Cutter's Island

by Panella, Vincent

  Then a knock on the door, and enter Nicomedes, alone, wearing a sleeveless shirt, baggy silk trousers, and soft leather slippers embroidered in gold. He sat on the edge of my bed and pressed a long thin finger to his lips for silence.

  “Trouble sleeping,” he whispered, “for both of us. But you have an excuse. You’re in a new place on the other side of the world, and I’m sure you miss the comforts of home.”

  “And why are you having trouble?” I ask, looking sternly at the position he’d assumed on my bed.

  “Don’t misinterpret,” he said. “But don’t think it strange that I’m here.”

  “Why shouldn’t I think it strange? You’re unattended, and sitting on my bed.”

  “What I have to say is for you only.”

  “A king who earlier today spoke like an expert in ballistics and naval warfare now at the edge of my bed, and this isn’t strange?”

  “And an officer who showed me his knowledge of warfare and poetry. We’re very much alike,” he said, folding his arms as if he’d gotten the better of me in an argument. He smiled with perfect white teeth, and continued.

  “Not all junior officers write poetry, or if they do, feel it as deeply as you. At dinner you matched me verse for verse, Homer through Menander. The reverence for antiquity in your own poems struck my heart. You’re a special young man, and I’m here because we’re like-minded.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “Just this. You know that I was pulled one way by Mithridates, but gave my allegiance to your people instead. The warships you take tomorrow mean there’s no turning back for me. I’m committed, but I won’t be taken for granted. Yet I can barely tolerate the loutish government officials your city sends us. After Mytilene, I’ll ask for you as an ambassador.”

  “Impossible. I’m not a Sullan.”

  “They say he’s dying.”

  “But not his ideas.”

  “Your city is greater than those who rule it. Your day will come. Return here after Mytilene is taken. Come back with the fleet. We can build something between us.”

  Everything about him was physically distinctive. His hair was the color of polished iron, his skin like fiery ash, as if he’d walked into the world from the burning coals of a fire in the center of the earth, that part of our star which functions as its womb, that place north and beyond the Indus River.

  And yet this smoky, primeval quality was balanced by an unequalled personal refinement and graciousness. Nicomedes had a way of smiling without appearing to do so. This inner smile was reflected in his eye, and in the even, slightly ironic set of his mouth. The smile was deep inside him, and meant for everyone, from the sailors in his fleet, whose bows and obeisances were constantly waved away, to the servants who set out our meal of simply cooked vegetables and meats, nuts and fruits of all kinds, and mild, tasty wines.

  Nicomedes’ hands rested on the hump of blanket formed by my foot. His fingers were so long and delicate that pebbles could break them, yet they grasped my foot securely, adjusting their pressure in accordance with my reaction, with the look in my eye, the set of my lips.

  “You’re an impressive young man,” he said, stroking my foot. Then lifting the blanket to expose the same foot, he took from a nearby table a decanter of warm oil. He poured the oil into the cupped palm of one hand. The hand glided to my foot and hung above it. Its long, skeletal fingers made a shape resembling a reed boat.

  Saying, “Give me the honor of relaxing those ever marching Roman feet,” he rubbed the oil into his hands, one caressing the other, the dark fingers of each so long they completely encircled the other. The action of his fingers caused the warm oil to release its scent of almonds and citrus, and this no sooner enveloped me when both his hands wrapped themselves around my foot and began to milk the fatigue out of my bones, from heel to toe.

  He rubbed and kneaded my right foot, and then my left, pausing every so often to put his fingers to his eyes, a sign for me to sleep. When finished, he wrapped each foot in pieces of soft cotton pulled from out of the air, then covered them with a blanket. Giving each foot a final, affectionate squeeze, and looking at me as if to say, “This is enough,” he got up and left the room. I heard a rustle of silk, and glimpsed through sleepy eyes his tall, lean body topped with silvery hair, and his skin dark and red, set in the matrix of golden lamp light reflected by the walls.

