Mention My Name in Atlantis

by John Jakes

  "I've never been so insulted in my life," pouted Captain Num.

  His eyes fired by a frenzy for justice, old Babylos rattled his chains and shook his fists. "Fly, Hoptor! Fly, Aphrodisia! Fly from the hands of these authoritarian brutes!"

  "That's enough out of you," said Pytho, whacking Babylos aside the head with the flat of his sword. The old nobleman groaned and collapsed in a heap. The general gestured at me and my vintage. "Soldiers, chain these two!"

  Spears and blades at the ready, Pytho's thugs rushed forward. It was a tense moment, I don't mind stating. But once again, my care in cultivating my position as benefactor to common citizens of Atlantis came to my aid. In the mob, and on the balconies, Babylos' cry was repeated many times:

  "Fly, Hoptor!"

  "Fly, Aphrodisia!"

  "Fly from the scum!"

  To lend assistance, those above straightaway began to make things difficult for the soldiers by throwing down whatever was at hand: wine jars, vases of flowers, furniture, the contents of slop pots, and hot charcoal from braziers. Those in the street began to trip and punch the soldiers, and in a twinkling, a furious melee had developed, against which the weapons of Pytho's brutes could not prevail.

  Being nearer the advancing soldiers than I was, Aphrodisia stretched out her hands to implore assistance. It is not true, as some have claimed, that I shouted, "Fend for yourself!" No, there is a much more human explanation to my subsequent behavior.

  I knew the unfortunate girl was much more likely to be caught by the troops than was I. Thus it seemed sensible to retain my own freedom of movement, in order to assist her at some time in the future. Therefore, I turned and ran.

  A soldier lunged at me. Nimbly, I clambered over my ass, whom the militaristic pig, attempting to hit me, inadvertently jabbed with his spear. The ass reared up. Its hind legs flew out. The soldier shot backward, victim of hooves in the mouth.

  By that time, dodging a rain of refuse, burning coals, potted plants, and taborets, I had gained the shelter of a nearby alley.

  "After him, after him!" Captain Num could be heard squealing.

  Unaccustomed to vigorous exercise, I soon developed piercing pains in my chest. But I ran on with every ounce of stamina at my command, reminding myself that I was fleeing for Aphrodisia, and Aphrodisia alone. The poor girl was now a prisoner, and someone must see to her freedom!

  Presently, in a semi-delirious state, I halted in a darkened street and panted for air. The clamor was still audible, but distantly. I knew the back ways of Atlantis better than most of the troops, certainly. I had eluded them by taking advantage of that fact.

  But I remained in a state of nerves as I took a circuitous route to my villa, climbed the garden wall—with considerable effort!—and ultimately locked myself in the wine cellar. There I opened a fresh jar, as a stimulant to thinking, and congratulated myself upon being free to help my beloved.

  After I had drunk the entire jar of wine, it still seemed to me that cerebral functions were operating slowly. Therefore I drank another jar. In the midst of the third, I made the happy discovery that I was at last in a frame of mind to plan my strategy.

  The clever reader may be wont to inquire as to why, in order to ply my trade, I indulged at all in the elaborate charade of wines, casks, and vintages. The reasons are shamelessly simple.

  I operated on a much higher plane than did, let us say, the unsavory fellows who sneak through the streets drumming up business for the likes of poor pregnant Rhomona. Due to my methods, my girls—my vintages!—enjoyed a preferred position. They were able to live in comparative luxury, occupying spacious, airy apartments in the most refined parts of town. They ventured out only when I summoned them. Thus they suffered far less risk than the common wenches of the street. Little Rhomona had been arrested more times than I cared to count.

  Further, my role as "vintner" protected my clients, all men of the finest lineage. And the novelty of selecting a "vintage" appealed, frankly, to the tastes of the bored intelligentsia. It appealed to me as well. One does not care to be branded with unwholesome names such as "panderer."

  Finally, I did not see my occupation as such a great crime, for I was only servicing natural instincts and urges which would be appeased by another, were I not to leap into the breach. I considered the oppressive cruelties and the unnatural recreational preferences of a General Pytho far more scurrilous than my well-run service to the gentlefolk.

