by Hal Clement
Gizona learned a lot during those weeks. Much of it, of course, concerned ships and storms and coasts; but much concerned people. He still did not understand why the Carthaginians regarded the western Mediterranean as their personal property; neither of his new masters had been able to make the matter clear to him. He had found out a good deal about the masters themselves, though much from what they had told him, and much from his own thinking.
For he was thinking more and more effectively. Now, when two men told contradicting stories, he didn’t sit and worry about it; he pulled any facts he could from his memory to decide for himself which was more likely to be true. He had learned to keep his knowledge to himself when it was advisable, too. When Nimshi, who had never been beyond Gibraltar, told him that the Western Ocean was too stormy for any ship and was infested with man-eating monsters, Gizona did not mention that his experience with the Greek traders disagreed with this. When Sargon of Nineveh told stories of his fighting during the siege and destruction of his home city by the Medes fifteen years before, the boy quietly sifted out the facts without ever mentioning that no one man could have been in all the places doing all the things Sargon said during the time he had also said the fight lasted. He did not mention that by slips in his own story, the Ninevite had betrayed the fact that Sargon was not his real name; he had taken it, for reasons at which even Gizona could make a pretty good guess, after fleeing the fallen city. Gizona just kept the knowledge in his own mind; it might be useful some day. There was one thing, though, that he did not understand at all. There had been slave markets in every port where the galley had stopped-he had seen them in the small settlements, and heard about them in Carthage. In spite of what the men had said when they captured him, though, neither of them had said anything more to the galley’s commander about taking the boy ashore to sell; and Gizona could not for the life of him see why they should prefer him to the price he would bring, since he was very little use to them as a slave at sea. Several times he remembered the glances which had passed between Nimshi and Sargon during their remarks when they first captured him; he was sure that the pair had some plan which they were keeping very much to themselves, but he couldn’t yet guess what it was. It would be something involving him-but what special use could they have for an eleven-year-old boy? It was not as though they knew anything about his memory; they couldn’t. Or could they? Phaxos had long since discovered that Gizona was on board, of course. For a while, the boy had hoped that the slave would be sold at one of their stopping places, but this had not occurred; Phaxos stayed at his oar. Gizona had done his best to ignore the fellow, and hoped that he would not be moved to tell of the "curse" to any of his new acquaintances. It was years before he realized fully just how silly such a hope was; it was the sort of story a man like Phaxos would have to tell, even if he had to hunt up the people to tell it to. But whether Sargon and his friend knew the story now, they couldn’t have known it at the time they had captured Gizona; so whatever they were planning couldn’t have involved the boy’s strange powers. That seemed clear enough, but it was as far as Gizona could get in thinking the matter out. Anywhere past that made his head ache. There was still plenty for his memory to work on, though. The coast of Africa was not quite as varied as that of Europe, and to an ordinary person navigation landmarks would have been harder to choose, but the boy had no trouble. He could have been put ashore at any point and walked back to Carthage, knowing at every moment of his journey what was over the next hill or around the next point of land. He had a good deal of trouble reminding himself not to contradict anyone, especially his masters, when he heard them make some remark about the sights or happenings of the voyage which he himself remembered differently. It was especially hard one day when Sargon was talking to a crewman who had joined the ship at Carthage and had therefore not been present when the Proteus was sunk. Sargon was detailing his great feats of swordsmanship in that fight, blandly ignoring the fact that his own ship had not come up until it was almost over and he himself had watched the whole thing from the masthead. Gizona would not have been surprised by that he knew Sargon pretty well by that time— but the conversation was taking place near the stern of the galley, within easy earshot of the rowing bench occupied by Phaxos. The slave was not working so hard that he could pay no attention to the soldier’s words; and to Gizona’s surprise, the slave began to grin derisively as the story unfolded-grin straight at Gizona. It seemed very unlikely that Phaxos had been able to tell one attacker from another during the fight; if he knew enough to be aware that Sargon was stretching the truth, he must have learned it later. At least, so it seemed to Gizona; and there was only one obvious way he could have learned it. Almost certainly Sargon or Nimshi had been talking to him. It was possible that the fact of Sargon’s whereabout during the fight had been gossiped among the rowers, but it didn’t seem likely-and didn’t seem likely that the rowers would gossip to Phaxos anyway. He was a slave, the property of the galley’s commander; they were for the most free men, warriors, and far above talking with slaves except to give them orders. The few Greek prisoners from the Proteus still aboard might have talked to him, of course, since they were of the same nationality and had regarded him in more friendly fashion, but they would hardly have known about Sargon’s occupation. Any way Gizona looked at the matter, it seemed very likely that Phaxos had been talking to his masters; and granting that, it was also likely that they knew his secret. The question was, how could he be sure? That was something else to think about. There might be some way to trap an admission from one of them-being careful, of course, not to do any admitting of his own. That’s where the trouble would lie. He sat down and thought, and after some head-hurting effort was rewarded with an idea. Glancing around