by Talbot Mundy
CHAPTER XIII. “Vale, Imperator!”
The living are afraid of death. I should not be surprised to know the dead are equally afraid of living — but with far more reason.
— Fragment from The Diary Of Olympus.
Darkness before moonrise. On the beach: Pelusium.
A voice. Stand! I have a javelin. Who are you?
Another voice. I am no man’s enemy in these days — too old to be dangerous and too poor to be worth a robber’s trouble. I am Marius Rufus. Who are you?
First voice. Philip, a freedman. Draw near. Let me look at you.
Marius Rufus. A freedman? Whose then?
Philip. A great Roman’s. If you are as honorable as your name sounds, then attend his obsequies. Oh, woe! Oh, woe and wailing for the greatest Roman! Woe! Oh, misery! Oh, shame! Oh, foul fate! Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus —
Marius Rufus. He? You are demented!
Philip. Would I were! Oh, would it were my head they took! See you — naked — headless! That is my shirt he is wrapped in.
Marius Rufus. He shall have mine too, whoever he is. But Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus — naked — headless on a seashore? Who is likely to believe that? How comes he dead — and you, his freedman as you say you are, still living?
Philip. Woe! Woe! Would that I had died in place of him! Oh, would that he had listened to his wife Cornelia: ‘Go not! Go not ashore!’ she warned him. Would that he had listened to us, who begged him to stay in our midst, as he left the boat! But he would come last, proud to the end, although he foresaw treachery. They stabbed him — hacked his head off — stripped him — threw his body in the sea — oh, woe! woe!
Marius Rufus. Woe indeed, if you speak truth! If this is Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus then I have better right than you to grieve, for I was free born, and I marched with his standard in Spain, and in Hellas — aye, and against Lepidus. But what were you and your companions doing?
Philip. Them they slew. I broke away. I dashed into the sea; for I had seen my patron’s headless body thrown in, and I had no other thought left than to die with him — to drown with him. The gods preserved me to perform his obsequies. I swam a long time, looking for the body. And at last I saw a crowd of idlers staring; and I saw the body rolling in the surf. So I put seaweed on my hair and shoulders and I came forth. The fools ran! They thought me Neptune!
Marius Rufus. Eh? The Sea-god coming to do honor to the Scourge of Pirates? That was good, that was! Poor fellow, you are wet still — and a chill wind. I begin to believe your tale. Let me see that body. I believe I would know my old general, even headless. He was wounded in Spain — let me remember now — where was it? — on the right breast, half-a-hand’s breadth from the arm-pit. Ecce! Ecce! You have not lied, Philip! That is he! Oh, woe and lamentation! Foul fate! Imperator — conqueror — dictator — headless on a vile beach!
Philip. Quiet! Let us pay him the last honor in such silence as he loved. See — I have found the book that he was calmly reading as they rowed us between ship and shore. Such dignity! Such otherworldliness! A Roman — a true Roman! Oh, what foul fate for the greatest of all Romans!
Marius Rufus. You were right, friend. Let us make no clamor, or they might prevent the honor we would do him. Where is the head?
Philip. I know not. I have hunted for it high and low. His murderers may have taken it to sport with or to spike above a fort gate.
Marius Rufus. Likelier to sell. And who should pay a price for it but Caesar? May our fathers’ gods repay that Caesar as he merits! Infamous impostor! Demagogue! Perverter of our olden customs!
Philip. May the Fates mete justice! You are old, friend Rufus. Have you strength to carry driftwood?
Marius Rufus. Aye, some little strength yet. You have washed the body? Wait then while I add my shirt to yours. I am a soldier. Let your shirt be for decency, and mine for honor — for his imperator’s cloak — the worthier to act that part because I have no other. So — now, let us hasten. When we have brought wood will you know where to find a torch?
Philip. Aye. Let us build the pyre here, by the sea’s edge.
Marius Rufus. Vale, Imperator! Marius Rufus gives thanks that with shreds of strength left over from the service of the Rome we both love, he has lived to do this last deed, to the end that your great spirit may go forth in peace, and find rest. Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus — vale, Imperator!
Philip. Vale, Imperator!
