by Hal Clement
As they reached the plank leading down from the deck the commander saw them.
"Going to sell that brat at last?" he called out.
"He should bring a good price here," Sargon answered. Gizona noticed that the Ninevite had carefully refrained from saying "yes," but he was not entirely sure that selling him was not on the minds of the two warriors.
"The old goat is standing there figuring how much he can charge us for Gizona’s keep, when we get back," muttered Nimshi. "He’d say he hadn’t bargained on keeping him aboard this long."
Sargon said nothing, but Gizona wouldn’t have noticed if he had. Nimshi’s words had carried more meaning to him than the speaker had probably intended. "He would say," not "He will say." Apparently selling Gizona was not the plan; equally apparently returning to the galley wasn’t, either. The plan for which Gizona’s help was wanted must have something to do with Egypt. In spite of this new thought, Gizona could not keep his eyes from the people and buildings around them as they moved through the throngs away from the dock. The native Egyptians were darker people than he had seen before, not as tall as the Greeks the boy had known. They seemed to be strong enough, though, judging from the bundles he saw some of them carrying. Very few of them were armed, rather to his surprise; in Iberia practically everyone had carried at least a knife. Most of the men with weapons were obviously foreigners-natives of Palestine like Nimshi, curly-bearded soldiers from the Land of the Two Rivers which had been Sargon’s home, black-skinned men whose like the boy had never seen in his life, great bronze-armored soldiers whose language showed them to be Greeks.
Nimshi and Sargon were looking around, too. They seemed to like what they saw.
"This will do." Sargon said the words, a look of fierce glee on his face. "What we heard was true, friend. Egypt hires her soldiers; there are plenty of fighters here who don’t care whom they fight for, as long as he has gold to pay them."
"That’s all right for Niku; he has the gold," pointed out Nimshi. "We don’t. What good do all these warriors do us so far?" Sargon grinned and glanced down at Gizona.
"That’s where the boy comes in. You know that already."
"When do I come to understand it?" interrupted Gizona at this point. "You said you’d tell me when we came ashore and no one could hear us. Well, these Egyptians don’t understand us, do they?"
"Most of them probably don’t," replied Sargon calmly, "but this crowd isn’t all Egyptian. If you were a foot taller I’d have you drop back a way to see whether anyone is following us; as it is, we'll keep going until we can find a place that’s good and private."
"There are only two people near us now who were on the dock when we left the ship," Gizona pointed out.
"You mean only two people that you are tall enough to see in this crowd. Wait until we’re out where it’s thinner and maybe I'll believe you." Gizona had no good answer to this, and followed his masters without saying any more.
They were travelling roughly parallel to the river, heading south. Gradually they found the crowds a little thinner, and a little different in nature. Fewer of the people were richly dressed; many were hardly dressed at all, a few rags serving them for clothing. The buildings were smaller and more dilapidated, the streets dirtier, and more than one of the people who passed the three looked at them in a way which suggested it was just as well the men were armed. Both Nimshi and Sargon had armlets, earrings, and other ornaments of gold and bronze which could have tempted richer folk than the fellahin of Sai; but the obvious strength and self-assurance of the two, combined with their all too visible swords and daggers, served to discourage any attack.
There was no crowd here; no one ever seemed to get very close to his neighbor, and Gizona could sometimes see for a whole block.
"How about it now, boy? Is there anyone in sight who is from the ship or the crowd at the dock?"
"No”
"Allright. I hope we’re not trusting that memory of yours too far; there were a lot of faces on the dock." Gizona simply shrugged; he had no doubts, and after a moment Sargon seemed to dismiss his own. "This looks like a good place. Come on."
The "good place’ was a mud building with several wide doorways in its outer walls, through which could be seen benches and tables. Men were seated at some of the tables with clay or leather drinking mugs before them; the place was evidently a wine house. Business seemed slack at the moment, as there were plenty of empty tables, and the Ninevite led the way to one of these, where he and Nimshi seated themselves. Gizona remained standing; he was not sure whether they still meant to treat him as a slave, or whether his learning their plans advanced him to the status of partner. Neither of the men invited him to sit down, so he composed himself to listen as he was.
The explanation was delayed by the approach of an unusually tall, skinny Egyptian who was evidently the owner of the place. Neither of the men could tell from his expression whether he was glad or sorry to have the foreign customers, but Sargon chose to interpret his few words as a request for their orders.
"Wine, old skin-and-bones. The best you have, and plenty of it."
The tavern-keeper seemed not to understand, until Sargon pointed to one of the other customers and made a gesture expressive of bringing a mug to his lips and drinking. The Egyptian nodded at this, but did not move until the Ninevite threw a bit of silver on the table. He gathered this up and strode out, returning in a moment with two clay cups and a larger leather bottle.
Sargon waited until the fellow had gone before filling his cup, tasting its contents, and then turning to the business at hand.
