by Talbot Mundy
As for Hero, he praised her cautiously, taking the blame on himself for having overloaded her with a task that had equally baffled Sigurdsen and Conops.
“Girl, you did well. I am proud of you. But you have yet to learn to use your cunning, and reserve violence for use when cunning fails. You should have guarded the water-supply. You should have let those Romans drink and wash only with your permission. One of the principal means of command is to control necessities and dole them out as favors. You, as a woman, should know that. Is a woman, who can be had on demand, of any value as a bait for men’s obedience? It is so with food and water. Nevertheless, we have snatched advantage. I could hardly have left that rabble at the Cretans’ mercy, if they hadn’t given me excuse. As it is, we are free for the fight of our lives.”
CHAPTER XLVI. “What does the Queen think it means, Olympus?”
The worst hour is the eve of final effort, when the goal, that seemed so near, seems passing out of reach; and all the work done hitherto, that seemed so wise, appears ill-done and ill-conceived; and all the unpredictable, imponderable dangers, suddenly invade the mind like spectres. Then a man needs courage. Aye, he needs the courage to believe his vision all along, from the first until now, was clear, and all his efforts well aimed to a good conclusion.
— From the Log of Lord Captain Tros of Samothrace
And now, Tros hunted Ahenobarbus. He extended his probably vastly inferior fleet so widely that hardly a sail could have passed unseen. Even before he overtook the Tarentine store-ships in charge of the trireme, a Delos slaver and three fishing boats had been ordered up into the wind and had given him better than hints of the Roman admiral’s movements. The cargoes from Tarentum were whipped out and distributed. Tros took Tarquinius aboard and learned from him that the trireme’s officers had picked up rumors of revolution in Alexandria. A Greek merchant vessel loaded with Syrian bears for the Roman arena had reported sighting Ahenobarbus’s fleet under full sail, headed southward, somewhere east of Cyprus. Tros invited the trireme’s commander to join forces with him, but was rather relieved when he declined and returned to Tarantum.
“You will have a belly-ache of Ahenobarbus,” said the Roman. “He has twice as big a fleet as yours.”
When the trireme parted company Tros summoned his captains and explained his strategy:
“The two essentials are wind and drinking water. At this season the wind will be from the north — a fair wind for Ahenobarbus, and he will need it if he means to sail his hulking quinquiremes to Alexandria. He will follow the Syrian coast from headland to headland. If he has full war crews he will have to water his ships every third or fourth day, or oftener. Let us all pray for filthy weather. My purpose is to find him but to avoid a battle until weight and numbers no longer give him the advantage.”
So Tros worked up to windward, combing the sea for news and not turning southward until his scouts caught four full shiploads of drinking water that were being sent from Salamis in Cyprus to overtake Ahenobarbus’s fleet — a priceless capture; it saved a hundred miles of work against the wind, and the tedious delay of hauling water from shore to ship, with all the attendant risks. It might even upset all Ahenobarbus’s calculations.
Two days later, rubbish told the tale of the Roman’s whereabouts. There were even dead bodies being torn by seabirds; there was no dirtier wake in the world than a Roman war-fleet’s.
Then the wind failed. Heat and flat calm, foreboding a storm from the northeast. Conops, scouting under oars, caught and overhauled a heavy boat-full of Ahenobarbus’s sick. They had been set adrift to reach the Syrian coast if they could. They were waterless. Given water and wine, they told all they knew.
Six quinquiremes, eight triremes, twenty biremes, eight cataphracts — all short of water. Definite news that the Jews of Alexandria had risen in rebellion, and a guess that Cleopatra might welcome a Roman fleet of help her hold the throne. A tribune with a broken leg, cursing Ahenobarbus’s ancestors and get for having set him adrift, volunteered that Ahenobarbus’s plan was to seize the island of Pharos, where there was plenty of water; possession of the island should give him the command of the harbor and control of the city.
“As for me, Lord Tros, I hope you wipe him out, although I think your fleet is unfit for the task. If ever my leg gets well again, I am for Antony.”
