The Sacred Land sam-3

by Harry Turtledove

  “Ah. Perfume.” The Phoenician nodded again. “If it is not too expensive, I might want some for my concubine, and maybe for my wife, too.”

  A man who could afford to keep both a concubine and a wife could probably afford perfume. Sostratos gave him another bow, asking, “Would you buy for silver, my master? Or would you trade?” Bodashtart hadn’t told him what his donkey was carrying.

  “My lord, I have with me beeswax and fine embroidered linen from the east,” the man said now. He had to pause and explain what beeswax was; Sostratos hadn’t heard the word before. That done, he went on, “I was taking them to Sidon to sell them for what they might bring. Truly Shamash shines on the hour of our meeting.”

  Shamash, Sostratos remembered, was the Phoenician name for Apollo, the god of the sun. “Truly,” he echoed. “I can use beeswax, I think. You buy perfume for yourself only? Or you want some to sell later?”

  “I may want some to sell. Indeed, my master, I may,” Bodashtart replied. “But it depends on price and quality, eh?”

  “And what does not?” That earned Sostratos the first smile he’d got from the Phoenician. He slid down off his mule. The muscles in his inner thighs weren’t sorry to escape the beast. Trying not to show how sore he was, he walked over to the pack donkey.

  “What’s going on?” Aristeidas asked. “We can’t understand a word you’re saying, remember.”

  “He has beeswax and embroidered linen,” Sostratos answered. “He’s interested in perfume. We’ll see what we can work out.”

  “Ah, that’s fine, sir. That’s very fine,” the sharp-eyed young sailor said. “But remember that you’ll want to have some perfume left when we get to that Engedi place, so you can trade it for balsam.”

  “I’ll remember,” Sostratos promised. He hesitated; Aristeidas deserved better than getting brushed off like that. “It’s good you remembered, too,” Sostratos said. “If you can keep such things in mind, maybe you’ll make a trader yourself one day.”

  “Me?” Aristeidas looked surprised. Then he shrugged. “Don’t know that I’d want to. I like going to sea the way I do.”

  “All right. I didn’t say you had to make a trader. I said you might.” Sostratos fumbled with the lengths of rope lashing the pack donkey’s burden to its back. Bodashtart watched with growing amusement, which only made Sostratos fumble worse. He was about to pull out his knife and solve the problem the way Alexander had solved the Gordian knot when Moskhion stepped up and helped undo the knots. “Thanks,” Sostratos muttered, half grateful, half mortified.

  One large leather sack held the jars of perfume, which lay nestled in wool and straw to keep them from smashing together and breaking. Sostratos pulled out a jar and held it up. Bodashtart frowned. “It isn’t very big, is it?”

  “My lord, the perfume is… strong.” Sostratos wanted to say concentrated, but had no idea how to do so in Aramaic, or even if the word existed in that language. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to try to talk his way around holes in his vocabulary. He pulled the stopper out of the jar. “Here-smell for yourself.”

  “Thank you.” Bodashtart held the jar under his nose, which was long and thin and hooked. In spite of himself, he smiled at the fragrance. “That is very sweet, yes.”

  “And the odor stays,” Sostratos said. “Perfume is in olive oil, not water. Not wash off easily.”

  “That is good. That is clever,” Bodashtart said. “I have heard you Hellenes are full of clever notions. Now I see it is so. Here, let me show you the beeswax I have.”

  “Please,” Sostratos said. The Phoenician had no trouble with the ropes securing his ass’ load. Sostratos sighed. He’d thought he was used to the idea that most people were more graceful and dexterous than he. Every once in a while, though, it upped and bit him. This was one of those times.

  “Here you are, my master.” Bodashtart held up a lump of wax bigger than Sostratos’ head. “Have you ever seen any so fine and white? White as the breasts of a virgin maid, is it not so?” He had to eke out his words with gestures; that wasn’t vocabulary Himilkon had taught Sostratos.

  When the Rhodian understood, he chuckled. He didn’t think a Hellene would have tried to sell him wax with that particular sales pitch. From his point of view, Phoenicians were even worse than bad tragedians for overblown comparisons and figures of speech. Of course, they probably found most Hellenes bland and boring. Custom is king of all, Sostratos reminded himself once more. To Bodashtart, he said, “Let me see that wax, if you please.”

