“You say he was wounded?” asked Archedamos, as they started back along the Harbor Street toward the caravan halt, the slave pulling the cart and Ani and the port supervisor pushing it.
Ani nodded. “Wounded in the side, and sunstruck as well. I found him unconscious in the road three nights ago. I tried to persuade him to stay and rest at Hydreuma, but he insisted on coming down to the city to meet that ship.”
“I’m glad he has someone to care for him,” said the port supervisor. After a moment he went on in a low, angry voice, “The neighbors told me that when he fell down, Kerdon came out and shouted at him to move. They say he kicked him. It cut me to the heart to think a young man like this—a loyal servant of the queen—should have died like that, with a greedy oaf cursing and kicking him.”
“No one should die like that,” Ani agreed.
Archedamos grunted. After a moment he went on, in a different voice: “Was he with the camp near Kabalsi? I knew of it—I had instructions to render assistance to its commander if he asked. Is … is it worth my while sending the commander a warning? Or going up there to … salvage … anything?”
He knows about the gold, thought Ani, or at least he suspects that it was there. “Salvage,” my arse! “No,” he replied levelly. “The Romans took the camp. According to Arion, there was gold there, and the Romans took that, too. A troop of them passed my caravan on the road from Coptos, four nights ago, and Arion said that he himself barely escaped them.”
Archedamos sighed. “They were thorough: one troop to take the camp, another troop to take the ship, in case the first failed. Father Zeus, that I have lived to see Egypt fall to a foreign conqueror!”
My own people have seen it before, Ani thought. He did not say that, either.
“You said you came with a caravan?” the port supervisor went on, inspecting Ani’s dirty tunic and shabby cloak with evident doubt.
He ducked his head. “A small caravan, Lord Archedamos, but yes, I am the owner—Ani, son of Petesuchos, of Coptos.” He was painfully aware how uncouth his Egyptian name sounded to this elegant Greek, and he hurried on. “Please excuse the way I’m dressed. I was concerned about Arion, and when I realized he’d gone into the city on his own I went to look for him without stopping to change out of the clothes I wore for the journey.” No need to mention the swim.
“Your concern does you credit,” said the other, approvingly. “As does your resolution. Your caravan is the only one here. Most gentlemen are waiting to see what comes of the war before investing their property in anything risky. It’s a difficult time for the city.”
It was a natural opening, and Ani firmly believed in seizing opportunity when it presented itself. “To be honest, Lord Archedamos, it’s because of the war that I’m here. I own some property and a clothing manufactory in the town of Coptos, and for some years I’ve supplied linen goods to a gentleman who invests in the coastal trade. This year, though, he isn’t investing, although his ship’s returned safely; he took his profit from the last voyage but will provide nothing for the next. I thought I would go in his place. I’ve always wanted to see Berenike.”
Archedamos smiled. “What ship are you investing in?”
“Hoping to invest in,” Ani corrected, smiling back. “It may be that I’ll have to content myself buying what I can of the present cargo and leaving it at that. But the ship concerned is the Prosperity.”
Archedamos clicked his tongue in pleased recognition. “I wondered if it was, as soon as you said the investor had backed out. The captain’s a friend of mine: Kleon, son of Kallias. He’s been moping about the city for days, wondering how to dispose of his cargo. Normally …” the port supervisor’s eyes flicked over him again, “ … normally he would be reluctant to take on a completely new and unknown investor, particularly, if I may say so, one who lacks the freedoms of a Greek—as I presume you do.”
Ani nodded fractionally. He’d been aware from the start that his birth was against him. Egyptians paid taxes from which Greeks were exempt, and were barred from positions of power which Greeks could hold. They could not ordinarily use Greek courts of law, and were forbidden to intermarry with Greek citizens or to themselves become citizens of any Greek city. An Egyptian obviously had several disadvantages as a prospective business partner for a Greek.
“However,” Archedamos went on, “I will tell him of your piety toward strangers—and of your resolution in coming here despite the uncertain times. Would you care to come to dinner at my house, tomorrow night, and meet him?”
