Читать книгу Queen Cleopatra - Talbot Mundy - Страница 4

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Be man what he may, the fact is, nevertheless, that he conceives himself to be something different from what he appears to himself to be and to what others think he is.

—Fragment from The Diary Of Olympus.

THE palace occupied the whole of the Lochias Promontory, which jutted out into the harbor and was surrounded by a high wall. Thus the Royal Area consisted almost of a city in itself.

Outside that Lochias wall, at its eastward end, not far from the public wharves but far enough to avoid the smell of fish and other perishable cargoes, was a block of palatial apartments facing inward on a courtyard in which a fountain played amid palms and semi-tropical shrubs.

There was always a swarm of men and women at the bronze gate, which stood wide open day and night but was guarded by armed Nubian slaves who admitted nobody without credentials. Within that courtyard there was never a woman seen since it was part of the pose of the gilded bachelors who lived there to pretend to avoid women, and particularly matrimony. They regarded themselves as the salt of the earth—sole arbiters of fashion, sport and politics. They patronized and honestly admired the arts and kept themselves, at least in theory, abreast of all the sciences, in which Alexandria led the world. They were mostly pure Greek by ancestry, spoke Greek and regarded themselves as Greeks, although there were Latins among them—very rarely an Egyptian. They thought of Alexandria as a Greek jewel bound on to the brow of Africa.

Apollodorus leaned against a palm within the courtyard, discussing the merits of certain horses with a group of his Cappadocian grooms. He glanced up sharply as he saw Diomedes come clanking importantly through the gate, then continued his conversation. Diomedes came on until the grooms slunk aside to make room for him, but Apollodorus affected not yet to have seen the veteran.

"Greeting, Apollodorus."

"Voice of Pluto! Man of iron, how you terrify me! May the beautiful gods, if there are any, forgive you, Diomedes! You haven't shaved your upper lip this morning."

"What is that to you? Faugh! You smell like a woman, of roses! I have been up all night, protecting the life of the young Queen to whom you profess such wordy loyalty. If you had manlier inclinations, Apollodorus, you might put your talents to a better use than setting fashions and admiring your own beauty. I would admire a few good scars on you."

"Man of blood! But to what do I owe the honor of this visit? Do you think I am corruptible? You haven't come because you love me. What then?"

"I have come to find out how reliable you are. Horns! I am a soldier. I seek deeds, not words!" said Diomedes angrily. "I seek no favors. Zeus forbid that!"

"Aren't you mixing your theology? First Horus, and now Zeus! They say they have some very interesting gods in India; why not add them to your list? There was a lecture about them in the library—discreetly distant entities to swear by, too remote for consequences!"

"Isis! How long shall I brook your insolence? I bring you a direct command from Royal Egypt."

"Oh, you are running an errand for her? That is different. What says she, O oldest of all messengers!"

"I am young enough to slit your cockscomb! Take care how you irritate me! You are to find Tros the Samothracian, who came ashore from that ship with the purple sails."

"And? Having found him? What then?"

"Bring him."

"To you?"

"To me."

"She said that?"

"Yes."

"Diomedes, you astonish me! You at your age! She has all the intuitions that distinguish royalty from blunderers like you and sybarites like me. She would know without anyone telling her, that I would not run your errand. I know you are lying to me, Diomedes!"

"You Sicilian rogue!"

Diomedes faced about and Apollodorus' mocking laugh followed him out through the gate to where slaves awaited him, holding his restless red stallion.

"My chariot!" Apollodorus ordered then. "Who knows where Tros of Samothrace went?"

His grooms knew all the gossip. Two of them vied to be first to inform him.

"To the house of Esias—Esias the Jew."

The chariot, cream-colored, gilt-edged, decorated with colored painting representing the nine Muses and drawn by three white horses, was at the gate in charge of a Thracian charioteer almost more swiftly than Apollodorus could reach his chambers and throw on a light driving cloak of cloth-of-gold. The Thracian passed him the reins and sat facing the rear, on one of the two small seats. Apollodorus guided the impatient team through crowded cross-streets at a slow trot.

