Goras stands up to establish order.
“Quiet down! The Master is going to recite!”
A chorus of obscenity. Someone calls me “Queen Nicomedes,” and Goras chases him down the beach, throwing handfuls of sand after him.
So the poet endures, still waiting for silence, his hands steady on the parchment. Goras returns, panting. I thank him and survey the divided crowd.
“The title of this will suit you. It’s called ‘Treachery.’”
And as for Hector, the fates pinned
him where he stood, and like an oak tree
putting down roots deep and wide, he set
himself before the Skaean gate, to prevail
or be taken down, his eyes fixed on the
dread Achilles, who stepped from his
chariot, then took a long, ashen spear from
his charioteer; hefting it, he looked for
the balance point on the shaft.
While behind Priam’s son, cunning Athena
wearing the likeness of Hector’s brother
Deiphobus, spoke in these strong words: “We’ll
take him together, you and I, who of all your
brothers was closest, and who chooses not to run
before the blood-crazed Achilles.”
And Hector the Horse Tamer, forcing the
words to join his hard-running breath, replied:
“You, brother, whose eye for women is matched by
bravery in battle, I’ve seen you leer over
milky Helen, and can say that spirit extends to
warfare. Of all my brothers you’ve always been
dearest, since as boys we fought together with wooden
weapons and held off the rest of our companions.
Always we battled side by side, and now confronted by
one born immortal and knowing not how the Gods have
weighed our fates, with you above all I would gladly
go down in death. And if Apollo helps my arm,
together we will triumph.”
Then Hector threw his own long spear, not
knowing until too late that his brother’s voice
and image were an illusion, a manipulation of
Athena whose breath in his ear had clouded his
mind, like fog walking through a forest with
steady, unrelenting step. And then the great
Horse Tamer, seeing that his spear had clanged off
the seven-layered bull-hide shield of Achilles, put
his hand out to his brother for a second spear, and
not seeing it, turned to a wisp of Olympian fog.
Thus fate sealed great Hector, as
Achilles’ spear hissed like a snake, and bit!
Silence when the poem is done. Goras looks at the ground and bites the nail of his small finger. Cutter taps his stump gently and repeatedly into the palm of his hand. The rest seem unmoved. A few of the men look uncomfortably at each other. Hytaspes shrugs and holds out his palms to signify emptiness, then everyone erupts into laughter.
“What savages you are!” I cry.
“Lord,” says Cutter, in a cautionary tone, “be careful.”
“Come on,” I say to the men. “Didn’t you understand my poem?” But they aren’t listening. Cutter has given them tacit permission to resume their gluttony.
“Did my poem mean anything to you?” I ask. When they ignore me, I say, “Can such ignorance exist in this part of the world, two days’ sail from where it happened?”
I turn to Cutter, who shrugs and looks up into the trees.
“Every one of these men should know the story and sympathize.”
“I’m sure they do, Lord. But as I tried to tell you when I first saw your poem … sympathy isn’t what’s needed.” And here Cutter brings his eyes down from the trees, glances at me furtively, and settles a gaze into his wine bowl. He drinks long and deep, exhaling when the draught is finished, as though he’d found an idea.
“This business of the gods … is a little dated. And your treatment of Hector is perhaps too naive. Achilles was the hero. Even we know that.”
“Better men than you have heard this poem, and praised it highly.”
“Perhaps, Lord, but gauge the men’s reaction. Many were hard put to pay attention.”
“What do those brutes know about poetry?”
“Please, Lord, all men crave art. We know this. Your poem was good, and showed great facility with the Greek language.”
“Is that all you can say? That’s an insult!”
“You’re being oversensitive, Lord. Here’s the proof: with the exception of Goras here, who would love whatever you wrote, it’s obvious that everyone else is unmoved. Men want more than sympathy from art. They want a model for life.”
“What life? A pirate’s life? A life of theft and murder?”
He motions that he wants to speak to me privately and leads me away from the tables.
“My life, yes! Do you think some Achilles hasn’t held a point at my throat while I begged for life like a dog? You know what Non Missio means! No mercy for a fallen gladiator! So fuck Hector and whether Zeus weighed his fate on the scales and kicked Apollo’s butt down the mountain and all your other effete, Greek-tutored bullshit! There is no Zeus! Hector lost, they sacked the city and that’s the end. Your job as a poet is to sing about that, not to complain!”
A fever day. Vinegar rubs and burdock tea. Illness is like a pet dog, in and out of the home, always at the wrong time. No sleep—the world spins when I close my eyes.
Nothing from Curio, and Hytaspes still argues to sell me in Delos. One day and it’s over. They’ll cut off my balls and throw me in a cage with a wad of cotton between my legs. Cutter is on my side. He stresses to the men my reputation as a spendthrift. He makes fun of my poetry to show them what a fop I am, but deep down, he respects it.
The reading was an intimacy they didn’t deserve.
