The Princess and the Pirates

5

In the study Gabinius and Silvanus waited while the household physician examined me. My right wrist and forearm throbbed worse than my head, but there was no break. A great bruise was already spreading over my right side, and the man’s probing fingers drew new pains from that vicinity.

“There may be cracked ribs,” he reported, “but there is not enough movement to indicate complete fracture, so there should be no puncturing of organs. You will have to wear a tight bandage for a few days, but this should heal easily.” With an assistant’s help he wrapped me from hip-bones to chest with enough linen to keep a pharaoh safe for eternity, but at least he didn’t insist on packing it with foul-smelling poultices like many physicians. Thus wrapped I was uncomfortable, but the pain subsided markedly.

“And now, Senator,” Silvanus began, “perhaps you could tell us of your evening’s activities.” Pointedly, he did not offer me any wine. For a change I was not in the mood for any.

“First, let me make a few remarks. Silvanus, you are governor here and out of respect for your office I will cooperate with you. Aulus Gabinius, I am a Roman official on duty. You are an exile with no legal or political standing. Like all of Rome I am in awe of your distinguished career and your great military services to the state, but you have no say in my activities here.”

His face clouded, but he had no basis for protest. “That is understood. I will take my place in the Curia once more. In the meantime, I help my friend Silvanus in his duties as governor of Cyprus.”

“Very well. This is what happened.” And I gave them the story of the night’s events. Of course, I felt under no compulsion to give them all the details. For instance, I left out the business about the lady Flavia and her drinking companions. I wished now that I had paid more attention to the men and less to the woman. It was not unthinkable that some of them were among my attackers. I had no good reason to suspect her, but at this point I considered everyone suspect, including the two sitting across from me. In those days it was no unusual thing for senators to plot murder against one another if there were any political or monetary advantage to be had. I was in a completely unfamiliar situation, and only a fool assumes a stranger to be a friend without plenty of proof.

“I’m no trained logician,” I said, wrapping up my story, “but I’ve spent many hours in conversation with Cicero and he’s taught me a bit about the subject, which is always helpful in legal cases. First, eliminate the most unlikely possibilities. It was not just a pack of thieves out for loot.”

“Not likely,” Silvanus said. “There are plenty of wealthy merchants reeling home drunk every night. No idiot is going to attack a band with trained bodyguards for what might be in their purses.”

“The whole city knows you’re here to crush the pirates,” Gabinius said. “Most likely that’s what they were-pirates who wanted to get you first.”

“Or thugs who wanted to ingratiate themselves with the pirates,” Silvanus put in.

“Or hirelings of some merchant who has been getting rich receiving pirate loot,” I said. “Yes, the list of possibilities is a long one. Political motives, anyone?”

“Cleopatra wanting to do Rome a dirty turn?” Silvanus hazarded. “I’m still not clear on why she came here in the first place, and as her host I can’t very well ask probing questions.”

“I think that very unlikely,” I said.

Gabinius grinned maliciously. “She got you out into the street at night, didn’t she? None of this night’s little adventure was your idea, if we’re to believe you. She could’ve set the whole thing up.”

That blow struck home. No man likes to admit he’s been manipulated, especially by a mere girl, however royal. “Apollodorus killed one of them,” I protested lamely.

“The boy may not have been in on it,” Silvanus said. “In any case, he’ll automatically kill anyone who gets too close to his mistress in a situation like that.”

“Or she may’ve told him to kill one just to take suspicion away from her,” Gabinius pointed out with some relish. “Maybe she figured seven would be plenty to deal with a half-drunk senator and his slave. She didn’t bargain on that ugly villain you hired. Nobody expected him to fight like a damned champion gladiator.”

It was all too true. “Well, there’s plenty of suspicion to go around,” I admitted.

“Feeling so keen about taking her out with you now, Senator?” Silvanus asked.

“Absolutely,” I said, enjoying their perplexed expressions. “From now on I want her right where I can see her.”

Gabinius laughed, that great Roman laugh that sounds like swords banging on shields. “You’re Caesar’s friend, all right! That’s the way he thinks. I hear he keeps the sons of Gallic chiefs he’s killed in his bodyguard.”

