Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “If Caesar should descend on Rome, he could not also invade Britain,” Tros answered.

  “But you might destroy Rome. Pompeius Magnus hates luxury and corruption — for other people. There is nothing too good for himself. He would rally the patricians to fight Caesar’s faction to the death. That might mean ruin for all of us. I am a parasite. I fatten on rich men’s ignorance. There would be plenty of ignorance but no wealth after a civil war, whichever side should win.”

  “Let Rome rot. Who spoke of revolution?” Tros retorted. “I am here with thirty men to find some way of bridling Caesar. I would not give one pearl to buy a Roman mob. They would sell themselves for two pearls to the next man, and for three pearls to a third. But I have bought you, Zeuxis! Tell me how to put a stick in Caesar’s wheel.”

  Zeuxis studied Tros’s face over a goblet’s rim.

  “I prefer not to be crucified,” he answered. “There is only one way to control Rome — through a woman.”

  Tros exploded. His snort was like a bison’s when it spurns the turf.

  “No truck with women! Let Caesar manage the senate with his presents to the cuckolds’ wives. I play a man’s game.”

  “Fortuna ludum insolentem ludit!”

  Zeuxis filled his goblet, smiled and let the lamplight show the color of the wine.

  “Ptolemy the Piper, king of Egypt, is a drunkard,” he remarked. “I said nothing about women. I said ‘through a woman’!”

  “Lord Zeus!”

  “But the very gods and goddesses love one another, Tros. However we may think of women in the mass, one woman brought you into the world and one bore me. One woman supplies the key to any situation. For instance, Caesar’s daughter has kept him and Pompey from each other’s throats.”

  “I will not stoop to such practices,” Tros answered.

  “I have known men who were forced to rise to them!” said Zeuxis. “I only mentioned Julia by way of illustration. She is too ill to be of any use to us. I was thinking of another woman — Helene, daughter of Theseus, a musician, who came with old King Ptolemy from Alexandria. She is the scandal and the admiration of all Rome. The sons of newly rich equites wear flowers filched from her garland and brawl about her in the streets, while their fathers defy even the Vestal Virgins in refusing to let her be expelled from Rome. Some say she is a spy for Ptolemy; others that she seeks revenge on Ptolemy and plots to send the Roman eagles into Egypt. The truth is, she has genius and seeks enjoyment. She adores sensation. It was she who posed to Timonides of Corinth for the new statue of the Venus Genetrix; his workshop was so thronged with visitors that he removed the unfinished statue all the way to Tarentum, but when he did that she refused to go there and the statue is still unfinished. She rides in a gilded litter, as she isn’t a slave and they can’t prevent it. Recently she offered to drive her own quadriga in the races. When the aedile refused to permit that she offered to fight Juma, the Nubian gladiator. Some think she might have beaten him, but the Vestal Virgins would not hear of such a scandalous proceeding. She understands that stirring of desire is much more profitable than to satisfy it. For a pearl or two we might persuade her to amuse herself immensely for our benefit. By Heracles, I have it!”

  Zeuxis rose dramatically, one hand raised, as if he plucked a great idea from the ether, but Tros watched him without enthusiasm. “Let us send the girl to Caesar.”

  “Trash!” Tros answered. “I could dig that thought from any dunghill. Caesar is not Paris, son of Priam — he is Caesar. He would take, but the woman is not born who can seduce him. Caesar smiles once, and the craftiest surrender to him like ice to the sun. I know him. Five times I have met him, and he — almost — won-me! I admired his brilliance. He has intellect. He recognizes strength on the instant, or weakness equally. He can read men’s character as I read wind and sea; and he can use the rogue or the weakling as I use puffs of wind to fill my sails. But he prefers to match his strength against the strongest, even as I love conquering the storms. Five times I have met him. Three times I have beaten him. Each time he has offered me command of all his fleet. I laughed.”

  “I remember your father also was mad,” remarked Zeuxis. “Why in the name of all the mysteries of death should you reject the friendship of a man like Caesar? That is wanton waste of golden opportunity! And you a Greek from Samothrace! Have you not sense enough to realize that fortune favors Caesar? Will you flaunt your prejudices in the face of Providence? I tell you, Caesar will inevitably be master of the world unless an accident prevents.”

