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.”