CHAPTER XI
CONSPIRACY
THE LITTER Tros had hired had vanished when he left the courtroom. In its place was a sumptuous thing with gilded pomegranates at the corners of the curtained awning, borne by eight slaves in clean white uniform. An Alexandrian eunuch, who seemed to have enough authority to keep the crowd at bay, came forward, staff in hand, to greet Tros at the courthouse steps.
"My master the noble Pkauchios invites you," he said, bowing, gesturing toward the litter.
"Where is my own litter?" Tros demanded.
The eunuch smiled, bowing even more profoundly.
"My master would be ashamed that you should ride in such a hired thing to his house. I took the liberty in his name of dismissing it and paying the trifling charges."
Tros hesitated. He would have preferred to go first to Simon's house, supposing that the Jew had hurried home to wait for him, but as he glanced to left and right in search of Simon's litter the eunuch interpreted that thought.
"Simon the Jew is also my master's guest," he announced.
Tros disbelieved that. It was incredible that Simon should accept hospitality from a man whom he had so recently described as a vile magician. But the decurion in charge of the soldiers at the courthouse entrance nodded confirmation:
"Simon went to have his fatness charmed away," he suggested with a grin. "Pkauchios has a name for working miracles."
Reflecting that in any event he had better see Orwic as soon as possible, Tros rolled into the splendid litter. There was no sign of Chloe and he did not care to arouse comment by asking for her. He was borne away in haste, the soldiers shouting to the crowd to make way for the litter and, after a long ride through well swept but fetid smelling streets, he was set down at Pkauchios' front gate, where the eunuch ushered him into the marble house, not announcing him, not entering the incense smelling room with him, but drawing back the clashing curtains, motioning him through and closing them behind him.
He was greeted by Orwic's boyish laugh and by a gasp from Simon. The two were seated face to face on couches near the window, unable to converse since Simon knew hardly any Gaulish, and both of them as pleased to see Tros as if he were a meal produced by a miracle for hungry men. Orwic ran to greet him, threw an arm around him, trying to say everything at once in an excited whisper:
"A great wizard. This must be the man our Lord Druid might have sent you to if you had only listened—made me a proposal—slip the Eskualdenak ashore—he says he knows how to manage that—hide that—in a place he'll show me—kill Balbus tonight—lead an uprising against the Romans—carry the rebellion into Gaul—no need then to go to Rome—we'll keep the Romans' hands too full to invade Britain!"
Tros snorted. One sniff was enough. There was a woman smell on Orwic's clothes.
"Magic works many ways," he remarked, and then thought of the curtains behind him. "We will consider the proposal," he added in a somewhat louder voice.
He approached Simon, who appeared too exhausted to rise from the couch and, glimpsing through the open window his great ship at anchor in the distance, he paused a moment, thrilled by the sight, before he spoke in Aramaic, his lips hardly moving, in an undertone that Orwic hardly caught:
"Out of the teeth of danger we will snatch success, but you must trust me. We speak now for an unseen audience."
He could feel the espionage, although there was no sign of it. He leaned through the open window, but no eavesdroppers lurked within earshot. He strode back to the curtains through which he had entered, jerked them back suddenly, and found the hall empty. There was another door a few feet from the throne with the arms of gilded ivory. He jerked back its curtains, too, and found the next room vacant, silent, beautifully furnished but affording no hiding place. There was a lute left lying by a gilded chair and the same smell of scented women that he had noticed on Orwic's clothes, but the wearers of the scent had vanished.
Nevertheless, he was convinced he was being spied on. He could feel the nervous tension that an unseen eye produces, and he suspected the wall at the back of the ivory throne might be hollow; the corner behind the throne was not square but built out, forming two angles and a short, flat wall. The canopy over the throne cast shadow, and there was a deal of decoration there that might conceal a peep-hole. He signed to Orwic to sit down by the window and, standing so that his voice might carry straight toward that corner wall, himself full in the sunlight, stroking his chin with an air of great deliberation, he spoke in Gaulish:
"It is good that we may speak among ourselves before the Egyptian comes. What kind of man is he?"
"A nobleman!" said Orwic. "A good hater of the Romans! It was his slaves who rescued me from some ruffians in a mean street. He is not a false magician but a true one. He had prophesied the coming of your ship, and my landing at night and being lost in Gades. He has read our destiny in the stars and he refused, like a true magician, to say a word about it until I almost forced it out of him."
Tros nodded gravely.
"Then he made me that proposal. And I tell you, Tros, you would do well to consider it."
"I am an opportunist," Tros said. "I will do whatever fortune indicates."
"I objected to murdering Balbus," Orwic went on, "but the Romans invaded Britain. They killed our men. And he said Balbus is doomed anyhow but, according to his reading of the stars, if he should be killed by the prince from a far country who steps out of the ship with the purple sails, it will mean the end of Roman rule in all Spain and Gaul. Whereas, if he is killed by a common murderer, no good will come of it."
