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I was born and taught upon the threshold of the holy Mystery, and all my days I have been faithful to the duty laid upon me to pursue peace—aye, and to forego my own advantage if thereby peace might come. But I have found no peace on earth, nor any honourable way of avoiding war.

—From the Log of Lord Captain Tros of Samothrace

The cabin below the poop was dim, although it was painted with bright colors. The ports, which were slot-shaped and could be closed by bronze shutters and wedged tight, were narrow enough to protect archers aiming at the rowers of an enemy vessel. Across all the openings were bronze brackets for the big yew bows that were stowed in racks against the forward bulkhead, between boxes of bronze-tipped arrows.

There were broad bunks on either side of the cabin, some big chests, heavily hinged and strapped with bronze; a curtained closet where Tros's clothes were hung swinging in bags from a brass rail; and in the midst, with an armchair on each of three sides, was a heavy, oak table kept spotless, like the floor, by constant scrubbing. Barbaric embroidered hangings covered the after-bulkhead, and the bed-covers on the bunks were of Gaulish wool, dyed woad-blue—almost sky-blue. There was a box of books on the table—consisting of papyrus rolled on wooden sticks, each one thrust, end downward, in a circular container made from a section of bamboo.

Old Esias sat at Tros's right hand, leaning against the chair-back, with his eyes half-closed, watching Tros's face. His full beard and the locks that fell beneath his almost Arabian headdress were ash-gray. His ageing figure looked frail. But there was a very bright gleam beneath the lowered, wrinkled eyelids. He was a handsome old man, whose great wealth had not frozen his sense of humor, although it had made him suspicious and panicky. Salves,' of which he owned hundreds, had not flattered away his judgment. At the age of seventy he could enjoy power, and he plainly had it, of a kind that suited his temperament. He was much more than a typical Jew of the diaspora; he was an exceptional man in, any company, the richest merchant in Alexandria, with connections all over the known world.

A Syrian steward, whose other job, his battle station, was at one of of the starboard-side arrow-ports, entered and set wine before them, seaman fashion with brusque courtesy, and two goblets of turquoise-blue glass from a Theban tomb, which he took from a chest and unwrapped as carefully as if they were red-hot. Tros mixed the wine with water. He and Esias sipped, spilling no libation to anyone's gods, to the great scandal of the steward, who stood watching, his lips moving in silent supplication, or perhaps apology to invisible presences, until Tros ordered him to get forward and use his eyes on the dirt on the pantry floor.

"And mark me! Let me see a beetle when I make my rounds, and you shall eat it for supper! Ever let me catch you at prayers before your day's work's done, and you shall see whether praying balms a sore hide! Poseidon's trident! Have I shipped a crew of Osirian acolytes? Gods worth praying to love clean ships and diligent men. Fall away. Send in the deck decurion."

Old Esias sipped wine to hide a smile. Tros noticed.

"A good enough sailor, Esias, but if I let him, he would have me on my knees to half the gods of Homer."

A young Phoenician, from Sidon, with gold ear-rings and a knife at his belt, entered and faced Tros at attention. He was kilted like a Greek, in Tros's livery of unbleached cloth with a dyed border of Tyrian blue.

"Post your sentries six full paces from the cabin door with their backs toward it. No interruption except by Conops if he chooses, until I sound the gong."

The Phoenician saluted, fell away and shut the door with a thud. Tros waited until he heard the sentries ground their spear-butts at the proper distance. Then he grinned at Esias. He had a grand grin.

"Fifty corn ships, Esias! That means how much money?"

The old Jew made a wry face. "Too much. I and my syndicate had to pay higher than last year's price, though this year's crop is heavier. You know the law of Egypt. Corn is royal revenue—royal monopoly. They won't let us buy from the grower direct. The Queen's new finance minister forced us to buy at his own figure, and to pay in advance."

Tros nodded "That thought was the Queen's, not his," he answered. "That tricky eunuch would rather have borrowed the money from your people at twenty per cent, for the sake of a half per cent commission on the deal."

