The Ancient Ocean Blues

by Jack Mitchell

  With the trunk packed up on a mule cart and myself on horseback, it took most of the day to reach Ostia, the port of Rome, on the coast. The road ran down through the empty winter fields beneath gray clouds, and I cursed Spurinna (not for the last time) for choosing to sail in that dangerous season.

  I had only been to Ostia once, but it was hard to get lost. The road led straight to the grand harbor. There was not much shipping in the port, apart from the navy warships, and even those were mostly pulled up on the beach in case of storm. I looked for the vessel Spurinna was on – Gaius had said it was called the Rapacious, with a red-and-white checked prow – but there was no sign of it. It was doubtless far down the coast already.

  “Which one is mine?” I asked the mule driver – none other than the scrawny fellow who had pushed the bread cart behind me the previous summer. I surveyed the triremes with some satisfaction. They were tall masted, long, and sleek. Three banks of oars lay slack at their sides, glinting in the evening sun. I couldn’t wait to see the inside of one.

  “Well, sir, I’m afraid it’s none of those, sir,” said the mule driver. Instead, he pointed behind me to what looked like an enormous barrel tied up at the wharf. “That’s it there, the Star of Carthage.”

  “That thing?” I cried. “That’s not a ship!”

  It was indeed a ship, however: a merchantman, and as unlike the tall triremes as you could imagine. Its bow was not reminiscent of a ferocious eagle’s beak, and nothing about it was gleaming. The prow looped up in a long semicircle ending in a statue of a goddess, but the waist of the ship was wide; at the stern it dropped abruptly down to the water. Worst of all, there were no oars: instead it relied on a vast lateen sail, slung at a steep angle from the single mast. Still, it was floating, albeit not very high in the water: it was deeply laden, nearly ready to depart. Four sailors were lifting the last of the cargo into the hold, swinging it from wharf to ship by means of a creaky crane.

  Seeing me, two of the sailors came up and lifted my trunk onto the wharf, and the Captain approached.

  “You’re here,” he commented.

  “I’m here,” I confirmed.

  The Captain was a man of few words. He was short and a bit hefty. He had a thick black beard, huge forearms, and more than one tattoo. Apparently he and his crew were from Carthage. Nevertheless, something in his quiet manner inspired confidence. I handed over the letter of introduction and the ten gold pieces. He counted them silently.

  “Welcome,” he said.

  I walked up the narrow gangplank, leaving the sailors to carry up my trunk. The first mate was cursing at them to get a move on: the evening breeze wouldn’t wait. The deck was indeed as broad as I had imagined, tapering to the bow; it smelled of salt and paint. The vessel looked better up close. A door led to the cabin at the stern, lovingly painted with an image of Baal, the Carthaginian god. As I looked, a man emerged from behind it.

  “You must be my fellow passenger!” he remarked, bowing, with a glance at my toga. He was wearing one himself, though it was rather too large for him; in one hand he was holding a pen, absentmindedly, as though he had lost the papyrus he was writing on and had resolved not to lose the pen as well. He was about thirty-five, and spoke with a Greek accent. I decided he must be a freed-man, a former slave.

  “That’s me,” I said.

  “I think you will find your cabin on the left, sir,” the Greek added, with another bow, and went to speak with the Captain. He was right. I opened the door and found the little room I would inhabit during the voyage. It featured a desk, a chair, and a hammock strung across from wall to wall. There was a small cupboard as well, and a fine spot for my trunk. Walls and floor were spotlessly clean.

  I lay down in the hammock and thought, Marcus, here the journey begins. The ship was rocking slightly, even at anchor. From the small cabin window I could hear the sailors heaving and the Captain giving orders.

  I went back up on deck. The sun was falling to the horizon and the light was failing; the end of the wharf was almost dark. I saw that my trunk was still sitting there in the shadows.

  “Hallo there,” I called to the first mate. “Haven’t you got my trunk on board yet?”

  “Not yet, sir,” he answered with a sigh. “All this cargo! But we’ll see to it right away, sir, we will.” And he went with a man to bring it up.