  “Then let my name be Accident,” said Tros.

  “In the name of the immortal gods who turned their backs on Hellas when the Romans came, let us be wise men and swim with the tide!” Zeuxis urged. “You and I are not heroes. Caesar is. We might destroy him, as I have seen dogs drag down men in the arena; but the dogs did not turn into men; nor should we become Caesars. Tros, I tell you, we should let this Caesar burst a breach for us in fortune’s walls and follow in with him. Success is sweet! I drink to it! Failure is bitter; lo, I hurl my dregs at it! Men live longest who know enough to follow fortune’s favorites.”

  Tros snorted, thumping a fist down on his thigh. He glared at Zeuxis as if eyes could burn him up.

  “Aye, gods have turned their backs on Hellas. She is dead. I live!” he answered. “I measure life by strength of living, not by days and nights and lustrums. Failure? A beached fish for it! Riches? There isn’t a rogue in Rome who mayn’t be as rich as Crassus if he has the luck. What is worth having in this life? Dignity and friendship, Zeuxis! Courage to stand by a friend! Vision and will! The choosing between right and wrong! The pluck to take the weaker side — the obstinacy to persist — rebellion against the wrong thing — action! Those are life.”

  “Then why not be the friend of Caesar?” Zeuxis argued. “Friendship should not be squandered on unworthy people. If choosing is the gist of life, choose wisely! Caesar will give you action; and if the apparently weaker side amuses you, choose his. He is all-powerful in Gaul, no doubt; but here in Italy Pompeius Magnus has the gage of him at present — or so the senate thinks, and so think nearly all the equites and the patricians — and so thinks Crassus, or he never would have gone to Asia to try to wrest a triumph from the Parthians. Select the cause that seems the weaker at the moment; then — success? — suppose we call it opportunity for further effort. You are a young man. You may outlive Caesar. It would be no mean memory that you were Caesar’s friend. If he should have rewarded you—”

  “With what?” Tros interrupted. “Money? The stolen gold of Gaul! Employment? Holding in subjection ravished provinces, or possibly off-standing pirates who are no worse than himself and only seek to glean where Caesar harvested! Honors? He has no honor. He has avarice, energy, skill; he can arouse the sentiment of pauper-soldiers driven from their farms by cheap slave-labor enslaved by himself from looted provinces. But honor? He serves out honors as he feeds his legions, from the commissariat. He keeps faith when it pays him, and because it pays.”

  “By the forsaken gods of Hellas, Tros, I think we all do that,” said Zeuxis. “You have paid me to keep faith with you, and since you whetted my discretion with one gesture of royal extravagance, why not confide in me a little? You spoke of a ship. Where is the ship? Where did you land in Italy?”

  “I landed at Tarentum. My ship is at sea,” Tros answered. “She will come for me to Ostia, where Conops shall quarter himself in order to hurry to me with the news of her arrival. I found me a pilot in Gades who knows Roman waters; and I have a Northman in charge of the ship, whom I trust because he and I fought until we learned the temper of each other’s steel.”

  “Caesar has a way of knowing what his enemies are doing. Does he know you are in Rome?” asked Zeuxis.

  “He knew I left Gades for Rome. I had a brush with him in Gades. I won from him authority to use all Roman ports. I have a letter from him, signed and sealed.”

  “He knows you are his enemy?”

  “He does.�
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  “Then that letter is worth exactly the price of damaged parchment! I suppose you haven’t heard how Cato proposed to the senate to revive Rome’s reputation by sending Caesar in fetters to the Usipetes and Tencteri. Caesar broke his word to them and violated the law of nations; but how much support do you suppose Cato aroused? Men simply laughed. There is only one way to win influence in Rome — that is, purchase it in one way or another. If you buy with money in advance, the danger is that your opponent will out-buy you. Besides, how can you compete with Caesar? His agents Balbus and Oppius have spent sixty million sesterces in buying up old buildings alone, to enlarge the Forum. Prices — any price at all; but ‘Vote for Caesar!’ If any senator wants money he goes through the farce of selling a house or some worthless work of art to Caesar at an enormous price, so as to avoid conviction of receiving bribes. The plunder from Gaul provides work at unheard-of-wages for the artisans, who would undoubtedly accept your bribes but would also continue to pocket Caesar’s wages; they look to Caesar to go on enriching them forever, whereas you would only be a momentary opportunity.