Esias corrected him: "One per cent! But she has eyes, ears, imagination. She learns quickly. Caesar taught her. But now Caesar has been dead more than a year and I think she remembers his daring, forgets his caution. Hey-yeh! Was there ever a woman of the Ptolemies like this one? Her elder sister Berenice was a wanton who thought of nothing but loans and lovers. She died the death of a Jezebel, and good riddance. Arsinoe, the younger sister is more beautiful, and in a way more dangerous, because more ignorant; but perhaps as Queen of Cyprus Arsinoe can't do much mischief. Cleopatra is not ignorant. No woman ever had vaster knowledge. None ever had greater difficulties. Instead of grieving for dead Caesar, Cleopatra emulates him. She seizes power. But what will she do with power? She has the grasp of a man and the guile of a woman."

"The courage of a lad," Tros added. "The imagination of a mystic. A man's love of power. A woman's sense of men's weakness. No womanly fears."

"A sphinx," said Esias. It was not a compliment. He had a Jewish dislike of graven images.

"Aye, but not silent! Cleopatra's voice is a weapon—a sweet sounding menace. Her riddle is hidden with laughter. Her moods are beneath the surface of gaiety. Beneath her soft speech and her flattering gentleness there is iron. Beneath her sensuousness there is strength."

"Can you read her riddle?"

"I must, Esias. Her throne hangs by a thread. She will play me like a stake on the board, unless I use intelligence."

"Well, you have it to use," said Esias. "Who is this Etruscan, of whom your man spoke? Do I know him?"

Tros raised the box of books. He withdrew from beneath it a strip of soiled papyrus, on which something had been hurriedly written in Greek characters. He scanned it once and then read it aloud:

"Many of the letters in his little leather case are unsigned but addressed to Lars Tarquinius reporting simply that his letters were received by those for whom they were intended. One letter is signed by a man named Felix, who writes from Rome, saying that Octavianus, Julius Caesar's nephew, is the leader to whom the wise are attaching themselves, because he is Caesar's legal heir, and because he reveals great common sense and shrewdness, despite an unpleasing appearance, delicate health and disagreeable character. Felix says Octavianus has offended many of the legions by condoning Caesar's murder, but the soothsayers nevertheless declare him to be invincible.

"Another letter is from a woman named Flora, who implores Tarquinius to find her a post in the Queen of Egypt's household, adding that she will reward him generously. She writes from Messina in Sicily, where she says there is a strong party in favor of Sextus Pompeius who is said to inherit his famous father's gifts and to be of a gallant disposition.

"Another letter is from a woman named Sappho, who writes Greek, saying she is in Rome, whither the proconsul Cassius sent her from Syria to watch certain people while Cassius makes ready to invade Egypt. But, says she, Marcus Antonius is the leader whose fortune it will pay to follow, seeing that he is in all respects a greater than Cassius, or than Brutus, who is in Macedonia, or than the degenerate Octavianus who is only a schoolboy, and at that a timid one with a perpetual cold in the head. Sappho adds that all the soothsayers favor Marcus Antonius, whose horoscope indicates brilliant success in all matters pertaining to politics, arms and money.

"The other letter has been written in a clear hand by a secretary, but the signature is difficult to read. It looks like Gaius Xenobarus, legatus, S.P.Q.R. The letter is short. It says simply: 'Promises are of no more worth than threats. Neither will the one feed legions, nor the other win battles. Only deeds are worthy of a Roman's consideration. See to it that thou be worthy of my good will'"

Tros frowned. "That," he said, "is an important letter. Flora and Sappho can sink no ships at sea. If Xenobarus is, as I think, Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus, he commands a Roman squadron—perhaps even a fleet. There is no knowing where to look for him, but he is sure to be on the side of whoever he thinks strong enough to undo in Rome what Caesar did. Ahenobarbus's father was one of Pompey's captains in the war against the pirates. He led five ships against half a hundred and defeated them all in the Bay of Antioch. You remember? A ruthless victor. They say he crucified so many prisoners that he ran out of trees and nails and they had to cut the lucky last hundred's throats. Mark Antony slew him with his own hand at the Battle of Pharsalia. He always hated Caesar. The obstinate old die-hard believed Pompey meant to reestablish republican rule in Rome! Perhaps that gives you an idea of the son's mentality. He hates Julius Caesar dead even more than his father hated him before Cassius and Brutus and that lot stabbed him in the name of the Republic Rome, mind you, is hungry. So are Rome's legions in Italy. So are Brutus's legions in Asia. If Ahenobarbus is at sea with a squadron, and if I know Ahenobarbus, the cargoes of your fifty corn ships will be eaten by whichever side Ahenobarbus favors. And he will favor whoever he thinks will restore the Republic. But who then will pay you?" Tros grinned. "The Roman senate?"

