Four Gods

by Sebastian H. Alive

  “What is this?” grunted the giant.

  “Inside here is a thieving little weasel of a man called Meeran. He’s a moneychanger and a completely corrupt light-fingered one at that. He has no redeeming qualities whatsoever much like your good self except he doesn’t brutally kill people with an axe. As it happens I happen to be terribly poor and in need of a drink or two and you need clothing and this man has coin of mine for safekeeping which I aim to collect. Shall we?”

  Akkadian pulled aside the door covering and ducked within the stall followed slowly by the giant. Inside a small, balding man with a kindly eyes and an honest face wearing a fine woollen tunic was sat on a wooden chair behind a table engrossed in an open dog-eared record book with a feather quill pen poised in his small hand. He looked up at the interruption and his face fell into a sullen, displeased look when the swordsman pulled back his hood and he saw who it was.

  “I thought you dead.” snapped Meeran.

  “You look disappointed.” answered Akkadian with a wide grin.

  “Of course not, see, this is my happy face.”

  “Indeed.”

  The moneychanger flicked a glance to Dar Thadian who stood in the background glaring down at him with his massive arms crossed over his barrel-chest.

  “You are a wanted man around these parts.” remarked the moneychanger.

  “It’s mostly my head that’s wanted but let us pass the formalities and get down to business, Meeran.”

  “Are you making a deposit?” he asked hopefully.

  “Purely here in the spirit of withdrawal.”

  “I…I don’t have coin on hand but if you leave it with me I’ll be sure to have your funds available within two days.” offered Meeran with a flustered smile as he placed the pen down and steepled his fingers.

  “Do not take me for a fool,” whispered Akkadian planting his hands on the table and staring at the man coldly. “Frankly I’m thirsty and the smell from my large friend within this enclosed tent is curdling my nostril hairs. I would sooner be face down in a tankard of fine ale and be completely intoxicated than having this conversation with you so let us save time and give me what is mine because my patience is wearing thin.”

  “Let’s not panic and make a hasty decision we might later regret,” cried Meeran shrinking back in his chair. “I’m not saying I don’t have your coin just not at this moment in time.”

  “Meeran, my greedy friend, you’re in the business of making loans and exchanging money at a ridiculously liberal profit so I tend to believe that you’re lying and have a fair amount of coin on hand.”

  “I’m just a poor lowly and humble moneychanger. My word is my reputation which is more valuable than any coin.” he gasped in outrage.

  “If I gave you gold you would try and convince me it had a currency conversion that was comparable to that of a parsnip. You have wealth the King’s coffers would envy, a fancy house made of stone with paved floors and rich tapestries, six servants, three mistresses and a holding of land that I consider sufficient for a lord. I see few alternatives that don’t end in pain and suffering caused by my friend behind me unless you hand over my coin.”

  Akkadian glanced over his shoulder at Dar Thadian and raised his hands suggestively.

  “Now you can growl.”

  The giant uttered a low menacing guttural sound of anger making Meeran squeal in fear.

  “Fine, fine, fine,” shrieked the moneychanger in exasperation. “But as ever I charge a small percentage of the transaction for this service. It’s quite modest, only a percent or two to keep my business running.”

  “Naturally.” agreed Akkadian.

  With a dirty look of resentment on his face Meeran reached inside his woollen tunic and rummaged around for a moment before pulling out a small bag of heavy coin then reached under the table and lifted up a pair of scales which he placed gently onto the surface.

  “Don’t touch that!” snapped the moneychanger as Akkadian reached out with his fingers.

  Muttering under his breath Meeran carefully weighed the coin astutely. Grunting he opened the bag and removed a couple of coins then satisfied he tied it and tossed the coin to Akkadian who caught it deftly.

  “I’ll be counting it!” warned the swordsman narrowing his eyes.

  With a curse Meeran tossed him one of the coins he had removed then his shoulders sagged in resignation.

  “Must we do this every time?” moaned Akkadian. “I mean, honestly this is ridiculous. What about the oath?”

  “It went when the King raised taxation,” he replied miserably. “It goes from bad to worse with no sign of it ever getting better.”

  “But you’re still rich.” reminded the swordsman with a frown.

  “You’re right.” said Meeran with a grin forming on his face.

  “See, there’s that smile again.”

  The smile evaporated in an instant and the moneychanger picked up the feather quill pen and thrust it out to the swordsman across the table.

  “Now sign the cursed register.” he spat.

  Akkadian signed the dog-eared record book and offered the pen back and Meeran snatched it away petulantly.

  “Don’t think for one moment that if I see the King’s men that I won’t tell them that I have seen you. You can’t hide under a hood from Gomorrah and his men.”

  “Can you even comprehend how difficult it is for someone as handsome as me to wear a hood in public? Women across the land are crying an ocean of tears in my concealed absence.”

  “Mark my words the King shall hear of this.”

  “I truly hope that he does.”

  “And I’ll be at the front of the line when they do take your head.”

  “It seems I get less popular by the day.” said Akkadian looking hurt.

  He turned to Dar Thadian and bounced the bag of coin in his palm happily.