Tros laughed. It had been Tros himself who oversaw the strengthening of the fortifications on Pharos. Even previous to that, not even Caesar had dared to try to storm that well-defended island from the sea, and in Caesar’s day there had been no artillery. But Tros, soon after Caesar’s death, when he and Cleopatra were on friendly terms, had built huge catapults in the forts at each end of the island. They could hurl rocks weighing half a ton and smash to tinder any ship that tried to enter the Royal Harbor through the eastern channel. Ahenobarbus would have to enter the Harbor of Happy Return, at the western end, where the entrance was wider and his fleet could keep out of catapult’s range.
Conference again:
“It’s going to blow a hell’s own snorter from the nor’east,” said Conops. “He’s going to have to run for shelter. He’ll be parched. We have him, master — I mean Lord Admiral.”
“Those quinquiremes,” said Sigurdsen, “can’t fight in dirty weather. As soon as it begins to blow we’d better get near him and tackle his big ships one by one as they become unmanageable.”
Ahiram was all for caution: “We’ve some experienced men. But we’ve a lot of new hands who are likely to flinch in the face r, of superior numbers. I’d say, race him to Alexandria. If we’re there first, and he’s short of water, he’ll have to turn back. If it blows hard enough, he’ll pile on the beach.”
Hero agreed with Conops, but for a different reason:
“If Ahenobarbus should get there first, and if the Jews really are in rebellion, Cleopatra will welcome a Roman fleet. She will agree to support Cassius and Brutus in exchange for help against the Jews, and she will help Ahenobarbus to destroy us. I say overtake him and fight him now.”
Tros gave his verdict: “Aye! And arrive off Alexandria with a battered fleet too weak to drive a bargain, no safe port to turn to, and Cleopatra no longer menaced by Ahenobarbus! It is Cleopatra whom we have to defeat. Ahenobarbus hates and despises her. Hero, you hate her and dread her jealousy. I loathe her treachery and like her courage. Furthermore, I need her help, and she needs mine. It is time to begin to worry Ahenobarbus!”
He began by cutting off two of the Roman’s provision ships. Prisoners gave him information that was worth more than the food. Ahenobarbus knew of the capture but didn’t turn to bring on an engagement, and that told Tros more than the prisoners did. It began to blow. He gave chase in close formation, ready to concentrate on any of the Roman ships that might get separated by the storm.
It was blowing a full gale by the time they sighted the Pharos beacon. By the time they had the Roman fleet in view Ahenobarbus was in trouble, on a bad lee. His advance guard of two biremes had been utterly smashed by the catapults at the entrance of the eastern harbor. A third had been wrecked on the rocks and was sinking in smothering foam. Tros shortened sail and manoeuvred to give the Roman time. He ignored Conops’s and Sigurdsen’s signals asking leave to attack. He watched the Roman try a futile exchange of arrows with the forts on Pharos, then abandon his sinking biremes and go rolling, with a beam sea that bullied his oarsmen, westward toward the Harbor of Happy Return.
“Oh, go for him! Go in and smash him!” Hero urged. “Tros, have you lost your judgment?”
“No,” he said calmly. “Nor he his. If he were a fool, he would detach half his fleet to hold me while the other half entered the harbor to fight for water. I would destroy him then, half at a time.”
“But he will water his fleet, and then what?”
“He can’t come out against the wind. I have him bottled. And the sight of my sails will give Royal Egypt something else to think about than making him welcome.”
“He will set
fire to all the corn ships in the harbor. Then how will you keep your promise to feed Antony’s army?”
“All the corn ships will be safe out of harm’s way on Lake Mareotis, cleaning their bottoms of weed. Ahenobarbus is mine! Watch! Wait, I tell you! Silence, woman, silence!”
It was a summer thunder-gale; it had almost blown itself out by the time Ahenobarbus’s fleet had straggled as far as the western entrance. But there was still a high sea. The Roman had a hard time getting his unwieldy quinquiremes into the harbor. Dogging his rear, Tros made a demonstration that drove one quinquireme and a trireme too close to the Pharos catapults. A dozen half-ton rocks splashed wide, but there were three hits, and three were enough. Before Ahenobarbus could rescue the crews from the smashed ships, Tros had let his rearguard have a dose of arrow-fire that threw them into confusion. He almost captured one trireme, whose rowers wilted under arrow-engine hail.