O Lady Isis, Ani thought fervently, thank you, thank you, thank you! “Thank you,” he said at once. “That’s very kind of you.”
They had reached the ramp leading down to the beach, and they stopped, since the cart could not traverse the deep sand. Ani could see his caravan, undisturbed beside the fountain, an untidy little pile of awnings, goods, and camels.
“We only arrived this morning,” he told the port supervisor hastily. “We haven’t rented a tent yet.”
“I can see you’ve not yet warehoused your goods, either,” said Archedamos. “I have a warehouse of my own standing empty, as it happens, at the corner of Market and Harbor Streets. Kleon usually keeps his cargos there until he’s ready to load them.”
“I can think of nowhere better for my own goods,” Ani said at once.
“Bring them round this evening, then,” Archedamos said, with satisfaction. “Come two hours before sunset and I’ll see them safely stowed. And my neighbor Kratistes could rent you a tent.”
“I’d be glad of that. Arion certainly needs better shelter than an awning if he’s to make a good recovery.”
They both looked down at the still form on the cart. Archedamos sighed. “I will be honest with you,” he said, in a shamed voice. “I know I should take the young man into my own house, but I’m afraid of Kerdon. If he goes to the Romans and says, ‘Archedamos is harboring a fugitive’ … I’m known as a supporter of the queen. The accusation could cost me everything. Will he be all right with you?”
And if Kerdon says, That Egyptian caravan-owner is harboring a fugitive … ? Ani thought sourly. I’d lose nothing? To Archedamos, however, he smiled and said, “I think he’ll be all right if I can persuade him to rest quietly for a few days. I’ll go fetch the donkey to carry him the rest of the way to my camp.”
He hurried across the sand, untied the little animal, and drove it over and up the ramp. The slave helped him to load Arion across its back. Arion groaned when they lifted him, which Ani welcomed as a sign of recovery.
“May the gods reward you for your kindness to strangers,” said Archedamos, satisfied that he’d disposed of a dangerous problem without burdening either his house or his conscience. “I look forward to seeing you at the warehouse this evening.”
WHEN ANI LED the donkey back up to the camp, Menches was up, standing by the fountain looking bewildered. He hurried over. “As the gods live!” he exclaimed, gazing at the helpless shape draped over the donkey’s shaggy back. “What happened to him?”
“He fell over in the street.” Ani slung one of the boy’s arms over his shoulder and eased him to the ground. “The port supervisor was called to take charge of his corpse. But it’s all right, he’s still alive. Help me put him back on his bed.”
“You should have left him,” said Menches, making no move to help. “He’s nothing but trouble and bad luck. You’ll never see any money from that ship.”
Ani laughed. “No, I won’t see any money from that ship,” he agreed, and was pleased by Menches’ confusion. “It seems that the Romans sent men to take charge of it before it got here, and it’s sitting at the quay waiting to snap up strayed Greeks.”
Menches was surprised, then dismayed. “You mean to keep this Greek beggar in our camp? For how long?”
“I don’t grudge the boy the care,” Ani replied happily. “The port supervisor was so struck by my piety toward Greek strangers that he’s asked me to dinner—to meet the captain of the Prosperity
!—and he’s virtually promised that he’ll recommend me to the man as a partner!” He laughed again. “May the gods reward me indeed! If you won’t help me put Arion to bed, go fetch some clean salt water. I want to see to his wound.”
Arion whimpered when Ani cleaned the wound. When Ani applied the myrrh, his eyes fluttered open. He stared around himself blankly, as though he had never seen the place before.
“Easy,” Ani told him, laying a hand on the young man’s bared chest to prevent him from rising.
The dull eyes flashed to sudden life, and there was a rush of color to the haggard cheeks. Arion struck his hand away with surprising force and rolled over, getting to his knees in the sand. “Keep your hands off me!” he snarled.
“Sit down!” Ani replied impatiently. “You’re going to get sand in your wound.”
