There was still no sun; a faint golden glimmer around midday sometimes, a pink glow at dawn or sunset, but on the whole a grey, cool, sad light divided from dark. Spirits were low. Even the inevitable quarrels seemed muted and halfhearted. Ephorus was the only member of the crew making the voyage for the first time, and experienced men said that often it was worse than this; sometimes the grey sky sank until it joined the sea and progress was halted and men walked about through a clammy cloud.
At last they sighted land; it rose from the sea, a blur of solid grey in the greyness, and then slowly it revealed itself in colour and shape, a red and rocky coast, with waves beating high and hard at the foot of the cliffs and creaming over the small rocks with which the sea
was sown. There seemed to be no harbour,no houses, no people. The jagged, rose-coloured coast, and as they came nearer, inland a wonderful green became visible. Ephorus had never seen a green so vivid, nor quite such an inhospitable shore.
Appolodorus nosed the ship nearer, the man with the plumb-line calling soundings every few minutes; then, just short of the outmost fringe of rocks they anchored and a man ran to the ship’s bows and blew a horn. Blast after blast sounded through the sunless air, apparently into empty silence.
And then, suddenly it seemed, the narrow fringes of the shore at the places where the sea had beaten the red cliffs back, there were men, running, running into the water and dragging with them dark, circular objects which floated upon the sea, and into which, once they were afloat the men jumped, took up paddles and came, with what seemed incredible speed, towards Dido. Ephorus stared with interest at these boats, if boats they could be called. What brave crazy people these must be, he thought, to venture out, in such a sea in what were no more than round baskets, fashioned from boughs over which hides had been stretched. These men were not Phoenicians, as the men from the tawny-coloured land had been; they were a different breed altogether, with round dark heads and very light skins, so light that the blood showed, red in their faces.
Appolodorus opened the chest which had lain, locked, in Dido’s hold. There were knives and arrow heads, some lengths of brightly coloured cotton cloth, copper bracelets and anklets, some articles of pottery of the coarsest, cheapest kind, boxes of dried figs and dates and raisins; a sack of almonds. There were only three things of any real value; one was a lump of amber on a silver chain, one a silver brooch set with a piece of turquoise, and one a highly polished silver mirror such as rich men used for shaving and rich women used for self-admiration.
The natives, very quietly and shyly, loaded Dido with lumps of tin, some freshly mined and shining, some grown over with moss, as green as the inland meadows, some white with encrusted sea-salt. A year’s hoard at least.
It took some time since the flimsy round boats could carry only small amounts.
Appolodorus said, “This could be done in half the time if everybody dealt with them as honestly as I do. There was a time when the women used to come out too, then some wretched fellow grabbed a few, thinking they’d fetch a good price at Delos—they’re very pretty. So now, when they hear the horn, they hide their women and only men come out. And grabbing them, everybody knows, is sheer waste of time. They can’t live in captivity.”
There was no attempt at communication. When the last lump of tin was delivered a man who seemed to be the leader of the group—he wore a wolf skin around his middle and his chest, upper arms and legs were stained with a blue dye, simply spread his hands to signify that that was the end. Appolodorus with a similar gesture indicated the chest and man after man took the object nearest to hand without any discrimination.
“They share it out, later, amongst themselves,” Appolodorus explained.
Carrying their payment—pitiable in comparison with the worth of what they had delivered, the men paddled back to shore; but Appolodorus did not immediately give any order. He waited; and soon the little round boats were heading out again. This time they brought fresh meat and fish, baskets of berries, some horns hollowed out to make drinking cups, ornaments of bleached bone, curiously carved. These were presented with eloquent gestures of the hands, and with the first smiles Ephorus had seen on the pink and white faces.
“They always do that,” the man standing nearest to Ephorus explained.
“They’re very generous, gentlemen, in a savage sort of way. It’s a pity they’re doomed.”
“Are they?”
“It’s my guess that in twenty years or less this’ll be Roman territory.”
“Then what about the tin trade?”
The man shrugged.
“All organised and taxed! But by that time I shall be done with it. I had six daughters,” he explained.
“I’ve dowered four and married them. This trip should take care of the
other two….“Heavily laden, Dido headed south. In the Bay the weather was rather worse and she was no longer buoyant; everyone in her was—which would have seemed impossible—more nauseated than before.” Then she slipped between the Pillars of Hercules, this time so close to Apyla that one could see the apes bounding about on its rocky face, and then they were back in the known world, making for Byblos.
There was a waiting time—to the impatient Ephorus a long, interminable time—while the tin was assessed; then, according to his term of contract, every man was paid off.
Walking so fast that he was almost running, Ephorus began to make his way along one of the narrow alleys that led from the quay, one of his childhood’s haunts. And there he was accosted not by a painted harlot or a mendicant child, but by a young man, wearing the toga of Roman citizenship, neatly groomed, well shaven, but apparently exuberantly drunk. He said, barring Ephorus’ way:
“Welcome home, sailor. I’ll warrant you have a thirst. Come and take a cup of wine with me.”
“I’ve no time,” Ephorus said brusquely.
“Let me pass.” The young man reeled against the filthy wall and hiccupped Then he turned about and was walking as near alongside as the narrowness of the alley permitted.
“You think I’m drunk, don’t you?”
“What is that to me?”
“You’re right. I am. So would you be. I’ve just come into a legacy. All made out of sailors’ sweat, so I thought I’d spend a little on sailors.”
“Find one who isn’t in a hurry. I am.”
“Wife waiting? Ha ha! You been long away?”
“Six months,” Ephorus said, untruthfully.
“Tell me; did you ever see a mermaid?”
“No.”
“They say there’s a rock off Sicily where they sit and comb their hair.
You ever been to Sicily?”
“In my time.”
“Not this time? What a pity! I dote upon sailors’ tales. Come and drink wine with me and tell me a tale.”
“I told you,” Ephorus said impatiently.
“I have no time; I have no desire to drink and no tale to tell.”
“Uncivil,” the young man said in a maudlin, reproachful voice.
They had reached the point where the narrow alley opened into a wide busy street, and stumbling as he turned, the seeming drunkard began to retrace his steps. Within three paces Ephorus heard the change in the rhythm of the walk, and glancing back saw the man making for the quay with a purposeful and completely sober stride.
It might have been a serious attempt to get him drunk and make him wag an incautious tongue; it might have been a deliberate trap, kid by the ship-owner. Dismissing it thus, he hurried on.
It was still early in the day. The house was shuttered and dark, and very quiet, A slave was apathetically swabbing the floor of the atrium and hardly bothered to look up as he entered. He said:
“Rouse Dorcas. Tell her Ephorus is here.”
Now that the moment had come his heart beat with such excitement and exultation that it shook him to his finger-tips. All through his absence—ten months and eighteen days—he had exercised a Spartan self-control, knowing that it was useless to tantalise himself with dreams and hopes and plans. He’d gone from this place with the object of making money, knowing that he might perish in the attempt.
He was back; in a few minutes Dorcas would come; he would show her his money; assure her of his ability to provide.
He stood waiting; staring around the place which he had never before visited in daylight hours. For all its grandeur it had the sleazy, somewhat furtive look of a place devoted to the pleasures of the night.
She would be glad to be out of it.