Tros stroked his chin and frowned. No trace of incredulity betrayed itself as he answered solemnly—
"Few men can read the stars with such precision."
"That is exactly my opinion," Orwic agreed. "He speaks like a Lord Druid,"
Simon had made very little of the conversation, but he was watching Tros' face with a sort of blank expression on his own, as if his intuition rather than his ordinary faculties were working. He had suppressed his noisy breathing.
"Get me my money, Tros! Get me my money!" he gasped suddenly, noisily in Aramaic.
But his expression had changed and his eyes were brighter; Tros interpreted the remark to mean that Simon could see light at last. He answered him in Greek, speaking very loudly.
"I will put the illustrious Pkauchios to a test, as a man throws dice to solve a difficult decision. For I think that in such ways the gods are willing to indicate a proper course to us in our perplexity. If he shall grant me the first favor that I ask and faithfully perform it, then I will let him guide me in this matter. But if he shall quibble with me or refuse or, having promised, fail to do what I shall ask, then no. So, let the gods decide!"
HE MADE a gesture as of throwing dice and turned his back to the window, striding the length of the room with measured steps. He had paced the room three times before he saw Pkauchios standing in the doorway, not the doorway near the throne—the other one.
"I welcome you. Peace to you!" said Pkauchios in Greek. "But I foresee that you must snatch peace from the fangs of war!"
"I thank you for your courtesy," Tros answered, bowing.
He did not bow so deeply that his eyes left Pkauchios' face. He hated the man instantly, and hid the hatred under a mask of eager curiosity.
The magician's dark eyes seemed to be trying to read into his very soul, but Tros knew nothing better than that men of genuine spiritual power are careful never to display the outward signs of it and, above all, never to distress strangers with a penetrating stare. The astrologer's robes and the air of superhuman wisdom were convincing, but not of what Pkauchios intended. The Egyptian spoke again pleasantly, with the air of a wiseman condescending:
"I regret I should have kept you waiting, but I observed the flight of birds, from which much may be foretold by those who understand natural symbology. Why do you come to Gades?"
"You are a magician. You should know why I came," Tros answered.
"And indeed I do know. But I see there is a question in your mind," said Pkauchios.
The pupils of the Egyptian's eyes contracted into bright dots. He made a gesture with his hand before his eyes, brushing away veils of immaterial obscurity.
"Doubt? Or desire? One blended with the other, or so it seems. You have a request to make," he went on. "Speak then, while the vision holds me."
He had not moved. He was standing before the curtains like a dignified attendant at the door of mystery.
"There is a slave," said Tros, "who at great risk brought me information. Speak for me to Balbus that he manumit that slave."
"I will," said Pkauchios, without a second's hesitation. "Whose is the slave?"
"Do you or do you not see that the slave should be set free?" Tros countered.
"I see it is just and can be accomplished. But how shall I urge Balbus unless I know the slave's name and his master's?" Pkauchios answered.
"Speak to him thus—" said Tros. "'It would be well if you should order manumitted whichever slave Tros the Samothracian indicates.'"
"It shall be done," said Pkauchios. But he did not quite retain his self-command. There was a twitching of the face muscles, a discernible effort to conceal chagrin.
Tros did not dare to glance at Simon or at Orwic. He was so sure now that the Egyptian had been spying through an eye-hole in the wall behind the throne, that he would have burst out laughing if he had not bowed again and backed away, biting his lower lip until the blood came. That gave him an excuse to break the tension.
"Blood?" he exclaimed, frowning, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and examining it.
"Aye, blood!" said Pkauchios in a hollow voice and walked in front of him to near where Orwic sat.
By the window he turned and, after greeting Simon with a stare and a gesture of condescension, spoke again:
"Blood! Mars with Saturn in conjunction! And a red ship on the morning tide! The blood must flow in rivers-full! But whose?"
He stared at Simon balefully until the Jew in nervous resentment gaped at him and tried to force himself to speak, but failed because the asthma gripped his throat.
"I know your danger!" Pkauchios remarked. "There are weapons in your warehouse—"
"Yours!" Simon interrupted, pointing a fat finger at him. "You—"
The Egyptian cut him short.
"Jew! Have a care! You come to me for help, not for recrimination. At a word from me you would be tortured with the rack and charcoal. Rob not opportunity!"
Tros kept staring through the window at his great ship in the distance. She summoned to the surface all the mysticism in him and he muttered lines from Homer as he gazed. The blind poet who once dwelt on rocky Chios, when he stamped on to the racial memory that character of crafty, bold Odysseus, hymned a hero after Tros' own heart. The Egyptian seemed to read the tenor of his thought.
