The Singer from Memphis

by Gary Corby

  The cracking of oars finally ended as the boats parted.

  “Damage report!” Kordax ordered.

  “The bow is not good, Kordax,” reported the proreus. “We’re taking water.” The arrow stuck in his arm hadn’t prevented him from doing his duty. He had hung upside down over the front of the boat to see what state we were in. But he had to hold his arm away from his body. The blood dripped on the deck.

  “How much water?” Kordax asked. He looked crestfallen.

  “The enemy oars caved in the stem where they struck. Our back’s not broken, and the holes are above the water line . . . barely.” The proreus shrugged. “The faster we go, the more water we’ll take.”

  “If we were a trireme, we would have cut through those oars like they were paper,” Kordax said.

  “You’re not in the navy any more, Captain.”

  “I know, my friend. See to your arm.”

  I held the arm of the proreus still while a crewman cut both protruding ends of the arrow.

  “Don’t pull it until we reach a doctor,” Kordax advised. “Lest he bleed to death.”

  Diotima tore the hem of her dress and wrapped it around the wound. The proreus said he had never felt better, but his face was pale.

  Kordax’s ploy had partially worked. The boat we had attacked shipped half his portside oars to the damaged starboard side and made for Crete, slowly. The boat carrying Markos was still on our tail. If we flagged for an instant, he would have us.

  “Make sail,” Kordax ordered, to give his men a rest.

  The crew had been waiting for that. The sail rose in an instant, a light sail of magnificent blue linen hung square from the yardarm.

  “We have a heavier sail of hemp, but with damage at the bow we’re better served with light material,” Kordax said. “I bought the blue cloth last time I was in Egypt. We’re taking it home.”

  Even with the light sail, the nose dug in too much and Dolphin took water. Kordax ordered every man not working to stand at the back of the boat. When that didn’t quite work, he ordered luggage hauled up from below and stacked at the rear too. I sat amidst sweaty men atop crates and amphorae. We looked like a floating house sale. Dolphin’s nose rose, and we skidded along.

  The weird configuration meant that Dolphin didn’t sail as quickly as Kordax expected. The remaining pirate caught up to us. Kordax ordered a half-crew to resume rowing. That was enough to keep us ahead. The pirate moved directly behind, in an attempt to block our wind. He was too low in the water to succeed, but it was worrying.

  It felt like we’d been fighting all day. I said as much to Kordax.

  “We almost have. Any normal pirate would have given up long ago,” Kordax said.

  “Markos is paying them.”

  Markos stood at the bow of the pirate. He looked annoyed.

  Diotima took the opportunity to try to kill him. Her aim was good, but he wasn’t dumb enough to stand still. When he saw her rise with bow in hand he hit the deck and her shots passed over his head.

  Her action proved a good idea, though. Soon the crewmen with bows were taking aim at our pursuer. We didn’t have enough arrows to shower them, but potshots were enough to disrupt their rowing. It’s hard to row when you know someone is aiming at your back.

  That idea lasted until some bright man aboard the pirate—it was probably Markos—thought to tear up their decking to use as a shield. We watched while the pirates shoved and pushed the barrier into place. We could see nothing but the slope of the wooden wall propped up at the front of their boat. Not only did it protect them, but it seemed to make them go faster. The pirate ran into the back of us.

  We had fought for so long that the African coast was in sight and coming up fast, but it was still too far away to reach before the pirate would overhaul us. It was almost dusk, but the two boats were so close, they couldn’t lose us now. I cursed our fate.

  Kordax said, “Pass out the axes.” Now even he sounded worried.

  “Warships on the port bow!” called the proreus. “Two of them.”

  They were headed directly for us and we’d never noticed. All our attention had been on the pirate.

  I’d never before appreciated what a mighty beast a trireme is. I’d traveled on them plenty of times, but when you look at them from below they seem terrifying. Their streamlined battering rams were clearly visible just below the surface of the water. Either of those warships could sail right through us and barely notice we were there.

  One of the triremes split away and headed for the pirate, who made a sharp turn right. He headed the only way he could go and live: straight for the African coast. If he made for open water the trireme would easily run him down.

  The other trireme came straight on, then turned at the last moment with unnerving accuracy to come alongside. That battering ram must have come within half a ship’s length of us.

  A man leaned over the side and shouted down to us. “Where do you hale from?”

  He had an Athenian accent.

  “Athens!” Kordax called back.

  The man threw us a line. “Would you like a tow?”

  The Nauarch

  During our running battle with the pirates we had blundered into the Athenian fleet, the one that had been sent to assist the rebels. Swift—for that was the name of our rescuer—cast us loose in the middle of two hundred triremes. We were safe at last.

  The Admiral of the Fleet—the Nauarch—was the well-respected Charitimedes. He was known as a competent man and a brave one. For several years running he had been elected one of our ten military commanders. Pericles was another such, but whereas Pericles’s forté was grand strategy, Charitimedes was a natural commander at sea.

  Swift had dropped us beside the Nauarch’s command ship. Kordax and I were invited to climb up the rope ladder. Herodotus, not being a citizen of Athens, didn’t get an invite, much to his disappointment.