  “The better method is to entertain them, which is almost equally expensive. You would find the competition deadly. But there is this to be said; the mob will be faithful as long as nine days to whoever gives it a good thrill. After that you must think of another new thrill — and another one. Keep Rome entertained and you may even nominate her consuls.”

  Tros rose from his seat on the window-ledge and paced the room, his hands behind him and the muscles of his forearms standing out like knotted cords.

  “You know Cato?” he demanded.

  “Surely. Only recently he had me driven from his door. I represent the decadence he makes his reputation by denouncing — the ungrateful, vain, old-fashioned snarler! He is the best man in Rome and politically the most contemptible, because he means exactly what he says and keeps his promises. Pin no hopes on Cato.”

  “Cicero?”

  “He owes me money for his new house. I have a little influence with him. But he is much more heavily in debt to Caesar. Cicero measures gratitude by bulk; he will even praise bad poetry if rich men write it.”

  “Marcus Antonius?”

  “Profligate — drunk — insatiable — rash — a Heracles with a golden voice, in love with popularity. He knows how to win the mob’s plaudits — and at present he favors Caesar.”

  “Have you the ear of Pompey?”

  “Nobody has. He has the best taste of any man in Rome, so he is naturally disgusted with politics. He glooms in his country villa, where even senators are turned away. Pompey half imagines himself super-human but half doubts whether his good luck will continue. I believe he is losing his grip on himself. He recently refused to be made dictator on the ground that there is no need for one, but I think the fact is, he has no policy and doesn’t know what to do. His wife is ill, and if she should die he might come out into the open as Caesar’s enemy, but at present he makes a show of friendship for him.

  “His intimates flatter him out of his senses; and because of his easy success in the war against the pirates and his aristocratic air of keeping his intentions to himself he is the most feared man in Rome. But the mob believes Caesar will bring fabulously rich loot out of Britain, which makes the moment inauspicious to oppose Caesar; and though Pompey loathes the rabble he likes their votes. Who wouldn’t? Also, I think he honestly dreads a civil war, which would be inevitable if he should announce himself as Caesar’s enemy. You have no chance with Pompey.”

  Tros came and stood in front of Zeuxis, frowning down at him, ignoring a proffered goblet of wine.

  “Have you the ear of any one in Rome who would serve my purpose?” he demanded.

  “I have told you — Helene of Alexandria.” Tros snorted again, but Zeuxis went on:

  “At the moment she is keeping rather quiet because three days ago two factions of young fools fought about her with their daggers in the Forum. Two sons of equites were killed and half-a-dozen badly hurt. Cato was furious. She must be nearly bursting after three days’ seclusion. She likes me because — well, to be candid with you — she influences business and draws fat commissions. The best advice I can give you is to see Helene.”

  Tros scowled and stroked his chin.

  “Tomorrow morning. Why not? It will be a novelty that will stir her craving for amusement. You arrive at the door of her villa with a handsome young barbarian prince, exactly at the moment when she is ready to burn the house over her head with boredom. Flatter her — amuse her — praise her — bribe her — and she will ruin Caesar for you if it is possible to do it.”

  Tros groaned aloud, shaking his fists at the painted ceiling —

  “O Almighty Zeus, am I never to be disentangled from the schemes of women?”

  “You are forgetting Leda and the swan,” said Zeuxis. “Even Father Zeus himself has had entanglements at times!”

  CHAPTER 84. Helene

  I have seen many a man ape humility by magnifying the importance of his office and denying his own claim to be more than a servant. But his office is what he makes it, as a ship is what her builder makes her and behaves as her master directs. If a ship’s crew is unseamanly, I know her master’s character, no matter what his chastity of homage to the ill luck that he bids me witness. If I see a city foul with lewdness, I know its rulers’ character, no matter what their mouthings about the sanctity of office and the grandeur of their institutions.