  Nicomedes saw me off the next morning, having me repeat my pledge to return—a promise I couldn’t keep. He gave me a parting gift, which he advised me to open in privacy. It was a gold cup with inlaid figures of priapic men making love. I kept it with my baggage—and later discovered it stolen.

  The pirates celebrate the capture of the trireme by feasting at the tables. At great fires the men roast lamb and spits of partridges while women from Miletus serve platters of bread and fruit. Amphorae of wine are dragged from the storage cave and all the men dip their stolen bowls, or have them filled by women bearing gold and silver decanters inlaid with precious stones. Soon the sounds of a flute and soft drums fill the air, persistent and rhythmic. As the wine takes hold the women dance obscenely in front of the men, who collapse from drink before they can carry out their promises.

  After a while Cutter comes inside the hut pushing a woman ahead of him. “She wanted to meet the famous man,” he says, removing her cloak with a flourish, as though she were a piece of furniture. The woman is small, and wears baggy silks tied below the navel.

  “Look at her,” he says, rubbing his hand lightly on her smoky skin, as if to show that the color won’t fade. “As young as a pony, and ready to please, Lord! She wants you, Lord. Look at those eyes!”

  As if on command, her painted eyelids flutter, and she keeps one hand over her mouth to hide a smile.

  “A little bashful, of course. This is because she worships you, Lord, believe me. As soon as she heard about you in Miletus she wanted to be here with the handsome soldier, the poet, the young man who defied the savage Cilician pirates!”

  “And what am I supposed to do with her?”

  “Lord, this woman believes in love, and this is for your benefit! So many believe that shameful story about Nicomedes. Prove them wrong, Lord, prove them wrong!”

  “Get out of here.”

  He backs out of the hut, closing the door behind him. The woman and I stare at each other by the flickering glow of the lamps. The hand still covers her mouth.

  “Do you know me?”

  She nods, still covering her mouth, but now beginning to suppress a giggle.

  “What is it? Why are you laughing?”

  She comes up close, nearly touching. Her hair is long, and curled all over. There is about her the light scent of perfume, not flowery, but redolent of the fresh, unscented oil used on babies. I take the hand from her face and she smiles with delicate, almost transparent teeth.

  Music from the feast enters the room, the soft flute, the persistent drums. She sways to it, still close to me, not quite dancing, but beginning to touch me in rhythm to the music. I take her by the shoulders and stop her.

  “You don’t understand. I have no desire for you. It would be impossible.”

  “Is it because of this?” She touches her earlobe, as Hytaspes did.

  Still holding her shoulders I say, “It’s because of me, and him!” I gesture outside to indicate Cutter. “It’s because of what I am and what he is!”

  She doesn’t understand, just giggles and waves her finger, as Cutter would do when admonishing me. The eyelashes flutter like butterfly wings and she pulls away from me and takes up the music fully, caressing herself in practiced motions, as if I’m no longer in the room. I put the cloak around her shoulders and steer her out the door.

  The music and drinking continue until dawn, when some of the revelers launch a boat for Miletus. Their oars splash the water sloppily until the hoisted sail takes the breeze. I watch until they’re hidden by the swells. Unable to sleep, I stand outside with an erection and urinate into the wind, but
this doesn’t relieve me. I look down at myself, pointing toward the sea, toward my freedom.

  In the hut I lie down and stroke myself—almost violently—for I resent this blind demand. So here I am, full of desire. Let me offer it up to Servilia, who understands this pressure. Servilia would coo over this like a dove, flutter her feathers and attend to me properly. So I present to the world the rod of Anchises, plunging it deeply into Servilia’s heart. Planets explode when I come. And then, curled up with my head on her breast, I sleep at last.

  To create the desired impression, I’m simply myself. But Cutter thinks there’s another person behind me. This was why he brought the woman, to test me.

  “Did you enjoy her?”

  “We did nothing.”

  “What?”

