The Triumphant (The Valiant #3)(59)
I laughed a little, but she wasn’t wrong. I still had the image of the queen cutting that man’s throat in the forefront of my mind. Cleopatra was no wilting lily, that was certain. And I’d heard tales of the terrible things her unfettered anger had wrought in her own country from time to time.
I nudged my horse into a trot and pulled up beside the lead wagon as we reached a shabby wharf that still boasted more than a half dozen vessels at berth of varying shapes and sizes, plus a few more out in the harbor, coming and going. Our caravan rumbled to a stop, and Charon and I exchanged a glance as I dismounted and he swung himself down from the driver’s bench. Sorcha was in no shape to accompany him, not with her head wrapped in a linen bandage from Neferet’s surgeon’s bag, and we decided that—for appearance’s sake—the men should stay guarding the wagons while Charon conducted business. That way we could hopefully maintain the illusion of Charon’s slave trader origins, while in reality trying to secure passage for some fifteen gladiatrices, six Amazons, two ex-legionnaires, a fugitive gladiator, a eunuch, and the queen of Aegypt.
“Shall we?” Charon said, gesturing to the docks.
I loosened my swords in their scabbards beneath my cloak, while I adopted a deferential attitude to him, walking slightly behind as if he owned me. But, as it happened, we didn’t actually have to fight our way onto a ship. Thanks to Charon’s artful persuasion—his “asking politely”—there was a shipmaster in Cosa who was happy to take us aboard for passage. Well, perhaps “happy” was too strong a word.
From where I stood meekly behind him, I craned my neck so that I could hear what passed between Charon and the captain of the large, low-slung merchant galley that was moored directly in front of us. She had the look of a fast vessel, and I’d felt a surge of optimism as we approached. All I had to do was stand by and wait for Charon to work his devious magic. Most of which seemed to consist of him being rather upfront with the captain.
To a point . . .
“You know me, Darius,” Charon was saying. “I deal straight.”
“Aye,” the man he’d called Darius grunted. “Straighter’n most for all you’re a slaver.”
Charon let that go without comment. “Will you allow me and mine the use of your ship and crew?” he asked. “We need transport out of Italia.”
Darius sniffed, rubbing at his ear and seeming to contemplate the request. I could tell he smelled the money in it, in spite of Charon’s deceptively casual demeanor. “Where’re you headed?” he asked.
“South. Beyond that, I’ll tell you when we’re cast off and well away.”
Darius’s eyes narrowed, but I could tell the scent of denarii was strong in his nostrils. “When?” he asked.
“With the next tide.”
“But that’s”—Darius glanced from Charon to the harbor and back again—“within the hour!”
“So it is.”
“Too soon.” The shipmaster shook his head. “No. No . . . Not enough time. We’ve no extra provisions laid in. No food, no water—”
“Then it’ll be a hungry trip,” Charon cut him short. “But worth your effort. More than worth it, I promise you.”
Darius’s calloused fingers departed his ear and roamed over his head, scratching at the back of his neck and then the scruff on his chin as he chewed over Charon’s extraordinary request, thinking. “Well, we could put in at Ostia, I suppose—”
“No. No coastal Italia ports of call until Messana.”
“Wh-what?” the master sputtered. “No coastal ports? You mean sail by way of Sardinia? That’ll double our traveling time! At least! You’re mad. I’ll have a mutiny on my hands—”
“Listen to me”—Charon clamped a hand on Darius’s shoulder—“and listen well, old friend. At the end of this journey you will be handsomely paid. I promise you that. Far beyond what you’re expecting. And you’d be wise to leave these lands for a while yourself, regardless. I’ve friends in Ephesus and Carthage—and elsewhere—who’d be happy to trade with you. Half my own fleet is docked at Lepsis Magna right now. I can write letters, make introductions . . . Believe me when I tell you that the Romans are soon to be a bit too occupied with backstabbing and bloodletting to care much about trade.”
Darius said nothing for a long moment. When he spoke again his tone was carefully neutral—a tone I suspected most men would adopt when speaking of Caesar for the next little while, until loyalties were known. “So it’s true then,” he said. “The great tyrant’s dead.”
Charon nodded. “And we must look to our own interests.”
“I heard a whisper on the wind only an hour or so gone,” Darius murmured, shaking his head, “but I just assumed it was rumor. Idle gossip. Maybe a bit of wishful wondering . . .”
“Do we have a deal?” Charon asked.
Darius frowned deeply, and for a long moment, I thought he would say no. But after a bit of negotiating, an agreement was inevitably reached. The negotiations included a hefty price per head and the wagons and horses we’d ridden in on. Which really wasn’t a problem. We wouldn’t be needing them again. Satisfied with the price he would receive, Darius turned his attention over Charon’s shoulder to the wagons—and their occupants.