Ready to move, but to where? From my writing table to the beach, where yesterday’s wind and tide wipe away my footprints. This island has no record of my life. I find that liberating, and there are whole days, when, thinking of the future, I wish my stay would never end.
Cutter catches up to me on the donkey, which he has beaten into a froth.
“Lord, we have news from your man! News from Miletus!”
“Which is?”
“The ransom will be paid.”
Walking faster, I say, “Then your death is near.”
He plants the donkey in front of me. “Your luck is boundless! The governor will have the ransom at Miletus.”
I walk around him, mocking. “Prepare for the end.”
He cuts me off again. “Stop!” His eyes roll, looking for patience. “Listen to me. About the other day, Lord.”
“What other day?”
“After you read the poem. Some of the men …”
“Yes?”
“Would like to hear more.”
“They know quality after all.”
“Listen to me, Lord. Whether you know it or not, this can save your life.”
“My poetry?”
He leans over and puts his face so close to mine I can smell his stale breath. His little black eyes look as if they might explode from their sockets. “Will you do it?”
“Why should I if the money’s coming?”
“Because we don’t know when it will arrive. The men need to be distracted, like your mob at home.”
“That’s your job.” I wave him off and continue walking.
Night visit. Awake to a hand on my forehead, and Curio’s unshaven face nearly touching mine. This isn’t a dream. The oil lamp is lit, and he’s searching my face for the signs.
“Fever, Lord?”
“Very funny. How did you get here without being seen?”
“Arranged by Cutter, and I was seen, by one who’ll never see again.” He partly unsheathes a bloody dagger and smiles grimly.
“The g
reat chieftain assured me there’d be no watch on the seaward beach. There was, one man.”
“Who was it?”
“The fat-lipped one who caught me in the net. A sign, Lord, that there’s justice in the world.”
“Cutter wanted him out of the way. You were used.”
“No matter. Justice isn’t done yet.”
“What have you been doing?”
“Hounding that asshole governor for your money.”
“And?”
“A hard man to find, Lord. The honorable Marcus Juncus spends most of his time in Ephesus, where the brothels bring their service to his hotel door.”
“And when does the money arrive?”
“As soon as the lenders come up with it. Consent and delivery are two different matters. Juncus is in no hurry to arrange it.”
“Why not?”
“Pride, Lord. He knows you threatened Cutter.”
“So?”
“Through certain contacts in Miletus, our one-handed chieftain keeps his tongue in the governor’s ear, all the while filling his pocket.”
“How can a governor justify that?”
“Because every so often we sweep the seas and solve the problem of these pirates. We’re too weak to do that now, so why not levy a ‘tax’ until our state raises a fleet. Your threat to return and punish these pirates offends him, believe me.”
“It will cost him money.”
“Not only that, but you’d be doing his job. This will make him look ineffective back home, especially because you’re so young. He told me this in so many words. Provincial governors have so many years in which to accumulate. How else can he retire with a farm in southern Italy and a villa on the Aventine?”
“So we were taken prisoner to make him rich. Our captain was killed so the governor could stuff his pockets.”
“Please Lord, don’t be so idealistic! Our honorable governor wasn’t pleased with your generosity with the state’s money either. Fifty talents is no easy sum to raise, even by a governor who wants to do it.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“I advise you to. So how did Cutter take your threat?”
“I don’t think he believes it.”
“You need to practice the ‘command voice,’ Lord.”
“In this situation? Perhaps it’s better to pretend I don’t mean it. Or to keep him guessing.”
“You’re probably right. But how do you feel?”
“About what?”
“Keeping your word.”
“How would you feel?”
“Frightened, but willing.”
“That’s a fair assessment.”
He places one hand on my shoulder, then rises to leave. “It will be a first, Lord, a first for you. You’ll make your mark at home.”
“I don’t think about that.”
“You’re talking to me now….”
“I’d forgotten. Then it’s possible?”
“Yes, but there’s work to do. Men are being recruited now.”
“Good men?”
“Retired legionaries, youngsters without prospects. This part of the world is full of them, and all hungry.”
“Pay them well, but for success. We’ll need four good ships.”
“Ships are another matter.”
“The governor’s coast guard?”
“Hired by him.”
“Then they’ll work for us. Offer the commanders enough to sway them. The money’s not important. This can be done in two days.”
Curio’s eyes brighten. I’ve brought out the soldier in him.
“Patience for now,” he says.
“Just remember the importance.”
“Your first command, Lord.” He grips my shoulder hard, then leaves. But his words remain behind, first command, mark at home. There was a first for Pompey when, with no authority, he recruited an army in southern Italy and presented it to Sulla, with himself at the head. A first for Crassus when he did the same. Both men were my age or younger.
I dream of many like Curio in my service, small, wily men who can march all day on flat bread and vinegar.
