“I don’t think that’s how commerce works,” Alerio protested.
From the curtain of rain, voices called out in angry tones.
“That’s Isyllus,” Olek announced.
He drew a knife and managed a step towards the commotion. Alerio’s hand stopped him in midstride.
“Rehor. My gladius is under my pack,” he called to the deck. “Hand it to me. Olek, you get ready to push us off the beach.”
“What are you doing, Sisera?” Rehor questioned as he handed the sword down to Alerio.
“You read the coastlines, Olek breaks hearts, Isyllus rhymes, and Filib steals,” Alerio replied. He gripped the sheath with one hand and the hilt with the other. Then he drew the Noric blade and informed the skipper. “This is what I do.”
Rehor ducked under the leather sheath when it flew up to the deck. Even bent at the waist, he managed to see Alerio Sisera dash into the rain with the sword in one hand and a knife in the other.
***
Heavy rain did five things well. It soaked the ground, filled rain barrels, contorted sounds, and hid objects behind its silvery shroud. Backtracking Rehor and Olek’s path gave Alerio a relative direction but no target.
Some commanders used tact and caution when approaching an opposing force. Their Legionaries stepped forward carefully, held formation, and met the enemy almost hesitatingly.
Tribune Sisera believed in a different philosophy. He liked to arrive first, fast, and ready to attack. Thus, he quick stepped through the rain with his gladius extended and the knife held high to fend off an assault from the side.
“Get off me,” Isyllus’ voice stood out from the pounding rain. Maybe due to it being shriller or because he yelled the words, the voice helped. Alerio honed in on the chubby young man. Also aiding the Legion officer, the poet repeated his complaint. “Get off me.”
His second command allowed Alerio to adjust his course and increase his pace. That’s when the fifth effect of heavy rain came into play.
Fat drops of water hit and splashed off everything. And a man moving through the deluge deflected drops by the thousands creating an aura of liquid beads.
Shimmering in the torrent of falling and rebounding pearls of water, Alerio Sisera came to a second cart and four uniformed guardsmen. One held the tip of his sword against the underside of Isyllus’ throat. A second guardsman, no doubt the person receiving the poet’s wrath, had him bent back over the cart. And a third stood watching a swordfight.
Filib’s short sword faced off with the fourth guardsman’s blade. They appeared to be frozen in their stances. But that was an optical illusion created by the limited visibility and the fact Alerio had no knowledge of what transpired before his arrival.
Using the blurring effect, Alerio slammed his elbow into the guardsman’s ribs, ducked by Filib, and moved to the one with his sword under Isyllus’ jaw.
When his opponent flinched and crunched to the side, Filib stepped forward and ran the tip of his short sword through the guardsman’s side. As he withdrew the blade, the lead oarsmen stepped again but this time he drove his knee into the injured man’s face. His foe spun away and fell to the ground.
Filib searched in the rain for Isyllus. But his support was unnecessary. As if a spirit from Hades, a specter moved in a squall of splashing and flying water, and a gale of striking legs and blades.
Sisera hooked an elbow around the next guardsman. With the arm bone on the man’s back, the Legion officer shoved the man out of the way. Then Sisera raised his leg and dropped his heel on the shoulder of the next guardsman. The blade under Isyllus’ throat fell away with the wielder.
Alerio’s leg followed the guard to the ground and stomped the man’s chest before disengaging. The precaution was prudent as the man held a naked blade in his hand. If he didn’t go down hard, he might pop back up. A great exhaustion of air announced the guard was out of the fight.
Alerio turned his attention to the guardsman pinning the poet against the cart. From his squatting position, Alerio powered forward and upward. Springing as if a feline, the Legion officer went from hovering over the downed guard to driving the hilt of his sword into the man’s forehead. In every instance, steel beats flesh. The guardsman fell, freeing Isyllus.
The final guard stumbled forward a few steps from the blow to his back. Once recovered, he drew his sword, and spun to face the…
“I have not killed anyone yet,” Alerio advised the man. With his sword extended at arm’s length, he held the tip of his blade against the guardsman’s nose.
