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Treachery can ruin only traitors. No spy can perceive the purpose of him whose heart is free from treason to himself. Guile is a form of wisdom that an honourable man may have and honourably use, persuading traitors to employ their ill will ignorantly in the service of him whom they aim to destroy.

—From the Log of Lord Captain Tros of Samothrace

Tros's cabin reeled. The lamp swung. The shadows swayed. Lars Tarquinius was seasick, but too mean-spirited and obstinate to vomit. He asked Tros's permission to remove his corselet, a very handsome specimen of armor that made him look a great deal more Romanly heroic than he felt. He eyed the spare bunk yearningly; it looked warm and luxurious; but Tros, perhaps purposely, had heaped it with odds and ends of furniture that were roped to keep them from being pitched to the floor.

But Tarquinius was a prisoner. He' knew it, although nothing had been said about it and he still wore his double-edge Egyptian dagger in a Roman sheath.

There was no longer a rhythmic oar-pulse. The weary, well-fed rowers were asleep in the dark on shelves, like corpses in a catacomb. The ship wallowed and creaked as the Libyan Khamasin, sand-laden, bullied a following sea into steep waves. It was as much as Tarquinius could manage to keep himself off the floor. He had to grip the chair-arms. It was humiliating to him that Tros should be able to keep his feet and even to pace the floor, to and fro, with his arms behind him.

"Take it off, yes," Tros answered. "Why did you put it on? Why the dagger?" His own double-edged sword, in the second-best sheath, lay on the starboard bunk, fore and aft, with the hilt on the pillow. His helmet and armor swayed from the hooks on the bulkhead.

"Those are fierce men in the deckhouse, where your insolent man Conops told me I may sleep," Tarquinius answered. He let his corslet fall to the floor with a thump. For a moment he sprawled with his elbows on the table and his eyes shut. Then he' sat back and huddled himself in his scarlet equestrian toga. "I don't care to be murdered," he remarked.

"Do you know an honest sailor when you see one?" Tros retorted. "Those are my petty officers. They would no more think of harming you than I would—"

Tarquinius looked relieved; even his aquiline blue-red nose looked a bit less cynical, until Tros added:

"—without cause!"

Tarquinius found a flare of temper somewhere beneath his miserable surface. "Cause, eh? You invited me into your cabin. What for? By Bacchus, you haven't offered me a drink, nor anything but insult. I am sick."

"So I see. You will be more sick before we make the let of Cyprus. Talk while you can."

"About what? Bona dea! Can I see into your thoughts? I am here on the authority of the Queen's secretary."

Tros stood still in front of him, holding a chair-back, leaning across the table with the lamplight aglow on his eyes. "Why did you write to the merchant Esias, in a letter which you threw, along with a piece of silver, to the bow-oarsman of Esias's boat, saying he would have you to thank if his corn should ever reach its destination?"

"You have a powerful imagination, Captain Tros. The answer is simple. I didn't."

"The proof," said Tros, "also is simple. Here is the letter. Look at it. You see it? The last paragraph reads: 'remember me, Jew-Esias. One of these days I shall ask for my honorarium.' What does that mean?"

Tarquinius felt too sick to invent any lies. He was like a witness under torture. The truth seemed relatively unimportant, except as the easiest means of hurting the inquisitor's feelings. He wanted to go away and lie down.

"I intended Esias to know that the secret is out," he answered. He sneered like a wolf. "His and yours also! Have you heard that the Cyprus fleet has declared for Cassius? That was Esias's doing! You are the Jew's catspaw. One of my informers' is a slave in Esias's office, who overheard Esias telling his partners that he would offer you a fifth to see that the corn reaches its destination. The corn is meant for Cassius, who is to invade Egypt and to install Arsinoe on the throne. Cleopatra—"

He made a gesture with his hand across his Adam's apple. Then, at last, suddenly he met Tros's eyes at full stare. His own, that were flinty and watery-gray with red rims, hardened in the lamplight, excited, as if he were staking his all on one throw of the dice.