The young man glanced down at himself wildly. Ani had slipped the tunic off his left shoulder, but left it belted at the waist. His skin was pale, and the wound stood out against it, livid and swollen. New bruises showed red here and there. “What were you doing?” he demanded furiously.
“Treating your god-hated wound!” Ani snapped back, beginning to be annoyed. “Boy, you fell over in the street outside an inn, and, from what I heard, were soundly kicked by the innkeeper while you lay there senseless …”
“Oh, Herakles, the ship!” cried Arion in anguish.
“Taken by your enemies,” Ani replied levelly. “I heard. I’m sorry.”
Arion ignored the condolence. “Why am I here?” he demanded. “Why did you go after me and bring me back here, if you know I can’t pay you? I’m not …” his voice thickened with loathing and disgust, “ … a slave you can use as you wish! I am not nor ever will be your boy. Gods! What were you doing to me?”
“Mother Isis, is that what you think?” exploded Ani in outraged astonishment. “I was cleaning your wound! Do you think I was about to bugger you?”
It was, clearly, exactly what Arion thought. He glared at Ani, his eyes blazing.
“Why in life should you think such a thing of me?” Ani demanded, bewildered and angry. “I’ve treated you with nothing but kindness.” He paused, still watching the furious young face opposite him. “As I live,” he whispered, “that’s how it is among rich Greeks, is it? If anyone treats you with kindness, you immediately ask yourself what he wants from you?”
The fierce eyes finally dropped, and Ani felt a moment’s discomfort. There was something he wanted of the boy. He preserved his indignation by telling himself that it was nothing like that, and that he’d been prepared to let the boy go without even mentioning it.
“As it happens,” Ani said, sitting back on his heels, “I’m not a lover of boys. I’m a married man—married to my second wife, in fact, since the first one died in childbirth—and I have three children. Even if I were a lover of boys, though, I would not take advantage of one who lay injured and helpless under my protection: may the gods destroy me in the worst way if I would ever commit such a crime! Shame on you for condemning me for it, when I never gave you the least cause!”
Arion was trembling now. He fumbled for the amulet around his neck, then pressed the little bag against his face, as he often seemed to do when he was distressed.
“I saved your life!” Ani went on, growing angrier by the minute. “I paid for your care; I walked here and let you ride; I fed you; I refused to take your precious pin even when you offered it to me, and when you left it anyway I went to give it back. I found you supposedly dead, and I brought you back here and cared for you with my own hands—and in return you’ve given me not one word of thanks, only this shameful accusation!”
Arion remained where he was, kneeling on the sand beside the bedroll. “O Dionysos!” he said, in a low voice.
“An apology would be accepted,” Ani told him shortly.
He did not seem to hear. “O gods, why am I still alive?” He covered his face and began to weep.
The ship, Ani realized. Now that he’s decided I’m no threat to his pure, manly, and Hellenic virtue, he’s back to the problem of the ship. Great goddess, Menches is right: I should have left the selfish little swine lying in the road.
“Boy,” he said impatiently, “Fortune blessed you when she kept you off that ship. Even if it had still been in your friends’ hands, it would only have taken you into exile, but now you can go home—home to your own people in Alexandria, who’ll look after you …”
“They’re dead,” Arion said thickly. “I can’t go home.”
That made a huge difference. Ani suddenly found he had some sympathy for the young man after all. No family—and probably no money, either. An orphan, barely of age, who had taken up arms and fought passionately in the queen’s cause, was not going to be able to lay claim to any property in Alexandria, even if his parents had been as wealthy as his own manner indicated. The Roman conquerers would want to reward their friends among the citizens, and there was never any difficulty in finding friends who claimed an inheritance.
“Even so,” he said, after a short silence, “you’re young, you’re educated, you’re a citizen, and when you’re well again …”
That brought a noise of derision, and Ani remembered his earlier suspicion, and realized that Arion did not expect ever to be completely well again.
“Do you suffer from the sacred disease?” he asked bluntly. The head came up, and the wet eyes regarded him with fear and shame. The little bag of herbs was still pressed against the mouth.