CHAPTER XIV. “Truly there is nothing for us Romans left to do but to yield to Caesar.”
Fools say: I will do this and the consequences shall be thus. The wise, however, seek to do only that which is proper to the moment and they meet the consequences when they come; since wisdom is a spiritual quality, its mate intuition, its offspring foresight that confers ability to do a right thing at the right time. Thus the truly wise are reckless of results, which, rooted in their cause, inevitably must include as much of rightness as the deed did that has brought them into being.
— Fragment from The Diary Of Olympus.
TROS’ cabin lantern had nearly spent its last oil in the darkness before dawn. The great ship lay at anchor offshore, rolling to a ground-swell, that kept the lantern swinging and the shadows moving. Tros sat like a judge, his sword of justice on the table and Aias, the prisoner, standing before him. On the port bunk lay Apollodorus, fast asleep. Cleopatra lay with Charmian, chin supported by both hands, on the starboard bunk.
“Now understand me,” Tros repeated, “if I catch you lying—”
“By Horus and by Hathor, I lie not! May your honors’ excellencies’ ears be as the ears of Thoth, who registers the heart’s weight. May Osiris judge me.”
“You have a Greek name,” Tros objected. “Why not swear by Greek gods?”
But Cleopatra intervened: “No, no, Tros. The half-breeds are all liars when they swear by Zeus. The Nile prevails. He only knows the names of Greek gods. They mean nothing to him. Let him answer in the name of Thoth and the dreadful weighing.”
“It is I who weigh now! Speak on,” Tros commanded.
“I am a decurion of the fortress guard of Pelusium. I overheard the Lords Achillas, Potheinos and Theodotus taking counsel among themselves to slay the Roman General Pompey. I heard all. It was the Lord Theodotus, the King’s tutor, who kept insisting that dead men don’t bite: that therefore they must invite him to come ashore and stab him to death on the beach. They sent for two Romans named Septimius and Salvius, to whom they promised great rewards if they would slay the Roman General. But it was the Lord Achillas who struck the first blow, nevertheless.”
“He does not lie. I saw Achillas strike the blow,” said Cleopatra.
Tros glanced up at the lantern, then looked sternly at the prisoner:
“You have until that lantern flickers out, to tell the whole truth. Otherwise you shall drown.”
The prisoner resumed his story in a hurry. “There came a messenger from Alexandria, on a camel that fell down dead, for it was furiously ridden. He cried that a Roman fleet lies anchored off the Pharos — and that it is Caesar’s fleet — and that Pelusium thus lies between two enemies, like an onion between the pestle and the mortar. Therefore, the Lord Theodotus took the Roman General’s head and made all haste to carry it to Caesar. And the Lord Potheinos himself aroused the young King from his bed, to take him at once to Alexandria, to make such terms for him with Caesar as may be possible. But the Lord Achillas holds the fortress, waiting with the army to see what shall transpire. Therefore, the Fort Commandant, who has many reasons to mistrust and to fear the Lord Achillas, sent me to inform the Sister of the Moon and Stars that if she will approach the fort to-morrow night at midnight, she will find the south gate unguarded. He relies on her, whose eyes are stars of heaven, and whose voice is mystery, to reward him for restoring to her the fortress that is hers by right. And he agrees to slay the Lord Achillas with his own hand.”
Tros sat back and glanced at the lantern again, waiting for Cleopatra to make her own comment on that proposal. She was s
wift with it:
“Set him ashore, Tros. Let him go back to Pelusium and say this to the Commandant: that I perceive his treachery. I am not so easily delivered into the hands of General Achillas.”
Tros rapped the table with his knuckles. In the dying light the face of Aias had grown yellow, and his eyes, distended by his fear, looked inhuman.
“Did you hear? Can you swim?” Tros demanded.
He struck a bronze gong that hung from an overhead beam. The cabin door was opened by a seaman.
“Four of you — throw this decurion overboard. Don’t injure him unless he tries to return to the ship. He has my leave to swim ashore if he can do it.”
The ensuing scuffle and the slamming door awoke Apollodorus.
“News!” he demanded. “Where are we? Are we on our way? And where to?”
“In darkness?” Tros answered. “With a head wind, and a shoal on either hand? A ship is not a chariot!”