  Of course, I'd had scrapes with the law, in the persons of the dour, hair-splitting old political hacks who served as the Judges of the Island Kingdom. They—frustrated spoilsports to a man!—considered my activities illegal. Until now, however, I had always managed to avoid prosecution, largely because of my multitudinous connections with this or that individual of influence.

  Tonight was a different matter.

  Why, oh why, had Aphrodisia chosen that precise moment to discuss my promises of marriage? The calamity which had befallen us was, I reckoned in my clear-headed state, sometime during consumption of a fourth jar of wine, all her fault.

  Was I to be held responsible because silly young girls can think of nothing except marriage, babies, and an eternity of what they imagine to be domestic bliss, but which is, in reality, unpleasantness alternating with ennui of the most crashing sort?

  Was I to be faulted if such unrealistic attitudes necessitated, on my part, a few little white lies to make things run smoothly? I certainly didn't want Aphrodisia to retire from my vineyard. Quite apart from the fact that I was fond of her—that fondness definitely stopping short of matrimony, it must be reaffirmed!—she was in great demand among the gentlemen of quality. Losing her would have halved my gross!

  Nevertheless, I had lost her tonight. And in my present frame of mind, I was inclined to let the vexatious little baggage stew in her own juices.

  Let her spend a holiday in the dungeons of Geriasticus X! I thought. That will make her life with me seem paradise on Earth!

  A vigorous knocking abovestairs forestalled further consideration of the matter. I doused the lamp, finished the jar at hand, and, while the soldiers battered at my front gate, crying ugly oaths and waving lanterns, I crept through the house by a route known only to myself. I paused only long enough to seize a cloak and a dirk. Once more I went over the garden wall, to the safety of the street.

  Darkness had fallen complete. It was late, most lamps extinguished. In the wine cellar, I had been thinking clearly. Here in the chilly air, it seemed that a strange intoxication gripped my senses. I found myself actually feeling sorry for Aphrodisia's plight. Not to mention responsible!

  Certainly I must have been out of my head to distort the facts of the situation to the point where I felt I must take steps to help her. But distort them I evidently did, for shortly I was making my way to the seamiest quarter of town. Rotten Row, as it was called.

  Halfway there, a pathetic cutpurse tried to rob me. When he saw who it was that he had attempted to victimize, he fell on his knees to beg my pardon. I told him to go to a certain house in one of the better sections and mention my name to the steward, whereupon he would be given a free meal and, if he so desired, honest employment.

  The former appealed to the would-be thief, but the latter caused him to tremble and rush away. I passed on, concluding that one's philanthropic activities do not always meet with success.

  The Bloody Bench was the most unsavory of all the unsavory dives along Rotten Row. I was recognized the moment I stepped into its furious din. But I was not molested by the assortment of head-wallopers, sharps, harlots, and roughnecks assembled in the stygian gloom. Summoning the landlord, I asked that a jar of wine be sent to my table on tab. Then I inquired if he had a lad available.

  "Aye, Hoptor, I think little Mimmo's back. For some reason, purse-lifting is slow tonight."

  "So I've discovered."

  Little Mimmo proved to be a handsome child of seven, with a bloodied dagger in his belt and the eyes of a wolf. I told him where and how to pro
ceed, making sure he understood that he was to apply to the night warden of the king's dungeon, and mention my name. In two hours, Mimmo returned with his report:

  "Begging the gentleman's pardon—"

  "Oh, what's that?"

  "Sleepin' a nat, sir?"

  "Thinking, my little man, thinking!"

  "Well, she ain't in the prison, that's for sure."

  "What, Aphrodisia not locked up? Where is she, then?"

  "She ain't in the regular prison," Mimmo emphasized. "Your fren' the night warden has got her in a special cell. He says he'd like to help you sneak her out, too, but 'cause of this special cell business, he can't. It'd mean his head if he was caught."

  "Perfectly understandable. Continue."

