“Neptune preserve us,” I said, “we’re under attack!” Surely there weren’t that many pirates. And why such enormous ships?
A man standing next to me laughed at my expression. “Calm yourself, friend. No enemy in sight. It’s the Roman grain fleet, bound for Alexandria.”
Embarrassed and relieved at the same time, I walked down to the waterfront to enjoy the spectacle. Now I saw that the ships had multiple masts and triangular topsails like merchantmen. But these grain ships were far larger than the usual cargo vessels, with five or six times their capacity. They were the biggest of all seagoing vessels, exceeded in size only by the Ptolemies’ monster river barges.
In Italy the annual grain fleet had an almost religious significance. From the time it sailed to the day of its return, there was a collective holding of breath. Impressive as they were, the ships could all be lost in a single storm. If that happened, there could be hungry times ahead, so dependent had we become on Egyptian grain. When the returning fleet came safely to harbor, beacon fires were lighted the whole length of the Italian peninsula, and there was celebration in every town. Even if the Italian crop should fail, nobody would starve. When Pompey was given a five-year oversight of the grain supply, with a free hand to root out corruption and inefficiency, he was given the greatest trust the Roman people could bestow, as prestigious as any military command.
It took much of the afternoon for the ships to lower their sails and make their way to anchorage under oars. While they were doing this I returned to the naval base, washed up, shaved, dressed in my best clothes, and assembled a group of my most handsomely equipped marines to act as an honor guard. With Hermes likewise turned out in his best, hovering attentively behind me, I returned to the main wharf of the commercial harbor.
I was just in time. The flagship of the fleet, a truly immense vessel painted white and trimmed with gilding, an arching swan’s neck at her stern and a towering spray of carved acanthus leaves at her bow, was inching up to the stone pier. The city dignitaries were out in force to greet the arriving officials, and they made way for me and my gleaming escort. I got there just as a gangplank big as a trireme’s corvus, complete with a protective railing of gilded chains supported by fish-tailed Cupids holding toy tridents, was lowered to the pavement.
First down was the senatorial official in charge of the fleet, a quaestor named Valgus. I had been a quaestor myself, once, in Rome. In Rome a quaestor held the lowest elected office, was little more than a glorified clerk, and was accorded little respect by the citizenry. Outside Rome, a quaestor was regarded with almost the same awe as a promagistrate. Then came some senators bound for the Alexandrian Embassy, some of whom I knew. Then there were the distinguished passengers.
“Decius!” Julia waved like an excited girl from the ship’s rail. Then she was on the gangplank, restraining herself to a formal, patrician descent. Then she stood before me, embraced me chastely, and gave me a peck on the cheek.
I patted her bottom. “You can do better than that.”
She dug an elbow into my ribs. “Of course, but not here in front of respectable people.” She caught my men grinning between the cheek-plates of their helmets. The grins disappeared beneath her glare. “Somebody else you know came with us.”
Then I caught sight of the big form stalking down the plank. “Titus!” I whooped. Milo bounded the last few steps to the wharf and grabbed my hand in both of his. His palms were still as hard as wood.
“You see, Decius, I brought your lady safely to Cyprus, fighting sailors and senators away from her the whole voyage. You look better than when I saw you last. Sea air must agree with you.”
“I was wasting away in Rome. It’s too peaceful there now, and you’re missing nothing. I need you here, though, and desperately. Just the sight of you raises my spirits.” In truth I was somewhat shocked at Milo’s appearance. His hair had gone completely gray, and his once godlike face was deeply lined and almost haggard. I had to remind myself that he was near my age, for he looked far older. His limbs seemed to be as powerful and his gait as lionlike as ever, but he was gaunt, as if all the surplus flesh had been burned from him. Well, there was gray in my hair as well.
He clasped Hermes by the shoulder. “Hermes! Hasn’t this vicious tyrant manumitted you yet? I thought I’d see you in a toga by now.”
“I want to sell him,” I said, “but no one will make an offer. Come along, I’ll show you our quarters.” I hoped he did not catch the look in Hermes’s eyes. Hermes had worshipped Milo since boyhood, and he was as appalled as I but less schooled in hiding it. Julia was not traveling alone, naturally, so I left some men to escort her slaves and baggage to the base when they had it unloaded.