the crowded deck of the galley, he checked on the whereabouts of his two masters. Usually they were together, and that would not suit his plan at all. However, at the moment Sargon was still spinning his tall tales to the recruit, and Nimshi he finally saw relaxed against a coil of rope amidships examining thoughtfully the string of his bow. Gizona went over and settled down at a respectful distance from him, saying nothing-it wasn’t done for a slave to address the master first, as both Nimshi and Sargon had firmly made clear to him. The Judean seemed not to notice him, but continued his examination of the weapon, singing softly to himself. The boy noticed the tune; it was rather catchy, and he liked it, though he could understand very few of the words-he knew that Nimshi’s language was only a little like the Phoenician of Carthage. Eventually the soldier stopped his music and tossed his dagger to the boy, whose arrival he must have noticed without seeming to do so. "Sharpen that." Gizona fell to work at once; his masters had provided him with whetstones and similar articles for taking care of their weapons and clothing, and he carried them in a small wallet at his belt. As he worked, he thought and watched, waiting for a good opportunity to put his plan into action. He also kept an eye on the more distant Sargon, hoping that burly boaster would not talk himself out too soon. Nimshi finished checking the bow and carefully unstrung it. Then he seemed to fall into thought; his song died away into silence. There seemed no way to get him to start talking-but Gizona had an answer to that one. He pulled a hair from his head and tried to cut it with the dagger, a trick Sargon had said was the sure test for sharpness of any knife. Naturally, he failed; and carefully arranging a disappointed expression on his face, the boy fell to once more with the sharpening stone. After a few minutes work he tried the test again; and at this point Nimshi interrupted. "Forget it, young fellow. You'll rub away all the metal, and bronze is expensive." He took the dagger, tested its edge with his thumb, and thrust it into his belt with a nod of satisfaction. "You should know better than to believe everything Sargon tells you, by this time."
"Yes, sir."
"You were trying to match that trick of cutting a hair I heard him telling you about, weren’t you?"
"Yes, sir. I didn’t know you’d heard him; you were—" he was about to say "rowing at the time," but remembered
that this had all occurred fully two weeks before and it might seem odd if he remembered so well. He finished the sentence, with what he hoped was not a noticeable pause, "somewhere else, if I remember rightly." Nimshi’s expression showed no special response to these words, which was slightly encouraging. Gizona had been half afraid that his ""if I remember" might be greeted with a laugh of disbelief. The soldier said nothing, however, and Gizona went on, "Didn’t you tell me about that thumb test you just used, though? I hadn’t remembered it until I saw you do it just now." Nimshi’s brows furrowed in thought this time. He had no recollection of telling the boy any such thing; Sargon, who had laughingly mentioned his joking with the youngster about the hair test, had never mentioned it either. Someone seemed to be mixed up. "I don’t remember telling you," he said after a pause. "It doesn’t matter, though. It’s just the easiest way I know, and as far as I’m concerned you can use it on any of my weapons. You can try it now-my sword needs sharpening." He drew the weapon and tossed it to the deck beside his slave, rising to his feet at the same moment. "You can work on that until Sargon or I need you for something else." He strolled off toward the spot where the Ninevite was still spinning his tall tales. Gizona watched carefully to see whether any words passed between the two, but apparently Nimshi just wanted to listen. After a moment or two, the boy fell to work on the heavy bronze blade. Gradually the job absorbed his whole attention, and he ceased to think about what his masters might be doing. The galley rowed on, the rhythm of the whetstone gradually falling into step with that of the oars. Gizona came to himself suddenly. He had not exactly fallen asleep, but it took him a moment or two to become fully aware of his surroundings. He was still holding the sword; from its appearance, he had been working on it without really thinking for some time. He tested it with his thumb as he had seen Nimshi do, and decided he could get it no sharper. He had just made up his mind about this when a low chuckle sounded above him. He looked up, startled. It was almost like the day below decks, weeks before, when he had been captured; the grinning bearded faces of the Easterners were looking down at him. As he looked up, they glanced at each other and nodded; Sargon laughed aloud. "So the Greek told the truth." Nimshi’s words startled Gizona, but he could not pretend that he didn’t understand them-not to himself, anyway. "What do you mean, sir?" "I mean the Greek slave, Phaxos, young one. He had a wild tale about your being able to remember anything; said some priest in Iberia had put a curse on you." Gizona rose to his feet, crying out wildly, "There isn’t any curse! Phaxos tells the story just to get me in trouble with people! Why do you believe him? He’s a liar— his other masters could tell you." "He may be a liar," Sargon took up the conversation, "but he’s told the truth about your memory, anyway." "How do you know? I thought he couldn’t have spoken about it— "
"So that’s what that silly business about the knife test was all about, eh?" cut in Nimshi. "It makes sense now. You were trying to prove you didn’t have a good memory. I see."
"But I didn’t— I can’t— I haven’t—"
"Don’t try, boy." It was Sargon, again, and the overtones of his voice sounded almost kind. "I’ll tell you something, from a fellow who knows. If you’re going to try to lie, think it out in advance. Otherwise someone will catch you, sure as you're standing there." Gizona almost burst out laughing. His eye met that of Nimshi, and he could have sworn that the Judean felt the same way, It was only for an instant, but that instant of humor at least steadied him, and he was able to go on more quietly. "What makes you feel that the Greek told the truth about my memory?" he asked. "We tested you."
