They had a nobility of their own, not like the criminals my stepfather had hired to manage the farm-estates, who were greedy and vicious and bitter, even though they lived like kings among their wretched slaves.
One of my friends at the harbour was a young Greek by the name of Theramon, from Italian Heraklea. His father had been a potter there, and his father before him. But Theramon wanted to go to sea, and against his father’s wish he had done so.
He had begun with nothing, but had found investors in Tarentum who believed in him enough to finance a ship and make him captain.
His ship had a red sail with the first letter of his name picked out in white. He was proud of it, and of what he had made for himself.
Shortly before Pasithea left for Greece, I had seen him off on a voyage to Mytilene, carrying a cargo of purple-dyed Tarentine wool.
Afterwards he was sailing on to Pergamon, on a commission my stepfather had given him. I did not know the details; Caecilius, unusually, had dealt with Theramon himself.
That voyage, he was carrying passengers too: a father and mother, and two small fair-haired girls who grinned and waved to me as the ship put out to sea, loving the adventure, oblivious of fear.
Their smiling faces stirred my memory, but I put the dark thought from my mind. I grinned back at them, and waved till they were lost from view. Only afterwards, when Theramon’s ship had vanished through the narrows that led from the harbour to the open sea, did I allow myself to frown. My life was full of such sudden remembrances, though mostly they came at night, or in my dreams.
But on my way home, I made sure to pause at the shrine of Poseidon, and offered a pinch of incense.
About a month later, I was standing on the quayside, tallying a cargo of wine-filled amphoras bound for Rome, when one of the stevedores tapped me on the shoulder and with a grin said, ‘Look, there’s old Caecilius.’
I looked. He seldom came down to the port, considering it beneath his dignity. He was standing at the end of the quay, beside a newly arrived merchantman, remonstrating with the captain.
I set down the wax tablet I was holding and went to him, supposing he had come looking for me.
‘There you are!’ he cried, turning his back on the man he was talking to. ‘What, by the dog, is all this about Theramon? Did you not think to come and tell me?’
I looked from him to the captain behind him. His name was Phylakos. He sailed the run from Kos and Rhodes to the Greek cities in Italy. We got on well, but he was not a man to be spoken down to, which my stepfather was a master of, and now he gave Caecilius a prod in the back and said, ‘The youth does not know yet; that is why he hasn’t told you.’ And then, meeting my eye, ‘I was going to come when I was done with the harbour-master. I heard it in Rhodes, from a man just in from Khios . . .’
‘Drowned?’ I asked, my belly tightening.
‘Butchered, even the two little girls, after the pirates had had their pleasure with them. It was that vaunting corsair bastard Dikaiarchos again. He left his altar to Lawlessness and Impiety on the seastrand.
They say it is his sign.’
There was little to be said. Presently Phylakos went off. As soon as he had gone Caecilius cursed out loud. ‘It is a heavy loss.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed.
‘Oh, you don’t know the half of it. I don’t mean the cargo of wool.
That can be made up. But he was carrying a small fortune of my silver.’
I stared at him in disbelief. Misreading my expression, he took my arm and went on in a confidential tone, ‘I did not tell you at the time: that captain – what was his name again? – was engaged in a private mission for me – something I did not want talked of – taking funds for arms to a contact of mine in Pergamon.’ He tapped his nose. ‘They were to be shipped to Antiochos in Syria. It had to be kept discreet.’
In a flat voice I said, ‘Now Dikaiarchos has your silver, or King Philip does, who everyone says is his ally.’
‘Well, perhaps,’ said Caecilius, not listening. ‘All I know is I have lost my money. Curses on this pirate – what did you say his name was?’
‘Dikaiarchos, sir. He was the one who killed my father.’
‘Was he? It is time you put all that behind you. What’s done is done.’ And then, rubbing his chin and frowning, ‘If only I had divided that cargo.’
I said nothing. I did not trust myself to speak.
Titus was right. It was not long before we heard of King Philip again, and Dikaiarchos with him. News came that he had launched an attack on the cities of coastal Asia, and with the treasure he had seized he was arming his fleet. He took Lysimacheia, then Thasos; he harried the cities of the Hellespont.
When I told Menexenos this he said straight away, ‘He means to threaten Athens.’