  They hauled it with difficulty to the gangplank.

  “What have you brought, sir?” the first mate joked. “Going to build a house of bricks in Greece?”

  Skillfully, they lifted it with the crane onto the deck, adding the last of the cargo. Then at a word from the Captain all four of them set to pulling up the anchor. After that, two men drew in the gangplank while the others climbed the mast and let fall the sail. The inshore breeze of dusk was still blowing and the sail filled quickly. Soon the wharf and the breakwater of the harbor were left behind. We were on the open Mediterranean, and a silver moon was rising. The Captain cleared his throat to show his satisfaction.

  “A good breeze,” he remarked. “We’ll take advantage.”

  The wind held up, and the ship proved surprisingly swift, riding the light swells like a seabird afloat. The coast of Italy was lost in darkness.

  I had just decided to go below and try sleeping when there came a dull thud.

  “Eh?” grunted the Captain with surprise.

  The peculiar noise was repeated. I wondered if the ship was going to buckle from the weight of cargo. This was a real thumping, however, and of all places it seemed to be coming from my trunk, which still lay on deck.

  The Captain gave me a frown and went to open it. He lifted the latch and the lid flew open. Someone took a great gulp of air. A man was inside! The Captain hauled him out in an iron grip.

  “Please!” the man squealed. “Don’t throw me overboard!”

  But the Captain was a gentle soul. He put the stowaway down at once, and the man sat there as the Greek passenger and the crew ran up. The man had bright, blond hair: a northern barbarian. The crew was not happy.

  “You’re a stowaway!” shouted the first mate, with a curse.

  “I’m not!” the man cried, in a high-pitched voice. “Well, I guess I am. I mean, I was in the trunk, I admit that. But you must take me to Athens! It’s – it’s a matter of love!”

  This was puzzling to them. Love did not feature prominently in a Carthaginian merchant’s life.

  “What?” the Captain inquired.

  “My true love is going to Athens,” was the explanation, “and I must follow or I must perish!”

  “I vote for perish!” said the first mate fiercely.

  “Certainly not,” said the Captain sharply. “No. But you can’t follow in this ship.” He tugged at his beard. “You’ll go ashore. At the next port. We can’t turn back, with the breeze,” he ended, as though he were sorry to report the fact.

  “No!” the man yelped. “No, I must go on! All right, if you want to know the truth…”

  Here the stowaway grabbed the back of his own head, seized hold of his hair, ripped it off, and tossed it to the deck. The crew leaped back in terror.

  The Captain was made of sterner stuff. “A wig!” he exclaimed.

  So it was. In place of the short, blond hair there now fell black ringlets, expertly coiffed. The stowaway stood up and curtsied prettily.

  “Paulla!” I shrieked. With the disguise gone, Paulla had appeared on deck, as if by magic.

  She spun toward me and did a triple-take. “Marcus!” she shrieked. “You!”

  The Captain frowned at me. “You know this girl?”

  I was stunned. I could not speak.

  But Paulla, to be fair, was quick. “Here he is!” she cried, running up to me. “Marcus Oppius, my husband!” She kissed me on both cheeks.

  “Your husband?” cried the Captain, amazed.

  “My own true love! We’re going to Athens.” She dug her elbow into my ribs in a gesture of affection.

  “Er, yes, that’s right,”
I said, gulping. This was a nightmare.

  The crew stared at me and then drifted off grumbling. The Greek passenger observed that we could certainly not throw her overboard now.

  “You Romans certainly have strange ideas about how to transport your wives,” growled the Captain; but then he grinned. “Did you think you could keep her hidden all the way to Greece?”

  I felt dizzy. “I’ll pay an extra ten gold pieces,” I promised. It didn’t seem like the right moment to correct him about me and Paulla.

  The Captain stroked his great beard, considering. “Yes,” he said simply, and went to take the steering oar. Paulla darted below – to my cabin. The Greek passenger and I were left alone.

  “That was very nice of you, sir,” he commented.

  “What do you mean?” I demanded.