"Lord Tros, what are the terms of your commission?" Esias asked.

"I have none."

"Eh? What? You have only the Queen's word? A Ptolemy's word? The word of a woman of the Lagidae who plays against Rome for a kingdom?"

Tros nodded. "The Queen's word, flatteringly murmured in the room with the tortoise-shell walls studded with turquoise, where she and Caesar once talked philosophy and plotted together to conquer the world. The room stank of rose-leaves in Persian jars."

"Hey-hey-hey! Lord Tros! A stout heart and a strong ship may prevail over winds and waves. But she—that woman—she had even Caesar in her net!"

Tros laughed. "She has me in a net that never could have held him. Caesar, to gain his larger purposes, would have abandoned a hostage. He often did it. I not. She has all my Northmen—splendid, loyal seamen. She sent them all—even my lieutenant Sigurdsen—to forced labor, I don't know where, for brawling in the Royal Area."

"She understands you!" said Esias. "Truly she understands you. A man's scruples can become a bridle and bit to his better judgment."

"Aye," Tros answered. "Not that she hasn't scruples."

"Of a sort," said Esias. "Of a sort."

"Feminine," Tros agreed. "But it was another woman who thought of this trick. Cleopatra's ministers were not picked for their righteousness, but a man can reckon with them, servile ingrates though they be. A man can out-think the rogues, as readily as she can. But her only intimate is a woman, whom none of her ministers dares to offend."

Esias stared, trying to read the thought behind the words. "The Lady Charmion?" he asked. "From a cub that could be petted, she has changed, since Caesar's death, into a she-lion, snarling mateless. I have heard it said, Lord Tros, and also contradicted, that she loves you. What is the truth of it?"

The stormy look came into Tros's eyes—the hint of red that boded unpredictable but limitlessly angry deeds.

"A bitter virgin's barrenness is not my business in life, Esias."

"But she has her fingers in all the Queen's business! She directs the Queen's spies. She knows the Queen's secrets. Tros, you should have pretended to love Charmion! At least you should have let her love you!"

"It is enough that she loves intrigue," Tros answered. "It was Charmion's idea to send your corn fleet to sea under escort of a war-fleet manned by officers and crews from Cyprus. Charmion knew—for who doesn't?—that the crews were mutinous and their officers as full of treason as a beggar's hair is full of lice. Sphaerus, the assistant minister of marine, had been blamed. It was a woman's trick to get Sphaerus in trouble. He was Charmion's enemy, or she his, no matter which. He commanded what she suggested. She blamed him, and he has now been sent to Berenice to cool himself on the shore of the Red Sea, waiting to tax the yearly Greek ship from Socotra and the spice fleet from Punt."

"And the meaning of that?" Esias asked. He knew, but he preferred to learn how much Tros did not know.

Tros surprised him. "It means this, Esias. The Queen's younger sister Arsinoe is Queen of Cyprus. Having once been Queen of Egypt, and having a double share of Cleopatra's energy, but less than half her statesmanship, she is not in love with a throne on an island that is actually ruled by priests, pirates and exiled eunuchs. Arsinoe has never forgiven Cleopatra for not saving her from being made to walk in Caesar's triumph through the streets of Rome. She was in golden chains, half-naked, jeered by the Roman mob. Spat on. I saw it. The two sisters love each other like a pair of poets at a competition. However, it was Caesar who made Arsinoe Queen of Cyprus. He did it mainly to annoy old Cato. But Caesar did it, so Cleopatra puts up with it. I think she has convinced herself that Caesar really was the god-upon-earth that she taught him to believe himself to be. If she can possibly avoid it she won't undo whatever Caesar did. However, Arsinoe's, minister Serapion—you remember Serapion?—big, handsome fellow with a voluptuous smile—is a fool who thinks he sees a chance to steal the throne of Egypt for Arsinoe again by intriguing with Cassius. The idiot believes that his cheap treachery is good enough to outwit a man who dared to stab Julius Caesar, made himself proconsul of Syria by force of arms and who now dares to imagine himself the coming ruler of the world. Cassius has six or seven legions in Syria and Palestine. They have devoured the country like locusts. They need corn, and so does Brutus. There is news, to hand this morning by a fast felucca, that Serapion has detained your corn ships in the port of Salamis. The crews of the escorting warships have declared for Cassius and Serapion has sent them to Sidon, to get in touch with Cassius. Serapion is supposed to be urging Cassius to invade Egypt, to put Arsinoe on the throne a$ a political puppet in Cleopatra's place, perhaps with Herod for husband, and to send your fifty shiploads of corn to Rome as Cassius's own gift, thus making Cassius popular in Rome, where Antony and Octavian are at each other's throats, creating anarchy and getting themselves hated."