“Drive on in and smash them all!” urged Hero.
Tros hauled off. He liked to win his battles. He proposed to know all that he needed to know before risking a ship. It would do no harm to keep Ahenobarbus guessing. He laughed at the thought of the Queen’s perplexity. He hove to, stationing his fleet in two lines off the harbor entrance. He sent a four-oared boat with a spy to Pharos, but neither the boat nor the spy had returned by late afternoon. Perhaps the spy was being tortured. If so, he had been well equipped with artfully invented misinformation.
Even if Ahenobarbus didn’t have to fight for water, it would take him all night to get it aboard. Tros had three days’ water and a week’s provisions. He could afford to wait. Strategy and tactics both demanded he should wait for the moonless darkness, when the Romans almost certainly would be on the defensive. The Roman tradition of fortified camps for the night was as undying at sea as on land. There would be double anchors down and a vedette boat patrol.
There came a boat from Pharos, rowed by sixteen slaves, and in its stern sat the gloomy Olympus. Tros laughed. The gloomy Olympus again! No witnesses — no secretary — no adroit official liar to attempt sly bargains! None but Olympus, in haste, with a personal slave in the stern who urged the splashing rowers. Tros ordered a longboat overside.
“Tarquinius, take this present of wine to Admiral Ahenobarbus. Tell him from me he will need it if he means to accept battle. Add that, if he wishes to surrender, I will receive him on my quarter-deck.”
“Lord Captain, that savage will order me killed!”
“Not he. But I think he won’t surrender. Bring back all the information you can get.”
“I doubt he will let me return.”
“Go and find out!”
Olympus arrived as Tarquinius was rowed away. The ship rolled so that he had to be hauled up in the bight of a rope, ruffled and undignified. When he and Tros embraced the crew saluted, but a couple of seamen watched narrowly to make sure Olympus didn’t draw a dagger.
“Tros, I am sent to ask what this means.”
“What does the Queen think it means, Olympus? Tell me all your news. Be brief about it.”
When he wished, Olympus could be as straight to the point as a Parthian arrow.
“Tros, she needs your friendship! Two thirds of her ministers, and all of her guard officers except Leander and a few of his intimates, are in favor of terms with Ahenobarbus. Pharos is loyal to her, but not the city. After you escaped Antyllus at Pelusium she had you condemned as a public enemy and your possessions ordered confiscated. She demanded your fortune of Jew-Esias. He refused. She threw him in prison. That enraged all the Jews in the city, who were indignant enough because there is no foreign trade and they can’t ship the corn that she forced them to buy. They rose against her. She suppressed them, slaying more than the plague had done—”
“Has she slain my friend Esias?”
“No, not him yet.”
“Let her lay that to her credit! Is she in the palace?”
“Yes. The Heptastadium is held by loyal troops, so if the palace becomes too dangerous she can escape to Pharos. If Ahenobarbus should attack the Heptastadium they are ready to burn him off. The Jews are now waiting to see what will come of overtures that Admiral Ahenobarbus is busily making to the Queen’s enemies. What will you do?”
“What say the stars, Olympus?”
“Tros, is it wise to mock because you disbelieve?”
“What say they?”
“I have read your horoscope. You are in danger. Mars and Mercury aid you, but Saturn afflicts. Delay is to be avoided.”
“So also is her treachery, Olympus. Go and give her this letter from Antony. Her fate is in her own hands. Say, that if she wishes me to save her from Ahenobarbus I require, this side of midnight, proof — not promises, proof — that she intends to carry out in full, in good faith, every one of the demands that I made before she tried to trap me at Pelusium.”
“Tros, consider her dignity, I implore you.”
“Warn her to consider this: I have already opened conversation with Ahenobarbus. Make haste, Olympus.”
“But proof, Tros? What possible proof?”
