He grinned. “Lots of skippers won’t have the stuff on their ships,” he said. “Scared of it. They’d rather fight it out hand-to-hand than risk setting their own ships on fire.”
I walked along the rows of huge jars. “They got most of the pitch, I see.” I paused among the jars of red and black paint, all of them full. “But they didn’t take the paint. Why is that?”
“For all I know, Caesar wanted to paint ‘em green or yellow. They took what they wanted and left me what they didn’t. What I’ve got is at your disposal, Senator.”
I walked out into the fresh air. “Well, it’s not much, but you’ve done well to keep what you have. Generals with imperial ambitions are like locusts. They devour everything in their path. My crews are skimpy. I’ll need to hire experienced men for this job. Have the generals swept up all of them as well?”
“Sailors we have plenty of, Senator. If you like, I’ll pass the word and we can hold interviews right here. If you’ll allow me to advise you, I’ll know which are the real sailormen and which are idlers.”
“That will be most helpful. I would like to begin tomorrow.” “You don’t waste time.”
“While we’ve been talking, a ship has been plundered or a coastal village attacked. I intend to put a stop to it.”
“They’ll be here at sunup, Senator.”
“I’ll be here a good deal after sunup,” I told him, “but a little waiting won’t hurt them.” I took a look around, noted a long, low stone shed near the water, and pointed to it. “I take it that is the slave barracks. You should have a staff of more than a hundred public slaves. Where are they?”
“Take a guess.”
“They went along with the fleet.”
“Needed for maintenance and general labor, I was told. I’m supposed to get them back when the ships are returned. I’m not wagering my savings on it.”
“I’ll find skilled carpenters and at least one good smith in the city and send them here to build us some catapults. Can you direct them in the manufacture?”
“Easily. Get us some seasoned hardwood and the best cordage you can find. Weak rope is no good for ballistas.”
I took my leave of him and turned my steps toward the waterfront. It was lunchtime, and I found a small tavern with tables in front beneath a grape arbor. Seated and starting on my first cup of wine, I said, “I can tell you’re bursting to say something, Hermes. What is it?”
“No rations,” he began, “no wine, no oil, not a single sack of dates or wheel of cheese. He hid arms and supplies, why not that? I’ll tell you why: he sold it! As soon as Pompey’s men were gone, every bite and sip of those provisions were in the market here and he’s been getting drunk on the proceeds ever since. He’s a rogue, and you shouldn’t trust him.”
“In all probability you are right,” I told him. “But when generals and proconsuls act like thieves, why should we expect a low-level functionary to act any better? And he kept back something. It takes courage to keep something from the likes of Gabinius.”
“If those storehouses had been completely empty, he’d have lost his job,” Hermes groused, “so he had to keep something in them. Besides, he’s a Greek.”
“What else are we going to find in these waters? Until something better comes along, I’ll put up with him, and don’t you give him any of your insolence either—even if he is a Greek.”
For a while I admired the sight of ships entering and leaving the harbor, which afforded a fine spectacle. The usual practice was to sail right up to the breakwater, then lower sails and run out the oars. The procedure was reversed when leaving. Unlike warships, which unvaryingly carried a single mast bearing a single, rectangular sail, merchant vessels often had two or even three masts and multiple sail plans. Where Roman warships were usually painted red and black, these were painted in a rainbow of colors, with fanciful bow and sternposts, the banners of many merchant companies and the protective devices of numerous gods.
“Look at that!” Hermes said. He pointed to where a sleek little vessel was raising its sail even though it was still within the harbor. It took me a moment to see what had surprised him so. The sail was bordered with purple. Not the cheap off-crimson tint that sometimes passes for purple, but the genuine Tyrian. It was an immense extravagance.
“That has to be Cleopatra’s yacht,” I said. “She must be aboard, drilling her crew. I fear that I’ll regret allowing her to come along.” I pondered the sight for a while. “She must have risen in her father’s affections if he’s allowed her a purple-bordered sail.”