"Tros, you are not the only wise man! I also know on which side of the platter the food is. I, too, am on the side of Arsinoe. There will be some pickings for smart fellows when that young woman gets her rights."

"Her rights?" Tros went and leaned against the after bulkhead. "Do you mean her revenge?"

"Rights was the word I used."

"Explain it." Tros awaited a roll of the ship and then eased himself into the chair at the end of the table. He struck a gong. It was the only release of emotion that he permitted himself, and even that might be charged to the noise of the storm. He struck so suddenly and so loudly that Tarquinius turned as if to ward off a blow. But Tros had to strike three times before the steward heard through the storm and came in from his cubbyhole under the break of the poop.

"Wine!"

The steward returned very quickly with a skin of Egyptian wine, which he hung from a hook on the overhead beam. He poured two silver bowls about a third full, then returned to his quarters. There was no need to spill a-libation; the ship's motion attended to that. Tros sipped. Tarquinius drank and began to feel less wretched as the strong stuff stirred his blood.

"Explain," Tros repeated. "You said Arsinoe's rights."

"I said it. Do you realize that when Caesar came, the Alexandrines had deposed Cleopatra and driven her out of Egypt? She was legally deposed. No longer Queen. They didn't choose to have a seventeen-year-old girl reforming their government and cutting off the wrong heads. They wanted someone they could manage. So they made Cleopatra's younger brother and sister joint rulers, under a regency that knew its business. Regents' business is to get rich, isn't it? But then Caesar came, who knew more about grabbing other folks' money and spending it than all the robbers since Alexander. Cleopatra showed she has genius, even though she is a Ale-Ptolemy and they're a rotten lot, the Ptolemies. Instead of invading Egypt with a Syrian army, she had herself smuggled back to Alexandria. Some say she came on your ship. Did she? Anyway, she was taken in to Caesar's presence in a roll of rugs, and she became his mistress. But Arsinoe was still the lawful Queen of Egypt. The young king was killed in battle later on and Queen Arsinoe became Caesar's prisoner. But she was never deposed by the Alexandrines. She was still Queen of Egypt. If not, why did Caesar walk her through Rome at his chariot-tail in his three-day triumph? Why he didn't have her beheaded afterwards, as is usual, I don't know. He had Vercingetorix the Gaul beheaded after that triumph, you remember. It was an actual fact, and still is, that Arsinoe was the court's choice. She is the lawful and the only Queen of Egypt. She was recognized as such by the Roman Senate by being so described on the placards before and behind her when she was marched through the streets in humiliation. She has not been legally deposed by anyone who had authority to do it. Thousands of people saw her crowned Queen, with the double crown of Egypt, by the high priest, on the steps of the temple of Serapis. Cleopatra was never crowned in public. Queen of Egypt Arsinoe still is. And the gold of Egypt, Captain Tros, let me tell you, will fall plop-plop-plop into the laps of the men who have the good sense to perceive the girl's manifest destiny and to help to bring it to pass."

Tros humored him: "You think Egypt would accept Arsinoe?"

"Aye. Egypt will accept whatever men of discretion impose. Rome, too, will swiftly recognize her as the lawful Queen of Egypt, because she is one of those priest-ridden fools who are easy to manage. No matter who helps her back to the throne, Arsinoe will pick Octavian to win the civil war, because she has never seen him, so she can't hate him as much as she hates Antony. That will mean a river of Egyptian money pouring into Octavian's pocket. Plunder! Plunder! Can't you see it? She may even try to marry Octavian, and the pimply pervert could do a lot worse for himself, let me tell you. Give me more wine, it seems to ease my belly."—He raised the bowl in both hands.—"Captain Tros, I pledge you youth and beauty, the cult of Venus-Aphrodite, mystic merry-making, woman in her right place as man's convenience! To Queen Arsinoe of Egypt—may the gods give her a Roman husband!"

Tros got up and re-filled Tarquinius's bowl from the swinging wine-skin.