“Senator,” Silvanus said, “I know you need rest and you must be at your ships early, but bear with me a moment and let me explain a few things about the situation here.”

“Please do.”

“When we annexed Cyprus it was partly to sort out the usual dynastic bungling of the Ptolemies, but partly, also, to tighten the Roman hold over Egypt. It has not yet been decided what to do with Cyprus. We may wish to keep it. As a naval base, it would give us effective control of the whole eastern seaboard. Or we may decide, graciously, to give it back to Ptolemy. Or, perhaps, to his son, in recognition of certain treaty clauses and concessions.”

“I understand all that,” I said. “We’ve been propping up weak kings in Egypt for generations.”

“I say conquer the place, make a province of it, and be done with it,” Gabinius growled.

“You would,” Silvanus observed. “If you were to, as you almost did a short time ago, how long before Caesar and Pompey dropped everything, pooled their strength, and marched against you?”

“About a day, maybe two.”

Egypt was so rich that no Roman general would stand by to see another take the place. The man who conquered Egypt would immediately be the richest, most powerful man in the world, richer than Crassus. It was bad enough when Sertorius set himself up as independent ruler of Spain. At least he was no great threat there. A general with his legions based in Egypt could aspire to conquer Rome and become, for all practical purposes, the ruler of the whole world.

“So you see, Senator Metellus, my position here is not just that of Roman governor over a mixed pack of Greeks and Phoenicians. There is a balancing act going on here. Future relations between Rome and Egypt are in that balance.”

“I spoke with Cato before I came here,” I said. “He said he set things in order with no trouble.”

“That’s Cato,” Gabinius said. “And he had little concern save the local population and local affairs. He gave them a taste of the Roman whip and, as usual, they settled down. That was while I was busy putting old Ptolemy Auletes’ fat rump back on his throne. Now things are different.”

“When Caesar finishes in Gaul,” Silvanus said, “all of Rome’s attention will be turned eastward. There are matters to settle with Parthia, and something will have to be done about those squabbling Jewish princes. They’re disrupting trade and foreign relations in a crucial part of the world. We’ll want Ptolemy’s support in those operations: supplies, auxiliaries, garrison troops-he has them all to spare. So please try not to get his favorite daughter killed, even if she did conspire to have you murdered.”

Gabinius clapped a hand on my shoulder. “I’ve accomplished plenty of work with men who’ve tried to kill me, every Roman of any stature has. I hear you even cooperated with Clodius on an occasion or two. Just do the work, never trust him or turn your back on him. If you can do that with a bloody lunatic like Clodius, surely you can hold your own with a girl playing at war.”

The grizzled old centurion came in. “No luck. We found the man in an alley, dead. He’d bled out from that arm cut. Severed the big vessel. I’m amazed he got as far as he did.”

“How about the other one?” I asked.

“Died before they got him to the lockup.”

“Well, so much for that.” Silvanus said disgustedly. “Senator, I think we’ve kept you long enough, and I hope you’ll keep what we’ve said in mind.”

“Gentlemen,” I said, lurching to my feet, “rest assured that I shall give your words my closest attention. And now, I bid you good night.”

I walked back to my quarters as steadily as I could and found Hermes waiting up for me, sitting with his sword across his knees.

“Sleep across the doorway tonight,” I told him, “and keep your weapons handy. From here on in, we trust nobody.”

“You mean we were trusting someone before?”

As soon as the sun came up, my men put their shoulders to the hulls and pushed them into the water. They floated prettily, spruced up and repainted, ready to go out and ravage the enemies of Rome. The sailors swam out to them and worked them under oars to the long wharf, where the marines boarded and supplies were loaded.

Cleopatra’s ship already floated out in the harbor, and to judge by her royal banner she was aboard already. The enthusiasms of the young are irrepressible.

“A message for Senator Metellus!” shouted someone. I turned from my supply tally to see a boy running down the wharf, holding aloft a bronze message carrier. “Harbormaster Orchus sends you this, Senator.” I took the polished tube from his hand and twisted off the cap. Inside was a slip of papyrus.

To the Commodore of the Roman Fleet, I read, smiling at the grandiose salutation. The grain ship Hapi has just put in on its way from Egypt to Piraeus. Its master reports that yesterday he passed a devastated village on the island of Salia.

