‘Romans can make money out of anything,’ Doola remarked.
Seckla ran off on his long legs to find Gaius, and we set to unloading the boat. There was a pier, but the charges were exorbitant, and the bank was firm enough to get our bales of dry fish over the side and onto our tarpaulins with relative ease. Before the tenth bale was ashore, a dozen men had appeared to sneer at our fish, and before the twentieth bale was ashore, Doola was bargaining furiously.
Gaius appeared in the midst of this, embraced every one of us, handed round a flask of wine and then issued a set of rapid-fire orders in the local tongue. He ordered four bales of fish set aside for his own use, he changed the bid price in the ongoing dickering, and he asked me to fetch him one of the jars of fish oil.
I had, in effect, been demoted to the level of holding mooring lines and fetching fish oil.
And I was fine with that. I wanted to work, to be useful.
He broke the seal on the first amphora and a smell hit us that was like raw human sewage. It was incredible.
He grinned, and dipped the tip of a finger into the stuff. Well, no one likes the smell — they say you can smell the factories in the Euxine from a hundred stades away.
He tasted it, and grinned. In Greek, he said: ‘Four for me. The rest, I’ll find a proper buyer for those.’
He had a donkey, which he left with us, and he walked away — he was wearing a good himation and carried a stick, like a gentleman, and he appeared unhurried, but when I got the next armload of the heavy little amphorae ashore, Gaius was gone.
He came back with a trio of slaves and a wagon. Doola and Demetrios had sold ten of the amphorae at a healthy two silver coins apiece — a wild profit — and we had covered the costs of the voyage on the salt fish. Sailing in winter is dangerous, but the profits are excellent, if you live. In the dead of winter, a spot of fish stew, a cup of good wine, a taste of fine fish sauce — these mean more.
In fact, by the time Gaius returned, Daud and Neoptolymos weren’t unloading any more. They were standing guard with spears over the bales of fish. No one threatened violence and there was no out-and-out theft, but no one thought the two warriors were slacking, either.
We made a good profit. The fish oil was not all good — in fact, about one amphora in three was ruined or too old — but what was good was very good. Doola had performed his usual miracle, and we cleared almost fifty drachmas or their local, Latin equivalent. We climbed up the Capitoline Hill and made sacrifice at the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus. They, like the Etruscans, had the same gods as Hellenes, but with different names, some interesting and some barbaric — Minerva for Athena, Jupiter for Zeus, and so on. Jupiter Optimus Maximus is ‘Zeus Greatest and Best’, and was worshipped in much the same way as our ‘Zeus Sator’. Poseidon — Neptune in Rome — was not much worshipped, but we gave him our sheep, to the puzzlement of the two priests, both of whom were prominent local aristocrats, just as they are at home. Gaius introduced us to everyone as his companions in slavery, which didn’t seem to have anything of the same stigma in Roma that it had in Syracusa.
The town was too small to hold our interest long, and had no shipbuilding. I saw some fine metalwork, most of it done by slaves, and I was very impressed by the Etruscan-style painting on plaster, which seemed to me much better than that which I had seen in Boeotia, and as good as the painting in Attica.
We picked up a cargo of tanned hides — rich, creamy leather from mature cattle. We got over two hundred hides at a good price — not a great price, but a good one — and a hundred big amphorae of local wine. And Gaius handed his share of the cash to his wife and came aboard.
None of us asked him about it, and he didn’t say much, but he was happy to be at sea, and to be working. I’m guessing, but I think that the life of a penniless Etruscan aristocrat in Rome didn’t agree with him. He had obligations he could barely fulfil, and he was a drain on his family. He never said so, but I saw how happy his wife was to receive ten good Athenian drachmas.
It can be hard, being an aristocrat. If you work, people make fun of you. You have to figure out a cunning way to make some money without appearing to get your hands dirty, unless you own a lot of land. Gaius didn’t own a lot of land, but he wasn’t afraid to work — once we were safely at sea.