"How much of this," he asked when he had sat down again, "do you think Queen Cleopatra suspects? You should know. They say you are in the Lady Charmion's confidence, and she is supposed to know the Queen's thoughts."

Tarquinius smiled. It was meant to be the kind of smile that fluxes understanding between man and man. But the ship was plunging, tossing her stern to a blast from the Libyan desert. It was a sour smile. He had to wait a few moments before he could speak.

"As you know, Captain Tros, no one is in that woman's confidence, nor in the Queen's either. Such a poor devil as I am—I had a tidy fortune, but I lost it—has to swallow condescensions, though they make the blood boil. Hecate! I knew the lady Charmion when she hadn't a shift to her name, when she climbed in through a palace window to beg clean clothing from one of Arsinoe's slaves. One would think now however, to hear her speak to me, that she had bought me at auction, cheap."

Tros nodded. He could almost sympathize with anyone who had suffered Charmion's temper. It was just as well, though, that his elbow was on the table and his right hand, supporting his chin, concealed his mouth. His smile might have silenced Tarquinius, who, unaware of the smile, continued to reveal himself, in a desperate, gambler's effort to win Tros over. He had no hope of winning Tros's friendship. Even with the strong wine in his brain he was too shrewd to pretend to try to do that. Very shrewdly indeed, he even took for granted Tros's contempt, and showed his own contempt for Tros's scruples.

"Such a man as I am, Captain Tros, has to use all available means to an end. And the end is, to take good care of me, Tarquinius. It is my business to learn what is going on."

"Why not call yourself a spy and have done with it?"

"If it pleases you. Very well. Call me a spy, if that makes you feel virtuous. But I spy in my own interest. Do you understand that? There is only one person whose interests I serve. He is Lars Tarquinius, Etruscan, eques Romanus, to myself the most important person in the world. The world may rot, for all of me, unless it treats me handsomely. When I accepted a beggarly pittance from Charmion, it was in order to serve my ends, not hers. I know all about her having wanted you for a lover, and how she hates you for refusing. I didn't know whether that meant you are a Samothracian ascetic, or whether you aim higher. Some of the court gossips insist that you are Cleopatra's lover." He paused, staring straight into Tros's eyes. But he learned nothing. "Anyhow, I offered to spy on you, because I knew of no better way to reach Arsinoe. When your servant opened and examined my baggage"—he paused again, guessing at the probable depth of Tros's credulity, but Tros betrayed no emotion, so he continued. It was a bow at a venture—a shrewd guess, but his eyes betrayed that he was guessing—"he removed a confidential letter. Where is it?"

"Why not say he stole your money also?" Tros asked.

It was too late for Tarquinius to take a different line. He had chosen his gambit. He had to carry on.

"Did you know," he asked, "or have you perhaps guessed, that the crews of the fleet that a fool of a minister ordered to escort the corn ships are mutinous, and that before they sailed they had corrupted your crew? I have been a sick man, ever since we left port, but I am not blind. I am a professional observer. I saw the whispering going on among your station captains and decurions. I will make you a wager of all the money I have, that they all now know the contents of that letter that your servant removed from my baggage."

"Are you sure you had the letter with you?" Tros asked.

"Yes," Tarquinius spoke slowly, carefully inventing detail. "A letter from a friend of mine in Rome, asking whether you can't be won over to Arsinoe's side. My friend says that Ahenobarbus is at sea with a fleet, and no one knows whose side he takes but, certain senators in Rome having denounced you as an enemy of the Roman people, Ahenobarbus intends to treat you as a pirate. My friend's name is Publius Cinna; he is one of the secretaries of the senate, so he learns pretty nearly everything that is going on. He asked me to advise you to abandon Egypt and to attach yourself at once to Queen Arsinoe, because Rome intends to recognize Arsinoe's claims." He paused. Then: "You realize, of course, that Cleopatra would disown you in a moment. Arsinoe, on the other hand, is one of those romantic fools who wouldn't—not if you had helped her in a tight place."