“Brief and to the point,” I remarked. “Ion, how far is this place?” “Half a day’s sailing if the winds are favorable, which this time of year they won’t be. But they’ve been there and gone. Won’t do any good to look at burned houses and dead bodies.”

“Still, it’s a starting place. We may be able to quiz witnesses, and, in any case, with so many new men we need a shakedown cruise and plenty of drill before I’ll feel ready to take them into a fight. This is as good an excuse as any.”

He shrugged. “You’re the one with the commission.” It was about as sincere a gesture of respect as I was likely to get from him.

I dispatched a sailor to Cleopatra’s ship Serapis with a message giving our destination. As soon as the last jar was loaded we pushed off and rowed to the harbor mouth. Once in clear water, all ships hoisted sail. The wind was favorable for getting us around the island of Cyprus, but after that we would probably have to row. That suited me well enough because the men needed exercise and I wouldn’t have to pull an oar myself.

Once we were under way, Ariston walked up to me. Since he was shipping as a marine he had no duties at the moment. Like many of the sailors, he had lowered his tunic from his shoulders and wore it knotted about his waist. From arsenal stores he had chosen a close-fitting iron cap and a small, round shield of hippopotamus hide as his sole military equipment. I could not guess how that last item had found its way into the arsenal at Paphos, since it must have originated in Nubia. For weaponry, he stuck with his big knife.

“That man I cut last night,” he began, “did they catch him?” “They did. Bled to death within the hour. The big blood vessel was severed.” I caught the look that crossed his face. “What’s wrong?”

“I said dead by morning, and that’s what I meant. I cut him here.” He drew a ragged-nailed finger from the bulging triceps on the back of his upper arm across the equally bulging biceps in front. “Cut him hard and all the way to the bone-I felt my blade scrape it-but no deeper than that. I’ve seen plenty of men die in battle and duels and brawls from arm cuts. That big bleeder’s on the inside of the arm, right next to the bone. I don’t think my blade could’ve touched it.”

“Well, well,” I said, “why does this fail to surprise me? Keep this to yourself, Ariston.”

“Whatever you say, Senator.”

“Why didn’t you draw armor and a better helmet? The men will take you for one of the sailors.”

He smiled crookedly. “Wear a bronze shell that’ll drag me straight to the waiting arms of Poseidon if I go overboard? Not buggering likely. If I have to swim for it, I want nothing on me I can’t get rid of before I hit the water.”

“At least a decent shield then,” I suggested.

“This is the best combination for a deck fight: a little shield and a dagger or short sword. Anything bigger just gets in the way.”

“You’ll want a bigger shield when we come under arrow fire,” I insisted, nettled by his confident expertise.

“Don’t you know how to avoid arrows in a fight?” he grinned. “How?”

“Just get behind someone else.”

I gave up. “You’re the pirate.” This made me remember why I’d hired him. “How do they fight when they take a ship?”

“I wouldn’t call it fighting. More like a sheep killing. But just in case, they’re ready for one. Tangling with a fighting crew like this, they’d start with a few arrows-not many good archers among them-then javelins when the ships are in range.”

“Will they grapple?”

“Not with us. They’ll be trying to get away, remember? No loot to be had on these ships, just a bunch of them killed if they win and the survivors crucified if they lose-no incentive to come to grips in that prospect. If they have to fight, most will be armed like me. If any wear armor, it’ll just be a piece of hide hung from the neck to cover the chest and belly, maybe a plain helmet that gives them plenty of air and vision, not the bronze buckets some of your marines wear. If we grapple them, they’ll try to board first, and they’ll fight like the Furies,” he made a gesture to avert the evil one may expect from speaking that dread word, “because that’s the only way they’ll come out of it alive.”

“And if we catch them on land?”

“For a shore raid they may use heavier weapons and armor. Some of them have fought in the armies and know how to do it right. But on shore, if it looks like they’re losing, they’ll think maybe they can run and hide. They may not fight as desperately.”

“What real advantages do they have?”

He thought for a moment. “First off, numbers. You have four Liburnians. They have six to ten most times. And, ship-for-ship, their numbers are still superior because every man aboard’s a fighting man. Rowers and sailors are all armed, and all fight when boarding time comes. Your corvus and Roman boarding tactics may tip the balance, but maybe not.”