"Nimshi and I," he began, "have found that we have a lot in common. We’re good warriors, and like to fight; neither of us can go back to our own lands; and we both are very fond of gold. We've been doing pretty well fighting for Carthage— they like to hire soldiers rather than do their own fighting, as you must have seen from the crew of our ship— but you have to be pretty lucky to get a really good supply of gold. Nimshi picked up some extra silver from the ship you came from, but had to give most of it up to old Borca. What we would both like is to find enough to settle down as nobles somewhere without having to row and fight just to keep eating." He paused, emptied his cup, and refilled it from the bottle.
"For a long time, we hoped to pick something up from one of the ships we took, but we saw that we’d never get anywhere that way. We thought of joining the garrison of one of the Carthaginian trading settlements, but that would be no good-the only people we’d fight would be coming to steal from us, and certainly wouldn’t bring anything with them.
"Then we thought of coming to Egypt. Pharoah Niku is said to be like the Carthaginians— he hires foreign soldiers; and he’s also said to be free with his gold. Maybe fighting for him for a few years would make the fortunes we want."
"If that’s your plan, what do you need of me?" asked Gizona, reasonably enough.
"It’s not our plan any more. We heard more about Niku. Nimshi knows a lot— "
"I certainly do." The Judean’s voice was bitter. "I don’t say anything about the battle twelve years ago when King Josiah was killed; that was war, and you take your chances. But why couldn’t Niku rule Judah when he beat its army? Instead, he got out and let that Babylonian Nebuchadrezzar have my country, and every time things quiet down Niku stirs up some idiot to rebel and the Babylonian ruins the country again. There must be a river of Egyptian gold flowing to Palestine to keep Niku’s agents going."
"And you want to find that river and help yourselves, helping Judah at the same time?"
"That was one idea." Sargon took up the story again. "Then we got a better one. If gold is going out of Egypt, it’s coming in somewhere. I’ve talked-we’ve both talked-to merchants who've visited here, and soldiers who’ve fought here. We've picked up a lot of knowledge, and some of it must be true. A lot of those people have talked about the Land of Gold. It’s somewhere to the south, and it’s where Pharoah Niku gets his wealth. Everyone knows that, but no one knows
just where it is. It is visited only by Pharoah’s troops, and while they talk enough it never seems to do any good. You hear tales of river and mountain and desert, which anyone could guess, but you never hear about water holes and fords and passes-not enough to tell where they are. You hear about heading south in ships, which come back with wealth-but you never hear how many days they sailed, or what landmarks they used to find their landing place. You hear about black men who own the gold, but never how it’s taken from them-some soldiers say it’s paid as tribute and others that they have to fight each time.’ He stopped, and smiled at Gizona.
"And that, young one, is where you come in. The Greek slave Phaxos told us some of the things you could do. He told how you had listened to sailor’s yarns for a few nights in Tartessos, and were able to tell where the lies were by remembering what fitted together and what didn’t. You, my boy, are going to find the Land of Gold for us."
Gizona digested that for some moments.
"How do I hear all these stories?" he asked at length. Aren’t the soldiers all Egyptian?"
"No. I told you Niku uses mercenaries like Nimshi and me. Besides-how long did it take you to learn Greek?" - "IT never really learned it. I still had to stop and remember what words meant when you sank the Proteus. If a man was a fast talker I couldn’t answer him until I’d gone back over his whole speech and turned it into proper words in my head; if he talked slowly enough I could keep up with him, but it was hard. These Egyptians sound like fast talkers to me." Sargon grimaced, then shrugged. "We’ll have to do the best you can, then." Gizona thought. Deliberately, he seated himself on the bench across the table from the pair, and settled his chin on his hands while he mulled the matter over. Nimshi seemed about to order him back to his feet-he was a stickler for discipline, holding that no one should let his slaves get away with anything-but Sargon checked him. Gizona saw and noted the move, but said nothing. He went on thinking. He saw no reason why he had to join this plan. Of course, he was a slave, and slaves obey their masters; but in this sort of thing even Gizona could see that he held the whip hand-they couldn’t do without him. He wasn’t sure he wanted to help. He had no particular love for his masters. They had treated him well enough, but it was the careless and selfish "good treatment" they gave their clothes, weapons, and other property. They had helped the men who had killed Orestes; and Orestes was the only person since his parents had died for whom Gizona had ever felt real liking. On the other hand, Gizona had not lived for eleven years without seeing what gold could do, even in a little village such as Chekoled’s. It would be nice to be rich-and it would be very hard to attach a story of a "bad luck curse" to anyone who happened to be the wealthiest man in his city. That, of course, was if he could get any gold. Nimshi and Sargon were all right as masters went, but Gizona found it hard to picture either of them letting him have any considerable share of whatever the group managed to get. It was just at this point that something changed in Gizona. For eleven years he had been ordered around by people and by circumstances, with nothing to say about what he or anyone else was going to do. No one-with the exception of the Greek captain-had ever felt the slightest interest in the boy, as far as he knew; everyone had been willing enough to use him, but that was all. Quite suddenly, he found himself wondering why he didn’t do the same. After all, if Nimshi and Sargon regarded him as a handy tool for getting what they wanted, why couldn’t he use them to get what he wanted? There seemed no reason at all. Of course, he was not as big or as strong as the men, but that shouldn’t matter. His memory which they regarded as better than theirs could be used as a weapon; after all, they would be trusting what he had to say, since they weren’t good enough to find out what they wanted for themselves. Very well then, the gold seeking project would go on. There would be just one minor change, and Nimshi and Sargon wouldn’t know about that; Gizona would be in charge of it. Let them think they were using him; he’d show them! Gizona was pretty pleased with himself. And even at that point, memory helped out. Sargon’s phrase, "You should never forget defense just because you’re attacking," came back to the surface of the boy’s mind, and he realized that he would have to be very careful. That was as far as his rather slow thoughts got before they were interrupted. Bronze-armored men suddenly appeared in each of the doorways, and one strode toward the table with his sword drawn. His eyes, staring from under a crested helmet, swerved from Sargon to Nimshi; they seemed to ignore Gizona. For a moment the man just stared at the two; then he spoke, using the Greek language. "You will lay your weapons on that table, and come with me-if you want to live!"