  “Ah, Kordax, I’m glad to see you,” said Admiral Charitimedes. “You’re just in time for the battle.”

  I felt a trifle faint at those words.

  “How can I help?” Kordax asked without hesitation.

  The Admiral said, “One of my trierarchs is dead. Can you take command of Vengeance while we wait for his replacement to arrive?”

  “Of course,” said Kordax, the retired naval officer.

  “Good man,” Charitimedes said. “I understand you had a difficult crossing?”

  “We had a minor problem,” Kordax allowed.

  I wondered what he would consider a major problem. Navy men, I’d discovered, would never admit to a situation they couldn’t handle.

  “We’ve been expecting a relieving force to arrive from Persia,” said the Admiral. “When I heard reports of a fight to the north I sent Swift and Harpy to scout it. But it was only you. Pity. I’d been looking forward to a decent fight.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, sir,” I said.

  Charitimedes turned to me. “Not your fault. The last lot of Persians we wiped out weren’t much chop. But I must say the ones holding out in Memphis seem to know their business.”

  “That’s why I’m here, sir.”

  “Oh? Who are you?”

  We had outrun any possible messenger who might have foretold my mission to the Admiral. I had foreseen this problem. I took from beneath my tunic a letter of introduction written by Pericles.

  Charitimedes read it. When he finished he looked me up and down. “So you’re Nicolaos. I’ve heard of you. They say you’re Pericles’s attack dog.”

  That wasn’t quite the way I would have described it. But there was no point in arguing.

  “You’re rather young for this, aren’t you?” Charitimedes said.

  I was twenty-five. Not old enough to hold public office, but old enough to serve Athens. I pointed that out to Charitimedes. He grunted.

/>   “Well, at least your attitude is good. I’m aware of this scheme of Inaros’s. I must say, I think his idea is crazy. You’ll probably get yourself killed.”

  I resisted the urge to ask about the next boat back to Athens. Instead I said, “What is the plan, sir?”

  “The whole thing is so very Egyptian, I think perhaps Inaros better tell you personally.”

  “This Inaros, what’s he like, sir?”

  “An extremely able man,” the Admiral said. “But you’ll see for yourself, soon enough.”

  “I will?”

  Charitimedes called over one of his men.

  “Is the messenger boat free?” he asked

  “Yes, Charitimedes,” said the junior officer.

  “Take this man, his baggage, and anyone he nominates to go with him to Naukratis. Get him there quickly. Apparently he’s going to solve our crisis.”

  The Prince of Libya

  The messenger boat dropped us off at Naukratis, a city halfway along the Nile Delta. From the moment we entered the waterways, Herodotus had his scroll out and was writing fast. He didn’t stop asking questions of the captain, who answered every query with a complete lack of interest.

  “What sort of bird is that?” Herodotus pointed at one of the thousands of birds that flocked all up and down the river.

  “That’s a bird,” said the captain.

  “Oh.” Herodotus was stalled for a moment. Then he brightened when he saw another plumage. “What about that one over there?”

  “That’s another bird.”

  Our captain went on to demonstrate equal lack of knowledge of plants, animals, people, lifestyle of the natives, architecture and local politics. He was, however, able to give me detailed advice on all the best places to drink in Naukratis, which I carefully memorized.

  Diotima was as absorbed as Herodotus. The two of them looked like a comedy act as they rushed from one side of the ship to the other, determined to see everything.

  I admit I was fascinated myself. Egypt looked nothing like Hellas. For instance I wondered why there were so many logs floating by the shore. Then one of the logs surged in the blink of an eye, and snatched one of Herodotus’s birds.

  I gasped. It looked like some terrible monster had risen from the depths of Tartarus.

  “What in Hades is that?”

  The captain glanced over to where the hideous creature was shaking the corpse. “Those are crocodiles,” he said. “Don’t fall in. If you do, there’ll be no point stopping to collect your body.”

  I could see what he meant. The crocodile had swallowed the unfortunate bird in one gulp.

  “Dear Gods. Do the locals hunt those things?”

  The captain laughed. “No. Those things hunt the locals.”

  Naukratis is a special city. Half the people who live there are Egyptian. The other half are Hellene. Both sides only live in Naukratis for one reason: to trade with each other. The port would have done credit to a major capital. The docks were filled with ships from every part of the world. I saw trading vessels from Ephesus, from Tyre and Syracuse, from Samos, Rhodes, Mytilene, Cyprus, Carthage, and a place I’d never heard of that the sailors called Massalia.

  Though we had arrived at dusk, it was still hot, and the moment we stepped away from the river, it was dusty. Running parallel with the shore, a wide boardwalk connected the well-maintained wharves with the many warehouses. A small army of men waited beyond the boardwalk. They crouched down, so that for a moment I thought they were large birds. The manner of rest of these men was remarkable. They balanced on the balls of their feet, but otherwise stayed as low as if they kneeled. For some reason they found this comfortable. Diotima observed that the posture kept them out of the dust, for there was nowhere to sit that would not end in a mouthful of dust blown by the hot wind.