“Because their leader is a Roman and knows what to expect.” He nodded. “Spurius. He’d’ve made a good skipper in the old days when we were a floating nation.”

“Tell me about him.”

“I’ll tell you what I know, but it’s not all that much. I wasn’t close to him, not even in the same ship. I saw him on shore from time to time and sat in on the councils. Pirates aren’t organized like a navy, you know.” He spread his nostrils and took a deep breath of the sea air. “It’s a band of equals and everyone has a say. The leaders are just the toughest fighters, the best sailors, or the ones who are smartest about finding prey and getting safely away with the loot.”

“Which of those was Spurius?” I asked, fascinated by this look into a life so foreign from anything I was used to.

“Well, he’s no great seaman, as you might expect, being a Roman. But as a fighter he’s qualified to go up against the best of them, toe-to-toe, and come out with his enemy’s blood on his sword and none of his own on the ground.”

“That’s praise, coming from your mouth.”

He smiled with satisfaction. “I was taught young, and I was taught right. Anyway, some say Spurius was a Roman deserter who threw in with Spartacus and got away before the end came. I don’t know about that.”

“How old would you judge him?”

“About forty would be my guess.”

I thought about it. “The Slave War began in the consulship of Clodi-anus and Gellius twenty-one years ago and ended two years later. It’s conceivable, if he deserted as a young recruit. Anyway, go on. Tell me what he looks like.”

“Tall for a Roman, about your height, but wider built. Strong as an ox and quick as a cat. He wears a full beard and lets his hair grow long. Maybe he doesn’t want to look like a Roman, with your clean-shaven faces and short hair.”

“I don’t suppose you’d know how to distinguish our regional accents? It might help to know if he’s from Rome itself or some other part of Latium.”

He shook his blocky head. “Never heard him speak Latin anyway, just Greek and some Aramaic.”

“Aramaic? Did you go ashore in Syria or Judea?”

“We went there to sell loot once. I think that’s where I heard him speak it. Greek will get you by almost anywhere, but Aramaic is handy to know in the eastern parts.”

“Did he speak it well?”

“Better than me. Sounded as fluent as he is in Greek, and he speaks Greek like an Athenian. Why?”

I gazed off across the calm water. My weather luck was holding. “I’m just trying to build a picture of the man. I don’t want to be fighting a total stranger when we’ve drawn swords on one another. Many commanders just assume things about their enemies and leave it at that. They tend to die with looks of great astonishment on their faces.”

“That’s shrewd.”

“What is he like as a planner?”

“The best. He knows the trade routes, he keeps up on whose fleet is where, he knows the value of everything, and when, say, a load of fine glassware will fetch a better price in Berytus than in Jaffa. He’s been called a small-minded merchant for it, but never to his face.”

“Does he have regular contacts-shore-based merchants, for instance, who take his loot off his hands?”

“Certainly. But he always deals with them in private. It’s one way he hangs on to his leadership.”

“How did he get to be leader?”

“He organized one of the first crews, so he had his own ship going in. Any pirate may challenge the chief to a fight for leadership. I imagine that’s how he got to be top dog in the first place. I saw him deal with two such challengers myself. It didn’t last long either time.”

“He sounds like a formidable man.”

“He is that.”

“Does he have a second? Anyone close to him?” He shook his head again. “There’s no second in a pirate fleet-just the chief and the individual skippers. As for friends, he acts like every man of the fleet is his brother, but I never saw anyone who seemed closer to him than the rest.”

“Does he have a woman or women? Boys?”

“He takes a woman sometimes, after sacking a town. Never more than one and never keeps her more than a day or two, then passes her on to whoever wants her. I never heard that he fancied boys.” He shifted, catlike, to a roll of the ship. “And now, Senator, you know as much as I do about Spurius. He’s not a chummy sort, and I doubt anyone knows more than I just told you.”

“You are a gold mine of information, Ariston. I will be quizzing you further, but that’s enough for now. If you should remember anything else about Spurius, even a tiny detail, please tell me at once, even if it seems unimportant.”

He nodded and sauntered off, moving easily with the motion of the ship, which was beginning to make me uncomfortable. My short stay ashore had already robbed me of much of my seaworthiness.

