem to be happy; they ship them home and fill their peristyles with them I hear. Dozens of amphorae of wine of course. Some good some not so good – again it’ll end up in Athens or Rome where no one will know the difference – or care much, come to that. We also have some rhodian silver and a range of precious stones, mostly carnelian. The crew’s trustworthy thank the gods or I wouldn’t dare bring stuff like that aboard. But it’ll generate an excellent profit in Neapolis.’
He turned the battle axe over thoughtfully, apparently engrossed by the patterns on the iron head. ‘And a good weight of just plain marble. Naxos is our next stop. I’m planning to make up the grain that Cassius’ men confiscated there in exchange for some of this marble. Which I will replenish at Khios. They have sought-after marble there that’s all different colours; makes great columns and such. Then Lesbos, Limnos, Thasos and home. You didn’t pull us much off course. We were island-hopping northward in any case. But don’t let that fool you into thinking you’ll get a cheaper passage. If we hadn’t seen your signal and come for you, your corpse would have washed up on an island somewhere to the north of here in a week or so. That’s where the rest of the wreckage seems to be heading.’
‘I don’t doubt it. And I’m grateful.’
‘How grateful?’
‘What’s the going rate for a passage from Rhodes to Neapolis?’
‘Depends on how much comfort and such you want.’
‘Captain, I’ve been sleeping on a plank in the middle of the Roman Sea for the last few nights, eating raw fish and drinking the blood of seagulls. I’d be happy with a place on the deck, an occasional sip of water and a daily bowl of this delicious fish stew.’
Seuthes gave a grunt of amusement. ‘You’re like something out of one of Aristophanes’ funnier plays. I should be paying you for keeping me amused!’
‘I think we can arrange that, Captain.’
Seuthes gave a cheerful guffaw, then named an eye-watering sum as the cost of the passage.
Artemidorus looked at him wide eyed. ‘It would have been cheaper to hire one of Cassius’ ships.’
‘True. But then, if what you told me when we first met is true, Cassius would probably have had you skinned alive and used your hide as his main sail.’
iii
The final port of call before Thracian Neapolis was Thasos. They approached the island from the south on the last of a steady southerly right at the end of a long two-hundred-mile haul up from Lesbos with a brief stopover at Limnos half way, where they loaded mostly fruit and cheese because Cassius’ and Brutus’ voracious legionaries had taken most of the island’s grain. But Seuthes used some of Artemidorus’ silver to purchase a couple of fat sheep and a bail of grass which were secured side by side on the deck.
‘The main port of Thasos is to the north of the island,’ Seuthes said to Artemidorus on that last evening, ‘away beyond those mountains there. We could never get round and berthed before dark. But there’s a wide, sandy bay on the east side that we can reach by sunset. We’ll anchor there and go ashore. Something we’ve done in the past. A kind of a ritual. Thasos itself gets pretty busy but when we dock we can top up the cargo holds with timber – especially cedar – marble, honey, olives and olive oil. And there’s usually grain too unless your enemies have taxed it all as they did in Limnos. In the past we’ve worked until our backs began to break loading up then it’s a straight run up to Neapolis in six hours or so even under oars if there’s no good wind – no more chances to stop and rest.’
‘Neapolis. That’s where we’ll part company I suppose,’ said Artemidorus. ‘While you are all breaking your backs unloading the holds I’ll be off in search of a decent bath and the best local tonsor…’ He scratched his chin which was boasting nearly a week’s worth of growth that was rapidly turning into a thick red beard with gleaming bronze highlights.
‘I wouldn’t boast about that too much,’ warned Seuthes. ‘the crew could get pretty jealous and we still have time to knock you out, tie you up and sell you on like a side of beef. There are bound to be men from Brutus’ legions here. Or from Cassius’.’ But his tone was light. This was not a serious threat. Or at least it didn’t seem to be a serious threat.
They eased Charybdis into the sand-floored bay as the sun set and anchored her parallel to the beach just beyond the surf line. Then they filled the little rowing-boat lighter they carried with the sheep and the crewmen who were to double as butchers and lowered it. In and out from the beach it worked, taking the men in a well-practised and practical order. Butchers, cooks, fire-pit diggers, fuel-gatherers and fire-raisers. At some point that Artemidorus failed to notice, two big spits and the frames to support them also went ashore. Artemidorus went last with the treirarch, the hortator, the pilot and the wine.