  He grinned. “I mean this business, sir. As a student of the Muses, I am well versed in the complications of the human heart. In the words of the poet:

  But with her hands the woman ope’d the jar,

  Seal broken, scatt’ring troubles wide and far.

  Very apt, don’t you think?”

  “Look,” I said. “Who are you?”

  “I am a publisher,” the Greek said proudly. “I am going to Athens with this manuscript.” He indicated a sheaf of papyrus sheets under his arm. The pen had gone missing. “My name is Aulus Lucinus Homerus. You can call me Homer, sir, though I am a Roman citizen.”

  “Marcus Oppius,” I said, shaking his hand and trembling slightly all over. “Did you really just say your name was Aulus Lucinus Homerus?”

  “Indeed I did, sir,” said Homer. “I received that name when my master gave me my freedom. His name was…”

  “Don’t tell me. Aulus Lucinus Spurinna. The hero.”

  “Why, yes,” Homer answered, surprised. “I was his secretary during the recent events, and I confess I played a slight role in them. But I can see you are a man of intellect, sir, like myself. To quote Hesiod once more, if I may:

  Upon the twentieth morn a wise man’s born

  I would guess, sir, that you were born upon the twentieth morn?”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “I only mean that you showed wisdom in your dealings tonight, sir. The young lady may not be married to you, but I am glad she is on board and not overboard.”

  “I – well, how did you guess that?” I began. But at that moment Paulla reappeared from below. Somehow she had found a simple dress – I suppose she had brought it with her – and she was running my comb through her hair.

  I tried to keep an even temper. She lounged against the rail and laughed.

  “Are you crazy?” I demanded. “No, forgive me – you are crazy!”

  “It’s a long story, Marcus,” she replied, regarding Homer with interest.

  “It’s getting longer every minute!” I cried.

  “I’m going after Aulus,” she said. “I have to. The heroines always do that.”

  “Heroines? What heroines? This isn’t a novel!”

  Paulla sighed. “It’s because you’ve never been in love, Marcus. You’ve never even read about it. Those scrolls you had – they were more of those boring speeches, weren’t they?”

  I stared at her. “What do you mean, had?” I demanded. “And how on earth did you end up on this boat? Does your family know?”

  “Ah, that’s just it, Marcus. I’ve run away! I’ve escaped!”

  I goggled at her, and she laughed again. Roman girls simply didn’t run away: it was unthinkable, especially when your clan was the Aemilii.

  “You’re joking,” I said. “Tell me you’re joking!”

  “It wasn’t easy, let me tell you,” she went on, ignoring me completely. “My father stationed guards outside my door! They knew I was upset about Aulus, you see, and they thought I might try something desperate. So I had to be clever. But that very night I was reading The Sagacious Princess and there it was, in the sixth chapter! The girl asks for a cup of wine before bed, and she only drinks a little and puts it outside the door with the guard. But first she puts a sleeping potion in the wine, and the guards fall asleep. Isn’t that clever?”

  I was still too appalled to speak.

  “Where did you get the sleeping potion?” asked Homer.

  “I didn’t have one, so I just ordered more wine. They got drunk on it and they dozed off. I put on my disguise – I got that idea from The Sicilian Story, I’m sure you remember it – and pretended I was a slave going to buy firewood. Then I walked down to Ostia – it took all day – and I waited for a ship to Athens.”

  “But how did you know which ship to take?” I demanded.

  “Really, Marcus, I just asked. There aren’t many at this time of year.”

  “And my trunk?”

  “I didn’t know it was your trunk. It was just sitting there in the dark. Anyway, I wasn’t going to stow away in a jug of honey. I’m sorry about your things, but there just wasn’t any room. You certainly don’t pack light.”

  “My things?”

  “All those boring speeches, and that knife, and those clothes you didn’t need. I did save one package of fruit, but it looked so delicious that I…”

  I rushed to the trunk. Sure enough, it was as light as a feather, now that Paulla was no longer inside.

  “My scrolls! My speeches! The secret instructions! It’s empty!”

  “Don’t worry, Marcus,” she replied soothingly. “You would have got bored with them anyway. I brought some novels with me instead. Quite a few of them, actually.”