And then the light went out; but Cleopatra vowed that she could see the first faint glimmer of the dawn through the half-open hatch that was used to ventilate the cabin.
Tros went to the poop and she and Charmian followed him For a minute or two Cleopatra stood there filling her lungs and stretching herself, while Tros gave orders to his officers in a group below him on the main deck. Then Apollodorus came up, yawning, and ceasing to yawn as he watched Cleopatra’s figure, swaying, bending, lovely in the dim gray light — until a voice cried in Greek from the masthead:
“Ship approaching! On the port bow!”
They all leaned over the port rail, peering through a light mist that was already drifting away before the wind.
“Roman ship — crowded with men — coming in slowly under oars toward the beach!” cried the voice up aloft. But they could see nothing yet from the poop Ashore there was a dull red glare — the remains of Pompey’s funeral pyre — that an approaching ship might have mistaken for a beacon.
“Lucius Lentulus,” said Tros.
“They have let go their anchor! They lower a boat!” The sun rose and the wind blew long lanes down the mist until a ship showed plainly, less than half a mile away. But it lay at anchor on the far side of a shoal over which the gulls were feeding in water less than a fathom deep, while here and there a mud-bank, like the back of a great leviathan, lay half-awash.
“Up anchor, Conops! Drums there — ready! Out oars!”
The wind freshened until the mist revealed the dreary coast-line and a small boat rowing from the Roman ship toward the shore. But Tros attended to the navigation, picking his way very slowly between moaning shoals, alert for the cry of the masthead lookout and for the chant of the seaman taking soundings. The winding channel brought him, now closer to the shore, now nearer to the Roman ship, but in the aggregate the course was northward, out toward open sea.
“Stand by arrow-engines! Lay the ammunition in the racks and make all ready!”
The deck grew thunderous with running feet. Then silence, as if the whole ship held her breath. Tros’ voice, speaking low to Cleopatra, was like the rumble of a wardrum:
“Yon ship’s company is in no mood for a battle. They haven’t room to swing a weapon on the deck, and most of them are seasick. I could capture them, if I could see a purpose in it. But do you see your brother’s fleet there, weighing anchor? If they crowd in on us—”
He was interrupted by Apollodorus, who was gazing astern at the beach, where the small boat was already tossing in the longshore surf. Pompey’s lieutenant, Lucius Lentulus, was easily distinguishable by his red cloak and his helmet. Horsemen were galloping down from the fort to the point of sand near the funeral pyre where the boat must presently touch shore.
“Does anybody want to bet?” Apollodorus asked. “I will lay a thousand to one against the life of any Roman who sets foot on that beach this morning!”
The horsemen appeared to be shouting — possibly a welcome. Lucius Lentulus was seen to step ashore, but he was almost instantly surrounded by Achillas’ cavalry. A troop of horsemen rode into the water and, surrounding the boat, slashed with sabers at its occupants. A voice cried from the masthead:
“The Roman ship weighs anchor!”
“Speak to them, Tros!” said Cleopatra. “Sail up close and speak to them!”
Tros ordered a dry branch hoisted to the masthead. “They are in a panic,” he remarked, “but, praise Pallas, they seem to have read that signal right.”
He stood in closer and the Romans lowered their only other small boat. The wind was against the Egyptian fleet, so there was time for a conference. Tros hove his ship to.
“Is my hair tidy, Charmian?” asked Cleopatra.
Charmian touched her hair and smoothed the creases from her dress. In tense silence, except for the creaking of spars and the cry of sea-birds, the whole ship’s company watched the approaching boat until Tros roared:
“Lower away the ladder! Lend him a hand there!”
A wounded Roman officer, his left arm swathed in bandages, came striding along the deck, halted at the foot of the ladder leading to the poop, and saluted.
“I am Constantius Sylvanus, Tribune, now in command of two half-legions of the army of Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus, Imperator.”
“Draw near and prepare yourself for evil tidings, Constantius Sylvanus. I am Tros of Samothrace. Royal Egypt, may I present this tribune to you?”
The Roman masked astonishment, saluting her with raised right hand.