"But-but I was testing you!"
"So I see. You should never forget about your defense just because you’re attacking. You were singing a song as you worked, just now." Gizona let his memory rove back over the last few minutes, and understood. He had been singing. He’d been singing the song he had heard Nimshi sing a little while before-singing it with the words which he didn’t understand, but whose sounds he recalled perfectly. He thought for a moment longer, trying to recall whether he had heard the same song before, either from Nimshi or anyone else. He realized that he hadn’t, and understood how the test had been worked-the Judean had chosen a song he seldom or never used; perhaps he had even made, it up for the purpose.: He had sung it-just once, the boy now recalled-in Gizona’s hearing; and Gizona, without thinking, had sung it himself a little while later. The secret was out; there was no help for it. The two men saw by his expression that the argument was over, and Sargon nodded once more in a satisfied way. "All right, Gizona. You’re in no trouble. I don’t think any Iberian witch-doctor could come up with a worthwhile curse anyway, and even if one did it seems to be your trouble rather than ours. In any case, I think we can use this memory of yours; and if you will help us as only you can, you will no longer be our slave. You will be as free as we, and our companion for as long as you wish. Does that sound all right to you?" Gizona considered. He was more than a little suspicious; he had a pretty fair idea of how little it would take to make either of his masters forget a promise. On the other hand, there seemed little he could lose by agreeing to the proposition, so after a moment he nodded. He did not make a promise, feeling that if he managed to avoid actually lying he would be one step better than his owners, but he felt that it was all right to let them think he agreed. "What is it you want me to do?" he asked. "We can’t tell you here. There are too many ears on this ship," said Sargon. "We’ll be rowing up the Big River in a few days, and when we go ashore we'll take you with us and explain." Gizona nodded. It did not escape him that the pair had been willing enough to make the agreement in the hearing of other crewmen; probably they meant, if questioned by their friends, to pass it off as a trick to get better service out of their young slave. He also realized that it might actually be such a trick. As before, though, there was nothing he could do once he realized this. Perhaps, if they really did take him ashore, he could get away; but he was not sure that he’d be any better off. At least the life on the galley had not been a bad one so far. As usual, he put off planning. There was too much he didn’t know, and he realized it only too well. He let the matter slip from his mind, and began to wonder about the Great River that Sargon had mentioned.
CHAPTER 6
The Nile was the "Great River" to all the trading people of the Mediterranean. Egypt had been a great and powerful nation— and also a mysterious, magical one— as far back as most of them could remember. She had not always been the most powerful, of course; there had been times when she was ruled by a foreign viceroy; but even during such times the country had been thought of by the peoples of the Mediterranean as the land of Egypt, not as a province of Assyria.
Gizona, looking from the deck of the galley at the fertile soil of the Delta slipping by on either side, could not understand why; there was nothing by which he could guess at its richness, or the number of crops which could be gained from it in a single year. There were farms in the hilly regions where he had been born, but he had never learned to judge soil, and had never stopped to think of the advantage that flatness of land by itself could give to a farmer.
The city of Sai told him a good deal more. Even before the galley drew alongside a dock, he could see that this was a richer city than Tartessos or even Carthage, mighty as the latter was in those days. The shipping on the river, the buildings beside it, the people and their dress, all told their story even to Gizona’s inexperienced eyes.
It was not the size of the buildings; the huge works of stone which Pharaoh Niku’s predecessors had built to show their might and assure their immortality were farther upstream and already ancient. It was their neatness, their ornamentation, the evident planning of the city that struck him.
As the galley drew in to the dock, he could hear the chatter of the people. Most of the words were completely strange, though an occasional Greek or Phoenician phrase reached his ears. Looking at the crowd, he could understand this; mingled with the native Egyptians were great numbers of men wit
h lighter skins and different clothes. Many of the ships, too, were similar in build and rigging to the Proteus and to the Carthaginian galley he rode. Evidently many foreigners visited this place; it must be a trading center like Tartessos. Gizona tried to figure out the relationships of the various trading cities and ships he had seen; in Carthage, there were only Carthaginian ships-that was clear enough; the Carthaginians treated everyone else in that part of the sea as pirates. Most of the ships at Tartessos had been similar-Carthaginian or Phoenician. The Tartessians themselves were not seagoers, and would trade with anyone willing to pay their prices.
Now here was a city which obviously encouraged traders of other lands, and at the same time had ships of its own-many of the vessels they had passed on the river had obviously been manned by Egyptians. Gizona could not understand it; he had concluded earlier that any trading city regarded all the others as rivals and enemies. He wanted to ask someone about it, but both his masters were at the oars and he didn’t know any of the others well enough to judge the truth of his answers.
With the galley finally moored and the oarsmen freed, he had no chance to ask his questions. Nimshi and Sargon appeared, resuming their regular clothing and weapons, and gestured him to follow them to the dock.