  — from The Log of Tros of Samothrace

  THREE hours before dawn Tros awoke Orwic to discuss proposals with him.

  “Cato is the noblest Roman of them all. He is incorruptible. This woman Helene is Rome’s paramour. Cato’s party is in contempt because it is old- fashioned and honest. Which shall it be? Shall we attack Rome’s weakness or ally ourselves to strength?”

  “Try both!” Orwic murmured sleepily. “What difference does it make to me? I know no Latin. I can neither make love to a woman nor address the senate! It appears I can’t drink! That fellow Zeuxis’ wine has made my head feel like a copper kettle.”

  Orwic fell asleep again. Tros went to his own room, where he lay cudgeling his brains. He could foresee nothing. It was possible he was in danger of his life, equally possible that Caesar’s enemies might leap at every opportunity and stage a demonstration that should force Caesar to abandon his attempt on Britain. Should he adopt a subtle course or the direct one of appealing bluntly to such men as Cato, Cicero and Pompey?

  Zeuxis, on the other hand, with pearls in mind, sent a slave with a letter in haste to Helene’s villa. Three hours after daybreak two of her litters, borne by slaves in her livery and with a eunuch in attendance, waited in front of Zeuxis’ porch.

  By that time Zeuxis and his guests had breakfasted under the awning in the fountained courtyard. Already Zeuxis was deep in his affairs — mercurial, excited — giving orders to his foreman in an office whose walls were hidden behind drawings and sheaves of estimates. There was a staff of nine slaves busy figuring at long desks. A stream of tradesmen and sub- contractors poured in and out, all chattering. But Zeuxis abandoned business when he heard that those litters had come.

  “Tros, fortune smiles on us!”

  He ordered his own chariot brought — an extremely plain affair, unpainted, drawn by mules.

  “Lest I arouse cupidity! My customers would be annoyed if I looked rich. Rome is still a strait-laced city — except for the rich Romans!”

  Refusing to explain, he almost dragged Tros into the first litter and waved Orwic into the other. Tros found himself on scented cushions behind embroidered silk curtains through which he could see but remain unseen. An escort of men armed with staves went before and behind and a eunuch, modestly arrayed, but strutting like a peacock, led the way for a while in the dust of Zeuxis’ chariot. Zeuxis drove full pelt to have a first word with the lady who had sent the litters, and was shortly out of sight.

  They passed into the city through a swarming crowd of slaves an
d merchants, skirted the Mons Palatinus by a smelly street between brick houses, crossed the Tiber by a wooden bridge, where slaves of the municipium stood guard at either end to put out fires and regulate the traffic, and emerged into a zone of trans-Tiberian villas, where hardly a house was visible because of densely planted trees and high walls, and the only gaudy ostentation was displayed on decorated gate-posts. There was much less traffic over-river, although chariots, often preceded by men on horseback and usually followed by breathless slaves on foot, were driven recklessly, their drivers shouting to foot-passengers to clear the way; and there were countless slaves carrying provisions and merchandise for sale.

  There were no armed men in evidence, but the high walls of the villas suggested fortifications and the general impression was of jealously guarded privacy.

  The villa occupied, but not owned, by Helene faced the Tiber between higher walls than ordinary, above which the trees had been topped to make them spread into impenetrable masks of dusty green. On the high gate-posts were portraits in color intended to convey a sort of family likeness of the succession of Romans who had owned the place — and lost it to a money- lender, from whom Helene had rented it.

  Her slaves were at the gate, all liveried. An impudent Cyprian eunuch, in canary-colored robes and wearing his mistress’ portrait on a copper disk hung from his neck, commanded that the gate be opened, saluting the litters as they passed in, but tempering civility with a leer that made Tros’s blood boil; and almost before the gate had slammed again his squeaky voice was raised in vinegary comment on the impatience of the slaves of certain equites who sought admission with letters and gifts to be delivered into the fair Alexandrian’s hand.

  “Tell your masters that my mistress will receive gifts when it pleases her. Has none brought any gifts for me? What sort of persons are your masters? Paupers? Plebes? Ignoramuses? What are they?”