  “I am your slave,” the Phoenician replied, and handed him the lump.

  He sniffed it. It had the distinctive, slightly sweetish odor of good wax. Bodashtart hadn’t cheapened it with tallow, as some unscrupulous Hellenes were known to do. Sostratos took his belt knife from its sheath and plunged it deep into the mass of wax, again and again.

  “I am no cheat,” Bodashtart said. “I have not hidden rocks or anything else in the middle of the beeswax.”

  “So I see,” Sostratos agreed. “You have not. But I do not know you. I meet you on the road. I have to be sure.”

  “Shall I open every jar of perfume I get from you, to make sure you have not given me one that is half empty?” Bodashtart asked.

  “Yes, my master, if you like,” Sostratos answered. “Fair is fair. How can I say, do not make yourself safe? I cannot.”

  “Fair is fair,” Bodashtart echoed. He bowed to Sostratos. “I had heard that all Hellenes were liars and cheats. I see this is not so. I am glad.”

  Sostratos politely returned the bow. “You too seem honest. I want this beeswax. How many jars of perfume for it?” He had a good notion of the price he might get for about ten minai of beeswax back in Rhodes. Sculptors and jewelers and others who cast metal used as much of the stuff as they could lay their hands on, and paid well for it.

  Bodashtart said, “Ten jars seems right.”

  “Ten?” Sostratos tossed his head, then shook it back and forth in barbarian style. “You are no cheat, my master. You are a thief.”

  “You think so, do you?” the Phoenician said. “Well, how many jars would you give me for my wax?”

  “Three,” Sostratos answered.

  “Three?” Bodashtart laughed scornfully. “And you call me a thief? You are trying to steal from me, and I will not have it.” He drew himself up to his full height, but was still more than a palm shorter than Sostratos.

  “Maybe we have no deal,” Sostratos said. “If no deal, I am pleased to meet you even so.”

  He waited to see what would happen next. If Bodashtart didn’t want to trade, he would take back the beeswax and go on his way toward Sidon. If he did, he would make another offer. The Phoenician bared his teeth in what was anything but a friendly grin. “You are a bandit, a robber, a brigand,” he said. “But to show that I am just, that I uphold fair dealing, I will take only nine jars of perfume for this splendid, precious wax.”

  Now Bodashtart waited to see if the Rhodian would move. “I maybe give four jars,” Sostratos said reluctantly.

  They shouted at each other again and accused each other of larcenous habits. Bodashtart sat down on a boulder by the side of the road. Sostratos sat down on another one a couple of cubits away. The sailors escorting him started throwing knucklebones for oboloi while he haggled. His mule and ass and Bodashtart’s donkey began to graze.

  After a fair number of insults, Sostratos got up to six jars of perfume and Bodashtart got down to seven. There they stuck. Sostratos suspected six and a half would have made a decent bargain, but perfume, except to cheaters, didn’t come in half-jars. Bodashtart showed no inclination to accept only six, and Sostratos didn’t want to part with seven. The market for beeswax wasn’t enormous, and did fluctuate. If someone close to home came up with a lot of it, he’d lose money even paying only six jars of perfume for this lump.

  He and Bodashtart glared at each other, both of them frustrated. Then the Phoenician said, “Look at the cloth I have to sell. If I give you a
bolt of that-it’s about three cubits long-with the wax, will you give me seven jars of your perfume?”

  “I know not,” Sostratos answered. “Let me see it.”

  Bodashtart got up and opened a leather sack on the ass’ back. Sostratos would have carried fine cloth inside an oiled-leather sack, too, to make sure water didn’t damage it. Rain at this season of the year would have been unlikely in Hellas and, he judged, was even more so here, but Bodashtart’s donkey might have to ford several streams between here and Sidon.

  When the Phoenician held out the length of cloth, all three of Sostratos’ escorts inhaled sharply. In Greek, Sostratos snapped, “Keep quiet, you gods-detested fools! Do you want to mess this up for me? Turn your backs. Pretend you’re looking out to the hills for bandits if you can’t keep your faces straight.”

  To his relief, they obeyed. Bodashtart asked, “What did you say to them? And will the cloth do?”