  "Accordin' to what he told me, General Pytho's goin' to send her to the slave mart tomorrow, an' sell her. Your fren' said the general remarked that the gel was fair enough to bring a top price. In fac', he said she was fair enough to take to his own bed. Then some captain began weepin', and the general changed his mind."

  I thwacked the table with my fist. "That unscrupulous villain! The very highest military officer in the kingdom turns a personal profit from Aphrodisia's misfortune. That shows you how rotten this state's become! Perhaps Babylos is right."

  The lynx-eyed lad professed a thirst after I paid him, so I told him to speak to the landlord, in my name. Shortly little Mimmo was seated on the lap of a jolly whore, tickling her and swilling it down with the best of them.

  Safe from the molestations of the hypocritical forces of law and order, I continued to drink at the Bloody Bench for the remainder of the night—in order to facilitate clear thinking!

  Unfortunately, no amount of clear thinking would remove the compelling certainty that, on the morrow, I would have to visit the slave mart, to see what could be done about rescuing Aphrodisia before she was sold into bondage—to someone else!

  * Three *

  Shortly after daybreak, I returned to my villa. I was relieved to discover no soldiers in the neighborhood. I entered without difficulty, prepared my customary light breakfast of a dozen eggs, half a hock of ham, a loaf of bread, and a jar of wine, and thereafter sought the closet in which I kept my long, dark cloak with voluminous cowl.

  Making certain that the cowl concealed my features, I took myself to the mart, which was a spacious plaza immediately behind the buildings that housed the governmental water works.

  The bureaucrats who oversaw the Island Kingdom's massive seawall and maintained its intricate valving system—designed so as to drain away excess water at once, in the event fair Atlantis was ever visited by a tidal wave which rose above the wall proper—these bureaucrats, I say, were already scurrying to work, carrying their noontime snacks in oilskin bags. Despite my predicament, I counted myself lucky to be an entrepreneur, rather than one of those lackluster fellows chained by circumstance to shuffling stone tablets back and forth across a marble desk.

  The slave mart consisted of a large auction block in the center of the plaza, and a separate building at one side of the square which contained the pens and the manager's office. To the latter I repaired at once, noting the crowd already assembled, even though the bargaining would not begin for several minutes.

  As I stepped into the seamy hall, I heard the inevitable lamentations from the unhappy souls confined in the cells at the rear. Intermixed were the weepings of children, the babblings of senile grannies doubtless clapped into bondage for failure to pay debts, and some drunken wretch howling a maudlin ballad about his faraway homeland in Nubia, where no one was ever discouraged, and the skies were not cloudy, sunrise to sunset. A piece of sentimental twaddle if I ever heard one!

  I bypassed a number of the mart's juvenile helpers who were indolently pitching zebs at a line on the floor, and entered the main office. The manager was a burly fellow of long acquaintance. Reading a memorandum inscribed on a tablet, he glanced up as I entered. I told him that I wished to make arrangements to purchase on credit.

  "No credit, stranger," he growled. "All sales are zebs on the barrelhead."

  "Surely that only applies to poor credit risks," said I, whipping aside my cowl to allow him a flash of my features.

  "Hoptor! Why didn't you mention that it was you?"

  "Ssh!" I replied, concealing my face instantly. "I don't want my name mentioned because I happen to be in disfavor with the authorities."

  His brows shot up. "Oh yes, I believe I did hear something to that effect. Is that why one of your girls goes on sale this morning? And why you're here?"

  "A brilliant deduction! Is Aphrodisia on the premises?"

  "She certainly is. Pytho's little sweetheart, Captain Num, brought her down an hour ago."

  "Is he on the premises?"

  "No, he bade me deliver the proceeds of the sale to the general when the auction's over. Then he left."

  "That avaricious scoundrel!"

  "Captain Num?"

  "General Pytho!"

  In terse syllables, I highlighted the developments of the preceding evening. At the conclusion, the manager glumly agreed that the general's pretension of enforcing the law, coupled with his attempt to make a personal gain from Aphrodisia's bad luck, was a sorry circumstance indeed. I said:

  "That's why I've vowed to buy her back, much as it pains me to part with the zebs."

  "Well, Hoptor, your credit's good with me anytime."