‘You don’t mind getting your feet wet?’ asked Seuthes as the little boat reared and plunged over the low surf and ran up onto the sand. Artemidorus leaped out into the shallows an
d helped the oarsmen – the pilot’s pair of huge steersmen – pull it up onto the beach. The trierarch, hortator and pilot stepped out onto the dry sand as a team of volunteers gathered round to lift the amphorae out and carry them up the beach.
At the top of the sandy slope, just on the sea-side of a range of low dunes, a pair of fire pits were illuminating the skeletal legs of a pair of spits whose long iron spears held the skinned and butchered bodies of the sheep. Indeed, they were spreading light and heat far and wide. Various tasty portions of sheeps’ innards and their heads were steaming on metal platters round the fires, cooking at much the same rate as the rest. Everything paused as Seuthes arrived. He was handed the first amphora of wine in what was clearly a well-practised ritual. He opened it and spilt some of the wine on the beach. ‘In offering of thanks to Poseidon himself who has brought us so far so safely,’ he said. ‘Both as master of the seas and as father of our vessel Charybdis.’ He spilt a little more. ‘In sacrifice to the Anemoi, gods of the winds and especially to Notus, god of the south wind who has been so gentle yet so strong in bringing us to this place.’ And finally he spilt a tiny amount, perhaps a thimbleful. ‘In offering of thanks to our stupid Roman passenger who, being ignorant of the true rate for passage from Rhodes to Neapolis, has overpaid to such an extent that he has bought us the sheep we are about to eat and the wine we are about to drink!’ If he said anything more it was lost in the good natured hoots of laughter from the crew.
After the eating and the drinking, the cheerfully less than sober crewmen fell to sporting. There were running races among the fleet-footed sailhandlers. Dotos won several of them.
‘He needs to be fast,’ rumbled Seuthes. ‘he’s a pretty boy and the others get ideas during a long voyage.’
Then there were simple trials of strength. These were especially amongst the oarsmen, who, like Artemidorus had been in his youth, were volunteer members of the crew who doubled as marines when the going got rough. And, like Artemidorus, had developed enormous upper-body strength wielding their oars.
Finally, as the moon began to rise and the fires to gutter, the increasingly drunken crewmen began to wrestle, laying bets on who would win the bouts. Bets they could afford for it would be pay-day when they reached Neapolis tomorrow or the day after. Bets which their cheerfully inebriated captain was happy to facilitate – and to match on occasion,
*
Artemidorus had been in situations like this more times than he could remember and was by no means surprised when one of the pilot’s massive henchmen appeared out of the shadows to challenge him. He had eaten carefully and drunk sparingly, ensuring himself as best he could against such an inevitability. More than that, he had been watching the proceedings with the narrow eyes and boundless experience of an ex-gladiator. He had suspected that he would end up facing one of the two giants and he was as ready as he could be.
This one was called Petipor and was the stronger of the two – but the slower. Slower in movement and in thought, which was a bonus. He was also, it seemed to the centurion, the more punctilious about rules. All of which might count against him as he stood like a massive Hector facing the speedy and ruthless Achilles.
Artemidorus pulled himself to his feet and stood stiffly, looking down at Seuthes as though caught off guard by the challenge and uncertain how to respond. ‘Well?’ asked the captain, his voice silky, ‘will you accept Petipor’s challenge?’
‘Must I? Your man Petipor is so massive! I will hardly stand any chance…’
‘Aw,’ said the giant. ‘Don’t be afraid, I won’t hurt you, little man!’
The hoots of derisive laughter almost drowned out the flurry of betting.
Artemidorus surveyed his opponent, his face a mask of worry and confusion behind which his mind was calculating the odds as clearly and coldly as Caesar on a battlefield. Petipor’s legs were as strong as tree-trunks with no apparent weaknesses. The same could be said for his arms. His groin was a weak spot as it was in all men but he had been careful to pad his loincloth before coming ashore. His belly really did look like something from a statue of Hercules and his torso matched it. His face was square, his chin broad beneath the curling thickness of his beard. His nose was flat – courtesy of many bouts like this no doubt. The same could be said for the ridges above his eyes. But as he turned to look questioningly down at his captain once again, Artemidorus noticed a depression – almost a dimple – between the brow-ridge and the low hairline. And his plan was complete.
The ex-gladiator moved stiffly across the sand as though he was in the Circus. Everything about him spoke of embarrassment, concern, painful joints and cramped muscles. The wagering rose to a frenzy. The giant Petipor turned to face him, hardly noticing that the older man was moving closer to him as well as further from the fire. And from Seuthes, to whom Petipor had looked for orders before acting. Every time so far tonight.