  I’m walking on the beach, just beyond the tower. He follows on a donkey because his legs are too short to keep my pace. To avoid him, I turn inland, clambering over the rocks to a ridge, the effort bringing me there on all fours. Cutter’s donkey surges past me, bobbing its head and throwing froth. He’s pulled up ahead of me to block my path.

  “I paid her for your pleasure.”

  “I never wanted her to begin with.”

  “Why not?”

  “That should be obvious.”

  “I’d like to hear that you appreciate me, my friend. Look at all I’ve done for you.”

  I walk around him, moving along the ridge. Mist on the distant islands makes them seem on fire.

  “You amaze me,” he says, close behind me now. “Here you are, alive! I try to provide you with a little pleasure, and what do I get?”

  “You’re playing with me.”

  “How?”

  This time I block his path, grasping the donkey’s bridle and stopping him. The blazing sun behind him blackens his face.

  “The woman was a test.”

  “For what? Tell me how?”

  “You were playing with me. Leave me alone now.”

  “But I don’t understand.”

  “You’re a liar.” I turn and walk away and he doesn’t follow. Now I’ve played with him.

  Cutter avoids me for several days, then leaves with part of his crew. They sail off in two galleys, with the fishing skiff in tow. The skiff sculls near the lanes and drags its ragged net while the galleys conceal themselves and look for a signal.

  He returns with nothing, his entry into the harbor preceded by blasts from the watchman’s horn. A pair of warships from Miletus are patrolling the lanes nearby, and in effect chased him home.

  “We could have taken them any time,” Cutter boasts, pacing in front of my hut as a way of performing for the men. “We’re a federation, and you’re the enemy. You!”

  I don’t come out. I’ve stopped giving him an audience when he stands outside and calls me at the top of his lungs.

  He stalks off after the harangue, then comes back. One of his men carries bundles of chamomile and burdock root brought over from the mainland. But this time he stands quietly outside and announces himself. Then I let him in.

  “What are you writing?” he asks, coming up to my table.

  “Something you wouldn’t understand.”

  He reads the first few lines of my poem aloud, and I see in the forced, incredulous movements of his bushy eyebrows that he’s found an opportunity.

  And as for Hector, before the Skaean gates

  tragic destiny pinned him cold, that fatal and

  irreversible verdict of the Gods which no mortal

  can oppose, for it is like the tide …

  “This is poetry? Poetry makes men cry. This makes me laugh.”

  “Your business is murder and theft, not art.”

  “There’s an art to that,” he says, combing his beard with the fingers of his good hand. “But I wasn’t always as I appear.”

  “Why should I care what you were?”

  “Because you’re a poet, one of the privileged class, and maybe a young man of destiny—for I believe you see yourself that way. Your interest in those around you should be inherent, insatiable. And who knows, what happens to you on this island may someday find a way into your work, into your view of the world.”

  “How do you know it hasn’t?”

  “Because I know your kind. There’s a presumption of privilege and superiority.”

  “And what is the source of that?”

  He raises his eyebrows like a clown, then taps the parchment where I’ve written my lines.

  “Lord,” he says, “Maybe I’m wrong about this poetry, but maybe you’re wrong about us too. We have some education here. Some of us were scribes, and some grew up in wealthy families with tutors in the Greek fashion. These men are familiar with all the great stories.”

  “These … savages?”

  “They’re men looking for wealth and adventure, no different from the legionaries of your great armies. Only here they have more freedom.”

  “To steal and murder.”

  “Please, Lord, these are relative questions. Why don’t you recite for us down at the tables, when the men are celebrating. Maybe they can appreciate what you have to say.”

  “How do I know they’ll understand?”

  “Don’t worry, Lord. We’ll surprise you.”

  He goes down to the beach, and talks to some men working on the trireme. I hear the words, “Great Epic Poet!” and then several of them look up toward me and wave me on, clapping their hands. Soon other men join them, and they approach the hut, clamoring for a performance.

  Their spokesman is a fat man named Goras, in whose little black eyes I detect a glow of sensitivity. “Young Lord,” he says. “The way hungry men share bread, share with us your art. Try us, Lord. This island is isolated and untouched by well-born men. Please Lord, a few lines for thirsty souls.”

