by Talbot Mundy
Boidion’s fan-bearers lay dead on a stricken field beside Aristobolus and a heap of dead and dying. Most of the remaining enemy scattered across the honeycomb of tombs toward the encircling column in the distance, but some threw down their arms.
No cavalry. Pursuit was impossible. There was nothing whatever that Tros could do then but set the prisoners to work to gather up his wounded, and to retire on his boats before the fleeing enemy could reach them. There were only ten blistered seamen guarding the flotilla.
It was little more than an hour since sunrise. Vultures in dozens flew down from the broken ledges of the second pyramid. In the near distance the Sphynx, half smothered in drifted sand, inscrutably suggested that there still was a problem for Tros to solve.
CHAPTER XI
“WHAT DO YOU WISH?”
ROLL-CALL. Only eight-and-eighty men left standing. Transportation for the wounded was the first problem. Memphis could look to itself; the less Memphis learned about two Arsinoes, the better. Fugitives, who had lost their claimant to the throne, and with most of their officers dead, were no danger at all. Outlaws, they would scatter, or be hunted down and executed or enslaved.
There were more than a hundred men and five chariots, with some mounted officers, still in the field as a unit, but they were several miles away and had nothing to fight for, unless they should attempt to rescue Boidion. They were far more likely to assume that Boidion was dead.
True, five chariots and a dozen mounted officers might do a good deal to harass Tros’ line of retreat to the boats, but they were much more likely to save their horses for flight to preserve their own skins.
Seven Northmen dead; eleven wounded. Three decurions dead, including the gallant Thestius. Sigurdsen out of his head with wounds and melancholy, following on battle-frenzy; it was always that way with Sigurdsen after a hard fight; he had to be sung to by the skald. Too many prisoners, some of whom, however, begged to be enslaved by Tros; but some were undoubtedly getting the story of two Arsinoes, and it was not in the least improbable that one or two of them were queen’s spies. She was better served by her spies than by her generals.
Prisoners were put to work to strip and bury the enemy’s dead; the battlefield loot was Tros’ seamen’s perquisite, and they burdened themselves with plundered armor. Tros’ dead were laid in a line, in a trench that the Egyptians had dug in search of ancient tombs. And, as he had done after Salamis, he lined up the survivors for a last, farewell salute and, with his right hand raised, pronounced his blessing:
“Ye who dwell beyond the veil of death, receive these my men, who have died with their honor upon them, creditably. Give them honorable greeting, even as we, their comrades, bid their gallant souls farewell.”
He had no word yet with Boidion. She and Arsinoe walked and talked together, looking strangely alike, even though the one wore armor and the other a sort of priestess’ costume and a garland. Their ex-pirate escort kept at a respectful distance, separating them from Tarquinius, whose hands were tied behind him, and from Alexis, who was not bound because he was wounded.
The chariot, loaded with armor and weapons, was dragged by seamen, and Tros paid a lot of attention to it. It had given him an idea. The wounded, such as could not walk between uninjured men, were carried on the backs of prisoners, and on stretchers made of spears and reed mats taken from the Northmen’s prison.
Twenty men were sent ahead in a hurry to guard the boats from fugitives. Twenty men brought up the rear, and retirement began.
It resembled defeat, not victory, but Tros knew, and all his men knew that he had saved the day for Egypt. Only Tros knew what a problem he had yet to solve. He walked alone, unarmored, switching flies and limping, leaving the command to Conops, who had caught an officer’s gray nag and was clowning the part of a Roman general on parade.
They were not pursued, and there was not much fighting near the boats, although a group of fugitives did try to rush one boat and make away with it. Tros took his entire force and all his prisoners across the river, and sent a messenger at once up-river to the temple to command the priests to come and care for his wounded, on pain of having their temple burned and laid waste.
He set the prisoners to work to build a reed encampment, counted Arsinoe’s camels, checked her supplies, and then sent four more boats up-river with a demand on the priests for provisions for a week for his entire force. Then he questioned Arsinoe’s slaves; and at last, seated on a camel-saddle beneath a hurriedly constructed bower of reeds, with one of Arsinoe’s slaves to flick the flies away, he sent for Boidion.