The top of a nose has many nerve endings, but that was not the deciding factor. Having a sharp point suspended between his eyes and a width of steel threatening to blind him was the deciding factor. The guard froze.
Isyllus came abreast of Alerio’s shoulder and pointed a finger at the guardsman.
“Flee, flea, before you anger me,” the poet ordered. “Take flight, before I take slight, and my friend’s sword takes a bite. Afore you are undone, know that I have won, and you, flea, should run. Run!”
The guard dropped his sword and raced away into the sheets of rain.
“What are you doing?” Alerio demanded.
Filib had stepped between the shafts and lifted the front of the cart.
“I almost died for this load of coal,” he declared. “I will not leave without it.”
Isyllus hurried to the rear of the small wagon and pushed. Resigning himself to the theft, Alerio turned about and walked backwards, keeping his eyes open for more guards from the mine. But they reached the Momus without further mishaps.
Once the coal baskets were loaded, the crew pushed the boat off the shore and rowed into the storm.
Act 6
Chapter 20 – Tyrian Purple
The coastal trader rolled and one of the baskets fell off a pile and slid towards the edge of the deck. Filib turned from his oar station as if to save the basket.
“Let it go,” Rehor shouted to him. “If it falls overboard, it’ll be a nice offering for Poseidon. Maybe he will ignore us while he plays with the coal.”
“What does the God of the Sea need with coal?” Olek called out. Although the rain let up a little, water dripped from the crewman’s head and spewed on his breath with each word. “He can’t make fire.”
“Stroke, stroke,” Rehor ordered. “We are three miles from the nearest beach. Stroke, stroke. If we can distract the God until we reach the sand, it’ll be worth the loss.”
Isyllus stepped away from his oar position, hooked a foot under the basket, and flipped it over. Chunks of coal rolled across the deck and several large pieces fell overboard.
“That should reach Poseidon,” the poet exclaimed. “Let him who commands the sea, allow us the nearest beach, to escape the storm by a wide degree.”
“Well said,” Rehor stated. “Stroke, stroke.”
Lurching and tossing in the rough water, the Momus fought the crewmen as hard as it fought the sea. Although the sea kept the swells and white caps, the sky allowed the rain to fade to a drizzle. Three miles south of Stoupa, the exhausted crew rowed to an expanse of white sand.
“Filib, get us high, and get us dry,” Rehor instructed between deep breaths.
The young skipper collapsed from manning the rear oar during a storm. And although they were tired, the four rowers jumped into the surf and shoved the boat onto the beach. Then, they sank to the sand to catch their breath.
***
The fire crackled and the crew sat waiting for the water to boil, the grain to cook, and the vegetables to soften.
“When I found you, you had one of the mine guards isolated,” Alerio mentioned to Filib. “How did you convince him to fight you in single combat?”
“The guardsman is the local swordfight champion. He needed to practice cutting someone up and I was handy,” Filib answered. “He ordered the other guards to back off. They went after Isyllus. I wanted to help the poet, but I got busy.”
“I understand your issue,” A
lerio informed him. “Dueling with swordfighters is tricky work. I’ve faced a few in my life.”
The head oarsman stared at Alerio with hard eyes.
“Is something wrong?” Alerio asked.
“Drunk or not, you really could drown us. I mean all of us,” Filib responded. “Or kill us if you desired.”
“I have the training and the skills, so yes,” Alerio assured him. “However, I won’t. I just want to get to the Isle of Rhodes with the least amount of trouble. But you and the crew are making it harder and harder not to consider murder.”
“We have always danced around morality,” Filib admitted. “It helps break the boredom of coastal trading. But we might have gone a little too far on this trip.”
“I don’t care about your youthful indiscretions,” Alerio remarked. “Unless it gets in the way of my journey. And having two of the crew killed on a beach over a few lumps of coal qualifies as a hinderance. Maybe when we reach the next town, I should find another transport.”
