The Scorpion God: Three Short Novels (17 page)

Crash.

Oil was spilling from a warehouse and burning on the water. A thick cloud of black smoke drifted across the parade.

The Emperor spoke softly to the Colonel.

“You see how comedy and tragedy are mingled. Whose orders will you take? These men ought to be putting out the fires.”

The Colonel’s eyes uncrossed for a moment.

“I have my orders, Caesar.”

“Very well. Now, my man, how do you like the army? Has it made a man of you?”

Crash.

“Discipline,” said the Emperor to the right-hand man, “is a great convenience.”

“Caesar?”

“I should have said a splendid thing of course.”

He stood looking down into the sooty water of the harbour entrance. A constant flow of singed traffic was passing before him. The band drowned the language that came from it, but judging from the contorted faces it was complex and personal.
Amphitrite
and the imperial barge came through almost together.

“Tell me, sergeant, if I gave the orders ‘Right turn, quick march’ would you obey me?”

But the sergeant was an old soldier, mahogany-coloured and indestructible. His loot was worth all the rest on the quay, but it was in a tiny bag suspended under his breastplate. Even so the sweat ran off him.

“In the ’oggin, armour an’ all, Caesar?” For a moment the disciplined eyes flickered sideways and down. “I’d be glad to.”

It was not only the smoke and sweat that threw up a meditative gleam in the Emperor’s eye.

“Sir! Caesar!”

The words burst from the Colonel. His sword was vibrating and the veins in his neck were swelling like ivy-branches. The Emperor smiled peacefully and turned to worm his way between the ranks. It was like being in a tunnel under the huge bundles, in the thick air and before the row of bulging eyes. But there were a number of airholes already where Posthumus’ chosen men lay flat on their backs, keeled over on parade. The little trail of men, the Colonel, Mamillius, Phanocles, wormed after the Emperor. The panic uproar of the town, the harbour and the shipping was punctuated by the brazen fall of legionaries.

Outside the harbour the warships were disappearing into the heat haze and all the small ships were trying to get back in.
Amphitrite
was moving more slowly. As the heat built up round her boiler she would make a clumsy advance between her flailing paddles. But the paddles threw up so much water that this movement dampened down the fire again and she would slow to a stop. So she wove a complex and unpredictable pattern over the water in a series of clownish lunges. She was settling low in the water.

The band continued to play.

Crash. Crash. Crash.

March and counter-march, worm between the thinning ranks. The Watch on the Rhine, Entry of the Gladiators, Guardians of the Wall, the Old Cth, excerpts from The Burning of Rome and The Boys We Left Behind Us. The tenements were on fire, their washing flaming like the rigging of ships. In the warehouses wine burnt brightly but corn only smouldered and stank.

“And now,” said the Emperor, “I will address them.” He climbed the harbour wall and stood for a moment fanning himself. “Will you turn them about, Colonel?”

The band fell in, the town burned,
Amphitrite
sank, hissing. The townspeople were outward bound for the open country. It was a scene of godlike and impersonal destruction.

Crash.

“—have watched you with growing pride. You evince in these decadent modern times the spirit that made Rome great. Yours not to reason why, yours but to obey your master’s voice.”

Mamillius, standing at the foot of the wall, could see the shadows of the Emperor and the Colonel on the quay at his feet. One of them was swaying gently backwards and forwards.

“Under the weight of the sun, the joyous oppression of sixty-four pounds of brass, bearing on your shoulders the heavy fruits of your labours you have stood and endured because you were ordered to. This is what we expect of our soldiers.”

Mamillius began to work his feet heel and toe as he had learned to do as a child. He looked straight before him but moved smoothly and unnoticeably away from the inspection. Soon the women and the sheltering bulk of the tormentum hid him.

“Ships burned before your eyes. A town was laid waste by pitiless fire. Reason told you to put the flames out. The common and undisciplined dictates of humanity whispered to you that women and children, the aged and the sick required your assistance. But you are soldiers and you had your orders. I congratulate Rome on her children.”

Mamillius had vanished. The women were disposed in a graceful group between the parade and the tunnel. The Colonel found he could see nothing but two swords that drifted farther and farther apart. He put his left hand cautiously under his right wrist to steady them.