And so, we did it again. Winter can be a cruel mistress, but we were blessed again, and we made Sardinia in two days and then did what Demetrios was best at — we coasted along until we found a town that wanted our hides. Some of the men of the town were Sikels, and Demetrios did most of the work, and we sold our hides at a profit, sold some of our wine, took on another cargo including copper and sailed for Marsala.
Marsala is a Greek town, for all that the Phoenicians established it. It is mostly Phocaeans, and when we made landfall it made me homesick, at least for Greece. Marsala looks like Greece.
The harbour is magnificent, and the two beaches are fine white sand. We beached, stern first, and ran the boat up above the tide line with the help of a dozen locals for a few coppers. Then we propped the hull to keep it sound and began unloading. Hawk-nosed Phoenicians came down to look at our wares, and tattooed Keltoi, tanned Greeks and even a couple of blond Iberians. Everyone expressed a unified contempt for our sour Roman wine and our ugly hides and our poor-quality Sardinian copper.
And then one of the Phoenicians offered us a handsome profit for a single sale — the whole cargo.
He was a big man, with a nose bigger than some men’s faces, and he thumped his stick at Doola. ‘Everything,’ he said. ‘One hundred and fifty drachma. Take it or leave it. And no shilly-shally.’
Other men began to shout.
Doola nodded. ‘No,’ he said.
The Phoenician shrugged, turned on his heel and walked off, attended by two slaves. A cold wind blew along the bay, and the islands off the coast were showing spray off their sandbars.
But as if his offer had changed the mood, the other potential buyers began to bid. They were like sharks on the corpse of a whale — as soon as one made a buy, two more would go after Doola as if he was the enemy. I’d never seen it like this; Rome, for example, had been much calmer. I went to his shoulder with some notion of supporting him, but Demetrios pulled me back.
‘This is his element,’ he said. ‘Let him swim.’
The frenzy lasted less than an hour, but by the end of it, Doola’s clay pot held more than two hundred drachma, and we had four damaged hides, a dozen amphorae of wine and one single ingot of copper.
Doola looked at the young Gaul standing there. ‘I’ll give you what’s left for two silvers,’ he said. ‘The copper alone’s worth twice that.’
The man beamed with gratitude, Doola took his cash and we had an empty hull. He gave me the clay pot full of silver. ‘It doesn’t pay to be too greedy,’ he said. ‘We were lucky — the only cargo on the beach.’
I shrugged under the weight of the pot. ‘This is going to sound foolish,’ I said, ‘but why did you refuse the first offer? He met your price.’
Doola rocked back and laughed his laugh. ‘Did he? I couldn’t work it all out, so I assumed he was under my price.’ He shook his head.
Demetrios laughed, too. ‘You made almost twice that.’
Neoptolymos was carrying our belongings. There was nothing in the boat to guard but the oars, and we paid a local Gallic boy to handle that. ‘Are we there yet?’ he asked.
We sat in a very Greek taverna with two pretty slave girls, ten big wooden bench-tables and nets hanging from the rafters — we might have been in Piraeus. He poured the takings out on the table, and added the Sicilian money from a leather wallet he wore all the time.
We had a lot of money, so much money that the innkeeper came down from his perch and leaned into our group. ‘Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, gents, but there’s no watch here, and some hard men just sent runners for help. That’s too much money to show in here.’ He stepped back and raised his hands. ‘I don’t want trouble, and I don’t want co
rpses.’
Doola shook his head in disgust. ‘I should have known.’
Demetrios looked around. The taverna was empty.
I felt like a fool. I was a hard man, and I tended to watch these things for the rest of them. But after two months’ black depression I was rising to the surface, and the money, and the feeling of victory, had excited me. Too much.
My eyes met those of Neoptolymos, and then we were arming. Gaius didn’t have all his war gear, but he had a good sword and a heavy himation. Neoptolymos and I had all our gear. Daud had the gear I’d made him: a plain bronze Boeotian cap and the sword I’d traded for.
Seckla laced my leather spola while Doola did the same for Neoptolymos.
‘I really don’t want any trouble,’ said the innkeeper.