"How did you get that letter?" Tros asked.

"None of your business. Buy me if you want my channels of communication. The point is, your crew know the contents of that letter, and they know what it means to be treated as pirates by any Roman captain who can catch them. Have you ever heard, Captain Tros, of a commander being forced by his men to change sides? Doesn't a wise commander change sides before they force him? Learning what they wish, doesn't he command that, so that they may think him a wise leader? Your man Conops, whom you think is such a loyal dog, employs his loyalty this minute in persuading your crew that the way to save you and them from crucifixion is to force you to declare for Arsinoe."

Tros smothered a smile. Roman torturers, in Gaul, had burned out Conops's eye for refusing to tell Tros's secrets. However, there was no need to say anything about that. He struck the gong. The steward entered.

"Conops."

The steward vanished. Tarquinius tried to employ the ensuing minute shrewdly, "Doubtless," he said, "he has thrown the letter overboard. He isn't likely to admit having stolen it."

Conops entered, with his knitted red cap pulled down over his blind eye. He was dripping-wet, barefooted, chewing a clove of garlic.

"My cloak. No, not that one, you unthrifty wastrel! Do I wear my best one on a wet night? The shabby one. The old brown one. So. Now the sword. Stay here. Sit down and do your best to entertain this Roman eques."

Eyeing the Etruscan, and particularly his dagger, with obedient, watchdog curiosity, Conops took the third chair. By way of suitable entertainment he began dying tricks with his knife. Tros grinned and went on deck.

Immediately outside the door, to port and starboard of a short passage, were two low-roofed cabins. The one on the port hand contained the steward's quarters, pantry and bunks for Conops and several other dependable men. Tros, waiting for a moment of balance between waves, opened the door and peered in. There was no light—no other sound than snoring, but the steward came to life from somewhere and loomed like a ghost in the dark.

"Go in and fill the Etruscan's cup. Give Conops about a third of a cupful. Then fetch out the wine-skin, get a lantern, and wait for me at the door of the starboard bunk-house."

Tros climbed to the poop. It was almost too dark to see the steersmen, two of them at the one long oar, their eyes straining to catch the least gesture of the Phoenician Ahiram, who leaned with his back against the taffrail and sensed the course by only he knew what means, but it was partly by the wind on the back of his neck, and partly by the feel of the roll and plunge, and partly by the angle of the waves that thundered astern. There were no stars visible. There was no sign of the Pharos lighthouse, visible from forty miles at sea on clear nights. The deck watch of twenty men had been brought up to the poop, to have them handy where they could hear commands; they were herded together close to the bulwark and their humming was faintly audible below the howl of the wind. Ahiram asked leave to come about and heave to. Tros studied the sea and the wind and the ship's motion for about three minutes before he answered:

"Carry on, Ahiram. This should blow itself out before tomorrow's sunset. If the wind eases, we'll shake down a reef. There'll be no chance to use oars. Even under the lee of Cyprus there'll be a heavy sea for a couple of days."

The Phoenician's teeth showed for a second, in a flash of a grin that might have meant anything. Tros leaned beside him for a while, listening to the weight of the wind in the reefed sails, reconsidering his judgment, estimating speed, and then, little by little, letting other thoughts enter his mind. There was a weird sensation, nowhere to be felt but on a ship at sea, of hundreds of lives confined, in silence, within a living thing that was all sound and motion. Four hundred and three-score men, as ignorant of their destiny as the ship herself, all under one man's hand, all drilled and armed for not even Tros himself could guess what violent event.

He was determined, if wind and sea would let him, to reach Salamis ahead of the ten Egyptian ships with whose admiral he was supposed to cooperate. He hardly doubted that admiral's treason. It was almost a certainty. Fleets, since Caesar's death, had become pawns in a game of Who-owns-the-money? That Egypt had enormous stores of food and money was no special reason for loyalty to Cleopatra. Rather the contrary. The plunder would be shared among those who could foresee who would steal her throne.