"Does Charmion love Cassius?" Esias asked. "I have heard he sours all women with his mean smile. Does she wish to see Arsinoe Queen of Egypt? Do you mean to tell me that Charmion has turned against Cleopatra?"

"She has never even seen Cassius," Tros answered. "Charmion wishes first and foremost to convict Arsinoe of treason, for future reference. She hates Arsinoe, because Arsinoe once drove Cleopatra from the throne. She also hates a Jew as utterly as she detests me. You Jews—and to this the Queen agrees, as does half Alexandria—are too rich, too powerful, becoming too ambitious. Your corn can cost the Queen nothing. No matter what becomes of it, the Queen's treasury has received the money. It would not break her heart to see you and your syndicate bankrupt."

Esias nodded. "Her estimate," he remarked, "is lacking in imagination. Does the Queen not fear Cassius?"

"It might serve the Queen's purpose," Tros continued, "if Cassius should get possession of the corn. Cassius may be the coming man. She doubts it. She hates him. He slew her Caesar. But Cassius may be the coming ruler of Rome. She would like to be able to have in hand some sort of evidence that she intended the corn for Cassius, just in case Cassius should turn out to be stronger than she believes. But should Cassius fail, as she hopes and believes he will, she will now be in position to blame Arsinoe for having tried to misdirect the corn into Cassius's hands."

"Cat-and-mousing while Rome starves!" Esias commented. "Rome must not starve! That is the one thing that must not be allowed to happen! Are these women and their courtiers demented? There will come a Roman fleet to Alexandria to subject Egypt to the fate of Gaul, Pontus, Carthage, Syria, Palestine! Don't they know that Romans, like the wolves, are merciless when famished?"

"Aye, they know it. So the corn fleet lies in the harbor of Salamis. And the Queen sends me, with a fleet of ten vessels, to fetch it away."

"Ten vessels, Tros? Where are they?"

"God knows, Esias. Somewhere between here and Cyprus, unless they have already joined the other fleet and have followed them to Sidon. Or unless they have met with pirates, who are out in fleets again, and growing bold, since Caesar's death. Did you hear that a fleet of them gutted a Roman trireme off the south of Sicily a month ago? Or they may have run from Ahenobarbus. If he were short of provisions Ahenobarbus would fight an Egyptian fleet for its crew's rations!"

"Are the ten ships to be under your command?" Esias asked.

"No. I am to cooperate, particularly against pirates. There is no profit to the Queen in feeding pirates. To destroy pirates at sea, could hardly be interpreted as challenging the Romans' claim to rule the sea. Rome, Esias, is at civil war and none can guess the outcome. But sooner or later someone will prevail. There will be a new dictator of Rome, with an empty treasury. Cleopatra can't afford to give that Roman an excuse for making war on Egypt."

"Well? Then what?"

"I am to deliver the corn to the highest bidder."

Esias answered calmly: "It is my corn—our corn—my syndicate's. It is consigned to my agent in Rome, who is to sell it to the Roman corn commissioners. They await it. They expect it. They need it, to prevent the Roman mob from taking law into its own hands."

"The bids," said Tros, "are to be in terms of good will, not money. The Queen does not need money. She needs the friendship of the strongest Roman. The corn has been seized by Serapion, on behalf of Arsinoe, who has disclaimed allegiance to Egypt and is not a recognized ally of Rome. Neither is Cyprus any longer a Roman province. Therefore, any Roman commander who can seize the corn will claim it, unless someone out-thinks him."

"Think me your thoughts aloud, Lord Tros. I listen," said Esias.

Tros, with a gnarled forefinger, drew an invisible map on the oaken table.

"There is Lepidus," he began, striking the palm of his hand on the western end of the imagined map, "said to be strong in Gaul, with many legions and perhaps some money, but few provisions, and with vanity and luck in place of brains. Lepidus is aging and is probably not dangerous, but needs to be borne in mind.