‘Come on,’ he rumbled again, throwing his arms wide in mute invitation.
‘Do we start now, Captain?’ Artemidorus asked Seuthes.
Taken by surprise, the captain hesitated.
Concerned with propriety more than with his puny opponent, Petipor also looked towards his commander, waiting for his word.
As soon as Petipor looked away, Artemidorus launched himself forward, moving with the liquid speed of his hero Achilleus. He had not only moved away from the fire and closer to Petipor – he had also moved onto the firmness of wet sand just above the tide-line. His hob-nailed caligae gripped the stable surface perfectly. He had crossed half the space dividing him from his opponent before anyone realised what was going on.
‘Yes!’ shouted Seuthes. ‘Petipor! Begin!’
Too late.
Petipor’s face began to swing round, his eyes searching the empty sand where he had last seen his opponent. The shadows emphasised his brow ridges, the confusion in his expression below them and the depression in the forehead above them. Artemidorus leaped. He hit Petipor, chest to chest and the man’s huge arms closed round him automatically as the helmsman was knocked back a step by the impact – no strength in their grip as yet. Artemidorus’ fingers closed over the huge ridges of muscle joining the back of Petipor’s neck to the great squares of his shoulders. Together with the tightening grip of his arms this was enough to give Artemidorus a solid base from which to launch his attack. He drove his forehead into Petipor’s face with all the strength at his command – forehead to forehead. The crack! of impact rang across the silent beach. The massive deck-hand went down like the tree he so closely resembled falling backwards as though struck by one of Zeus’ thunderbolts. Artemidorus went down with him but rolled free the moment they hit the sand and leaped to his feet. His head was reeling, his skull felt as though it had been split. He had bitten his tongue at some stage and his mouth was full of blood, But Petipor was down and showed no sign of moving.
iv
‘What’s this?’ he asked Seuthes some time later as the crew worked all around them, preparing to go back aboard. The atmosphere was sober now, and less than happy if not downright mutinous. They usually slept ashore, Artemidorus knew, but tonight for some reason they wanted to get back aboard. Perhaps there was something stormy in the air – apart from their sour mood.
‘It’s your passage money. I’m giving it back.’ The captain passed a heavy little leather bag into the centurion’s hand.
‘Why?’ asked Artemidorus, slipping the bag into the much larger purse that hung round his neck - though in truth he had a good idea of what the cunning captain’s answer was likely to be.
‘You earned it tonight. That and more.’
‘You wagered I would win.’
‘The only one to do so amongst the entire crew. The man, therefore, who took all their bets. Who will take all their money in due course. I need hardly bother paying them when we reach Neapolis, given how much they all owe me now.’
‘That was a bit of a risk, surely.’
‘What can I say? I’m a gambling man. And you�
�re far too modest. The risk was as small as Petipor’s intelligence. He might be built like a couple of oxen crossed with an elephant but he’s never going to challenge Pythagoras or Archimedes is he? You, however, were able to erect a tent, arm yourself, get a purse full of silver and light a fire all while sitting on a square of wood in the middle of the sea that the arrogant bastards in Rome say is their sea. I really didn’t think poor old Petipor stood much of a chance at all.’
Getas the pilot came over at that moment. ‘Petipor’s fine,’ he said. ‘He’s got a headache and still has no idea what actually happened but he’s been taking the oar in the skiff with his brother and he’ll be fit for duty tomorrow. They sent me to tell you everyone else is back aboard.’
‘Good,’ said Seuthes. ‘Let’s join them then.’
‘Not so fast!’ A new voice interrupted the quiet conversation. A tall soldier wearing a tribune’s badges of rank appeared out of the shadows, a legionary patrol close behind him – ten men, fully armed. The tribune looked arrogantly around the camp-site, his mouth twisting into a sneer at its unsophisticated nature. ‘Who are you? What are you doing here? Where are you going?’ demanded the stranger in abrupt military Latin.
Seuthes pulled himself slowly to his feet. Artemidorus did the same, his face folded into a frown of concern, his inclination to stay back in the shadows. Thank the gods that the fire was dying, he thought. He was aware of a quiet stirring at his back. Getas the pilot had disappeared.
‘I’m an honest merchant captain who has just finished feasting his crew in preparation for a visit to the port of Thasos first thing tomorrow. Where we will load our vessel with whatever cargo we can find in preparation for a return to our home port of Neapolis,’ drawled Seuthes, his Latin as heavily accented as his Greek. His tone a carefully modulated insult in itself.