"Tros of Samothrace," he said, turning his back on Simon, "you have impelled yourself into a vortex of events. You—your ship—your friends—your crew—are all in danger. Win or lose all! Forward lies the only road to safety!"
"It appears you have a plan," said Tros. "Unfold it."
The Egyptian nodded.
"We are few who can interpret destiny, but to us is always given means with which to guide events. I have awaited you these many days."
"I am here," said Tros.
"And you have men with you! You will sup tonight with Balbus; that I know, for I advised him to invite you. Listen. There is a quarry close to Balbus' house where you can hide your men. There is a wall between the quarry and the house, where no guards are ever posted. It is easy to scale that wall from the side of the quarry. It is simple to bring unarmed slaves into the city. It is easy to bribe Balearic slingers to see and to say nothing after darkness has set in. There are weapons in Simon's warehouse. There is only a small guard at Balbus' house at night—not more than twenty or thirty men. You have, I think, two hundred and fifty men who could hide in the quarry and at a signal overwhelm the guard."
Simon was growing restless, trying to catch Tros' eye and warn him against being caught in any such network of intrigue, but Tros trod on his foot to signal to him to keep still. Orwic, who knew no Greek, was walking about the room examining strange ornaments. The Egyptian after a pause continued:
"Balbus, who envies Cæsar, has sent emissaries into Gaul to murder him! Hourly he awaits the news of Cæsar's death! The stars, whose symbolism never lies, inform me that Cæsar is already dead, and the news will reach Gades tonight! But if Balbus lives, he will blame others for the murdering of Cæsar. Therefore, Balbus shall die, too!"
Tros nodded. Not a gesture, not a line of his face suggested that he knew it was the Egyptian himself had sent slaves to murder Cæsar. His lion's eyes were glowing with what might have been enthusiasm. He stood, hands clenched behind him, making no audible comment.
"It is expedient that Balbus dies tonight in any case," said Pkauchios. "He has received word of a conspiracy against him. Sooner or later a witness in the agony of torture will reveal names. The conspirators are fearful; they lack leadership. But if Balbus were slain, the whole city would rise in rebellion! I have a plan that at the proper moment will draw away the legionaries from the camp outside the city."
He paused, and then dramatically raised his voice:
"By morning messengers will have gone forth summoning all Spain to rise. Good leadership and I, Pkauchios, will guide you, Tros of Samothrace. Good, ruthless leadership, and Spain and Gaul will throw off Roman rule!"
Tros grinned. He had made his mind up, which is a difficult thing to do in the teeth of an expert in personal magnetism. He succeeded in convincing even Simon.
"Well and good," he said, folding his arms. "But I will not kill Balbus until he has set that slave free and has repaid Simon what he owes."
"Those two preliminaries granted?" said the Egyptian.
He seemed quite sure that Tros had committed himself.
"Orwic shall smuggle my men into the city if you show him how," said Tros, "and at the proper signal. But who shall give the signal?" he asked.
He was wary of definite lying. Any promises he made he liked to keep. But he had no objection to the Egyptian's deceiving himself.
"I will give the signal," Pkauchios answered. "Let brazen trumpets peal the death of Balbus! Six trumpets shall clamor a fanfare on the porch. Then plunge your dagger in!"
"Where will you be?" Tros asked him.
"At the banquet. Where else? Behold me. I rise from the banqueting couch. I stand thus to announce an augury. My servant, squatting by the door, will watch me, and when I raise my right hand thus, he will pass out to the porch where the trumpeters will be waiting who are to make music for the midnight dance Chloe has invented. The fanfare resounds. Your men come swarming over the quarry wall. Your dagger does its work—and—and you may help yourself, if you wish, from Balbus' treasury!"
Tros acted so immensely pleased that Orwic came and wondered at him. Simon hove himself off the couch at last and clutched Tros' arm.
"Tros, Tros!" he gasped. "Don't do this dog's work! Don't! You will ruin all of us!"
Scowling, Pkauchios opened his thin lips to rebuke and threaten the Jew, but checked himself as he saw the expression on Tros' face. Tros took Simon by the arms, driving his fingers into the fat biceps, the only signal that he dared give that his words need not be taken at face value.
"Simon!" he exclaimed in a voice of stern reproach. "You owe me money! Yet you dare to try to keep me from this golden opportunity? Fie on you, Simon!"
Simon wrung his hands. Tros turned to Orwic.
"Go you to the ship," he said. "Our friend here, the Egyptian, will provide you a guide to the beach. Talk with Jaun Aksue. Tell him all the Eskualdenak shall come ashore tonight under your leadership, and do a little business of mine before I turn them loose to amuse themselves. Say they shall be well paid. Make them understand they must be sober until midnight. I will come to the ship later and explain the details of the plan. Go swiftly."