"There is Pompey's young son Sextus, said to command a fleet of pirates, ravaging Roman shipping. Out for himself. A very dangerous young man. After Caesar defeated him at Munda and destroyed his army, he became a bandit in Spain. Now that Caesar is dead, Sextus reckons himself any Roman's equal. Sextus has nothing to lose and all to gain by almost any act of daring, and he is rumored to have seized some shipping, and to be cutting off Rome's supply of corn from Africa, Spain and Gaul.

"Then there is Cassius in Syria, with seven legions. A mean man. A murderer. Like Brutus, he would rather injure other men than win. He has his hands fairly full. He has ravished and plundered Syria, which is up in arms against him and swarming with bandits. Brutus wants him to march northward. But Cassius would like to invade Egypt.

"Brutus is in Macedonia. He is scavenging the land for corn and money, talking about high principles and honor, but burning cities and selling well-born people into slavery. Brutus knows he will have to fight whatever combination results from the civil war in Italy. He will have to fight either Antony or Octavian, and possibly even both of them if they can only come to terms with each other. So Brutus makes a great show of friendship for Cassius, whom he needs, detests, mistrusts and would like to restrain from invading Egypt, partly because he is jealous and partly because he needs the six or seven legions that Cassius would have to induce to march southward across the desert in order to invade Egypt with any chance of success. Is that clear?

"Meanwhile in Italy, Mark Antony and Octavian are at each other's throats. Incompatibles, loathing each other, but big men. Mark me: they two are the big ones. Antony is rumored to be having the worst of it. He is said to have won a battle but to have retreated northward. There is no knowing what has happened. The Queen secretly favors Antony, because he was Julius Caesar's friend, and because he dared to denounce Caesar's murderers."

"She has sent him money," said Esias. "She sent him a tenth of a year's revenue of all Egypt. She sent it within six weeks of Caesar's death—within a week of her return from Rome."

"And if I know Antony," said Tros, "he threw away the half of it on wine and women. Nevertheless, the man has something more than a mere appetite. He has faculties, courage, imagination, health, high spirits. He is a great cavalryman. But he is no Julius Caesar. Antony needs a master. Perhaps the Queen thinks she can master him."

"Well? And you—what do you do?" Esias asked.

"I go to sea. Now."

"At your own cost?"

"Aye. Should I accept her wages and become her catspaw? Or should she pay me and become responsible for whatever I do? In a certain sense, Esias, my predicament and hers are as well matched as the Heavenly Twins."

"I perceive what she perhaps—eh, perhaps—perhaps can gain," said Esias. "But, Lord Tros, what can you gain?"

"My men! She has taken hostages—my Northmen, who have stood by me in many a hard fight. The Queen wanted them for her bodyguard, but they and I said no to it. So Charmion snatched an opportunity to score off me. She had them sentenced for breaking the heads of the Roman officers of those two legions that Caesar left here to keep the Queen on her throne. A true charge, but a false reason."

"I was told of it," said Esias. "But it was said they were Gauls."

"My Northmen. The best seamen on earth—battle-ax men—stubborn, superstitious, hard drinking, grumbling, loyal-to-the-last-breath comrades-in-arms. The Queen was glad enough to have those arrogant Roman cockerels humiliated. They have served her purpose. They cost more than their insolence justifies. She would be glad to be rid of them. She even joked me about the thrashing my men gave them. The flowers that she sent to the injured roman officers were arranged in the shape of a Northman's ax. But Charmion saw a chance to clip my wings; she and the Queen had second thoughts. Northmen are heavy drinkers. It was no trick to arrange a trap and then a tosspot quarrel with a company of soldiers. And so now I may have my Northmen back if I succeed on this venture."

"And your Basques?" asked Esias. "Those saucy rogues who obliged me to double the guard over my slave-girls' quarters?"

Tros scowled. "They went on a raid of that kind once too often. But that wasn't Charmion's doing. My Basques conceived a passion for the wrong man's slaves. They were fortunate not to be sent to the mines. They were conscripted for the Berenice Coast Patrol. There are few women and fewer wine-shops on the Red Sea littoral, but I imagine they are finding ways of making trouble for their Greek officers."

"So you go to sea short-handed?"

"Short for a sea-fight, yes. I have a good crew—good rowers—good men for the catapults. But if I meet Ahenobarbus I shall sorely lack men for such a battle as he will bring on. If he can catch me, you understand. I can out-sail and out-row any Roman ship afloat, except for a few of their liburnians that are too lightly armed to be dangerous. There is going to be thick weather, and that is all in my favor."

