by Martha Marks
Leios Bryaxis possessed over a hundred hectares, twenty head of cattle, seven slaves, one wife, one mother-in-law, and three unmarried daughters... each of whom immediately assigned herself to mother Lycos and fixed on Stefan as the long-awaited man of her dreams.
Alexander leaned again on the railing of the Arsinoe and grinned as he contemplated Stefan’s plight.
Iocaste was fifteen, taller than Alexander, and robust... with sturdy features, waist-long black hair that she loved to toss, and a lascivious look that sized up the newly arrived colossus as a fair match the instant she spotted him. Hestia and Euterpe were twins, a couple of years younger and smaller than Iocaste, but prettier and equally provocative.
Since the sisters had never been to the circus in Rome, never before had they seen a man put together quite like Stefan.
And he—for the first time in his life—didn’t have enough arms to hold all the women vying for his eye. Suddenly there were new problems to be solved. Alexander had said many prayers of thanks to Zeus that they were Stefan’s problems, not his.
The two of them had divided eight of Theodosia’s large rubies and sold the ninth to Bryaxis for cash to pay for their room and board and Alexander’s traveling expenses. Lucilla’s little silver serpent amulet lay buried beneath an olive tree, with Stefan’s four rubies.
Stefan, they had decided, would stay at the Bryaxis farm to help with the harvest. Lycos would stay to be mothered.
Standing now on the deck of the Arsinoe as it plowed the eastern waters of the Mediterranean, Alexander remembered the day he had left them to begin his quest alone. Stefan and Lycos had accompanied him to the port at Eretria. All three stood waiting at dockside as Captain Andros took on the last of his cargo.
“Sure you don’t want us along?” Stefan asked, probably less in jest than he was trying to sound.
A gull shrieked behind Alexander. He turned toward it, glad for the chance to blink back the emotion welling up in his eyes.
“Hey, old friend,” he said after a few moments, “don’t lose your nerve now. Splitting up makes us less vulnerable and guarantees that you and Lycos—and your half of the rubies—will be safe. Besides... it looks like you’ll be a slave owner yourself soon. You’ve just got to decide which daughter you want.” He prodded Stefan’s biceps. “Bryaxis will be overjoyed to have a hard-working son-in-law with a set of those. Think of the dowry!”
“It sure would make things easier if I could talk with ‘em.”
Lycos was staring at Alexander with accusatory eyes. There was nothing new that Alexander could say to explain why he was leaving.
“Well, here’s your translator.” He ruffled the boy’s hair and turned him around to face Stefan. “As perfect a little Cupid as you could want. Besides, you’ll soon know enough Greek to get by. You’ll do better at that without me around.”
“Guess you’re right. You always are.” Stefan paused, sighed, and shook his head. “I just ain’t sure how I’ll manage without you after all these years.” He reached out and gave Alexander a crushing hug. “Come back safe!”
Chapter Twenty-three
“See that mountain?”
Alexander squinted at the purple shadow in the distance and nodded.
“Means your journey’s almost over,” Captain Andros said. “That’s Mount Casius, at the mouth of the Orontes. We’ll make landfall by afternoon. Good thing, too. You’ll catch the wind.”
“To get us in, you mean?”
“To cool you off.”
“In late October?”
“Mornings on the mainland, it’s as hot as Rome in August, but the wind picks up around midday and blows clear through the night. Then it dies off till the next noon. Catching the wind will give you a chance to get used to the humidity before the place heats back up tomorrow morning.”
“Sounds lovely. Is Antioch right on the coast?”
The captain shook his head.
“Seaport is Seleucia Pieria. You’ll have to take a barge upriver to the city. A good day’s trip. Or rent a camel and make it in half a day.”
“Camel?”
“Or a donkey, if you prefer.”
“How ‘bout a horse?”
“They’ll spot you as an outsider right away.”
“They’ll do that anyway. People start speaking Greek as soon as they see me. Where should I seek lodging?”