Ariston paused for a second, then turned back. “One other thing: his ship is the Atropos.”

That was something to mull upon. There are three Fates: Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. Clotho, with her spindle, spins the thread of each man’s life. Lachesis, with her rod, measures it. Atropos, with her scissors, cuts it. Atropos is known as “She Who Cannot Be Avoided.”

Ion came up to me. “We’ll be running out oars soon.” He looked at Ariston’s retreating back. “Where on Poseidon’s great domain did you find that one?”

“About where you’d expect. Why? Don’t you like him?” He shrugged. Greeks shrug a great deal. “He’s a sailor all right. But hard as it may be to credit, he’s too rough even for my pack of villains. I plan to sleep lightly while he’s on my ship.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I want everyone to sleep lightly from here on. I want to get these pirates, and I don’t want to waste a lot of time at it. Once we’re under oars I want to begin formation training with the other ships. While you’re seeing to that, I’ll be drilling the marines on deck. And I want a sharp lookout kept. It’s unlikely we’ll spot the pirate fleet so soon, but stranger things have happened, and I won’t spurn any gifts the gods throw my way. It’s a sure way to draw down their wrath.”

“As you command, Senator.” He walked away, barking orders. Now I had some idea of whom my enemy was. How strange to be coming all the way out here, into alien waters, and be facing a fellow Roman. If he was a Roman. It would not be that difficult to fake among foreigners. But somehow I had a feeling that the man was the real thing.

He kept himself aloof from the rest and trusted no one close to him. It was only wise, considering his murderous companions. I allowed myself a moment of identity with him. I, too, was surrounded by people whose loyalties were suspect even where hostility was not absolutely certain.

But what else could be made of him? Fluency in languages is no uncommon accomplishment. But “Greek like an Athenian”? That could be the mark of a Roman of the better classes. Almost everybody knows some Greek, and a traveler or trader has to know it well; but common trade Greek is very unlike the polished language taught in the rhetoric schools, and that is invariably the Athenian dialect. It was something to ponder.

Aramaic is the language of Judea, Syria, and the surrounding territories, a merging and simplification of several related languages spoken in that part of the world, rather as the old dialects of Faliscian, Sabine, Marsian, Bruttian, and so forth have in recent generations merged into the Latin spoken today. Anyone who lives or trades between Antioch and Egypt needs to be proficient in that tongue.

The full beard and long hair could be a disguise, making him nearly unrecognizable to any who knew him in his earlier life. It could mean as well that he hoped someday to return to that life, rich with ill-gotten loot, and settle down into respectability. Get rid of the hair and beard and nobody would know him as the terrible pirate chief. I myself had seen a number of hirsute Germans who had come over to the Roman side. Shorn of their shaggy locks and decently barbered, they looked exactly like normal human beings, except for their odd coloring.

And his past? A blank. I dismissed the tale of his having fought beside Spartacus. Any prominent, enigmatic man who refuses to divulge any information about his history invariably has one invented for him. Always, it will be lurid and colorful and will often associate him with famous personages. We had done the same with Spartacus himself: he was the disgraced son of a fine Roman family; he was an allied chieftain who had learned the Roman art of war and turned it against us; he was a renegade son of that old bugger, Mithridates; and so on.

In truth, nobody knows who Spartacus was. In all likelihood he was born a slave, or was some Thracian sheepherder drafted into the auxilia, deserted, and sold into a ludus in Capua to fight in the games. The fancied history is always far more gratifying than the commonplace reality.

At least, now, my enemy had a face.

For a few hours we had the men sweating at the oars, practicing fleet maneuvers, changing swiftly from the cruising formation, with the ships one behind the other, to the battle-line formation, in line abreast, or in a shallow crescent. There are many other formations, but I wanted this single maneuver mastered right away.

I had been doing a good deal of reading about naval tactics on the journey to Cyprus and was happy to learn that some of what I had read actually worked in practice. While the rowers practiced their evolutions, I drilled the marines on the ballistae: crew-served crossbows that shot a heavy iron dart with enough power to skewer three armored men like quails on a spit.