"April? Thick weather in April?"

"Yes. I can smell it coming. And mark me, Esias, there is always dirty weather when the world's thrones are toppling and men's minds are a turbulent sea. Nay, I know not why. Shake your head as you please. I say it is so. And if I find that corn fleet, I shall have to escort fifty laden ships as slow as logs, in vile weather."

"Egyptian sailors are good," said Esias.

"Good, yes. They can stand hardship. But they scatter and run like thieves. If I should bully them, they'd surrender to the first Roman in sight and accuse me of being a pirate."

"Which you are!" said Esias. "If you have no Queen's commission, then you are a pirate. And this Etruscan with the letters in his luggage?"

"Lars Tarquinius is supposed to be a passenger for any Roman port where I can deliver him. He is supposed to be a spy, acting in behalf of Sostratus, the Queen's secretary. But he owes his appointment to Charmion, so I haven't a doubt he has been put on board to spy on me. Tarquinius is a man with a woman's malice and lack of scruples. He is like a camel, with incalculable treachery at both ends. He would betray even himself for sufficient reward. I suspect him of having warned Ahenobarbus to look out for that corn fleet and for me also."

"Can he swim?" asked Esias. "Could he swim in armor?"

"I may find a better use for him. And now about money. Esias, I shall need money."

"Lord Tros! Lord Tros!" Esias threw up his hands—beautiful old hands, as finely lined as Tros's fists were gnarled and hugely strong. "There has been no market for your British pearls. They are too big and too good to be thrown on a market that groans with the loot from Rome's wars and with the unsold eastern merchandise that gluts the warehouses. We must wait for more prosperous times. But no need to worry about them. They are safe. They are well cared for. My slave-girl Mariamne, at the proper intervals, cherishes them on her breast to preserve their life and lustre."

"I have no fear on that score," said Tros. "But do you think such a ship as mine, with all my men, costs nothing?"

"I can lend you a little."

"Nay, nay. I could have had a loan from the Queen, were I so minded. A borrower, Esias, borrows more than he gets, and pays more than he owes."

"Lord Tros," Esias leaned toward him pointing a finger. "Should as much as four-fifths of that corn reach my agent through your doing, so that he can sell it instead of its being stolen by a Roman fleet; or if you yourself can sell it, for four-fifths of its value—one-fifth of the money is yours. My word on it. I allow a fifth for spoilage, sinkage, shipwreck, accident or loss from any cause whatever."

"Your word is good, Esias."

"And in writing better." Esias produced a small roll of parchment. "Pen! Ink!"

Tros groped in a box and passed them to him. Esias wrote in Greek, and then the same in Latin, on the one parchment.

"There—from Esias, Jew of Alexandria, to the Lord Tros of Samothrace and of the trireme Liafail—authority to sell the corn and to receive the money."

"How much money?"

"It is written on the parchment—price, quantity, cost of loading, cost of freight per day from date of sailing, tax on export, harbor charges, interest per day—it is all written plainly. And now, Lord Tros, none can call you a pirate. You are an accredited agent."

"A Roman officer will call me anything he pleases, given a short enough range and a big enough prize!" Tros answered. "I will do my best: But the seas are wide in which to lose a fleet of fifty ships, and it is easier to bargain with Apennine wolves than with famished Romans making war on one another. Should I fail, Esias, I shall still need money, aye, and likely need it worse. I must sell pearls. I have no other resource against future need."

He got up and manipulated the cumbrous lock of a bronze-bound chest. He produced a small gold box, engraved with a barbaric design. He pushed the box along the table toward Esias.

Esias glanced at him for permission and then opened the box. He gasped. He held it to the light from the port behind him. He poked with his forefinger. He stuck his tongue between his lips and made peculiar sounds with his nose. His old eyes glittered. He glanced at Tros and then again stared, fascinated by the contents of the box.

"Lord Tros, I believed you had reached the end of your treasure of pearls."

"These are the end."

Esias poured eleven pearls into the palm of his hand. Two were as large as pigeon's eggs. One, that was almost as big, was as dark as the sunlit breast of an Ethiopian.

"How many lives, Lord Tros? How many lives have these cost?"