“Best bet is to go up to Daphne. Otherwise, if you’re staying in the area any time, you’ll likely get caught in a donkey drowner.”
Alexander frowned.
Donkey drowner?
“Look, I know I’m ignorant of Syrian customs, but...”
“Yeah, they’re strange folk, but not that strange.” Captain Andros laughed. “I’m talking about the winter rains. Water pours down Mount Silpius into the Orontes, and low parts flood. Everybody who’s anybody at all lives up in Daphne.”
“Lots of Romans there, I suppose.”
“What do you think? Daphne’s the most beautiful spot around: woods, villas, gardens, a splendid Temple of Apollo—”
“And more Romans than you can count.”
“Of course. It belongs to them, after all. Why are you always so worried about Romans?”
“Not worried. Just curious. Never know where I’ll find a buyer for those gems. Might save my partner a long trip to Rome.”
<><><>
Zamaris, a pasty-skinned scribe in a faded green robe and scuffed red sandals, regarded the visitor with disinterest. Two others in the dingy tent hunched over their writing tables once it became obvious that the Greek had nothing that needed transcribing.
“Slave dealers?” Zamaris’ jowls jiggled as he discharged a wad of spittle onto the dirt floor. “Sure. There’s dozens. They’re everywhere.”
“Please.” Alexander tried not to show his impatience. “I was told you know everyone in town and might point me in the right direction. I’m looking for a dealer who made at least one trip—maybe lots of trips—to Corinth nine or ten years ago.”
“What’s his name?”
“I was hoping you could tell me that.”
“Then you start at one end of the market, near the bend of the river, and make your way up and down, back and forth, around and about,” Zamaris’ finger traced random loops in the air, “asking every dealer you come to. Sooner or later—if he’s still in town—you’ll find him.”
“You couldn’t suggest anyone who’d know more about it?”
With the scowl of a busy man who has endured one foolish request too many, Zamaris returned to his desk, lifted his reed-pen, and resumed scratching on the papyrus before him.
Recognizing futility when he saw it, Alexander stepped into the street. It was Levi, the Greek-speaking proprietor of the quiet inn deep in the Jewish quarter where Alexander had found lodging last night, who had suggested that he start his search with the Greek-speaking Zamaris. Now it seemed he had no choice but to go door to door, hoping for luck.
It was much too early for that miraculous afternoon wind to bring relief from the Antiochian furnace. Heat radiating from the paving stones blurred the corners of buildings and tents that sprawled along the river.
Despite the torrid air, Antioch was beginning to stir. An aroma of goats and lambs grilling in street-side cook shops had begun to engulf the old city. Boys with lamps jostled with men selling camels, donkeys, tents, and other merchandise. To Alexander’s disappointment—for last night he had dreamed of spotting Antibe in the market—there were no women.
He turned into the warren of alleyways, elbowing his way into the throng with a watchful eye for soldiers. The market was a mass of multicolored burnooses; never in his life had he felt so out of place.
Both moved and repulsed by the open sores and empty eye socket of a beggar who plucked at his sleeve, he slipped a couple of coins into the man’s grimy, four-fingered hand.
Immediately, he saw his mistake. Out of the crowd came a dozen more—lame, blind, diseased, unwashed, and lice-infested—
who clung to his arms and tugged at his tunic: a smelly cloud that pursued him down the street, pleading in loud, incomprehensible whines. It was an ideal situation for one hoping to attract the attention of the Romans on patrol... not so good for a runaway slave desperate to avoid them.
It cost Alexander an hour to lose the malodorous swarm. Shaken, he ducked into a doorway and slumped on the step, willing himself to relax. He felt for the money belt strapped around his waist and let out a long sigh. The belt and his precious quartet of rubies were still there.
More cautious now, he worked his way through the crowd of shoppers and sellers and soldiers to the edge of the market, where the river took a wide turn around a stand of date palms, peering into the faces of all the young vendors he passed. He couldn’t tell from their clothing which of them were slaves and which were free.