  Too cold to swim, so I imagine myself doing it. From the beach to the harbor mouth and back is about a thousand paces—one mile. I swim that twice, without rest. Stroke by stroke, I recite the Hector poem, seeing myself before the men. The poet recites and holds them spellbound. Their emotions follow the rhythms of my words.

  Whilst behind him Priam’s son, played by

  that cunning Athena….

  On the day of my capture I looked over the rail of Cutter’s flagship to the sandy harbor bottom. It was wrinkled like the corners of Servilia’s eyes. In her sleeping room we make love by the reflection of water on the tiles. All night long we swim our lovely mile, stroke by stroke, four times, five times, even six, our breathing as regular as tide wash. At daybreak we eat a peach bursting with juice, and which, when laid open, displays delicate red veins in its white flesh.

  My mind is my salvation.

  By the glow of a charcoal heater I part Cornelia’s robe. Her skin reflects the fiery light from the coals. I fondle, sample, and while describing her beauty to her I think about coming into her profound depths and there scattering sperm like a farmer broadcasting seed. She pushes me away and tells me I’m never satisfied. Later she sleeps, and I feel the vibration of a delicate snore. The sudden furrow of her brow marks a fleeting dream, while in the depths of her calmness and sleep the child is trying to form, trying to live. This is what she doesn’t understand, that I am satisfied. I begin to think in satisfied ways: that I should leave the city, abandon all intrigues, get rid of my bodyguards, become a quiet senator from the provinces pruning his fruit trees and writing bucolic poetry while the Sullans rape our state.

  But if I can’t sleep now I wouldn’t sleep then. So I lie awake and plot my next step, my next play for influence, my paths through the city, the way a pissing dog defines his perimeter. To the sound of Cornelia’s innocent sleep comes the howling colloquy of dogs and wolves, and the long cry of a bear, which silences all.

  By first light Cornelia is even deeper in sleep, and as the sun’s eye opens, I’m off. Curio holds my horse on the far side of the stable where we can’t be seen from a window. His eyes turn up to me, bright and black.

  “Be carefu
l.”

  “You say that every day.”

  “Every day that Sulla comes closer, his friends grow braver.”

  “What can they do?”

  “Cut you into little pieces.”

  I mount up and look down at him. He had all his hair then, just as long, but combed straight, sleek and black. His eyes had the same lively color.

  “Is that your only advice?”

  He mounts his own horse, then looks toward the house. “Be careful there too. Your world is smaller than you think.”

  When the horses start moving I want to explode that world, break out of it. Cornelia’s world belongs here. Mine belongs wherever I am. We hold the horses back at first, letting them compete, exciting them, making them strain their powerful necks. Their ears flick back for our commands. We hold back, then let loose. Mine is a high stepper, tail like a banner, fast as a dart, and the feeling of power between my legs, the wind driving tears from my eyes, and the sound, the dead, reckless, abandoned beating on the turf—this removes all trivial thoughts. There’s nothing but my thunder. Beside me, Curio flattens to his horse’s back, his leg muscles tight as rope knots. Now wind, thunder, and the edge of death! Now secret whispers to the gods! The horse turns one ear my way and I whisper, “Take it! Take it all!”

  Curio magically falls behind.

  I slit a lamb’s throat and drain its blood into a silver bowl. Another priest holds the poor creature until the convulsions stop, and then my practiced dagger cuts from anus to neck, careful not to puncture a gut. Parting the rib cage I cut out heart, liver, lungs, and place these on the plate still pulsing with life. Spotless organs keep temples open.

  But I have other business too, conducted from my villa on the Aventine. Borrow money from this man, flatter that one. Hire eight louts to heckle a senator as he passes the forum, settle disputes between clients. And receive. Receive men looking for work, traders seeking markets, spice and pottery distributors wanting the tax laws changed, smelters and metalsmiths needing introductions, ambitious politicians who would march against the government simply because they believe it’s their turn at the trough.