"None that I heard of," Tros answered. "I had the other pearls from the druids. These were a gift to me from Fflur, the wife of Caswallon, the king of a corner of Britain. He and she and I were friends and we upheld each other. There were twelve pearls in that lot. I spent the smallest on sending my homesick Britons back to their fog-bound island. Britons are good slaves but bad freedmen, and not Poseidon himself could make sailors of them."

"Lord Tros, who could buy these? There is only one possible purchaser."

"Take those two largest, Esias, and sell them to her, for the highest price you can imagine and your skill collect."

"Hey-hey-hey! Who shall appraise these?"

"Caesar made war on Britain because he had heard of them," said Tros. "But Caesar never saw them. Take those two big ones and sell them to Cleopatra."

"Be advised by me, Tros. Give them to her! Sell the others."

"Nay, nay, Esias. I have had my fill of that mistake. I have given her pearls, to my sorrow. Such gifts excite greed that devours the giver. She would think I am an oyster than can vomit pearls whenever ill-used."

"She could smother herself in the pearls she already has," said Esias. "Pearls and emeralds."

"Nevertheless, she would cat-and-mouse me for my last one; and with the last would be gone a boughten tolerance such as ill suits my temper. Gifts are no way to a woman's confidence, not if it be worth having. As it is, she sets a value on me myself. And when I have my men again, she shall either keep Caesar's promise and let me re-dig and widen and deepen that canal that her ancestor dug from the Nile to the Red Sea, and that the other Ptolemies let perish of neglect—or I will sail away westward."

"Through the Gates of Hercules again? To prove that the world is round?" Esias asked. Even he smiled. It was one of Alexandria's standing jokes, but Tros had no appreciation for the jest.

"Aye!" he answered, glaring. "I would have gone on that voyage long ago, but for befriending her, and so first one thing, then another. It is my life's goal, and she knows it. But she knows, too, I will not sail away and leave my Northmen. Sell her those pearls, Esias. Enter the amount, less your percentage, to my credit. Pay me when I return. If Ahenobarbus or some other Roman sinks me, and I return not, then the money is yours. But remember my Northmen. Remember my Basques. They are all my freedmen—prisoners of war, to whom I gave their freedom. They are good men. They have stood by me better in foul than fair weather, better in war than in peace, as good men ever will. See that they are not sold into slavery. Bribe—intrigue—use influence—set them at liberty. Send the Basques home in some trading vessel at the first chance. Buy the Northmen a ship and let them find their own way to the land they came from."

"I will do it. You may depend I will do it. And now one word—"

Conops burst in, slamming the door behind him. "Master—"

"Have you no manners, you graceless drunkard?"

Conops, fuming with impatience, stood at attention and touched his forehead, to Tros first and then to Esias.

"Master—"

"Set that back in the chest."

Conops took the gold box from the table, wrapped it in a cloth, packed it away in the chest, locked it up, tested the lock, and handed the key to Tros.

"And now! What?"

"Master, there's a sixteen-oared boat alongside, full of men and—"

"My boat," said Esias. "I ordered it sent to save you trouble, Lord Tros."

Conops groped in his blouse and laid on the table a small package tied up in linen rag. He had three raw knuckles, which he tried to conceal.

"The merchant Esias's boat, it may be," he remarked. "But Tarquinius the Etruscan has a fish, too, on that skillet. Tarquinius threw that to a rower."

Tros untied the package. It contained a folded letter, unsealed.

"Does Tarquinius know you have this?"

"Nay, not he! I made believe that minute to need to inspect the new flax hawser that's coiled up forward. I set a crew to laying it out on deck on the port side. What with me being hasty, and our lads knowing something was up and acting clumsy, and him in the way, he was discommoded more than anyone of his rank should be. So I had to ask him, nice and civil, to keep to starboard of the midship deckhouse, and I set a deck decurion to mind he did it. Then I went after that. But the Etruscan had thrown a coin, too, along with the packet so the boatmen got nasty—all four bow-oars. But I knew which one had it."

"And the coin?"

Conops was silent.

"Show it to me!"

Conops opened his hand.

"Oh-ho! Silver?"

Tros read the letter. He passed it to Esias and Esias read it. Their eyes met. They nodded. Esias laid on the table ten strips of parchment and an Egyptian government tax receipt.