I asked him how he was so sure.
‘It is the strategy of every enemy of Athens. He who controls the Hellespont controls Athens, for it is our grain-route from the Black Sea. It is our food supply.’
When Titus next held one of his suppers, he said beforehand, ‘It would be an honour if your friend Menexenos could come as well.
Should I send an invitation? – yes, I think so,’ he mused to himself, ‘but ask him as well, when you see him, and tell him from me that I should be very glad if he would come.’
I wondered who had told him. Xanthe, probably. I smiled to myself. I had supposed I had been a picture of discretion; but love shines out, and, looking back, I daresay it would have taken a blind man not to have seen it.
It was the sort of kindness Titus always strove for. The easier course, after what had happened with Lucius, would have been for him to say nothing. But that was not his way.
At Titus’s supper-party, his friend Villius was present, on a visit from Rome. He visited often, for he acted as a confidential go- between between Titus and his friends in the Senate. Mimas the Greek was with him; and Titus had invited Verginius from the garrison, and one or two others I knew less well.
Everyone felt Pasithea’s absence; but pretty fair-haired Xanthe was there, sharing Titus’s couch as always, bright and full of conversation. I was greeting her when Verginius arrived late, having been detained by some business with the garrison. I looked up with something of a start, not at him, but at the girl on his arm. It was Myrtilla.
She was a professional, of course. Yet I feared, in my innocence of such things, that she would feel slighted, for I had not seen her since the night of Poseidon’s festival. I need not have been concerned. She greeted everyone pleasantly, and when she came to me she caught me with her intelligent eye, as if to say, ‘What happened between us is ours alone.’ Then she turned to Menexenos. ‘You have chosen a good friend, Menexenos son of Kleinias. I see you can tell gold from dross. Many cannot.’
‘Then,’ he said, smiling back at her, ‘you have the greater skill, who saw the gold before me.’
This pleased her, as he had meant. She said, ‘I am not sure whom to envy most, him or you.’
Menexenos laughed. ‘Why, me of course, just as the rest of the city does.’
I shook my head and blushed at this flattery, and with a happy laugh Myrtilla went skipping off to sit with Verginius.
Except for me, who was a few months younger still, Menexenos was the youngest there that evening. But he could be placed in any gathering and shine. Whether the subject was the city or the soul, he spoke with grace and humanity and wit.
That evening the talk was all of Carthage and King Philip. Old Quintus Fabius, the Roman general who had retaken Tarentum in the siege seven years before, had recently died. He had been five times consul, and was one of those who opposed Scipio. The Senate had already agreed to allow Scipio to carry the war to the enemy in Africa; but later, to thwart his rival, Fabius had persuaded the senators to refuse Scipio a levy of troops: the only men he was permitted to take were volunteers, if he could find them.
Fabius thought, by this ruse, he had blocked his rival. But when Scipio called for volunteers there was a clamour of men who wished to follow him, so greatly was he loved. Now they were at the gates of Carthage, preparing to face Hannibal in the final battle.
Though Fabius was dead, Scipio’s enemies still grumbled on – among them, it seemed, Titus’s own father – saying that to fight Hannibal in Italy was one thing, but to fight him on his own soil, on the very threshold of his home, was another. They warned of defeat, and of tempting the gods.
All this we talked about. Then the conversation turned to King Philip and the growing chaos in the Aegean. Titus asked Menexenos what he made of the raids along the Hellespont, and Menexenos replied with what he had already told me, that Philip meant to threaten Athens.
Titus listened, nodding slowly in agreement. When Menexenos had finished he turned to Villius. ‘What are they saying in Rome?’ he asked.
‘They avert their eyes like superstitious women. Your father says the Aegean is none of our concern. Let Philip do what he wishes, so long as he leaves us alone.’
‘Is that what he says? Did you hear what Philip did to Thasos?’
The citizens of Thasos, he said, facing defeat, had agreed to surrender, on Philip’s promise that he would spare them. ‘So they opened the gates, and as soon as Philip was in possession of the city he sold them into slavery.’ He shook his head. ‘But why am I telling you? You know what a monster he is. My anger is for that blustering fool my father, who will not see it.’
A silence fell. We had all come to know what Titus thought of his father; but it was not something anyone wished to comment on, only to have it remembered later, when father and son became reconciled.