  “They’re unreadable,” I moaned.

  “Excuse me, sir,” broke in Homer. “But, as a publisher, doubtless I can help. I have a delightful book with me, the one I’m taking to Athens. Just the thing for a young man like you, sir.” He produced the first papyrus sheet from under his arm.

  Gratefully, I took it down to my cabin and lit a candle. The first line said it all.

  Aulus, there is no question of your going to Rome. You have not finished your studies, it read.

  With that, I collapsed. I was trapped on a long voyage with Paulla and a crazy Greek, and all I had to read were the heroic adventures of Aulus Lucinus Spurinna.

  The African Wind

  nd so our cruise along the coast began. At first we made excellent progress. The Star of Carthage was suited to the light northern breeze which filled the huge sail. For seven days it plowed steadily through calm seas, with the dolphins jumping before the bow. The winter days were short, but this pleased the Captain, who preferred to navigate by the stars. The mornings dawned cool and clear. To the east, the cliffs of Cumae and the islands of Ischia and Capreae slid past us. At noon one day, the Captain pointed out the lofty peak of Mount Vesuvius. Its steep slopes, furrowed with vineyards, bespoke the benefits of Roman peace.

  In fact, the fine weather was surprising. Since the days of the ancients, sailors have dreaded the African Wind in winter, which blows from the southwest and drives ships against the rocky coasts, but so far there was no sign of it. The crew began each day with a song to Baal, to thank him for that fact, while the Captain kept one fist on the steering oar and beat time with the other. Homer suggested various other Winds they could sing to, complete with their extensive mythological characteristics; but they merely smiled and thanked him for his interest.

  All in all, it would have been wonderful, if I hadn’t been bored stiff.

  The Star of Carthage was not a roomy ship. Apart from the Captain’s cabin, and Homer’s, and the crew’s tight quarters, and the open deck, there was only the space I was now forced to share with Paulla. She and I agreed that we would each get eight hours in the hammock for sleeping and then divide the remaining eight hours between us. Still, it was cramped. Apart from a dozen scrolls (each containing a Greek romance novel), Paulla had also managed to bring four or five dresses, which she draped on every available surface. She had tossed most of my clothes into the harbor at Ostia.

  So we all saw a lot of each ot
her. The Greek publisher and I, in particular, spent a lot of time at the prow, looking at the dolphins. He liked to recite as many poems about them as he could remember, sometimes more than once. Everything seemed to remind him of a quotation, though he returned most often to his favorite, the poet Hesiod.

  “Another fine day!” Homer would begin, joining me and looking at the beautiful coast. “I mean:

  Indeed they dwell, untouched by woe or grief

  On Blessed Isles by swirling Ocean’s reef.

  Wouldn’t you agree, sir?”

  By which he meant, “Quite the view, isn’t it?”

  “If you say so,” I replied. “How exactly did a freedman like yourself learn all this poetry?”

  “Well, as a publisher,” he began, “it is my profession to select the very best and, as you may have noticed, the very best is often to be found in Hesiod. But before I was the secretary of Lucinus Spurinna, I used to be a slave in Athens. It was my job to look up all the learned allusions made by my Athenian master’s intellectual enemies, so naturally I picked up a lot, as you might say.”

  “Were they often wrong?”

  “Usually. I would instruct my master in the correct allusions, so that he could humiliate his enemies the next time he saw them.”

  “Are you from Athens?”

  “No indeed,” Homer answered with a smile, “though I grew up there, sir, in a manner of speaking. I was born on the small island of Tragias, in the Dodecanese. But when I was ten years old, the island was attacked by pirates, who kidnapped me and sold me as a slave. I have always been very attached to Tragias, though I have never been back there, and I am afraid it is not mentioned by any poets.”

  “None?”

  “No, none,” Homer said sadly. “I feel that Hesiod would have mentioned it, if he had lived longer. Perhaps he did mention it, and the enemies of Tragias removed those lines from our collection of his verses. The excellence of its pears must have been proverbial, even in his time. It still is, on Tragias.”