Now that Cutter has announced that the money is coming, everyone is more relaxed. I spend the morning throwing javelins with the men and to everyone’s surprise, beat them easily. My best throw is one hundred and twenty paces. Goras massages my right shoulder before each throw, his eyes half-closed in ecstasy. He says, “You can do everything, Lord, everything.” I explain how none of them have the proper throwing technique, to release the javelin at a one-third angle and follow through on the horizontal.
In the afternoon I win the foot race around the harbor and tease them during the last part, throwing back my taunts.
“You’re heavy from an easy life, from too much meat and wine. You should work for a living like everyone else.”
“Why should we work when you can support us?”
After the races the pirates begin a bout of eating. Whole roasted lambs are unskewered onto the table tops and ripped apart by unwashed hands. So plentiful is the meat and so poor their manners that they eat only the most tender parts, flinging the sinewy parts at the dogs. Their meat still sickens me, even though they roast it black over a hot fire. The lamb is too heavy and keeps me awake, the goat smells like its own feces. Partridge is the only meat I will taste, but these haven’t arrived in time. The pirates apologize for this all around.
So I eat flat bread dipped in oil and some fresh broad beans. This is my best appetite since the capture. Tired and satisfied, I break open each bright green pod and eat the tender beans, each one an orb of energy, each one a little sun. I stare at each bean reverently before placing it in my mouth. Some of the men see this and laugh. They consider me precious and distracted. All to my advantage.
Hytaspes washes ashore on the seaward side, his throat cut. Now everyone’s on edge, and this is the worst time for a messenger from Juncus. The alarm sounds and a ketch flying the governor’s pennant arrives in the harbor. The messenger no sooner steps on land when the pirates, thinking he has the money, rip up the insides of his boat. Finding nothing, they strip him to the breech, tie him to a tree, and threaten to cut his heart out.
Cutter rescues the messenger and brings him to me. He’s a young Syrian with a sparse beard and pushed-out teeth which prevent him from closing his mouth. This gives him the look of a simpleton.
“He’s here to see if you’re alive,” says Cutter. “The governor doesn’t trust us.”
“Why should he?” I turn to the messenger. “How soon will the money come?”
“I know nothing about the money. My instructions are to find out if you’re alive and well-treated.”
“In accordance with his station,” says Cutter, bowing low. “His every wish is fulfilled.”
In the battle outside the Colline Gate, Pompey took the left, Crassus the right, and Sulla the center. Sulla’s part of the line collapsed. Pressed hard, he pulled a small statue of Apollo from his saddle pouch and cried out, “Help me! Help me!” The Archer was with him. With their backs to the city walls, Sulla’s troops were unable to retreat, and went on to a great victory.
Only louts like Cutter believe the gods are dead.
What happens to the dead? They walk in cities packed with keening souls, places of semidarkness where these multitudes of shades seek out their ancestors to compare life stories. Now Fat Lip walks in one of those cities, along with Vibius and Secondini.
I’m never alone since Hytaspes’ death. I tease Cutter: those who slit his throat could have been after me—his prize. He snarls at that, and restores the guard outside my hut. He tells the men I need to be protected, then looks my way and winks. On my walks a pair of guards follows me at a distance, or Cutter himself comes along, riding sideways on the donkey.
One morning we climb a path to the cliff above the harbor. The caves are just below us, and the ram of his new trireme can be seen protruding from its berth.
“We’re in this together,” he says.
“And what does that mean?”
“I’m fighting for your life.”
“You’re fighting for my money.”
“Yes, your money. But your obligation doesn’t end there.”
I turn my back, and continue slowly up the path, listening to the donkey’s uneven step behind me and the dull report of Cutter’s whip on its hide. From the cliff the glittering harbor can be seen in its entirety, as well as the tops of the trees near the settlement.
“We’re in nothing together,” I say, hustling along the crest and leaving him behind. At the high point I stop and wait. When he catches up I take hold of the donkey’s bridle and stop him.
“We make no bargains, we form no alliances with anyone but our own.”
Then I turn and continue along the crest. The sea is all around us now, an infinite sparkling sheet in which the shadows of clouds extend like continents. There’s not a sail, not a bird, the view clear to the Asian mainland with its endless forests. Visible for the first time are some dark shapes resting on the water’s surface, the distant northern islands. Freedom is everywhere but under my feet.
“You people!” he says, shaking his head.
“What does that mean?”
“You acknowledge nothing.”
“This is why we’re strong.”
“And we’re weak?”
“The truth?”
“Yes.”
“You have no system.”
“Of what?”
I speak into the air, into the sun’s fire reflected there. “You have no system of origins or ethics, no potent view of man and god to hold you together. This is why you live by force and deception, why the concept of keeping one’s word is foreign to you. You’ve been conquered and divided since time began, and always, you lost to the west. Your religion is a fragmented, inarticulate system built on the images of horned beasts. We link our divinities to the virtues of man. You’re trying to say I have an obligation beyond the money. To do what?”
“To forget this incident when it’s over.”
“Then you take my promise seriously.”
Cutter's Island Page 7