She stood smiling at him, Arsinoe to the life except for a vaguely absent element of self-assurance. The queen’s and Arsinoe’s grandmother had been a Jewess; the coincidence of likeness was astonishing, but not, after all, such a miracle. This girl could have easily passed for Cleopatra’s sister, although she and Arsinoe were much more beautiful than the queen, as well as taller and with far less prominent noses.
Tros ordered another camel-saddle to be brought, that she might be seated. He gave her a fly-switch, that she might be at ease. Then he asked her, suddenly: “Have you counted the number of men who have died for your false adventure?”
“No, Lord Tros.” Her face changed. She appeared now to expect to be executed out of hand.
He paused, affording her full opportunity to excuse herself or to explain, if she should see fit. But she was silent. “Was it your fault?” he demanded. “Yes. I did it. It was not my own idea. It was suggested to me. But I did it. Who wouldn’t snatch at a throne, if the chance were offered? But for the stroke of a scribe’s pen, I, too, am a Ptolemy.”
“You have taken another’s name,” said Tros, and he made his voice sound stern because he was not yet sure of that other’s spirit, nor sure that he might not have to drag this girl to Alexandria to measure the queen’s mercy; and he wanted to arouse no false hope. “How can you restore her name to her, you having so misused it?”
“Does she want it?” Boidion retorted. “Have you asked her?”
“No. But I will.”
He requested Arsinoe’s presence; so they brought another camel-saddle, and she came and sat facing Boidion, wearing a plain GreekAMORGINA of such fine, bleached flax that it resembled silk. It was of the latest court fashion. She had very evidently had the pick of Esias’ imported merchandise, had good needlewomen with her, and was not inclined to appear before Tros at a disadvantage. She smiled at Boidion, with malice but without any trace of contempt.
“This girl—” Tros began.
“My father’s daughter,” said Arsinoe.
“Boidion,” said Tros, “has assumed your name.”
“So I am nameless!”
“Do you wish it? You are Queen of Cyprus.”
“I have told you, and again I say it, I am sick of being Queen of Cyprus. Never again will I go to Cyprus. Never. I have been a plaything of the vilest traitors that ever bought and sold each other, and themselves and their powerless victim. So, if this fool wishes to be Queen of Cyprus, let her be it!”
Tros prodded the earth with his sword. He stared at Boidion. Suddenly he asked her:
“Woman, you have taken one step. Will you take the other, and the consequences? Or will you plead for the Queen’s mercy?”
Boidion answered:
“You have heard her speak: and she said it to me when we walked together. I am as much a Ptolemy as she is, and perhaps more capable of being queen, since she seems to have had small pleasure of it, and no profit.”
Tros met Arsinoe’s eyes again.
“You yield your throne?”
“I have thrown it away, for any fool to have who craves it!”
“You yield your name?”
“It is stolen. Let her have it. I will choose a new name.”
He stared at Boidion, considering her, and then pronounced his verdict: “Queen of Cyprus then you shall be, and Arsinoe you are, from this day forward; and the consequences be on your head. Never again answer
to the name of Boidion! You hear me?”
“If I am a queen, you should address me more respectfully,” she answered. >
TROS smiled. He commanded the Etruscan to be brought before him; he came with his hands still tied behind his back, between two seamen. They had taken away his helmet, but he looked rather spruce in his Roman uniform—-lean, mean, avaricious, but possessed of a kind of courage. He kept shaking his head to shake off flies. Tros ordered his hands loosened and a fly-switch given to him. He looked at neither woman— looked straight at Tros, slv-eyed and daring.
“Lars Tarquinius, you are a treacherous, faithless, unscrupulous, lying scoundrel.”
“Have I ever pretended to you to be anything else?” Tarquinius answered. “You may as well omit the Ciceronian oration, Captain Tros. You have a use for me, or you would have ordered me killed and thrown to the crocodiles. What is it? Or have I come to hear sentence of death? It wouldn’t be like you to waste a sensible man like me.”