“Constantius Sylvanus,” said Cleopatra, “we are sorry indeed to greet you with evil tidings; but a true man, as we doubt not you are, suffers all blows of fate with dignity.”
“I am running from defeat,” Sylvanus answered. “Is there worse to endure than that?”
“Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus has been done to death, Sylvanus. You can see there on the beach, where Lucius Lentulus lies also slain, the smoke of the great Pompey’s funeral pyre.”
Constantius Sylvanus bowed his head. “We loved him — we were loyal to him, even in defeat,” he answered, when he could find words. “When we saw that red fire glowing through the mist Lentulus had an intuition that it might be our Imperator’s pyre. If it were so, he swore he would recover the ashes or perish. And now—”
Not knowing what to say or do, he glanced at his ship, where the men leaned overside to watch for his return.
“I mingle with yours a true grief for a noble Roman,” said Cleopatra, and again he saluted her. “But you must make haste, Sylvanus. My brother Ptolemy’s men are murderous and merciless. And whither will you go now?”
“We lack food and water. We must make a near port, Royal Egypt.”
“We will give you food and water from this ship, and you must go to Ptolemais. Send word thence to Herod, Prince of Galilee. You may tell him I am on my way to Caesar, and that if he does no injury, and no dishonor to my Lady of Honor Lollianè whom he seized, then I will not ask Caesar for vengeance on him.”
“Royal Egypt, if you will pardon a soldier’s blunt speech, I am in no condition to carry messages,” Sylvanus answered.
“But you are lost else! What hope have you except to make your peace with Caesar? Who better than I can speak in your behalf to him? If I say: Constantius Sylvanus went on my advice to Ptolemais, where he awaits Caesar’s clemency and asks what disposition he shall make of the troops in his command, will Caesar, think you, overlook that opportunity to make you his friend, who have been his enemy?”
“Not if Caesar is as magnanimous as you seem wise, O Queen. Truly, there is nothing for us Romans left to do but to yield to Caesar.”
“Return to your ship then. Make haste. We will follow you to sea and provision you out of sight of my brother’s fleet.”
Sylvanus saluted her with far more ceremony than when he first came override, then backed away. Tros’ seamen helped him down into his boat.
“Royal Egypt, will you put your head into a crocodile’s mouth?” Tros asked her. “Caesar has raised more women’s hopes and wrecked more women’s
honor than Priapus ever did! And how shall you reach Caesar? — you, who are already dispensing Caesar’s patronage!”
“Constantius Sylvanus should have asked that! Stand out more to the westward, Tros, and terrify my brother’s fleet, or they will catch that Roman! They will turn back if they see you are not afraid of them!”
“Woman, turn thou aside!” Tros answered. “Bid me carry you to Caesar, and I will, so near as I can come. But I would rather carry you to Britain, where my friends are. Caesar is a three-edged thunderbolt — not a woman’s plaything!”
“Do you my bidding, Tros,” she answered. “I am not a woman on her way to Caesar. I am the Nile flowing seaward. I am Egypt — sister of the Moon and Stars.”
“But how shall you reach Caesar? Will your brother and his eunuchs not bar the way? And shall I risk my ship into the harbor, with a Roman fleet at anchor there? Poseidon knows the Romans are no sailors. But I am one. And the first charge of a seaman is his good ship, which is not to be thrust into sure disaster. In the open water I can show Caesar or any other Roman a white wake. At sea I have no fear of all the Romans in the world. But cooped in a port without room to run—”
“Trust Olympus,” she answered. “Only show your purple sails at dawn outside the Pharos. Then trust Olympus, who is watching; and trust me — as I trust my destiny.”
CHAPTER XV. “Mice crowding a hole in a corn-bin!”
SEEN at intervals from under the sail of a small boat rising over lazy ground-swells and descending into seaweed-littered gulfs between them, Alexandria looked like a city where the gods might dwell. The columns, domes and golden temple roofs — the glitter of sun-kissed marble offset by the green of irrigated trees — the dignity and vastness of the Lochias — the exquisite proportions of the library and mausoleum, and of the long steps to the water’s edge along the front of the royal harbor — blended into a splendor worthy of the Alexander who had given it his name.