The Emperor reminded the troops of Roman history.

Romulus and Remus.

Crash.

Manlius, Horatius. The Standard Bearer of the IXth.

Crash.

The Emperor traced the expansion of the Empire, the manly virtues which they so admirably exemplified. He outlined the history of Greece, its decadence; touched on Egyptian sloth.

Crash. Crash.

Suddenly the Colonel was no longer at his side on the seawall. There came one loud plop from the sea and no more. The Colonel’s armour was heavy.

The Emperor talked about battle honours.

Crash.

Out of the mist, perhaps half a mile from the harbour, the imperial barge appeared again. Her oars beat very, very slowly as she made for the entrance.

The crest of the legion.

Crash.

The honour of the legion.

The point of crisis, of no return, had been reached. The movement began at the Emperor’s feet where three men fell together. A wave of sick nausea swept over the parade and the ranks went down together into merciful unconsciousness. The end of the quay was piled with a hundred helpless men and a band that could hear nothing over the beating of its own devoted hearts. The Emperor looked down at them compassionately.

“Self-preservation.”

Mamillius and the Emperor’s guard broke from the tunnel. There were perhaps two dozen of them, men fresh from a kip in the shady garden and agreeable now to a little brisk brutality. Mamillius was flourishing his sword, chanting a bloodcurdling chorus from the
Seven
Against
Thebes
and trying to keep step to it. At the same moment the imperial barge thumped the quay. Posthumus, dirty, dishevelled and raging, scrambled ashore. The Emperor’s guard broke formation, ran forward and seized him. He threw two off and leapt at Mamillius with drawn sword, roaring like a bull. Mamillius stopped in his tracks, hands and knees pressed together, chin up. He abandoned Greek for his native tongue.

“Pax——!”

Posthumus swung his sword and the Emperor closed his eyes. He heard a gong-like sound and opened them again. Posthumus was heaving under a mob of guards. Mamillius was staggering in a circle, trying unsuccessfully to push his helmet up off his eyes.

“You rotten cad, Posthumus, you absolute outsider! Now I shall have a headache.”

The Emperor got down from the sea wall.

“Who is the man Posthumus brought with him in the barge?”

The Officer of the Guard saluted.

“A prisoner, Caesar. A slave, by the looks of him.”

The Emperor tapped the finger of one hand in the palm of the other.

“Escort the Heir Designate through the tunnel, and the slave with him. Two of your men can lead the Lord Mamillius. This is not the moment to extract him. Ladies, the demonstration is over. You may return to the Villa.”

He paused for a moment by the tormentum and looked back at the quay. The guard of honour and the band were stirring feebly like sea-creatures of the shore at the return of the tide.

“Six of your men must hold the tunnel at all costs. They must not stand aside except at your personal order.”

“Caesar.”

“The remainder can stand by in the garden. Keep them out of sight behind the hedges, at the double.”

“Caesar.”

The gardens had retained their tranquillity. The Emperor stood by the lily-pond, breathing the aromatic air gratefully. Below him the surface of the sea had begun to appear again. When his breathing was even he turned to the little group of men.

“Will you behave, Posthumus, if I tell the guard to let you go?”

Posthumus glanced at the dark mouth of the tunnel and the Emperor shook his head.

“Please put the idea of bolting through the tunnel out of your head. The men there have their orders. Come! Let us discuss things reasonably.”

Posthumus shook himself free.

“What have you done to my soldiers you—sorcerer?”

“Just an inspection, Posthumus, just the usual line. But I produced it to infinity.”

Posthumus reached up and settled his helmet. The scarlet and gold plume was singed.

“What are you going to do with me?”

The Emperor smiled wryly.

“Look at Mamillius. Can you imagine him as an Emperor?”

Mamillius was lying across a stone seat on his stomach. Two soldiers held his legs. At the other end a third soldier was heaving back on the jammed helmet.

“The agenťs reports were circumstantial.”

The Emperor crooked his finger.

“Phanocles.”

“Caesar.”

“Tell the Heir Designate once and for all what you were going to do.”

“I told him, Caesar. No slaves, no war.”

Posthumus sneered.