After a moment Villius went on, ‘There is a rumour in Rome that Antiochos has made a pact with Philip.’
Titus set down his cup and looked at him. ‘To what purpose?’ he asked.
‘Egypt,’ nodded Villius. ‘Antiochos has coveted Egypt for years, just as his father did. He wants to conquer all the lands Alexander once held, and now is his chance, while it is in chaos after the succession.’
‘And,’ said Titus, ‘he doesn’t want Philip to stand in his way.’
‘So it seems.’
Titus rubbed his downy beard. ‘And what, I wonder, will Philip want in return? What can Antiochos offer him?’
‘What else but a free hand in Greece, and control of the Hellespont, and the chance to bring King Attalos low in Pergamon? He has already ravaged his kingdom, and there is an old feud between them.’
‘No one will support him, when he breaks his word and sells whole cities into slavery. Does he wish to rule a wasteland?’
‘I don’t think he cares, so long as he rules it.’
Titus frowned. ‘There are limits even to kingship,’ he said.
‘Tyrants ignore justice at their peril.’
There was a pause as everyone considered this. The only entertainment that night was a single lute-player. In the sudden silence I could hear him quietly picking out a slow echoing Phrygian melody, a tune laden with melancholy.
It was Mimas the Greek who spoke next. ‘Those two,’ he cried, ‘Philip and Antiochos, are like wolves that fight over a carcass.’
And then, to everyone’s surprise, Xanthe, who usually had little to say on such matters, said, ‘In that case they had best beware. For sometimes, when the wolves are busy, the lion steals up unheard, and snatches the carcass from them both.’
Titus, who had been frowning at his wine-cup, turned and looked at her with raised brows. ‘Why Xanthe, you little minx! And who, then, is the lion?’
She popped an olive into her mouth. ‘Rome is the lion,’ she said.
Titus burst into a laugh. ‘Well, wise strategist, I can see we’ll make a general of you yet. But that, I think, is a feast which even Rome has no stomach for.’
Caecilius, too, who seldom heeded the world beyond his own interests, had his eyes set on the East that year.
The loss of his money on Theramon’s ship was not, it seemed, the great financial disaster he first made out. In two months he was ready to send more money for his Asian venture. He kept the fine details from me, but I knew he was up to something. He would say, with unconvincing casualness, ‘Ah, I think, today, I shall go to the harbour myself and deal with Phrikias; the walk will be pleasant.’ Or he would cough and enquire, ‘Tell me, Marcus, has news come yet of Hamilcar’s ship?’ Or Chares’s. Or Mellon’s.
He liked to keep his absurd little secrets; but he liked even more to let me know he had them. I took no notice of his half-spoken sentences and heavy hints, and certainly did not descend to questioning him, which was what he wanted. If he did not wish to tell me, that was his affair. His evasions merely reminded me how he did not trust anyone, not even me, whom he called, when it suited him, his son.
The East, being at that time a place of trouble and uncertainty, was, for Caecilius, a place of promise. Where honest men saw ugliness in chaos, he saw opportunity. He would quiz me for whatever news I had heard on the quayside; and, at times, if some tale particularly interested him, he would hurry down to the dock himself and question the captain who brought it.
I knew my friends – Menexenos, Eumastas, Titus – despised him.
How could they not? Who, after all, can respect a man who treats the acquisition of money as an end in itself, and has no care for the fortunes of others except what he may make out of them? A good man, Menexenos said to me one day, needs wealth as a means to the good life. ‘Yes,’ I said straight away in answer. ‘But if he does not trouble himself to know what the good life is, how then does all his money serve him? He becomes its slave, not its master.’
That summer, for the first time, I had begun to dwell on such questions. I asked myself what it was that makes a man good, what steps he must follow, what lessons he must learn. The answers still eluded me. And yet, for all my uncertainty, I knew that Caecilius was everything I did not want to be.
During that year, he had forged links with a certain Kritolaus of Patrai, a politician and an orator of accomplishment.
Kritolaus, he told me, had persuaded the people of Patrai to elect him to supreme power, and, upon gaining it, had driven out the landowners and put the wealthy aristocrats to death, seizing their property, which he had promised to share out among the poor.