"And now, Lord Tros, before I leave you, and my God preserve you for a safe return, let me make you a gift. I have ten slaves—"

"Nay, nay, no slaves, Esias. There isn't a slave on the ship. Oar-work breaks slaves' hearts, and a slave in a battle at sea is only one more enemy to keep an eye on."

"Lord Tros, these are ten young Jews who fought their way out of Jerusalem when Pompey laid siege to the city. They were hardly more than boys then. They burst their way by night through the Roman lines. They lived in the mountains until they were surrounded by Roman troops and starved out. They were sold in the Athens slave-mart, thence to Delos, where they were trained as gladiators and sold to Ephesus, whence they escaped. They reached Tarsus and went to sea as oarsmen on a pirate vessel. The pirate broke faith with them and sold them to my agent in Rhodes, who sent them in fetters to Alexandria. I have told them that your custom is to set free any slave who proves himself fit for freedom. So I offer them to you, from a friend to a friend, as the best gift I can make to you, and the greatest kindness I can do for them. These are deeds to them. This is the receipt for the tax on the transfer of ownership."

"You honor me, Esias."

"You accept them?"

"Aye, on your word, for I need them. Conops, fetch them up on deck and turn them over to the storekeeper to be clothed; then to the armorer—"

Esias interrupted: "Lord Tros, it is, as you know, against the law to arm slaves. Nevertheless, I have armed these. They are splendid archers. They have bows, swords, bucklers and the body-armor of Thracian hoplites taken from the battlefield of Pharsalia and sold at the auction in Rome after Caesar's triumph. But the helmets are of the new style, of your own design, made in my workshops. They are also already clothed in your honor's livery. And each one brings with him a basket of two hundred arrows, plumed with goose-quill and tipped with bronze. My countrymen can fight, and these are young men of good breeding. Perhaps they will no longer be slaves when they return to Alexandria."

"They shall have their chance," said Tros. "I love a man who loves freedom well enough to earn it."

Tros and Esias embraced each other, whispering, first in one ear, then the other the ritual phrases of a secret brotherhood' as ancient as the monuments of Thebes, far older than Eleusis. Then Esias took Tros's arm to the deck and ten sturdy young Jews in Thracian body-armor but with strange, uncrested helmets, went down on their knees to kiss Esias's hand.

"Your new master," said Esias, and Tros bade them stand up. They looked him straight in the eyes, measuring him as he measured them. He examined them each in turn from head to foot. They appeared to like it. They were in no wise ashamed of themselves. They had cleaned their armor until it shone. They had the impudent health in their eyes of men who have nothing to lose but manhood.

"A good gift, Esias: They shall not lack their chance to show merit."

Then, as a deck decurion helped Esias down the ladder into his sixteen-oared, awninged boat, there began the orderly, heart-thrilling marvel of a great ship getting under weigh. There was no wind. For the sheer love of splendor Tros ordered the purple sails unbrailed and sheeted down. A cymbal clanged the "stand by, all!" To the sharp shouts of the oar-bank captains three banks on either side shot forth vermilion oar-blades, all together, to half-length, with a thump of the ash looms on the oak ports. The forward captains clanked to a deep-sea chantey—the immortal, hilarious one about Zeus and the sea-god's daughter. There was a cry from Conops in the bow. And then, from Tros on the poop beside the long-limbed Argive helmsman:

"Out oars! Ready! Dip!"

He set the time for the drums with his right hand. They thundered. The oar-blades flashed in the noonday sun. The ship leaped. The blue sea boiled alongside. The gold-leaf covered tongue of the wide-mouthed serpent at the ship's bow darted and flashed on its hidden gimbals as if the serpent were alive.

"An omen, Lord Tros, a great good omen!" said the helmsman, pointing to the glistening summit of the Pharos lighthouse. Sea-birds soared around it, evenly spaced, in an almost perfect circle.

Tros waved to Esias. Then he answered the helmsman:

"Four hundred and three score men—the best ship on all earth's oceans—a dangerous voyage beginning—bad weather a-brew in that haze to the South—that's desert dust. Eyes on the course, you Argive dreamer! She'll be blowing a three-reef gale by midnight."

Then, to his chief-lieutenant, a Phoenician, fifty years old:

"You may change the sails, Ahiram. Get these stowed and bend on the new flax set. Order the lower-deck captains to check the oar-port covers and have them ready."

The Phoenician glanced southward, met Tros's eyes and nodded. There was a storm on the way from the Libyan desert.