  These crouching men were dock workers. They waited for a ship to arrive, then clamored to be chosen to unload the cargo, for which they were paid.

  One of these dock workers told us that for a hundred years, the traders of Naukratis had been exempt from tax. “That is why all the foreigner ships come here,” he said, his teeth bright and white. “They go anywhere else, they get taxed.”

  Herodotus asked then how did the Pharaoh make a profit from that? Our friend pointed south and said, “That way are the camel caravans, laden with the things that men buy here. When they leave Naukratis, they get taxed.”

  We tipped him to get recommendations on a good place to stay, and he gave directions to an inn by the central agora. “You go far from docks, you get better place. Not so many sailors, you know?”

  We walked into town. I wish I could talk about Naukratis’s architectural merit, but it had none. The people lived only to make money. The most utilitarian of whitewashed, mud brick buildings was fine with them.

  The same, however, could not be said for the women. They were gorgeous, every one of them.

  Herodotus was smitten. His eyes were as large as plates every time a woman passed. Twice Diotima and I had to grab him when he turned around to follow a particularly attractive local with wide, swinging hips.

  “You don’t want to associate with them, Herodotus,” Diotima said.

  “I don’t?” Herodotus was clearly willing to argue that point.

  “They’re prostitutes,” Diotima explained. “Have you noticed they’re all walking towards the docklands, where the sailors stay?”

  The moment Diotima said it, it was obvious.

  I was pleased to see that Herodotus could behave like a normal man at least some of the time. His devotion to that notebook of his was disconcerting.

  We found the inn, and it was everything the man at the docks had said, including the price. Fortunately, Herodotus was paying. We took two rooms.

  Herodotus said he was exhausted and would retire. I was one hundred percent sure he planned to go meet the local women, but I don’t think Diotima guessed and I didn’t tell her.

  Yet Herodotus had hired me to protect him, so when Diotima went upstairs to inspect the rooms, to make sure they were clean, I mentioned casually to my employer that a wise man doesn’t take all his money with him when he visits a brothel. Nor does he leave it alone in an empty room at an inn.

  Herodotus didn’t reply. After a moment, he turned to the wall and, out of sight of anyone else, pulled out two heavy bags of coins. He handed them to me without a word. I immediately stuffed the bags beneath my own clothing, and then wondered how Herodotus had managed to walk all this time with that much weight. I was flattered that he trusted me.

  The two of us shared a conspiratorial look as Diotima returned. I’d brought my own exquisite lady with me and I intended never to need another, but four years ago I might have been tempted to join him.

  Herodotus yawned ostentatiously and walked upstairs. I took Diotima by the hand and led her outside.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “To find Inaros.”

  The Athenian Admiral had told me that the rebel leader was to be found at Naukratis. He hadn’t told me where, but I had assumed that the city would be crawling with troops, one of whom could take me to him. Instead, there wasn’t a soldier to be seen. To look at the agora, you would never have known there was a war on.

  Though it was getting dark, the central agora didn’t need torches. The stars and the moon shone bright enough. The place was as busy at night as any big city. Suspicious-looking loiterers milled about and eyed the passers-by. Partygoers crossed one way or the other. Beggars sat on the ground with their hands outstretched or calling for alms. Rich people dropped a coin into every hand they passed. They seemed to treat it like a tax.

  I decided to ask one of these beggars where I might find Inaros. I chose a man with a thick beard. Unlike most of the beggars in their loincloths, this one was respectably dressed in an ankle-length tunic.

 
The beggar held out his hand.

  I had expected that. I reached for my money pouch—tied securely to my belt and hanging underneath my chiton—agents know all about pickpockets—when I suddenly realized there was a problem.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t have any Egyptian money,” I said.

  “That’s because there’s no such thing,” the beggar replied in accented but understandable Greek.

  “There isn’t?”

  “Egypt doesn’t make its own coins. Whatever coins you foreigners spend, we use ourselves,” he said. “If you want to make a donation, I’m currently accepting Persian sarics, Babylonian shekels, drachmae from you Hellenes, silphium from Cyrenaica, and siglos, both the Lydian and the Persian kind.”

  “There’s a difference between the siglos?” asked Diotima.

  “Oh Gods, yes,” said the beggar with some passion. “Don’t ever let someone give you a Persian siglos if he owes you a Lydian. Insist on at least two for one.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  I gave the beggar three drachmae. That was half a week’s wages and more than enough for one bit of information.

  I said, “Can you tell me where we can find Inaros—”

  The beggar ignored me. He held each coin up to the light and stared at it intently.

  “This is a good one. Thanks.” He dropped the first two drachmae into his begging bowl. The third that he had labeled good, he continued to hold as if it were something precious.

  I thought perhaps the poor fellow must not understand about coins. He didn’t seem to realize they were all the same value: three one-drachma pieces.

  “They’re all the same, you know,” I said gently.

  He shook his head. “No they’re not. Every coin is like a person. They all got different personalities.”

  Out of all the beggars in this city, I had to pick the one that was insane.

  “Sure,” I said. “Now, about Inaros—”