  “I said they should watch for bandits in the hills.” Sostratos feared he’d made a hash of indirect discourse; the Aramaic construction was quite different from the accusative and infinitive Greek used to show it. But Bodashtart nodded, so he must have made himself understood. He went on, “Let me have a better look, please.”

  “As you say, my master, so shall it be,” Bodashtart replied, and brought it up to him.

  The closer the Phoenician came, the more splendid the cloth appeared. Sostratos didn’t think he’d ever seen finer embroidery. The hunting scene might have come straight from real life: the frightened hares, the thorn bushes beneath which they crouched, the spotted hounds with red tongues lolling out, the men in the distance with their bows and javelins. The detail was astonishing. So were the colors, which were brighter and more vivid than those in use back in Hellas.

  He’d managed to keep his men from exclaiming over the piece. Now he had to fight to keep from exclaiming over it himself. To him, it had to be worth more than the beeswax. Doing his best to keep his voice casual, he asked, “Where did it come from?”

  “From the east, from the land between the rivers,” Bodashtart told him.

  “Between which rivers?” Sostratos asked. But then the Greek equivalent of what the Phoenician had said formed in his mind. “Oh,” he said. “From Mesopotamia.” That, of course, meant nothing to Bodashtart.

  Sostratos knew Mesopotamia lay too far east for him to go there himself. He would have to get this work from middlemen like the fellow with whom he was haggling.

  “Will it do?” Bodashtart asked anxiously. To him, the embroidery seemed nothing out of the ordinary: just a small extra he could throw in to sweeten the price for perfume he really wanted.

  “I… suppose so.” Sostratos had trouble sounding as reluctant as he knew he should. He wanted the embroidered cloth at least as much as the wax. Only later did he realize he might have asked for two cloths. Menedemos would have thought of that right away and would have done it, too. Menedemos automatically thought like a trader, where Sostratos had to force himself to do so.

  Bodashtart, fortunately, noticed nothing amiss in Sostratos’ answer. He smiled. “We have a bargain, then-the cloth and the wax for seven jars of perfume.” He thrust out his hand.

  Sostratos took it. “Yes, a bargain,” he agreed. “Seven jars of perfume for the wax and the cloth.” They exchanged the goods. The Phoenician put the perfume into a leather sack and led his ass on toward Sidon.

  “You cheated him good and proper,” Teleutas said as Sostratos loaded the beeswax and the embroidered cloth onto his pack donkey.

  “I think I got the better of him, yes,” Sostratos answered. “But if he makes a profit with the perfume, then no one cheated anybody. That’s the way I hope this trade works out.”

  “Why?” the sailor asked. “Why not hope you diddled him good and proper?” He had a simple, selfish rapacity that wouldn’t have been out of place on a pirate.

  Patiently, Sostratos answered, “If both sides profit, they’ll both want to deal again, and trade will go on. If one cheats the other, the side that gets cheated won’t want to deal with the other the second time around.”

  Teleutas only shrugged. He didn’t care. He had no eye for the long term, only for quick gain. Some merchants were like that, too. They didn’t usually stay in business long, and they fouled the nest for everyone else. Sostratos was glad he had more sense than that. Even Menedemos had more sense than that. Sostratos hoped his cousin had more sense than that, anyhow.

  He walked over to the mule. “Someone give me a leg-up,” he said. “We can get some more travel in before the sun goes down.”

  Menedemos was beginning to feel at home in and around the barracks that housed Antigonos’ garrison in Sidon. He preferred working the barracks to going into the market square. Not enough people in Sidon spoke Greek to make selling in the agora worthwhile for him. Around the barracks, he was dealing with his own kind. He was even starting to understand bits of Macedonian. It wasn’t so big an accomplishment as Sostratos’ learning Aramaic, but it made Menedemos proud.

  When he came up to the barracks one morning, a guard who’d seen him before said, “Haven’t you sold all your books yet?”

  “I’ve still got a couple left,” Menedemos answered. “Want to buy one?”

  The soldier tossed his head. “Not me. Only use I’d have for papyrus is wiping my arse, on account of I can’t read.”

  “You wouldn’t want it for that. It’s scratchy,” Menedemos said, and the sentry laughed. Carefully keeping his voice casual, Menedemos asked, “What’s the name of your quartermaster here, eh?”