Some Roman. It could be no one but a Roman. Rome could no longer exist without Egypt's corn and money. But which Roman? Which of the warring generals would sense out his chance to seize Arsinoe, in Cyprus, under pretext of restoring Cyprus to Roman rule; and to do then what Caesar did after Pharsalia—set sail for Alexandria and seize the palace? It would be a simple matter to depose or to kill Cleopatra; should a Roman fleet appear, she would very likely be murdered by the Roman legions in Alexandria. To establish Arsinoe on the throne, with Roman legions in support, would amount to annexation of Egypt. And whoever could accomplish that would have Rome at his feet. He would have all the wealth of Egypt with which to debauch and bribe and buy Rome.

His muttered thoughts went down wind, but Ahiram saw his lips move. The Phoenician thrust his head closer, and dared to repeat his advice to put the ship about and heave to.

"Carry on," Tros answered. "It will blow itself out, like a woman's anger."

The Phoenician shook his head and Tros laughed, no longer thinking of the storms that he understood, but of the minds of three women that he could read rather well but did not understand.

The Greek second officer came to the poop. The watch changed, but the Phoenician refused to go below. He and the Greek stood watch together, straining their eyes toward the faint grayish loom of the sails in the dark. Tros left them and found the steward waiting for him with the wine-skin and a lantern. He entered the starboard bunk-house, where a dozen of his faithful Northmen usually lived, between him and a possibly mutinous crew. He took the lantern from the steward and swung it. The ten young Jews were sleeping two in a bunk, to share five blankets. They had wrapped their armor in the other five, and they had their bows in bed with them, to keep the gutstrings dry and the wood from absorbing moisture. As they awoke with the light in their eyes they fell out of the bunks and stood to attention, naked.

"Fetch the storekeeper!"

The steward set down the wine-skin and went on the run. Not another word was spoken until the storekeeper came, breathless, lugged out of a warm bunk with no time to clothe himself, his naked skin glittering wet in the lantern-light. He was scared; he had never been summoned at night except for neglect of duty. Tros let him take a good look at the bunkhouse interior. Then he smashed him in the face with the full strength of his right fist. The man staggered against the bulkhead and pitched forward with the ship's roll. Tros's fist met him with a crack like the sound of a slaughterer's pole-ax and the man collapsed into a lower bunk.

"Come out of that! Stand at attention!" Then, after another swing of the lantern: "Am I a pauper, that ten men share five blankets? Where are the bow-covers? Where are the woolen bags for their armor?"

"They are slaves, Lord Captain. Should I serve them the same as the others?",

"By the living Lords of Earth and Sea, are my ears failing? Did I hear you? Dog of a Tyrian ingrate, that would let the rats eat blankets rather than see slaves warm! Silence! Slaves, are they? They have saved my property by taking thought, so they have saved you from being punished. You escape with a reprimand." Tros smashed him again in the face. "Now go and fetch ten bow-covers and ten bags for their armor. Bring them yourself, you mean-souled miser, and take care they are dry when they get here. Fall away."

The Jews were shivering. Tros bade them cover themselves and hold out their mugs for the steward to pour wine. First he made them drink enough to keep the rest of the wine from spilling; then he made them stand with their backs steadied against the bunks, holding the cups to their breasts.

"Your officer," he said, "will be my man Conops. You will obey him instantly, to the death, at all times, and whatever he commands. He is neither a beauty, nor a philosopher, nor a man of breeding. He can neither read nor write. But he is loyal. Be you loyal also. Your principal duty will be to guard me, day and night. Your battle station will be beside and behind me, wherever I am. No man who is obedient and brave shall ever look to me in vain, either for his rights or any good that I can do him. Wrap your weapons carefully when the storekeeper brings the covers. Treat him respectfully. Remember: when I reprimand a man, that ends it. I despise—I get rid of a man who lets his malice linger in the bruise that justice made. You may turn in."