Doola grinned at him. ‘Then send a runner out there and tell them that it would be a mistake for them to attack us. Send another to the archon for the guard, and we’ll be out of your hair in no time.’
The innkeeper spread his hands again. ‘If only-’
Doola’s grin took on a certain air. I got it.
‘He’s in on it,’ I said.
Doola nodded. He had Neoptolymos in his harness and he fetched a bow.
I pointed at the gleaming pile of coins. ‘Seckla, you stay right here, no matter what, and watch the money.’ I handed him my long knife. It wasn’t a fine weapon, but it would do the job. It cut twine well, and meat. And men.
The innkeeper backed across the room, but Gaius had him in a headlock before he could get out the door.
‘By the gods! You’ve got this all wrong!’ he whimpered.
Doola shook his head. ‘He’s probably not important enough to the gang to bargain with,’ he said. He looked at Demetrios. ‘I really fucked this up, brothers. Too much money.’
I won’t surprise you if I say that, with armour on my back and an aspis leaning against the wall, I was a different man. I wanted the fight, and I could see that Neoptolymos did, too.
I hadn’t fought in a year.
More than a year.
In fact, standing in a wretched waterfront tavern in Marsala, I realized I hadn’t really fought since Marathon. I laughed aloud.
Daud looked at me. ‘You aren’t one of those madmen who love the fight, are you?’ he asked.
I shook my head. ‘No. Or maybe yes.’ I laughed again; I sounded wild, even in my own ears. ‘Listen, brothers. My last fight was at Marathon, for all the things men find worthy. And now I’m going to fight to the death for some coins in a tavern.’
Gaius was at the door. We had a simple building, a tavern with a portico full of tables outside, a single door and two windows facing the beach. I realized my brothers were readying themselves to die.
Suddenly, I was in charge.
‘This is easy,’ I insisted. ‘They can only come at us a few at a time. Daud, make sure the kitchen is clear behind us and there’s no back door.’ I went to the entrance and looked out onto the seafront and the failing light. There were a dozen or more men.
They saw me.
I stood in the doorway. After a long minute, I made the universal sign that men make that means, Give me your best shot.
They hesitated.
Can I make you laugh? I seriously thought of charging them. I wanted that fight.
Doola loosed an arrow. It went over their heads, just over their heads, into the hull of an upturned boat.
And just like that, they folded and crept away.
I turned and glared at Doola, and he was unconcerned.
An hour later, we were drinking wine. Daud was on watch — our only fear was that they might set fire to our boat in sheer peevishness.
We let the innkeeper go. He served us himself, he was modestly obsequious, and by full dark it was obvious that no one was going to attack us.
About the same time, a dozen spearmen appeared out of the darkness, fully armed and carrying aspides. Daud whistled, we all took our places and Demetrios of Phocaea, of all men, came out of the darkness behind them. I’d last seen him sailing out of the wreck of the Ionian centre at Lades, waving his thanks. He’d been the navarch, or as close as; it made no matter.
He was the archon basileus, or something like that, and he had come with his guard to restore order. Householders had complained.
We embraced like old friends. We hadn’t been close, as he’d thought I was an impudent young pup and I’d thought he was an arrogant old man.
But we slept that night around his hearth, and in the morning, everything was different.
He didn’t ask any hard questions, but he was happy to show us to the shipyards, and when none of them wanted our work, he offered to pressure them. We shook our heads. Who wants a boat built unwillingly?
After another day or two, we rode north around the coast a full day to Tarsilla, a smaller port, not a city, but a prosperous town. Carthage burned it later, but it was a fine place, with a terraced town and a beautiful two-beach port. Even in winter, the trees were fresh and green. There were three shipyards, all two- and three-man operations, and Demetrios knew all the shipwrights. His own trading trireme had come from Tarsilla.
Vasileos was the lead shipwright of the town, and his yard had the best wood. He took our job immediately. He liked the size of the project for the time of year, because a larger ship needed more men to work on it and was usually built in spring or summer, right by the sea. But a smaller ship like a triakonter could be built well up the beach by just three men. He wasn’t a tall man, and he had something of the Phoenician look about him — hawk-nosed, big-handed, with a thin frame and broad shoulders, and when he swung his adze, it cut with the accuracy that a trained spearman treasures.