We did not have nearly enough of these weapons. I had counted on getting more from the naval stores at Paphos, which shows how inexperienced I was in this regard. Never count on resupply at your destination, even if it means passing heroic bribes at the Ostian or Tarentine naval depots before setting out. It would be several days before the new ones I had arranged for would be completed.

Some of the men professed to be expert archers, but I never met a soldier who professed to be less than expert at anything that involves killing people. Only five had arrived at the hiring with bows, and there were a few more bows and some crates of arrows aboard my ships. The problem was I could not hold archery practice at sea, where the arrows would all be lost. That would have to wait.

We saw the smoke before we saw the island.

In midafternoon the watch at the masthead called out that he saw a cloud of smoke in the distance, and the helmsman adjusted his steering oar at Ion’s order. The yard had been lowered against the unfavorable wind, and the watch clung to the top of the mast like a monkey, with nothing but a twist of rope about the mast to help support him. He seemed perfectly comfortable though. I suppose you can get used to anything if you do it long enough.

Within the hour we saw the island, a low hump of brown and green, undistinguished and in no way as lovely as the Aegean islands. Its name meant nothing to me, which was a good indication that nothing was produced there that was marketed in Rome. Most islands produce at least a local wine, an exceptional type of pottery, marble of a special color, something of the sort for which it may be famed. Not this one.

“What do the people here do?” I asked Ion, as we drew near enough to distinguish the remains of the village.

“Fish, farm a little, and raise sheep, last I heard. I suspect they do nothing at all now if the raiders have been thorough. In all my years of sailing, I was here only once, to take on some dried fish. And they trade a little wool. They are poor even for island people.”

The timekeeper, whose flute gave the rowers their pace, slowed his fluting as the leadsman in the bow dropped his weighted line and called out the depth of water beneath the keel. When we were almost alongside the rickety little wharf built out into the water, Ion ordered down oars. The rowers plunged their blades into the water, braking the ship’s way so that we halted alongside the wharf, the ram barely nudging the gravel of the beach. My other three vessels ranged themselves just offshore.

“Well,” someone said, “that’s a pretty sight.”

The village had once been a fairly attractive and decent place by the remaining evidence: mud-brick houses with whitewashed walls and thatched roofs; a temple the size of a small Roman house dedicated to some local god; a line of boatsheds by the water; long, horizontal poles supported on posts for drying nets; big, wooden racks for drying fish.

It had probably been home to about two hundred poor-but-not-starving people before it was destroyed almost as thoroughly as Carthage. The thatch was ashes, collapsing most of the mud-brick walls in the heat of their burning. The boat sheds were cinders, and the boats splinters of wood. The drying racks, even the nets themselves, had gone onto the bonfire built inside the little temple.

And there were bodies, some of them impaled on the posts that had supported the net-drying poles. Others just lay on the ground or smoldered within the houses, many of them dismembered. The stench was appalling; but if you have lived through battle, siege, and the more dis-reputable Roman streets, it takes a lot of stink to turn your stomach.

“They’ve been thorough all right,” Ion said, a touch of wonder in his voice. This was unexpected. “Why such destruction? They couldn’t have put up any sort of fight.”

“That thought has crossed my mind as well. Ion, call everyone ashore. Beach the ships, nobody is going to come on us unawares here.”

“Let me send Triton around the island first before we bring the ships in. It won’t take an hour. It’s not likely, but someone could be hanging about on the other side.”

“You’re right. Best to be cautious. Order it so, and tell them to be on the lookout for survivors. There are always survivors in my experience, and I’d like to question any such.”

While the ship went about its mission, I walked through the village, Hermes close by me. A brief survey confirmed my first impression: all the dead were old, crippled, or looked like they had tried, pathetically, to put up a fight.

“They made off with all the good slave material,” Hermes observed. “Raiders usually do,” I affirmed. I saw Ariston looking bemusedly at the ruined temple and called him over.

“Is this how they commonly behave?” I asked him.

He shook his head vehemently. “Never saw anything like it. It makes no sense. You don’t kill sheep you don’t intend to eat. You shear them.”

“Exactly. They took everything of any use to them: food, wool, women, the young to sell, and able-bodied men who showed no fight. Then they went through this unnecessary butchery and burning. It merits some thought.”