“Tivadar will kill me if I fail you,” Rehor declared. He dipped his head, then glanced up. “If we promise to stick to honest trading, will you stay with us?”
Alerio hesitated while thinking about the possibility of remaining on the Momus.
“I owe you, Sisera,” Isyllus told him. His hand touched the soft skin under his jaw. “Hades was just beyond the veil of rain. And a short, sword stroke away. Then, like an epic hero from mythology, you removed the steel from my throat. Sisera, you have my pledge to complete this trip with no further trouble.”
Olek stirred the content of the pot and looked into Alerio’s eyes.
“And my pledge as well,” he added.
“If I stay, I’ll need an itinerary,” Alerio insisted. “And no more theft.”
“We are thirty miles from Gerolimenas,” Rehor listed. “Kokkinogeia is twelve miles beyond there. Then we have twenty miles to the island of Kithira. And that is as far as we go.”
“Why stop at Kithira?” Alerio inquired.
“We don’t have the crew to fend off Cilicians or the knowledge of which coves are good for hiding from the pirates,” Filib stated. “The only reason we’ll go to the island is to get a better rate for the coal and the indigo snails.”
“And to put me on a snail trader?” Alerio ventured.
“It is your best choice,” Rehor assured Alerio, “and the safest.”
***
Three nights and four days later, a rocky island grew out of the water. Greenery consisted of stubby trees and bushes. Everything else was rock and sand.
“The island of Kithira,” Rehor exclaimed while pointing at the land mass.
“It doesn’t look like much,” Alerio observed. “Who would live on a rock in the middle of the water?”
“The center of the island rises fifteen hundred feet above sea level,” Rehor described. “That feature catches rainwater which feeds two rivers. So, while there is little farming, there is fresh water, fish, and sea snails.”
The trading vessel Momus angled to port, straighten its track, and sailed along the coast of the island. For most of the way, shallow water with a rocky bottom prevented landing on the shore. When the submerged danger gave way to a sandy shoreline, Rehor swung the boat towards the beach.
Alerio rowed at the port side position. With the sea to one side and a limited view of the land across the boat, he didn’t pay attention until the vessel turned.
“I recognize the small fishing boats. Those are for snail hunting,” he declared. “But I don’t see many broken shells.”
“Here, they harvest the snails’ excretion differently,” Filib offered. “On Kithira, they massage the snails to collect the merda.”
“But I see some crushed snail shells on the beach,” Alerio noted.
“Those are the wrong type of snails,” Olek told him.
“What’s wrong with them?” Alerio inquired.
Men strolled to the beach and waved greetings at the coastal trader. Their hands were stained a vibrant purple.
“The dead sails don’t produce the right color dye,” Rehor responded. “Hold water. Backstroke.”
The vessel bumped gently into the sand and the crew leaped into the water to manhandle the boat up and onto the beach. The men who harvested royal purple snails waited to begin trading.
***
Lacking hardwood for cookfires, the residents of the island traded valuable merchandise for the coal. When the Momus made its way back along the coast, Rehor would trade up and turn a healthy profit from the theft.
On the other hand, the pots of indigo snails required no trading. They were sold, as Filib described it, for stacks of silver.
After the trades, the crew stowed the goods, set up tents, and sat in a circle drinking wine and talking.
“We are staying until you catch another transport,” Rehor told Alerio.
“How long will that take?” Alerio questioned.
Rehor peered at a residential hut where over a hundred pots of snail dye rested in the afternoon sun.
“I’d say two days at the most,” he guessed. “The collection of pots tells me they haven’t had a trader through here in a while.”
“The pots are just sitting there,” Filib noted, “unguarded.”
“Don’t we have an agreement?” Alerio asked.
“He’s just teasing you, Sisera,” Isyllus remarked. “But if we were going to take a few pots, it would be just before we rowed out.”
Seeing Alerio bristle at the idea of another theft, Olek cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention.
“Did you know Heracles walked this very beach?” he described. Observing the attention his question generated, Olek continued. “In his efforts to court the nymph Tyrus, Heracles persuaded her to stroll with him along the beach. Obviously, the Hero did not possess my charms or wiles with the ladies.”