“You were left in Cyprus, in command of the Queen of Cyprus' bodyguard.” said Tros, “and with authority from Cassius and Brutus, conferred upon you by the Roman admiral Ahenobarbus, to advise the queen how to conduct her affairs. You will return to Cyprus, taking the Queen of Cyprus with you.”
“How? When?”
“Now. And by use of your ingenuity.” Tros gestured toward Boidion. “Present your respects to Queen Arsinoe of Cyprus!”
Lars Tarquinius gaped. Even he, past-master spy, opportunist, agent of sedition and secret treasons, was too astonished for speech. Then a smile stole over his hungry face.
“Our respects,” he said, “I think are due to Captain Tros. But—who shall guarantee us that this other, who so resembles her”—for the first time he glanced at Arsinoe—“will not—”
“I will guarantee your death,” Tros interrupted, “if I ever hear of you mentioning this lady, whom you have never seen, nor ever knew, and even of whose name you are ignorant! You left Cyprus, in a design on the throne of Egypt, with that princess with whom you will now return to Cyprus, having failed of your purpose. For the rest, silence!”
Tarquinius gulped. Tros commanded the Lord Alexis to be brought in, and he came with his hand on a seaman’s shoulder, looking gray-lipped and crestfallen.
“You deceived me, Tros!” he began bitterly.
“Do you wish to go to the queen? I will not deceive you about that, if you would like to offer her your felicitations.” Alexis avoided the eyes of the women. He glanced at Tarquinius, who made no sign whatever.
“Do you wish me to plead for your mercy?” he asked then, staring straight at Tros. “If you will spare my life, I will forever be your grateful client.”
“Shake hands with your ally Tarquinius!” Tros answered. “Make your bow to your new queen! You are to go with her to Cyprus. There are camels waiting. Doubtless there are prisoners who are willing to make the journey with you; you may choose from among them as many as there are camels to carry them. You and they may have weapons, and I will supply provisions.”
“I have no money,” Alexis answered.
“You have an order on the queen’s treasury, haven’t you? Use that. I am not your banker.”
“It is worth my life to use that.”
“Die then! You have cost me more good men than your convenience is worth. I have nothing to add, beyond that you may have your luggage; I will tell the priests to bring it.”
Boidion smiled at Arsinoe:
“And what will you do?”
“I will pity you!” she answered.
At a gesture from Tros the seaman touched Tarquinius’ shoulder. Boidion caught Tros’ eye. He nodded, and she went out with Alexis. Except for the slave who plied the fly-switch he was alone with a girl who had thrown away throne and name. He knew why she had thrown them away.
She had placed herself utterly in his power, and to befriend her would be treason against Cleopatra, as Arsinoe well knew. But she seemed unafraid, confident. They were silent about twenty switches of the slave’s arm. Then it was she who broke the silence:
“So you see, I can’t get killed in battle.”
“I will speak with my man Conops,” he answered.
She mocked him:
“Don’t order him to kill me. Do it yourself!”
“I will come to your tent.”
“And kill me?”
“Go and wait for me,” he answered. The slave followed her to her tent, and in a few minutes Conops came.
“The priests are here, master. Eight of ’em, hairless as sharks. They’ve turned to with the wounded. May I fetch one to dress that scratched leg?”
“Later. Little man—”
“O Apollo, I know what’s coming! Not the woman, master! You and I, since you were knee-high to your father’s cabin-lad, we’ve got on famous without tying up to women. ’Time we had a woman, we were in and out o’ trouble like a pair o’ soldiers at sea!”
“You dock-side lecher! You shameless brothel-rat! You impudent, ignorant drunkard!”
“Yes, master.”
“You presume to criticize me?”
“No, no. But as I was saying—”
“Pipe down!”
“Aye, aye, master.”
“I go alone to Alexandria.”
“Alone?”
“Oh, I will take two of the Jews and a boat-crew. You are to take the flotilla down the eastern branch of the Nile to Pelusium, and await me there. The ladies—”
“You mean the Queen Arsinoe?”