There was a kaleidoscope of color—shopfronts, garments, head-dresses, and every imaginable shade of human skin. The din was a delirium of many tongues, for all the languages of the Levant were spoken in Alexandria. The smell was of spices and fruit, and of flowers crushed underfoot. The flow of movement, mixed of dignity and restlessness, was mainly north and south, from the wharves on the shore of the Mareotic Lake at the city's rear to the sea-front. Long lines of loaded slaves, with a foreman in front of them shouting for right of way, threaded the swarm that jammed the corners of the streets to listen to excited public speakers airing views on topics of the moment.

Handsome slaves, gaudily dressed to challenge attention and selected for their strength of lung, stood on platforms to yell news of auctions, amusements and cure-all remedies. Beggars, tumblers and performers of acrobatic tricks, singers of topical songs and groups of itinerant musicians completed the confusion, and at times Apollonius had to draw rein until the charioteer could press to the front and force a passage. He was not recognized until he swung eastward into the Street of Canopus and let the horses break into a gallop.

But the moment the galloping hooves were heard, heads turned and he was greeted with the joyous roar of a crowd that loved its sports above its pocketbook. The cheers increased into a tumult until the colonnaded arches of the three-mile-long street volleyed with applause:

"Apollodorus! Oh, Apollodorus!"

It was paved, that street, and all the buildings facing it were built of marble. It was more than a hundred feet broad, stretching the full length of Alexandria from gate to gate. The roofs of the colonnades were riotous with flowers and women's garments; they were the stadium from which merchants' wives viewed the frequent political rioting, or delighted equally to watch the chariots of men of fashion racing, in despite of law, in mid-street. But there was only one chariot deemed worthy of attention when Apollodorus came in view.

Men, women, children, soldiers, slaves, all surged to catch a glimpse of him. Speed—furious speed preserved him from being hemmed in and almost worshiped. He drove with apparent recklessness that masked consummate skill, standing with legs apart, his golden cloak afloat in the breeze behind him, laughing and waving his hand to the crowd that poured in from the side-streets just a stride too late to block his way.

Women threw flowers from upper windows. One tossed her heavy bracelet into the chariot from the roof of the colonnade; it hit the charioteer, drawing blood. Apollodorus threw a kiss to her, and bade the Thracian keep the bracelet as a salve for damages. The whole voice of Alexandria seemed blended into one exultant roar:

"Apollodorus! Oh-h-h! Apollodorus!"

The swarm grew denser as he neared the Jewish quarter at the east end of the city, for the uproar had warned the throngs in meaner streets, who flowed into the Street of Canopus ahead of him and forced him to slow down at last. He gave the reins then to the charioteer and made the best of it with good grace, sitting down on the little rear seat to lean out and grasp the hands of men, laughing when a woman jumped into the chariot. She kissed him, pulling his wreath awry. He gave it to her. The crowd snatched it, tearing it to pieces to wear as favors.

The last half-mile was covered at a slow walk, and even that speed would have been impossible if the Thracian had not tickled the horses with his whip to make them rear and plunge; but they arrived at last in front of a building that was as big, if not as beautiful, as any on that famous street.

It was of the same decadent Greek design as all the others, fronted by a Corinthian colonnade; but sacks of corn, opened for inspection, and men of many nations, some sailors, some from the desert, lounging in the three wide doorways and sprawling on long benches on the sidewalk, gave the place an untidy atmosphere of business that seemed to have overflowed from the dense and shabby back-streets where the Jews lived cheek by jowl in smelly tenements.

Apollodorus jumped out of the chariot and reached the shop door in one bound, escaping into gloom where counters served by fifty or sixty slaves reached in long parallel rows from front to rear. He was met and greeted by a curly-bearded Jew, dressed in embroidered silk, whose dark face was a cartoon of oblique diplomacy.

"Greeting! Greeting! Greeting! Noble Apollodorus!" The Jew clasped his own right hand in his left and shook it, as if shaking hands with fortune. "Golden greeting! We are honored! What is it we are privileged to do for the noble Apollodorus? Corn for the stable—good corn, heavy and plump in the grain? A new slave? We have a new consignment of Circassians and Greeks—some very pretty girls guaranteed virgins—some Persians—an Arabian or two—and three from Gaul, extremely choice. Or is it—"

"Esias! Esias himself!" Apollodorus interrupted.

"How delighted he will be! How flattered! How it will grieve him that he is engaged in private conference and cannot—"

"Spare his grief then, Judas, and avoid its consequences! Lead me in."

"But, my Lord, I dare not! He is closeted just now with an important visitor, the great Tros, Lord of Samothrace."