“Save your conceit for the merchants’ daughters,” Filib scolded. “Get on with the tale.”
“Certainly. I was simply pointing out the truth about the shortcomings of heroes,” Olek boasted. All the crewmen glared at him until he shrugged and got back to the story. “Heracles, I imagine, flexed his big muscles and talked of his prowess in battles. Or he crowed about his twelve labors and the deeds he accomplished. All while trying to endear himself to the nymph with hero talk. I can tell you that approach does not work.”
“Is your approach boring women until they fall asleep?” Rehor accused. “And then robbing them? If so, we can all see how you do it.”
“I was only trying to tell you why he wasn’t getting anywhere with the seduction,” Olek protested. “One thing he did right, Heracles brought his dog. Women love dogs. I guess they were walking along the beach and Heracles put his arm around Tyrus figuring to pull her in close. Well, it failed, and they got into an argument. What do you want? Heracles asked. Nothing you can provide, the nymph countered.”
“It sounds as if you’ve had experience with that argument,” Filib suggested.
“Me, oh no, never,” Olek assured him. But he went back to the tale before anyone else could offer an opinion. “While Tyrus and Heracles exchanged words, the hero’s dog found a sea snail on the beach and began chewing on the shelled creature. Heracles being a demigod, challenged her. What do you want? I am from Olympus and I do hero stuff. She was not impressed but then the nymph looked at the dog. The dog’s muzzle was bright purple and Tyrus became spellbound. Heracles, if you want to be my lover, the nymph declared, bring me a dress of that color purple.”
“Wait. The snail color is called Tyrian purple?” Alerio asked. “Because Heracles gave the nymph Tyrus a purple dress?”
“Right here on this very beach,” Olek swore. “Or possibly the beach on the other side of the island. Or one at Crete, or…”
The wineskin flew across the circle and smacked him in the face.
“It is called Tyrian purple,” Olek insisted.
He took a stream of wine and smiled.
“M
aybe I should have a purple dress made,” Isyllus reflected. “As gifts, you understand, for the ladies.”
“Even that wouldn’t help your love life, poet,” Rehor scoffed.
Olek chuckled. Filib added his expression of humor. Soon the entire crew was laughing. Alerio sat back and watch them be young men full of life. They would learn soon enough the world was harsh. Then the infectious humor of stupid laughing caught up with Alerio and he joined in their mirth.
***
The profile of the snail trader resembled a bow floating on its handle with the ends curved towards the sky.
“Two days, just like I predicted,” Rehor pointed out. “An Egyptian ship with a Greek crew. You’ll be as safe as if you were a baby in your mother’s arms with that one.”
“And young seer,” Alerio teased, “you can gather all that from a single glance?”
At first sighting, the Egyptian ship sailed far offshore. It was how they saw the shape from the beach. Although Rehor seemed to know about the vessel, Alerio remained clueless. Even when the ship turned bow onto the island the Legion officer remained in the dark about the ship. The crew furled a fore sail and a huge midship sail as the vessel headed to the beach.
“There are Hoplite shields along the ship’s rails,” Rehor told Alerio. “I counted four shields and sighted eight oars.”
“Not enough to be a ship of war,” Alerio reflected. “But sixteen oars are too many to be a merchant vessel.”
“She is not a wallowing transport tub,” Rehor explained. “That’s a snail trader with an oversized sail to catch more wind. A keel turned up fore and aft to cut the water like a blade. And a squad of eight Hoplite rowers for protection.”
“All that for dyes made from snails?” Alerio questioned.
“Egypt is known for linen and silk production. The dyes, especially indigo and purple from snails, increases the value of the cloth tremendously,” Rehor informed him. “Plus, depending on her ports-of-call, the ship will take on loads of cedar wood, incense, myrrh, and aromatic oils. Or bars of gold, copper, and iron.”
Rome's Tribune (Clay Warrior Stories Book 14) Page 18