After some negotiation, we bought a small house in Tarsilla and moved our sparse goods there. Doola, Seckla and Demetrios brought our little Amphitrite around the coast to the town, laden with bronze fittings for the ship.
Gaius, Neoptolymos and I went upcountry with Doola, looking for a crew.
That may sound foolish, but I had a notion — shared by Demetrios — that we’d have to fight, and that we wanted a free crew if we could get one — fighters rather than slaves, like the ancient men in Homer. And Daud thought that young men searching for adventure sounded like the cheapest labour.
There are mountains behind the coast; in places cliffs come right to the sea edge, and nowhere are the mountains far from the beach. We went up into the mountains, where the local folk live — more like Sikels than like Keltoi, for all that they speak Gallic and wear armbands and tattoos. They were hospitable, and we got a dozen potential oarsmen out of the little hill villages.
We got another dozen from among the fishermen themselves, though their parents resented us. But Doola, with his exotic looks, and Neoptolymos, with his lyre, made us sound like the Argonauts, and there was a tacit understanding — never quite spoken — that if we fought, we’d be going to fight Phoenicians. I’m not saying that they are bad men. I’m just saying that they seem to have a lot of enemies.
Demetrios of Phocaea provided the rest of my spear-carrying oarsmen from his own tail.
I visited every time the business of building the boat took me to Marsala. We had to count every obol that winter and spring. The easiest way for the metalwork to get done was for me to rent shop space in Marsala, where charcoal and copper were available, and to smelt and forge the metal gear myself. So I did: I traded bronze-work for a pair of iron anchors — better than anything I’d used at home — but men said that beyond the Pillars of Heracles, the anchor stones didn’t work so well. I forged bronze thole pins and I cast lead counterweights for the oars; I forged sixty bronze rings for the sail, while the women of Marsala wove and sewed the hemp for a full set of sails for each boat. I made some chain — chain’s heavy and expensive, but it is better than rope — and I made war gear, caps for every oarsman and simple circular plates for their chest and back. I’d seen these in Etrusca and again in Rome, and they made sense to me: a disc of heavy b
ronze that covers a man’s heart gives him confidence, and will protect him from many blows.
I bought or traded for knives — all Spanish blades that I hilted in bronze — and the last of our damaged hides went into making scabbards and belts.
It was a little like arming Plataea. It made me happy enough.
Vasileos finished our ship before the spring feast of Demeter. We made a rich sacrifice to her and to Poseidon; I put a decent helmet on the altar of Heracles and a good bronze lamp on the altar of Hephaestos and another on the altar of Apollo. I confess that I felt my skills had diminished. I had betrayed Nikephorus and his daughter, and the smith-god withheld his hand from my shoulder. I marred my work often with stray blows; my helmets were not as neat as I expected them to be, and every one of them seemed to have its flaw. When I made Gaius a pair of greaves, I marred the work with a foolish error in the planishing that I could see every time he wore them.
I thought of Lydia a great deal. I wished, very hard, that she had suitors and another husband. And I wished other, conflicting things.
My friends stood by me. Doola would sit in the rented shop and pump the bellows silently for me. Seckla ran errands and bent metal. Demetrios sat with me when I was in the depths. Neoptolymos made me play the lyre, and I grew almost proficient. Gaius and I boxed.
Despite which, I lay every night and counted the people I’d betrayed, the way I’d done it, the reasons.
Listen; it may seem a small thing to you, trifling with a girl. I have mounted quite a few of them, and without regret.
When I was a pirate, I killed men, took their chattels and was accounted a hero. That is the life I led, then.
But when you are a pirate, you think like a pirate and you are judged — by other pirates. When you are a bronze-smith in a polis, you are judged by a different standard, and I’m enough of a pupil of Heraclitus to know that all of us are, to some extent, a reflection of the lives we lead and the men we trust and listen to. Lydia wouldn’t even have been a bump on my road, the summer of Lades.
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