"Announce me, or I go in unannounced!"

"But the Lord Tros said—"

Apollodorus began to stride toward the shop's rear, where two seamen in red kilts, who wore big gold earrings and assorted weapons, guarded the door of Esias' private sanctum. Judas, fawning like a brown-eyed dog, tried to restrain him, then, having failed, pushed past the seamen and flung the door open.

"The Lord Apollodorus!" he announced, and shut the door again behind him silently.

At the rear of a large, low, dingy room sat two men, their backs to a window. There were shelves of papyrus and parchment documents on either hand and stacks of locked wooden boxes marked with red Hebrew characters. Samples of spice on a table filled the whole room with a pungent smell. In the darkest corner squatted three slaves, with stylus and tablet, ready to take dictation but out of ear-shot until required.

The two men in the window rose grudgingly, as if annoyed by the interruption. One was an elderly Jew, with the dark oiled hair in curls on either side of his olive-colored face. It was the handsome, rather crafty face of a cautious friend or a resourceful enemy. His brown eyes shone like topaz. His beard was beautifully curled. His wrinkled hands were long and subtly flexible. His cloak, of dark, embroidered crimson silk, had come from eastward of where, in popular opinion, a trackless sea poured over the rim of the world.

"Noble Apollodorus!" he murmured, bowing, and made a sharp noise with his fingers indicating to the slaves where they should set a chair for his guest.

The other man was like a weather-beaten Heracles. His height was an inch or two less than six feet, but his strength and his commanding presence made him seem much taller. Leonine, amber-yellow eyes peered challenging from under dense black hair, bound low on his forehead by a circlet of plain gold. His neck which had been browned by wind and sun, bore the big head with unconquerable grandeur, emphasized by barbaric gold ear-rings and a black beard, curled up short.

His cloak, of golden cloth, was bordered with wide crimson, and under that he wore a blue tunic embroidered with intricate designs in gold thread. There were massive jeweled rings on three fingers of either hand and a heavy bracelet on his right wrist. A long sword, sheathed in leather stamped with designs in gold and green, lay on the seat beside him, and there was a curiously carved dagger at his waist. His hairy legs, as strong as trees, were spread apart, deep-sea fashion, as he stood with his broad back to the light and stared at Apollodorus.

"The noble Apollodorus, seven times Victor in the Games—the noble Tros, a lord of Samothrace," Esias announced, introducing them, and resumed his seat.

"If you have business with me, be swift with it," said he of Samothrace.

He sat down slowly, with an air of taking soundings first, less ponderous than deliberate of movement, but he looked as capable as the sea itself of swift surprises.

"I am Connoisseur of Arts to Egypt's Queen."

"Queen? Which queen?"

"One is—will be plenty," Apollodorus answered.

"Esias informs me," said Tros with a voice like rolling thunderbolts, "that there are two queens and two kings."

"No, no!" Esias interrupted. "You mistook me, noble Tros. I said, Cleopatra is the queen, but her younger sister Arsinoe, a mere child, has obstinate supporters. Nevertheless, their brother Ptolemy, who claims to share the throne with the elder sister, is in the strongest tactical position. The youngest, the fourth, is a mere child—a sickling."

The leonine eyes of the Samothracian looked keenly at the Jew's. Then, moving his head slowly, he stared at Apollodorus.

"You are a Connoisseur of Arts? Is that a reason for interrupting my business with Esias?"

Apollodorus smiled back imperturbably.

"They say of Esias," he answered, "that his business is more important than that of any dozen kings. Nevertheless, mine with you outweighs his. I am instructed to take you to Queen Cleopatra."

Tros was half on his feet on the instant.

"You? Take me? You mean by force?"

"By force of curiosity. I guarantee you, that in all your wanderings you have never seen anything as priceless or as interesting as what I shall show you."

Tros grinned at him and sat back. He reached into a pouch beneath his belt and laid a small box on the table.

"Look, thou Connoisseur of Arts! Open and look within!"

The box was of gold engraved with deep designs unknown to Egypt.

"Are you wise? Are you wise?" Esias cautioned, clasping and unclasping his fingers nervously.

"Wiser than those who swore the world is flat!" Tros answered. "Open that box and look!"

Apollodorus pulled off the lid and caught his breath. He laid the box down on the table and stared at it, poking with his forefinger. He pushed it nearer to the light. He invoked a dozen or more gods. And then he looked at Tros again.