“Something better than mere words, Olympus. Let her use her memory — her wits — her sense of decency — her knowledge of the Law that governs loyalty — her sense of justice, affection, gratitude and fair play! That is all my message to her. I have nothing to add.”
“Do you need nothing?”
“No.”
“The Pharos forts could send you ammunition.”
“No. Go tell the Queen that Lord Admiral Tros and his fleet await her swift interpretation of your reading of the stars!”
Olympus was lowered overside by men who almost feared to touch him, lest his magic wreck their souls and bodies. Hero, smothered in a shawl against wind and spray, forefelt the outcome:
“Tros, she will rather accept Ahenobarbus’s orders! I would!”
CHAPTER XLVII. “What a task to be worthy of Tros!”
Any form of government is good that actually governs and not offers opportunity to rogues to buy and sell preferment. Let a ruler rule, and let the ruled obey. But woe betide a ruler who is faithless to the lonely task of ruling firmly, generously, justly, decorously, wisely and, to sum the terrifying total — well.
— From the Log of Lord Captain Tros of Samothrace
Night fell before Olympus was well on his way. Save for the great lighthouse beacon it was dark on Pharos, but a red glow overswam the city. The thunder of surf on Pharos drowned all noises from the land. The wind had fallen, but the sea ran high. The fleet kept station under oars, exhausting patience, stirring ill temper. Tros signaled for Conops, and presently Conops came alongside with the store-ship that contained Cassius’s thousand packages of Greek fire as well as all that remained of Tros’s own infernal explosive. Straw mattresses and dry wood were collected from the fleet. The store-ship was crammed to her hatches with inflammables before Tarquinius returned, discouraged.
“Yes, I spoke with Ahenobarbus. He thanks you for the wine, in which he drank to your damnation and he bade me say so. They are bringing provisions and water to him from the city, rather than have him send a force ashore to make them do it, I suppose. He has anchored his fleet out of range of the Heptastadium, which appears to be strongly held by archers. Nearest to the harbor entrance are four quinquiremes and four triremes. The rest of his fleet lies between him and the city. He has six little vedette boats, and they’re wide awake, patrolling. He asked how much water you have, and I told him almost none, which made him laugh. He said you shall have your belly-full of sea-water as soon as it suits him to come out. That was all I could learn, except that he has sent some officers ashore to confer with the city officials.”
“How did his crews appear to you? Spirited or ship-weary?”
“Pretty good, I thought. The men are singing — laughing at the bawds along the waterfront.”
Tros waited, though he knew it was doing his crews no good to keep station under oar in darkness. They were growing nervous, less and less
likely to put up a vigorous fight against odds. Meanwhile, he instructed Conops, and then summoned his captains one by one, to be patiently shown with the aid of a charcoal drawing exactly what his plan was. Word stole through the wondering fleet that the Lord Admiral would be granting shore-leave and paying full arrears of wages by tomorrow noon. Sullenness fled on the falling wind.
It lacked an hour of midnight when Olympus’s boat returned and was hailed by the fore-deck lookout. Tros stared over the rail and roared suddenly:
“Stations, all hands! Torches there! Our ladder!” Then, in a moment: “Royal salute! Present — arms!”
Cleopatra! She was shawled and merry. She looked tinier than ever. She sprang lightly to the deck and stood under a sort of aureole of crimson torchlight, holding out her hands for Tros to come and kiss. Excitement, dare-devilry, mischief sparkled in her eyes. She didn’t look like a queen but a light o’ love keeping a midnight assignation. She was like the girl again who stole into her palace to risk a duel of personality and wit against Caesar, and all his sycophants, and all her enemies.
Hero, in armor, striding like a killer, smiling with the catlike Ptolemaic stealthy watchfulness, walked forward beside Tros. He bent over Cleopatra’s hands. He rather lingered on the courtesy. He gave her time, should she choose, to avoid humiliation. It wasn’t in him to show malice if she would do the right thing, say the right word. She had the genius to realize it.
“Good Lord Admiral! I would rather see you than a thousand ships!”