“What’s that?” Ani asked quietly, touching the silk. “A charm against seizures?”
Arion hesitated a moment, then lowered the bag. “Yes,” he said, with great bitterness. “—Or rather, a remedy, to clear the brain. I don’t know: it might be worse without it.”
Ani did not know what to say. The sacred disease. He did not share the common fear that it was contagious. A woman he knew in Coptos had had falling fits every day since she was a tiny child. She had lived all her life with her family—first with her parents, then with her brother and her brother’s family. No one else in the family had ever had a seizure. Nor had anyone else in the neighborhood, though the whole neighborhood drew water from the same well, and borrowed clothes and cooking pots freely. No, the sacred disease wasn’t contagious. It was, however, a fearful illness which commonly aroused disgust and horror in those who witnessed its effects, and a sufferer who had it as an adult was likely to be afflicted all his life.
He found, however, that the fact that Arion suffered from it made him like the boy much better. The wariness, the refusal to confide anything about himself, were not simply arrogance, but a fear of being rejected if he gave himself away. And—Isis and Serapis!—the boy was brave. To reach Berenike he had fought not merely the wound, the thirst, and the desert, but his own disability—fought them all to a standstill, without mercy to himself or pride in the accomplishment.
“I should have died,” the young man said now, very quietly. “Sir, I apologize for burdening you, and for my suspicion, which I admit was unjustified. I thank you for your many kindnesses. I will go now. You may keep the pin.”
Ani gazed at him in surprise and despair. Still Arion couldn’t seem to trust or even understand kindness, and still, apparently, the boy presumed the worst of him. “Sit down!” he ordered. “You’re in no shape to go anywhere. I’m not afraid of the disease, and if I was ashamed to leave you helpless when you were wounded, I’d be doubly ashamed to do it when you’re wounded and epileptic. You can stay here until you’re feeling stronger. In fact …”
He hesitated. From the first moment he’d appreciated the beautiful modulations of the young Greek’s voice, he’d badly wanted to make him an offer—but he wasn’t sure how such a proud and headstrong youth would respond to it.
“Thank you,” said Arion, without interest, “but that’s not necessary.”
It took him only a moment to work out why it wouldn’t be “necessary.” Then he spat. “What do you plan to do? Hand yourself over to
the Romans, or kill yourself?”
Arion gave him a startled look, as though there were something surprising about Ani having worked it out, as though he hadn’t made his feelings blazingly clear all along. He had thrown himself heart and soul into the queen’s cause, and that cause was lost. He couldn’t conceive of surviving its ruin.
“What good does it do anybody if you die?” Ani asked him. “It’s just one more wasted life at the tail end of a wasted war. Why not live, and try to repair some of the loss?”
Arion pressed the remedy to his face again. “You don’t know what you’re saying. The loss is irreparable.”
“There are always things to be done.”
“Leave me alone!” Arion begged indistinctly from behind the herbs.
“Don’t you want to go back to Alexandria?” Ani asked him cunningly. “You must have friends there, even if your family is dead. I could see, when you asked about the city, that you were worried about somebody. Don’t you even want to see how they are? Don’t you think that they may be worried about you, hoping that they’ll see you again? Doesn’t it matter to you what they’d feel if they heard that you destroyed yourself?”
A long silence. Then Arion leaned slowly forward onto the bedroll and folded up on it. He curled up on his good side and began to cry again, silently, pressing a hand against his eyes. The lips of his exposed wound gaped with each sharply drawn breath.
“Child!” protested Ani, touching his shoulder. The skin was hot with fever. “Child, there’s no point in dying. There’s no need. It would be a waste.”
“Don’t touch me!” Arion snarled, and pushed the hand away. He lay weeping for a moment, his hand over his eyes, and then, without moving, said, “It is twelve days’ journey from Berenike to Coptos, and another fourteen down the river from Coptos to Alexandria. What are you proposing? That you should carry me all that way out of kindness?”
“Well,” Ani admitted. “No.” He took a deep breath. “You could repay me by writing letters.”
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