A short while later Triton returned and reported no ships lurking about and no survivors visible from offshore. I had everyone, sailors and marines, assembled where I could address them.

“I want this island scoured,” I told them. “Bring me anyone you find alive. These unfortunate people,” I waved an arm, taking in the ruined village and its late inhabitants, “must be given burial and funeral rites, lest their shades follow our ships and bring us bad luck.” Actually, I rather doubted the power of the dead to do mischief to the living, but it is the custom and would make me feel better at any rate. “Get to it!”

There wasn’t enough wood left on the island to make a decent funeral pyre, so the men scraped a shallow grave in the sandy ground and the bodies were placed in it and covered over. Atop the grave a small cairn was built, and with Cleopatra’s assistance I performed a burial rite and poured offerings of flour, wine, and oil over the cairn.

The princess was sickened by the stench, but the sight of all the carnage did not terrify her as I might have expected. I commented upon this.

“The women of my house are schooled in controlling their emotions. Among the descendants of Alexander, great rage is the only emotion that may be displayed on public occasions.” The founder of her line, Ptolemy Soter, had married a sister of Alexander. Her name, not coincidentally, had been Cleopatra.

“Is this what war looks like?” she asked.

“Sometimes,” I said. “But this is very extreme. Sometimes we Romans destroy a town as thoroughly, but only to make an example, as when people who have accepted our terms treacherously repudiate a treaty and attack us.”

“Clearly, that was not the case here.”

“No, and I intend to learn why this was done.” The search party returned; and as I had expected, they brought in survivors: Three women and two men, all of them too stunned to feel terror. They did not look like Greeks but rather like some archaic survival of an earlier age, dark of skin with ink black hair that fell in snakelike locks to the shoulders of the men, to the waists of the women. Their clothes were filthy and ragged, their skins bruised and scratched. They had broad faces and might have been handsome had it not been for the brutish stupefaction of their expressions.

“What happened here?” They said nothing, did not indicate that they so much as heard my words. A marine began to handle them roughly, but I put a stop to it. “No. They’ve suffered enough. Let them rest. Give them food and drink; let them know they will come to no harm. No further harm anyway. I’ll question them later. Ion.”

“Yes, Senator?”

“It’s too late to return to Cyprus. We’d be overtaken by nightfall. We’ll stay here the night and go back at first light.”

Soon cooking fires were burning and sails were turned into tents for the men. The sights of the day had turned everyone somber, and there was little of the usual chatter. The sailors, who had worked the hardest, ate in silence, then turned in and slept like exhausted dogs. The marines, charged with security, sat up longer and conversed in low voices.

Cleopatra had brought her own tent, naturally, complete with all its furnishings. It was ringed with guards who stood at attention, spears erect as if this were a parade ground in Alexandria.

“Come join me, Senator,” she said, and I was nothing loath. Before the tent a fly was stretched and beneath this I sank into a folding chair with a seat and back of leopard skin. Cleopatra reclined luxuriously on a couch that was furnished with plump cushions. From what I could see, the tent was furnished with equal lavishness, and under it all were splendid carpets. I accepted a cup of wine from one of her slave girls. The cup was solid gold; I could tell by the weight.

“To hold all this,” I commented, “Your ship must be bigger on the inside than on the outside.”

She smiled. “It’s all in knowing how to pack.” She turned serious. “So have you come to any conclusions about this?”

“I am entertaining some possibilities. I would like to talk with those survivors before I try any conclusions.”

“Join me in some dinner. Maybe soon they’ll be recovered enough to tell us what happened.”

Cleopatra’s larder was decidedly superior to anything available on a Roman warship. It was not opulent, but everything was of the highest quality, and it included items such as honeyed figs and dates, fine seedcakes, and ducks brought that day from Cyprus and prepared by her amazingly efficient cooks.

“Take some of this over to those poor people,” she ordered a slave. The man loaded a tray with delicacies and disappeared.

“They’ll eat better than they have in their lives,” I said, “but it is a dear-bought meal.”

“How lost they must be,” she said. “Their whole world was destroyed.” When our dinner was finished, it was fully dark. Cleopatra and I rose and went to where the survivors sat at a little fire. Four of them were eating, but from the look in their eyes it was an automatic action. They did not even know what they were doing. Ion and a couple of the marines stood by watching. The shipmaster pointed to the woman who was not eating. She sat a little apart.