"You could buy Rome with those!" he remarked. "Unless Rome should take them from you!" warned Esias.

"You will show me a more priceless and a greater sight?" Tros asked.

"Why, yes," said Apollodorus, pushing the box toward him. "I will show you a woman to give them to. They are almost worthy of her."

"Give them? To a woman?"

Tros snorted. He stuck his finger in the box and rolled its contents to and fro. On a lining of black cloth there lay a dozen pearls, so perfect that they looked like symbols of eternal dawn. Two were almost as large as pigeons' eggs.

The Jew's eyes glittered. "Wonderful!" he exclaimed. "They are the best even I have seen—and I saw the pearls of Mithridates that Pompey took to Rome. But who shall buy these? Monstrous things! They are neither corn nor slaves. They are worth no more than somebody will pay. Who has money enough? Nah-h-h—and listen to me: I have seen ill-fortune dog the feet of them who owned such jewels. There was Mithridates. There is Pompey, whom they call the Great, who plundered him. I am not one of those who think that Pompey will end by being master of the world."

"I won these by not plundering," said Tros. "My friends, the British Druids, gave them to me for a certain service that I did."

"That may be better. That may change it. It may. It may," Esias answered. "Nevertheless, I could not afford to buy them. Who can? They are something to give to your enemy, to make all other men his enemy. I will not even accept them for safe-keeping. But I will open you a credit against that bag of smaller ones. I will sell those for your account, although I warn you, I look for no good market for pearls until this cursed war is over and the world has opportunity to grow luxurious again."

Tros closed the box and returned it to the pocket beneath his belt. Then, reaching to the seat behind him, he laid a small heavy bag on the table and pushed it toward Esias.

"One thousand, three hundred and eleven pearls. Write me your receipt."

Esias wrote. It was plain that they trusted each other; there was nothing said about the weight and Esias did not check the number.

"You may have what money you need, and I will deliver those stores you require for your ship," said Esias.

Tros nodded. "And now you. Tell me again what you want."

He knitted his great shaggy brows and glared at Apollodorus.

"I lack nothing," Apollodorus answered.

"Your purpose?"

"To discover the easiest course between birth and death, O Conqueror of Seas! I worship the unattainable. I glory in the unknown quantity. Which is why I adore art—and Cleopatra."

"Therefore you will die on a dunghill!" Esias commented. "Because the mob which knows nothing of art and less of Cleopatra, will despise you whenever you cease to win chariot races."

"I would rather admire my own opinion, dying on a dunghill, than despise myself in affluence," Apollodorus answered cheerfully. "However, each to his own peculiarities. We flatter ourselves by calling them ideals, whereas they are merely habits. You are consistent in yours, Esias, which is why I like you well enough."

The Samothracian was leaning back again, watching the Sicilian's face across the shaft of light that streamed through a slit in the linen window-shade.

"Is the world flat, or is it round?" he asked suddenly.

"I don't see that it matters, noble Tros," Apollodorus answered. "If the world pleases, it has my permission to be square, or pyramid-shaped, or a dodecahedron. I am all-tolerant of everything except stupidity and bad art."

Tros leaned forward suddenly, elbows on the table.

"What do you know about dodecahedrons?"

"Nothing," Apollodorus answered blandly. But their eyes met. Esias, alert and inquisitive, failed to detect any signal that passed between them. Nevertheless—

"I will go with you," said Tros.

He rose and gathered up his long sword, then turned to Esias.

"I am curious to see his wonder-woman," he said gruffly.

"But the slaves, Lord Tros. You were to see my strong slaves. I have a Gaul who could break an oar by pulling, and you will lose him—you will lose him—he will certainly be sold unless you seize the opportunity."

"I will return and look him over."

"How soon? There is much that you and I should talk of privately. Shall I reserve the slave for you? He is not cheap, but a wonder—a very Heracles. Until this evening then—but not later, Lord Tros—there are many inquirers for him—he is a good investment. I will reserve him until this evening, eh?"

"As you will," Tros answered, working his way out from behind the table and striding heavily toward the door.

He rolled a little in his gait, as if a deck were heaving under him. His eyes conned every detail of the room as if he memorized his bearings. There was also a wholesome deep-sea smell to him that Apollodorus noticed, and a recurrent, more or less unconscious gesture of habitual command.