  "Thanks. Just make sure your auctioneer doesn't mention my name during the bidding. I don't want to attract undue attention until the notoriety dies down. In a few days, General Pytho will be off riding some new hobbyhorse, and it will be safe for me to appear in public again. In the meantime, the auctioneer must refer to me only as the gentleman in the cloak."

  "Gentleman—? Oh, of course. I'll make a note of that."

  He did, on a tablet. Then he shook my hand. When I asked him what that was for, he replied:

  "Why, I'm wishing you luck, Hop—sir. Your little—ah—vintage is a choice one, if I do say so. The bidding is liable to be spirited. I certainly hope you're the one who walks away with the prize."

  With visions of bankrupting myself in order to obtain Aphrodisia's freedom flashing in my head, I retired to the plaza to await the start of the sale. How much would she cost me?

  I confess, in the privacy of this narrative, that I was tempted to forget the whole thing. She wasn't the only fish in the sea. But my natural fondness for the wench, plus my innately humanitarian nature, prevailed.

  The crowd swelled to more than two hundred before the auctioneer appeared. A few small benches were provided for bidders on a first come, first serve basis. I noted the occupants of these, and finally moved in on a grandfather who could be no less than eighty. His arms were mere matchsticks. Unlike some of the robust types occupying other benches, he was the very picture of feebleness.

  I told the old fellow that he was wanted in the manager's office. He doddered away. When he returned to find me seated, a few flourishes of my fist convinced him not to start an altercation. He went off grumbling, while I congratulated myself upon my sagacity as well as my comfort.

  The auctioneer, a lascivious fellow in a breechclout, mounted the block and began to strut up and down, cracking his whip to gain everyone's attention.

  "Good morning, ladies, good morning, gents. Welcome to the finest display of human flesh offered for your approval and purchase this side of the Pillars. Madam, please take that child out of the first row, some of our captives have been known to leap down and flail the audience with their chains."

  After another crack of his whip, he continued, "All merchandise is offered strictly as is. However, the management guarantees that the various persons on sale are of reasonably sound health, and will not expire within seven days of purchase, or your money back."

  A boy ran up with a tablet which the auctioneer consulted.

  "The first item this morning is a double measure of nocturnal pleasure. Two deliciously feminine creatures who have volun
tarily turned themselves into bondage in order to pay their father's gambling debts and subsequent funeral expenses. May I present the Zecchi sisters!"

  Two mole-decorated middle-aged horrors were dragged from the building in chains. They made General Pytho appear a veritable god of slimness. The Zecchi sisters simpered at the crowd and lifted their skirts to show off their overstuffed thighs. I, for one, rolled my eyes to heaven.

  To my amazement, however, the senile old man whom I had displaced from the bench bought them at once and, giggling lewdly, led them away. There is simply no accounting for taste.

  Several runaway soldiers came next. I couldn't blame them for having tried to escape. Who would want to muster under a rogue like Pytho? Since the fellows were all well built, bidding was animated. They were soon purchased by the owner of the largest sewer engineering firm in fair Atlantis. They seemed happy about it, too.

  Next came a family whose wrecked skiff had left them penniless on our rocky shore. My attention wandered.

  Bemused, I was not aware of the new arrival until he thrust against me, having seated himself on my bench, which was designed to hold but one person.

  "This seat is taken!" I snarled.

  "What did you say, pork-guts?"

  I could barely reply, "Why—ah—I said, always room for one more."

  The man had seated himself so close to me that I was virtually forced off my end of the bench. There I hung precariously in space, only a fraction of my hindquarters having any support at all. Maintaining my equilibrium became a constant struggle.

  The rude fellow who had placed me in this undignified position was a forbidding, not to say remarkable, specimen. He was young, with eyes of brighter blue even than Aphrodisia's. A mane of yellow hair reached well below his shoulders.

  A patchwork cloak of moldy animal skins hung down his back, secured at his throat by a chain decorated with animal claws as long as my middle finger. A hide clout, fur boots, and numerous dented metal arm rings—junk jewelry if I ever saw it!—completed his ensemble.