  “Let’s get you a shirt and go drink.”

  The giant growled and left the tent spilling sunshine into the stall briefly as the hide covering was pulled to the side.

  “I plan to put him in some kind of obedience class and get a handle on the whole growling thing.” remarked Akkadian to Meeran.

  Lifting his hood he gripped the edges of it and pulled it low over his face then flashed a smile at the moneychanger before leaving.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The capital city of Tarlath

  Unfortunate’s alley

  “You'll never make a professional beggar – not in my lifetime,” muttered Damascus stroking his chin and casting a critical eye over Leonidis. “But it would take a brave person to question the judgement of Ingrith so I’ll work with what I’ve got.”

  Leonidis sat upon the ground in the alleyway, silent, with his head bowed and back resting against the alleyway of the narrow backstreet down Unfortunate’s alley. It was early morning and the rain had held off, but the grey clouds above were bunched and angry promising rain and the pale yellow sun offered little warmth to the two men.

  “You look miserable,” commented Damascus continuing to look down at him. “First lesson, if you're going to maximize your earning-potential as a beggar you must learn to smile. On the streets they call me the Happy Cripple, because I’m always good-tempered.”

  Again Leonidis didn’t respond and remained with his face turned towards the ground away from view. With a heavy sigh Damascus hunkered down in front of him at eye-level with one knee to the floor and a look of great discomfort on his face.

  “We all carry scars in different ways, Leonidis,” he said kindly. “We are similar in that we will both live in constant pain.”

  “Just look at me!” hissed Leonidis glaring up at him. “Stealing cost me my face.”

  “I’m looking. What would you like me to say?”

  He looked for a reaction in the man’s eyes at his appearance but there was none. The only thing he saw was the pain etched on his face from his position knelt on the ground. With a grunt Damascus pushed himself to his feet into and
rubbed his deformed and twisted back.

  “The days are few and far between when I can get some opiates to dull the pain.” he muttered.

  Leonidis gazed at the cripple’s heavily stooped posture and the exaggerated forward rounding of his upper back and how he carried one shoulder higher than the other. He had a mop of curly black hair and a thin shallow face with dark circles underneath his eyes that made him look older than he actually was and wore a threadbare woolen tunic that was too short at the knee.

  “We are not similar, you and I,” whispered Leonidis looking away. “You told me you were born with your deformity so you know no different so how can you understand what I have lost?”

  “True, I was burdened with my pitiful fate at birth, some kind of fault in my development. Your pain is raw and fresh and mine is old and stale but the pain I refer to is the pain of how we are perceived out here. People look at us differently and they will act differently around us and judge us. When you get used to that then you can accept who you are and days become more bearable.”

  “I cannot do what she asks of me.”

  “I have to make a beggar out of you.” said Damascus sighing loudly.

  “Then you will be wasting your time.”

  The cripple nodded his head thoughtfully and glanced up to the sky overhead.

  “Could do with some rain,” he murmured. “Nothing tugs at the heart strings more than a wet miserable beggar.”

  “I won’t do it.”

  “That’s what I said at first. She’s not a bad woman, you know. You just need to get to know her first. She took you in right? Yet she could have left you to die. She fed you, kept you warm when your body was racked from chills in the midst of your fever and cooled you when your temperature soared. Ingrith is tough but fair and with her we have a roof over our heads and warm food and blankets. We’re a family Leonidis and we look out for one another. If she wants to bring you into the fold then she recognises something in you but what that is I do not know. You have the look that much is true but I fear not the aptitude and you are right, I may be wasting my time but you are indebted to Ingrith.”

  “Then I will earn my keep and leave.” spat Leonidis with his eyes flashing angrily.

  “So be it, but you may feel differently in time. So let’s begin with the basics. Begging is a skill. It takes timing, observation, heart, the right location and technique. To perfect the art you need to find that special balance. Remember that begging is an emotive issue, often a burden and a nuisance and depends on the giver and the taker when you have made that connection. You already know some of the streets so you know the potential areas where the footfall count is at its highest. Timing is very important so you find your target, make eye contact and move in fast. You need to exploit that one moment and if you don’t it is gone in instant. Be approachable, be believable and thank them even if they choose not to give. It’s also important to remember the regulars and learn their names because you are surviving because of the financial graces of these people. How about a little practical demonstration by Tarlath’s finest?”

  Damascus extended his hand down to Leonidis who gripped it and hauled himself to his feet. The cripple looked him up and down for a moment then reached forward and tore at the neckline of his shirt ripping the fabric and exposing his bare chest.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Equally important in the beggar's appearance and now you look like a true beggar.” answered Damascus with a wry smile.

  He ambled over to the entrance to the alleyway then looked back over his shoulder at Leonidis who had hesitated.

  “You will just be one of a variety of disfigured beggars out there and all are different,” said the cripple. “Some have limbs missing, others are blind, many have deformities and some are perfectly able-bodied. But all share the same goal. Come, follow me and watch from a distance.”

  They stepped out of the alleyway that led onto the main cobbled streets and Damascus looked in both directions and nodded a greeting to a scruffy looking elderly man to their left who was sat cross-legged on the floor wearing tattered clothing and thin soled shoes whilst holding out a battered old pan to passer-by’s and pleading for coin.