“Bring the slave I caught. He was one of those who burned your ship.”

Two soldiers frog-marched the slave forward. He was naked, though the water had dried off him. He was a man to tear a lion apart, bearded, broad, dark and wild.

The Emperor looked him up and down.

“What is he?”

A soldier seized the man’s hair, twisted his head sideways and up so that he grinned with pain. Posthumus leaned forward and inspected the notches cut in the slave’s ear. He nodded and the soldier let go.

“Why did you do it?”

The slave answered him in a voice at once hoarse with shouting and clumsy with disuse.

“I am a rower.”

The Emperor’s eyebrows climbed.

“In future I must have rowers chained to their oars, or would that be too expensive?”

The slave tried to clasp his hands.

“Caesar—be merciful. We could not kill that man.”

“Phanocles?”

“His demon protected him. A plank killed the slave by his side. The crab missed him.”

Mamillius came out of his helmet with a shriek. He hurried to the Emperor.

“Mamillius—the crab was not meant for you!”

Mamillius turned excitedly to the slave.

“You did not try to kill me?”

“Why should we, lord? If you use us up, you have a right to. We were bought. But this man does not use us at all. We saw his ship move without oars or sails and against the wind. What use will there be for rowers?”

Phanocles cried out.

“My ship would have set you free!”

The Emperor looked down at the slave thoughtfully.

“Are you happy on your bench?”

“The gods know what we suffer.”

“Why then?”

The slave paused for a moment. When he spoke again the words came by rote out of some deep well of the past.

“‘I had rather be slave to a smallholder than rule in hell over all the ghosts of men.’”

“I see.”

The Emperor nodded to the soldiers.

“Take him away.”

Posthumus laughed unpleasantly.

“That was what a professional sailor thinks of your ship, Greek!”

The Emperor raised his voice.

“Wait. Let us have the verdict of a professional soldier on the thunder-machine. Officer!”

But the officer was already saluting.

“Excuse me, Caesar, but the lady——”

“What lady?”

“They won’t let her pass without my orders, Caesar.”

Mamillius shouted in his broken voice.

“Euphrosyne!”

The officer came down from the salute.

“Let the lady pass, lads. Jump to it!”

The soldiers parted from the end of the tunnel and Euphrosyne came, hurrying and shrinking, to Phanocles and the Emperor.

“Where have you been, child? Why weren’t you with the others? The quay is dangerous without me!”

But she still said nothing, and the veil shook against her mouth. The Emperor beckoned.

“Stand by me. You are safe now.”

He turned back to the officer.

“Officer.”

“Caesar.”

“Stand easy. Posthumus, ask your questions.”

Posthumus surveyed him for a moment.

“Captain. Do you enjoy the prospect of a battle?”

“In defence of the Father of his Country——”

The Emperor waved his hand.

“Your loyalty is not in question. Answer, please.”

The Captain thought.

“On the whole, yes, Caesar.”

“Why?”

“Make’s a change, Caesar. Excitement, promotion, perhaps loot—and so on.”

“Would you prefer to destroy your enemies at a distance?”

“I don’t understand.”

Posthumus jerked a thumb sideways at Phanocles.

“This slimy Greek has made that weapon on the quay. You press the tit and the enemy goes up in smoke.”

The Captain ruminated.

“Has the Father of his Country no further use for his soldiers, then?”

Posthumus looked meaningly at the Captain.

“Apparently not. But I have.”

“But sir—suppose the enemy gets this thunder-machine himself?”

Posthumus looked at Phanocles.

“Will armour be any use?”

“None, I should say.”

The Emperor took Mamillius by the scarlet cloak and tugged it gently.

“I imagine this sort of uniform will disappear. You will spend your war crawling round on your belly. Your uniform will be mud- or dung-coloured.”

The officer glanced down at his glittering breastplate.

“—and you could always paint the metal a neutral tint or just let it get dirty.”

The officer paled.

“You are joking, Caesar.”

“You saw what his ship did in the harbour.”

The officer stepped back. His mouth was open and he was breathing quickly like a man in the first stages of nightmare. He began to glance round him, at the hedges, the stone seats, the soldiers blocking the tunnel——