Would I know my Niko if I saw him?
It was agonizing to think he might be so close and yet not recognize his own son. And at thirteen, Niko couldn’t be expected to identify the father he hadn’t seen in a decade.
The scene at the riverside end of the commercial district was chaotic, but Alexander resolved to attempt a methodical search. Although Greek was still widely spoken in this former Greek colony, the signs were all in Arabic. Unable to read them, he stuck his head into every entryway: a weaver’s shop, a sandal maker’s shop, three bakeries, two oil dealers’ tents, and a cluster of spice stalls whose aroma of cloves brought back memories he thought he had managed to forget.
Half an hour into his search, he came upon a slave trader’s showroom. It was easy to recognize, even if one couldn’t read the letters overhead. A sentry holding four sharp-pointed spears stood outside… an unmistakable sign of the kind of business conducted within.
Alexander stepped through the door.
Another guard, equally prepared for trouble, waited just inside.
The merchandise to be sold—some forty men, women, and children of varied ages and origins—sprawled on the floor.
In the center of the room, a Syrian wearing a caftan of indigo blue lounged in a chair. In his hand, he held a short, braided-leather whip.
At sight of a customer, he smacked the whip against the arm of his chair. With bored precision, the merchandise rose... each one casting apprehensive glances at Alexander.
Antibe and Niko may have passed through here. And I might wind up someplace like this, too, if the Romans catch me.
The Syrian bestowed on Alexander the eager smile of a man who counts gold coins in his dreams.
“You are looking for a fine strong slave, are you not?” he said in stiff but acceptable Greek.
Despite his uneasiness, Alexander chuckled to himself.
They always do know where I’m from.
“Sabouni sells only the best,” continued the dealer, thumping his chest with the stiff handle of his whip.
Alexander forced himself to look around the room.
“I can see that. But I buy only Greeks.”
“I have Greeks.”
Sabouni snapped his fingers at a stocky fellow. He was shorter than Alexander and younger, with a squarish head, ragged dark hair, and a cautiously resentful look that reminded Alexander of himself when he first arrived in Rome. His heavy-lidded eyes fixed on Alexander’s face until he reached the center of the room. Then he blinked and let them fall.
“Pinax here comes from Salamis. Very quiet and obedient.” Sabouni poked one of the slave’s shoulders with the whip handle and turned him around for inspection. The handle rose again, lifting the long hair to show off a stout neck. “Very strong. Quick to learn, too.”
He made a gesture with his hand. Without hesitation, Pinax bent and drew his tunic over his head. Then he stood with his back to Alexander, wearing only a loose cotton loincloth. Without waiting for Sabouni’s command, Pinax flexed his muscles to show his strength. It was plain he had been through this before.
“No trace of the whip on this one,” said the dealer, running his own whip handle down the slave’s spine and into the loincloth, which he pulled down to expose the unscarred buttocks. “You want to see the rest?”
Umcomfortable, but trying not to show it, Alexander shook his head. He had already seen more than he cared to, but it was important to look sincere and experienced. Failure to follow through at this point might make Sabouni suspicious, so he moved around for a frontal check, pushing up Pinax’s lips to see his teeth and gums and pinching his skin—things he had seen Gaius Varro do in the slave market in Rome. Of course, Gaius always insisted on seeing “the rest” before he bought.
“Quite nice, but... I was hoping to find a dealer who imports directly from Greece. I plan to buy several Greeks for my new household up in Daphne.”
“I have others. Let me show you. Greeks!”
Half a dozen adults and three children came forward to form a scraggly row beside Pinax. Alexander found himself facing ten of his countrymen, forced to see more of them than he cared to and listen for an hour as the Syrian recited the virtues and skills and possible—though highly unlikely!—defects of each of the Greeks in his possession.