  “What do you want to talk with Andronikos for?” the soldier replied. “With his shriveled-up little turd of a soul, he won’t want to buy your books.”

  “Well, maybe you’re right and maybe you’re not,” Menedemos said easily. “I’d still like to find out for myself.”

  “All right, Rhodian.” The sentry stood aside to let him into the building. “He’s got an office on the second floor. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Menedemos had to be content with that less than ringing endorsement. He paused inside the barracks to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. Someone on the first floor was reading aloud the story of Akhilleus’ fight with Hektor. Menedemos dared hope it was from a copy of the relevant book of the Iliad he’d sold. He didn’t stop to find out, though. He made his way to the stairs and went up them.

  “I’m looking for Andronikos’ office,” he told the first Hellene he saw when he came out onto the second floor. The man jerked his thumb to the right. “Thanks,” Menedemos said, and went down the hallway leading in that direction.

  Four or five people were in front of him. He waited for perhaps half an hour as the quartermaster dealt with them one by one. They didn’t emerge from Andronikos’ office looking happy, though Andronikos seldom if ever bothered raising his voice.

  In due course, it was Menedemos’ turn. By then, a couple of more Hellenes had joined the line behind him. When Andronikos called, “Next,” he hurried into the office, a broad, friendly smile on his face.

  That smile survived his first glimpse of the quartermaster, but barely. Andronikos was in his late forties, with a permanent fussy frown on his pinched features. “Who are you?” he asked. “Haven’t seen you before. What do you want? Whatever it is, make it snappy. I haven’t got time to waste.”

  “Hail, O best one. I’m Menedemos son of Philodemos, of Rhodes,” Menedemos said. “My bet is, you’re having more trouble keeping this garrison fed than you wish you did. Am I right or am I wrong?”

  “You’re the Rhodian, eh? Hail.” Andronikos rewarded him with a dry grimace doubtless intended for a smile. “What do you care what the soldiers eat? You can’t sell them papyrus.”

  “No, indeed, most noble, though I can sell you papyrus and first-quality Rhodian ink for record-keeping, if you’re so inclined.” Menedemos kept trying his best to be charming. Andronikos’ unwaveringly sour expression told him he was wasting his time. He conti
nued, “The reason I’m asking is that I also have some top-notch olive oil aboard my akatos, oil fit for the highest-ranking officers in the garrison here. And I’ve got fine Pataran hams and a few smoked eels from Phaselis, too.”

  “If the officers want fancy grub, they buy most of it themselves. As for you-you sailed an akatos here from Rhodes, and you’re carrying oil?” Surprise made the quartermaster sound amazingly lifelike. “You believe in taking chances, don’t you?”

  Menedemos winced. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been telling himself the same thing-he had. But having someone he’d just met throw it in his face rankled. I’m going to hit Damonax over the head with a brick when we get home, he thought. Aloud, all he could say was, “It’s prime-quality oil, believe you me it is.”

  “I can get plenty of ordinary oil for not very much,” Andronikos pointed out. “Why should I spend silver when I don’t have to? Tell me that, and quick, or else go away.”

  “Because this isn’t ordinary oil,” Menedemos answered. “It’s the best oil from Rhodes, some of the best oil anywhere. You can give common soldiers ordinary oil to eat with their bread, and they’ll thank you for it. But what about your officers? Don’t they deserve better? Don’t they ask you for better?”

  He hoped Antigonos’ officers asked the quartermaster for better. If they didn’t, he hadn’t the faintest idea what he’d do with all that oil. Andronikos muttered something under his breath. Menedemos couldn’t make out all of it; what he could hear was distinctly uncomplimentary to the officers in Antigonos’ service, mostly because they made him spend too much money.

  At last, with the air of a man whose stomach pained him, Andronikos said, “Bring me an amphora of this wonderful oil. We’ll let a dozen soldiers dip bread in what they’re using now and in what you bring. If they can tell the difference, we’ll talk some more. If they can’t”-he jerked a thumb toward the doorway through which Menedemos had come- “many goodbyes to you.”

  “What about the hams and the eels?”

  “I already told you, I’m not interested. Maybe some of the officers will be-with their own silver, of course.”