“A little while back that one went down to the shore and washed her face and arms. She must be coming out of it.”

With her face scrubbed clean of soot, dirt, and tear streaks, I could see that the woman had vertical lines tattooed from her lower lip to her chin, and a circle within a circle in the center of her forehead.

“Woman, can you understand me?” I asked, as gently as I could. Romans are not trained in gentle speech, but after what she had been through I was unlikely to terrify her. She looked up at me, so at least she was aware of her surroundings. She spoke a few words in a language unlike anything I had ever heard.

“Ion, do you think any of the men might know this language?” I asked. He frowned. “I have sailors from all over, but an earthquake wouldn’t wake them, what with the way you worked them today.”

“I can understand her,” Cleopatra said.

I turned to gape at her. “Princess, your linguistic skills are renowned, but I’ll wager the tongue this woman speaks is unique to this island.”

“It’s spoken all over the world,” she said. “It’s Greek. But it is the most archaic dialect I have ever heard spoken. This tongue was ancient when Homer composed his poems. I think it’s a variant of the Cycladic language, dead for a thousand years. I’ve only seen it written in some very ancient texts, and those copied from earlier writings.”

Cleopatra could always surprise you.

“Ask her to describe what happened.”

Very slowly, considering each word carefully and with many repetitions at the woman’s puzzled expressions, she got the question across. The woman began to speak in a gush of words but Cleopatra, by gestures, managed to slow her down. Finally she turned to me.

“Her name is Chryse. The village has no name and she knows no place but this island. The day before yesterday, five ships appeared offshore in the late morning. The people thought they wanted to trade for fish and wool so they rushed to the shore. But the strangers came ashore armed and began herding them together, tying the women and children with ropes, binding some of the younger men, killing others, and cutting down all the old people. With some others, she ran to the interior. She hid under a rock overhang she knew about. She does not know how these others managed to conceal themselves. She does not know what became of her man and her children.”

“Ask her about the attitude of these raiders.”

She looked at me. “What do you mean?”

“Were they angry, as if these islanders had done them some harm? Were they joyous, laughing as they killed, raping and having a good time? How did they look and sound?”

Once again Cleopatra managed to get her meaning across, and the woman answered, having to repeat herself many times for full comprehension.

“She says that they were grim, but they showed no anger, as if they were doing a job. ‘Like men gutting fish for dinner’ is how she put it. She saw no rape.”

“Did she see their leader?”

Once more the byplay, which was growing quicker. “She saw a big man by the shore, with long hair and a beard, and the others seemed to defer to him. But he scarcely glanced toward the islanders, and she was too terrified to notice much beyond that.”

“Can she describe their ships?”

Cleopatra asked. “Like yours, but the same color as the sea.” “Thank her. Tell her we will take her and the others to Cyprus and find a place for them. They will not suffer further.”

The woman spoke and Cleopatra turned to me. “She does not want to go to Cyprus. She does not think the others will either. This island is all they know.”

“But there is nothing left for them here. Tell her that even if they find food to eat, they will die here alone in time.”

Cleopatra tried. “She wants to stay.”

We went back to Cleopatra’s tent.

“Ready for some conclusions now?” she asked, handing me another cup.

“This was an example,” I said. “It’s the only explanation. Those raiders were ordered to devastate this place utterly. That is why they went about it so methodically. It was just a task-a disagreeable one, perhaps, but a task to be carried out nevertheless.”

“For whom was this example intended?” she asked. “For you?” “You can’t intimidate a Roman with slaughter, and this Spurius knows it. No, this was intended to let everyone in the eastern sea know what will happen to anyone who cooperates with us. Word of this butchery will be all over Cyprus when we return, and that means it will be all over the eastern sea in days. It’s a very efficient system of communication.”

“That means this Spurius knows you are here and hunting him.” “He struck this place two days ago. He must have heard of my arrival and my mission as soon as I set foot on Cyprus. I would like to know how that happened.”

The next morning we set sail from the blighted island. None of the survivors would come with us, despite our fervent urging. We left them there, relics of a lost world. It was sad, but the world is full of sadness.