The irony of a runaway slave’s being the target of such fervent salesmanship in a slave shop could have been amusing, but Alexander’s growing frustration overwhelmed whatever perverse pleasure the situation might otherwise have given him.
At this pace, it’ll take me a month to visit every slave shop in Antioch.
“They are all outstanding,” he said when Sabouni finished praising the fertility of the woman at the end of the line.
How do I get out of this without giving myself away?
“I’m interested in those two.” He pointed to Pinax and a taller man in the middle of the line. “I’ll be making my final selection in a day or so, but first I want to see what else is available in town.”
He turned toward the door, knowing Sabouni would follow.
“You will find none better!”
“In that case, I’ll be back for sure. By the way,” he said with a smile when they reached the street, “how long have you been traveling to Greece?”
“Oh, I pick up Greeks wherever I can. Lots of them come on the market when the Romans die or get transferred.”
“Where in Greece do you go?”
“Oh, I never go to Greece myself. Too much bother.”
“Doesn’t anyone in Antioch bring them in directly?”
“Not that I know of. Most quality Greeks are taken straight to Rome.” Sabouni scratched his nose. “There’s only one local dealer who’s ever gone to Greece, but that was years ago.”
“What’s his name?”
“Solteris. But he doesn’t go there now.”
“Where would I find him?”
“A few blocks up the street. But he won’t have anything better than what I’ve just shown you.”
“Then I’ll be back.” Alexander’s smile was wider now, and genuine.
Maybe the hour wasn’t wasted, after all.
<><><>
Solteris was out of town.
“Know when he’ll be back?” Alexander asked the guard at the door.
“You’ll have to ask Xantho.” The man gestured past dozens of slaves—lying or standing behind bars on one side of the windowless room—to a door in the rear. “Go on in if you’re looking to buy.”
White-haired and nearly toothless, with an enormous nose and two long black hairs sprouting from a mole on his forehead, Xantho turned out to be a retired camel dealer who minded the store when Solteris was out of town.
Alexander liked him immediately.
This is a decent fellow. A man I can trust. Maybe it’s best to be honest from the start.
“I seek information, not to buy. I heard that Solteris goes to Greece.”
“Used to. Have a seat.”
Alexander hesitated before lowering himself into a chair.
How long before I feel comfortable doing this?
It had been hard to break the habits of freedom when
he was first enslaved; now he was finding it hard to get them back. A decade since he had sat in the presence of free men, or spoken to them as an equal, or called them by name... He could manage it now with Greeks or Syrians or Jews, but what would happen if—when—he had to engage socially with a Roman? Would the emotional residue of slavery betray him?
Xantho offered his guest bowls of figs and soft white cheese, a round of flat Syrian bread, and a cup of date wine.
“Thanks.” Alexander bit into a fig, savoring the burst of sweetness in his mouth. “I’ve heard Solteris is the only slave dealer in Antioch who’s ever personally gone to Greece.”
“Probably so.”
“Any chance he got to Corinth?”
“Why’re you interested in Corinth?”
“I’m from Corinth.”
“You’re looking for someone in particular?”
Xantho scooped a bit of cheese and worked it in his mouth for a few moments. Alexander watched his gray eyes as they watched him.
He’ll help me if I tell him the truth.
“My wife and my son.”
The gray eyes revealed no surprise.
“We were separated almost ten years ago. I recently learned that they were brought here.”
“As slaves?”
“Bought from the Romans in Corinth by a slave dealer bound for Antioch-near-Daphne. That’s all I know.”
Xantho regarded him levelly.
“You were sold as a slave, too, I think.”
Shrewd old man.
“And sent to Rome.”
“Free now?” The gray eyes bore into his.
“Free enough.”
“So… you ran away. When?”
“Last year.”
“Who was your master?” There was no malice in the eyes.
“Mistress.” Alexander smiled. “A young woman—very rich, unmarried at that time—who lives on the coast north of Rome. She had some legal troubles last year, and at that point she helped me escape.”