disbelief to undeniable fear – cross the other's features as he gave a factual account of what had taken place in the cavern.
There followed a long moment of silence.
“I'm not sorry,” Ignacio said quietly. “They were treacherous, cruel masters. Neither really knew the meaning of true loyalty. Of that I'm as sure as I am of the sun rising tomorrow.”
Socrates nodded, his face still somber. “Yes, you're right friend. But how are we to explain all this? What do we do next?”
“I've thought that out. Just as I've thought out many aspects of my life. We merely return, stating that the Mermaid destroyed them both. Your people are sufficiently superstitious to accept the story, aren't they?”
“Most of them. Those who may doubt it are in a minority. Yes, the story will hold true in the minds of many who hear it.”
“All right. Then, I shall claim to be Bullpole's natural son – and I shall grieve for my lost father. After all, I arrived here attending him. It figures that I was close to the ruthless monster.” Ignacio grinned. “Do you see that you and I can easily assume their power and possessions?”
“Us – replace them?” incredulity again oozed onto Socrates' face. “Y-You're mad, friend!”
“Not truly. Wouldn't you like to have the freedom and power that they had?”
“Of course!”
“Then be courageous enough to help me see this scheme through – and you shall replace your master! I want not any portion of his holdings. Bullpole's empire is plenty for my greed. And I long for the sights and sounds of Spain. But I'll need you in the position of power before I can leave here – unless I were willing to sneak to sea like a dog! Which I'm not.”
“What do you suggest?”
“First, that you slay any of the guards who were here when you put that madwoman in the cavern by the Greek's orders. Neither of us can afford to have them live – perhaps spreading the truth about a mere crazed creature baited for a Mermaid as part of a murderous plot.”
Socrates nodded. “True enough. Getting rid of the three who accompanied me when I brought the repulsive wench here won't be difficult. I'll slay them after they're far gone in wine. It can be done quickly and quietly. The palace is rampant with mysterious killings constantly.”
Ignacio squinted thoughtfully. “Fine. Next, is there a skilled forger available to us? One who can duplicate any handwriting?”
“I know of one so accomplished who is imprisoned in the dungeons.”
“Then on the promise of his freedom, you will have him forge the Greek's handwriting. I shall dictate the statement. It will be nothing less than a letter informing all that you are to run things in the event of his untimely end.”
“What if the forger should talk?”
“Dead men can't speak. He will be slain when the document is safely finished and in our hands.”
Socrates smirked wryly. “We seem to be planning the deaths of many men, friend. Which makes you and I dismally similar to our recent masters.”
Ignacio shrugged. “Would you rather remain a guardsman, perhaps in slavery to an even worse tyrant than the one you depended upon for your life before he lost his own miserable existence?”
“No.”
“Wouldn't you prefer to be a master? To have leisure time for sensual pleasures – including all the girls you want – and never take another order as long as you live?”
“Gods of Mount Olympus – yes.'”
“Then, friend, stop moralizing and listen to my plan as I detail it to you. Every step must be carefully executed if we are to have what lies easily within our grasp.” Ignacio took reins from the other's hands, mounting a horse. “Come along. We must return sometime. I'll explain everything while we ride. By the time we reach the palace, you'll have it entirely memorized.”
“Did you have any idea of your fate?” asked Socrates with a sad smile. “I mean, after you had helped Zorba murder Bullpole?”
“I was promised rewards.”
Climbing upon a horse, Socrates withdrew a sharp-bladed knife and held it before Ignacio's eyes. It glinted and sparkled in the sunlight with deadly beauty. “Well, friend, this was to be your reward,” Socrates said grimly. “I was under orders to bury it in your back the moment an opportunity presented itself to kill you. I have no doubt that he planned to rid himself of me and the others who brought the madwoman to the sea-cave – so I guess their deaths won't make that much difference.”
“Not if you truly want to be master of this empire the Greek built. All I want is to return to my homeland. Perhaps we can stay in touch. Be friends over the years.”
“Better ones than they were, I trust!” Socrates grinned wryly.
“I'll drink to that when we're near wine!”
“A favor, my friend?”
Ignacio smiled. “Of course, friend!”
“Please desist from referring to my deceased master as 'the Greek.'”
“Why so?”
“Because I, too, am a Greek, friend!”
Laughing self-consciously, with just a tinge of resentment beneath their laughter, they spurred their steeds into a full gallop and began riding back in the direction of the palace.
For brevity's sweet sake, I'll delete much of the time that passed and the confusion that accompanied it when Ignacio and Socrates returned to the palace, bearing the news of their masters' deaths. There were those who were saddened, oddly enough; those who accepted the story with thoughtful silence and expressionless faces, and those who were visibly gladdened by it.
Hinting that a document was being sought among Zorba's private papers – a will that would give his lasting orders, Socrates and Ignacio went ahead with their daring plan. Guardsmen were murdered into silence, as was the frail little forger once his counterfeited work of art had been completed. Showing the deceptive will to those who had been closest – in the loosest sense of that term – to their master, Socrates found grudging obedience among the residents of the palace. There were a few who protested, and some who even attempted an uprising – which was quickly put down and its perpetrators publicly executed in a most horrible manner, being torn apart by wild bulls before a fascinated crowd of thousands who cheered and ate tidbits as they avidly viewed the punishment meted out to troublemakers.
Day by day, little by little, with constant alertness and attention to detail – checking every rumor and mercilessly killing all opponents – Socrates took over the power his master had possessed. By the time a month had elapsed, he was as much the master of Zorba's empire as that bearded schemer had ever been. Naturally, he realized – and often admitted as much with seemingly charming gratitude – that he could never have brought the change-over about without the help of his Spanish friend, Ignacio.
As might be expected, Ignacio's proclamation to the effect that he was none other than the natural son of Bullpole was accepted almost totally by those in the palace since they had little reason of suspecting otherwise and on way of disproving his heritage, even among those skeptics whose innately jaundiced eyes regarded the whole matter as nothing more than smoothly timed skullduggery.
Messages sent by fleet vessels across the Aegean seas to all the Grecian isles where subordinates received the news of their now entrenched young master, soon returned bearing replies that business was splendid and would indeed continue as always, various percentages and profit-sharing arrangements not being affected by the new administration as represented in the haughty person of Socrates who had begun acting like the master he was.
Ships bringing fresh cargoes of abducted young women – innocent-faced country girls who had been lured away or bodily carried off from their home villages-resumed docking, and Socrates was up to his sprouting beard in paperwork and endless conferences that dealt with the rerouting of these hapless virgins – barring a few selected for his own enjoyment – to distant places, there to be delivered into the hands of lecherous collectors or whoremongers who would pay handsomely for such tenderly curved, firmly fleshed creatures. And so it continued,