“She is not a queen.”
“Then the princess.”
“She is not a princess. I will give her a new name.”
“Chronos!”
“I will name her Hero. Henceforth you will know her by no other name.”
“Aye, aye, master.”
“She and her two women are the wives of Memphis merchants, visiting Esias’ partner’s wife in Pelusium. You know Esias’ partner. You will take a letter to him, from me. Do as he tells you, even if he should order you all into hiding until after I have cleared up matters with the Queen of Egypt.”
“Watch out, master! Cleopatra’s a woman. She’s jealous. She has her spies everywhere; she’ll know what we’ve been up to. She’s as like as not to hand you over to the rack-and-pincer-crew, to be finished off.”
“Has she a use for me dead, do you think? Little man, the queen has too few friends to kill men who can not be bought to betray her. Have you understood your orders?”
“Aye, aye, master.”
Tros let a priest come and bandage his leg. Then he bathed in the river, talked with the wounded, inspected the camp, checked the provisions the priests had brought, and at last reached Arsinoe’s tent. She arose beneath the awning and stood waiting for him. “Well, girl?”
“Lord Captain?”
“What shall I do with you?”
“What do you wish?”
“I name you Hero.”
And—?”
He and she entered the tent. One of her women closed the flap behind them, smiling, and then ran, because Conops pelted her away with lumps of hard Nile mud.
CHAPTER XII
“EGYPT'S NEED.”
ALEXANDRIA lay serene and lovely beneath the mid-night moon. From the queen’s balcony there was a view of the whole harbor and half of the city. The great Pharos beacon glowed like a ruby, and the anchored shipping seemed a-swim in a silvered lake. Over to the westward, at the shoreward end of the flickering lights of Rhakotis, were two big basket-flares that Tros knew were the watch-lights where his trireme lay awaiting orders for repairs.
The queen rebuked him for pacing the balcony.
“You irritate me. And besides, your leg is not yet healed. Be seated.” “Egypt—”
“So you say they fled by camel. On whose camels?”
“How should I know?” He was growing angry. He had answered her questions again and again. “Perhaps somebody in Memphis.”
“I have laid a fine on Memp
his that will not encourage them to play again with treason! Why did you send all your men to Pelusium?”
He looked hard at her, and his eyes were as steady as hers. He lied, and she knew he was lying, and he meant that she should:
“To keep my Northmen out of mischief. They are angry that you sent them to a prison-camp merely because they broke the heads of men who spoke loosely of you.”
“And you can’t control them? I could. Who are the women who availed themselves of your men’s escort? The women who are now in Pelusium? I have heard there are three.”
“Merchants’ wives,” he answered.
“Oh?”
“Yes.”
“Whose wife is the one named Hero?”
“Egypt, there are questions that are best unasked.” He stood up. “I have saved your throne. I have done your errand. Now keep your promise.”
“I am grateful, even though you do so curiously harbor—an unknown woman,” she answered. Suddenly her voice changed. “I sent you to kill! Instead, you say, you say, you say you sent Arsinoe back to Cyprus! You have taken your Northmen without my leave. And in Pelusium you have a woman! A woman named Hero! Oh, my spies are awake, though my generals sleep!”
“Egypt, I hold your promise. No, no! It was Cleopatra’s promise. I have done my duty by you. It is time now for me to repair my trireme, and to set sail on the voyage of which you know.”
“With this woman named Hero?” Suddenly he noticed she was smiling. She was gazing westward toward Rhakotis, and her smile was triumphant.
Tros turned and followed her gaze. Where the basket-flares had glowed on the throat of night there was now a billowing holocaust—a black cloud, red-lit from beneath by a burning hull, high on the ways at Esias’ wharf. It was too far away for the roar of the flames to be heard, but a mast fell and the sparks volcanoed skyward as Tros watched, and he could see the phantom figures of his seamen, or perhaps Esias’ slave-gangs, beating out sparks on the warehouse roofs.
“What burns?” asked Cleopatra.
Tros met her eyes in silence.