  “That’s old Theo. He’s a wily old sod,” pointed out the cripple. “He’s been on the streets for eighteen years. He’s really good at it, really good and a very clever man too!”

  Leonidis watched on as Theo stretched out his empty pan and waited eagerly as a pedestrian walked towards him.

  “A little charity.” the beggar cried in a sorrowful tone.

  The pedestrian simply walked on past him without giving him anything.

  “Do have a good day.” called out Theo after him.

  “But he received nothing?” queried Leonidis. “Yet you say he is good at it?”

  “Just watch,” muttered Damascus. “Not everyone gives to beggars but if people weren’t giving, he wouldn’t be there.”

  A few seconds later someone else walked in the direction of the beggar and he held out the pan in anticipation.

  “Have mercy upon this poor beggar!” mewled Theo. “I have suffered a great misfortune.”

  The pedestrian dropped a few coins into the pan without even looking down at him them quickly scuttled away towards his destination. Theo peered at the coin the rattled the pan towards them and grinned a toothless smile before looking around him swiftly, pulling off one of his shoes and emptying the money into it and placing it back onto his foot.

  “Why did he do that?” asked Leonidis.

  “A little deception never hurt anyone,” answered Damascus. “There’s more persuasion in an empty begging bowl than one filled to overflowing.”

  “Are we to stay here?”

  “No,” said the cripple. “There are rules of etiquette on the streets. This is old Theo’s spot and territory is a precious thing out here. We want to go where the action is.”

  Turning to the right Damascus lurched away in a slow, painful gait with Leonidis following closely behind. He led him into a maze of narrow winding cobbled streets that curved and weaved past rows of half-timbered houses, buildings that were built too close and restricted in space. Rats rummaged around in garbage and rotting food carelessly tossed onto the ground and hired muckrakers worked the streets taking the filth away in wooden carts beyond the city walls for disposal. They only passed the occasional meandering couples or citizens and when they did so Leonidis kept his eyes averted from their faces but if Damascus had noticed he didn’t say anything.

  “It’s true that you can follow your nose to your destination,” wheezed the cripple looking across at him. “When you can smell the delicious aroma of bread we’re approaching Bread Lane and you will know Butcher’s Street before you hit it because of the stench of blood and offal. Then there’s the livestock market, the Tanneries, the pie makers, the forgers and the fishmongers. You may have walked the streets in your past life but I’d wager a copper coin you don’t know the streets like we do. Begging can be a dangerous game and out here there are people that pray on the likes of us, people that kill with impunity. Just last year I lost a dear friend of mine who was savagely beaten to death by a mob for his meagre takings and I watched from the shadows as they cheered the attacker on in the act of murder. Who would miss a lowly beggar in a city of 340,000 residents, but me? The streets can be a brutal, unforgiving place if you let it so it’s important you have your wits about you at all times and know your location.”

  His pace was slowing and Leonidis could tell he was finding the walk difficult but then suddenly the narrow street began to fill up with people and it widened up into a square with rows of open shops on each side that were busy with activity.

  “What now?” Leonidis nervously asked.

  “Now it’s a process of elimination,” muttered Damascus resting against a wall gratefully as he scanned the milling pedestrians. “See, when you’ve been doing this for as long as I have you learn to read a person. You will develop these readi
ng abilities in time if you have the patience. Old Theo tends to favour targeting a high percentage of potential givers whereas I take a different, more selective approach.”

  A man walked in their direction with a look of open hostility on his face, his face flushed with anger and fists clenched by his sides as he strode over.

  “Beggars!” he said with disgust before spitting at the cripples feet.

  Damascus merely offered a smile and the man stalked off, glanced once over his shoulder at them and was then gone from view down the same street they had come down.

  “However ragged and disgusting in appearance we may seem, remember we are still them, just less fortunate.” said the cripple in a soft voice as his gaze moved over the people going about their business.

  Some pedestrians looked over to them disapprovingly whereas a few people even looked fearful and Leonidis felt a burning sense of shame.

  “I repulse them.” he hissed miserably.

  “It’s always harder at the beginning,” murmured Damascus. “You’ll feel isolated, unworthy and ashamed but it gets easier. But the truth is you’ll never truly be comfortable again.”

  “I want to leave.” whispered Leonidis.

  “Wait, I haven’t finished so watch and learn. See that man over there; yes that one with the white close-cropped hair. Notice how hunched he is, how his head is lowered and that he’s making very little eye contact and that his hands are protectively hovering near to his money belt. It tells me he is likely penurious and unwilling to part with his coin. You learn to pick them out, smile and then forget about them. See that other man over there, him with the long grey beard and leather sandals who just made eye-contact with us. Now he looks promising.”

  Without another word Damascus pushed himself off the wall with a grunt and wandered over to the man who had paused outside a shop viewing its merchandise. Leonidis watched as the cripple approached him and for a few seconds words were exchanged between them and then the man delved into his pocket and dropped a couple of coins into the open palm of Damascus who thanked the man and slowly walked back.