He took one more turn on the poop, where he received the reports from the officers on watch that all was well below. Then he returned to his cabin, where the steward re-hung the wine-skin to the beam. Tarquinius was sprawling forward on the table, and his dagger was on the floor under Conops's foot. There was a question in Tros's eyes. Conops answered it as soon as the steward had gone:

"He offered me fifty denarii to tell him the way to your good will, master."

Tarquinius stirred and groaned. "I would have offered more," he said, looking up with his head in his hands, "if I had had it. Tell him to return my dagger. When I lurched he took it from me. He is as suspicious as a scorpion."

Conops looked at Tros and half-closed his one eye. Tros nodded.

"I have given you the ten Jews, Conops. Lick them into shape. And if I catch them lacking discipline, or hating you, or mistrusting you, or unwilling to jump at a wink, I will give them another officer and send you to the lower oar-banks. Learn them first. Then teach them. Fall away."

"Yes, master. Shall I give the eques his dagger?"

Tros took it. He struck its point into the table. Conops was out of the cabin before the dagger had ceased to vibrate. Then Tros sat down.

"Tarquinius," he said, and he watched the man as if he could read through his skin to the nature beneath, "my good will is as easy to get as a death on a dark night."

The Etruscan sat upright with an effort. He laid his right fist on the table and clenched it so hard that the knuckles grew white.

"Captain Tros, I have intelligence for sale."

"If a louse should valuably serve me, Tarquinius, I would let him live, to be a louse, until he should be cracked by someone who loves justice less than I do."

"Make me a bid. I need a patron."

Tros's humor welled to the surface in a grand, unconquerable grin that made the Etruscan's eyes turn shifty and set his fingers drumming on the table.

"Let that dagger alone, Tarquinius. Let us see now: you are the client of the Lady Charmion, and her you propose to betray. You are the spy of the Queen's secretary, and him you propose to betray. You are my guest, and me you have tried to betray; you have tried to make my crew mutinous, and to make me believe they are so. You are in correspondence with Ahenobarbus, aren't you?"

"How do you know it?"

"In the same way that I know you lied about a letter from Publius Cinna, which you said my man Conops stole. You tried to dagger Conops, to prevent him from telling the truth to me; that was why he took your dagger." Tros flicked the dagger and made it thrum again. Then he pulled its point out of the oak and handed it back to Tarquinius with an unspoken and almost unexpressed contempt that stung worse than a blow.

"But that is not all," he continued, observing the ferocious hatred that had steeled the Etruscan's eyes. "You have lied to me about my friend Esias, to whom I don't doubt you would lie about me, if you should see occasion. You intend to lie about us all to the Princess Arsinoe, whom you will betray to whoever shall make it worth your while."

The Etruscan snarled. "You make out a fine case! You remind me of that old four-faced humbug Cicero accusing Cataline and Verres. Name me a man or a woman of any importance in the world who isn't ready to betray you, or me, or anyone at the toss of a coin! Does the Queen of Egypt trust you? Hah! Where are your Northmen? It is because they trust you, and she thinks you are fool enough to keep faith with drunken savages, that she has dared to risk turning you loose to chance your own neck and fortune for her advantage. Win or lose, she would betray you in a minute."

"But you?"

"Bona dea! Didn't I tell you the truth? I told you I serve only me, Lars Tarquinius!"

"The truth saved you from drowning," Tros answered. "That is once when you served yourself well. For that truth, I will be your patron."

"How much will you pay me?"

"Your life. Your liberty. I will set you ashore, to continue to serve Lars Tarquinius. You may sell me to the highest bidder. Make what profit you can."

"You mean—if I should strike a bargain with Arsinoe—you would keep to its terms?"

"I strike my own bargains. I name my own terms," Tros answered. "You live. That is all of the terms of my bargain with you. Go ashore and serve Tarquinius. Betray me."

Tros struck the gong. The steward came.

"Pick up Lars Tarquinius's corselet and carry it forward for him. Help him along the deck to his quarters."

Tros returned to the poop, noticing as he passed that Conops had transferred himself to the starboard bunk-house with the ten new Jews.