CHAPTER 7
Neither Sargon nor Nimshi was fluent in Greek, but the armored man’s words were clear enough to them. Nimshi, however, was too quick-minded to admit immediately that he understood.
"Boy, do you know what this man said?" he asked in Phoenician.
Gizona translated, thus drawing the newcomer’s attention to him for the first time.
"You belong to these?" he asked the boy, gesturing toward the two at the table.
"Yes, sir."
"Tell them they are prisoners."
"Why, sir?" The armored man took a step toward Gizona and raised his hand as though to strike. Sargon and Nimshi both surged to their feet, hands reaching towards their sword hilts. The six armored men in the doorways sprang forward, and it became evident that there would be no room for sword play.
Sargon hurled a bench at the nearest pair, aiming low. The leader of the attackers forgot about Gizona and started to draw his own sword, but a heavy clay mug thrown by Nimshi caught him in the face and the vinegary wine it contained spattered in his eyes. The other customers ran for the doors, wanting nothing of either side of this fight.
Three of the attackers were stopped for the moment, though by no means out of the fight; the other four apparently felt that they didn’t need much room for sword work and came on with their blades ready.
Sargon met them with another bench. He was a powerful man by nature, and pulling the long oar of a Carthaginian bireme had given him arms and shoulders few men could match. He was swinging the heavy bench as easily as the others were swinging their swords, and Sargon’s weapon far outreached theirs. One of the blades bent as it encountered a full sweep of the mass of wood and remained sticking there as the force of the Ninevite’s swing tore it from its owner’s hand. That particular blow met nothing else, but Sargon kept the bench going around the full circle and caught one of the attackers on the upper arm the second time around. The victim gave a howl and dropped his sword as the blow smashed the arm, drove it against his side, and sent him staggering back across the room to trip over another bench.
Simultaneously another of the bronze-armored men ducked beneath the swing of the heavy slab of timber and thrust toward the unprotected legs of its wielder. Gizona, who felt much more attached to his masters just then, made use of another cup of the wine; and the thrust missed, while the man who had attempted it sprawled across the table clawing at his eyes. Sargon, without seeming to look at what he was doing, kicked backward hard, and the fellow rolled off the table to the floor, where he remained.
Nimshi, who had kept well out of the great circle of Sargon’s blows, had been throwing whatever came to hand. The attackers’ armor kept them from suffering much actual harm, but a twenty-pound bench hurled with all the strength of an experienced rower cannot be ignored by the man it hits no matter what he is wearing. The force of the blows frequently threw their recipients far enough off balance to cause them to trip over one of the benches or tables which littered the place.
However, a seven to two-or seven to two and a half-fight can have only one ending, barring the wildest of luck; and both Sargon and Nimshi were too experienced not to realize this. Therefore, when the general activity left a clear path to one of the doorways for a moment, the alert Nimshi had no doubt about what should be done.
"Sargon! Bring the boy, fast-this way!" He tripped with a
well-thrown stool a man who was
trying to block the exit and darted out; Sargon followed, dragging Gizona by one arm. He rather spoiled the boy’s new feeling toward his masters by calling back across his shoulder. "Next time you want to hit someone else’s slave, learn about his owner first!" Then he followed Nimshi as rapidly as his legs would permit.
It took several seconds for Gizona to get his feet under him; Sargon seemed not to care whether the boy was using his own power or not, as long as he followed. At last he managed to start running on his own, however, and the Ninevite let go when the
boy’s weight came off his arm. Gizona drew ahead with very little trouble; and now that he could see his valuable property without turning his head, Sargon was left to devote all his attention to the business of running.
Nimshi was still leading. Gizona could have drawn ahead, but he hadn’t the faintest idea of where they were going and thought that perhaps Nimshi did. The Judean seemed at least to have a plan. He was twisting this way and that, dodging into first one narrow street and then another, avoiding those with the most people. Gizona was tempted to seek refuge inside one of the houses, none of which had doors; the open doorways seemed to beckon. Nimshi, however, knew better— he had no desire to be cornered. Their attackers were more heavily armored, and should tire more quickly if the three simply kept going.