Harry Turtledove - The Sacred Land

“What about Nestor, in the Iliad?” Menedemos said. “He complained about the younger generation, too.”

That gave Philodemos pause. He loved Homer no less than Menedemos did; Menedemos had got his fondness for the Iliad and Odyssey from his father. Philodemos returned the best answer he could: “You can’t tell me we Hellenes haven’t gone downhill since the days of the heroes.”

“Maybe,” Menedemos said. “Speaking of going downhill, how many speeches did Xanthos give in the Assembly while I was away? “

His father sent him a sour stare. Xanthos was a man of Philodemos’ generation: was, in fact, a friend of Philodemos’. He was also a great and crashing bore. Philodemos could hardly deny that. To his credit, he didn’t try. “Probably too many,” he answered. Then, to forestall Menedemos, he added, “And yes, he gave them all over again, first chance he got, whenever he saw me.”

“And how’s Sikon?” Menedemos asked. “I’ve hardly had the chance to say good day to him, but those were some very nice eels last night, don’t you think?”

“I’ve always liked eels,” Philodemos said. “And Sikon is as well as a cook can be.” He rolled his eyes again. Cooks had-and deserved-a reputation for tyrannizing the households in which they lived.

“Is he still quarreling with your wife?” Menedemos asked cautiously. The less he spoke about Baukis around his father, the better. He was sure of that. But he couldn’t ignore her feud with Sikon. The way the two of them stormed at each other, the whole neighborhood had trouble ignoring it.

“They… still don’t get along as well as they might,” Philodemos said.

“You really ought to do something about that, Father.” Menedemos again seized the chance to take the offensive.

“Wait till you have a wife. Wait till you’re running a household with a temperamental cook-and there’s no other kind,” Philodemos said. “Better they should yell at each other than that they should both yell at me.”

To Menedemos, that seemed a coward’s counsel. He said, “Better they shouldn’t yell. You ought to put your foot down.”

“Ha!” his father said. “How many times have I put my foot down with you? How much good has it done me?”

“I wasn’t the one who chased women this summer,” Menedemos said. His father snorted at the qualification, but he pressed on: “And I wasn’t the one who loaded so much olive oil onto the Aphrodite , either. No-I was the one who not only sold it but got a cursed good price for it, too.”

“I told you before-we won’t have to worry about that again,” Philodemos said. “Damonax and his family needed the silver that oil brought. Sometimes there’s no help for something. Sometimes there’s no help for the kinsfolk one has.”

By the way he looked at Menedemos, he wasn’t thinking of Damonax alone. “If you’ll excuse me, Father…,” Menedemos said, and left the andron before he found out whether Philodemos would excuse him. He stormed out of the house, too. If Philodemos tried to call him back, he made himself not hear.

Why do I bother? he wondered. Whatever I do, it will never satisfy him. And, knowing it will never satisfy him, why do I get so angry when it doesn’t? But the answer to that was all too obvious. He’s my father. If a man can’t please his own father, what sort of man is he?

Sparrows hopped around, pecking in the dirt for whatever they could find. Menedemos pointed at one of them, which fluttered off for a few cubits but then lit again and went back to pecking. Is your father angry at you because you don’t gather enough seeds to suit him? The bird bounced this way and that. Whatever worries it had-kestrels, snakes, ferrets-its father wasn’t among them. Ah, little bird, you don’t know when you’re well off.

The day was warm and bright. The shutters to the upstairs windows were open, to let in air and light. They let out music: Baukis was softly singing to herself as she spun wool into thread. The song was one any girl might have sung to help make time go by while she did a job that needed doing but wasn’t very interesting. Her voice, though true enough, was nothing out of the ordinary.

Listening to her, though, made Menedemos wish his ears were plugged with wax, as Odysseus’ had been when he sailed past the sweetly singing Sirens. He clenched his fists till his nails bit into his palms. It’s always worse when I’m angry at Father… and I’m angry at him so much of the time. He fled his own house as if the Furies pursued him. And so, maybe, they did.

Sostratos bowed to Himilkon in the Phoenician’s crowded harborside warehouse. “Peace be unto you, my master,” he said in Aramaic.

“And to you also peace,” the merchant replied in the same language, returning his bow. “Your slave hopes the poor teaching he gave to you proved of some small use on your journey.”

“Indeed.” Deliberately, Sostratos nodded instead of dipping his head. “Your servant came here to give his thanks for your generous assistance.”

Himilkon raised a thick, dark eyebrow. “You speak better, much better, now than you did when you sailed for Phoenicia. Not only are you more fluent, but your accent has improved.”

“I suppose that comes from hearing and speaking the language so much,” Sostratos said, still in Aramaic. “I could not have done it, though, if you had not started me down the road.”

“You are kind, my master, more kind than you need be.” Himilkon’s face still wore that measuring expression. He scratched at his curly black beard. “Most men could not have done it at all, I think. This is especially true of Ionians, who expect everyone to know Greek and do not take kindly to the idea of learning a foreign language.”

“That is not altogether true,” Sostratos said, though he knew it was to a large degree. “Even Menedemos learned a few words while he was in Sidon.”

“Truly?” Himilkon raised that eyebrow again. “He must have met a pretty woman there, eh?”

“Well, no, or I don’t think so.” Sostratos was too honest to lie to the Phoenician. “As a matter of fact, I was the one who met a pretty woman there-in Jerusalem, not Sidon.”

“Did you? That surprises me,” Himilkon said. “I would not have guessed the Ioudaioi had any pretty women.” He didn’t bother hiding his scorn. “Did you see how strange and silly their customs are?”

“They are wild for their god, no doubt of that,” Sostratos said. “But still, my master, why worry about them? They will never amount to anything, not when they are trapped away from the sea in a small stretch of land no one else wants.”

“You can say this-you are an Ionian,” Himilkon answered. “Your people have never had much trouble with them. We Phoenicians have.”

“Tell me more, my master,” Sostratos said.

“There was the time, for instance, when a petty king among the Ioudaioi wed the daughter of the king of Sidon-Iezebel, her name was,” Himilkon said. “She wanted to keep on giving reverence to her own gods whilst she lived amongst the Ioudaioi. Did they let her? No! When she kept on trying, they killed her and fed her to their dogs. Her, the daughter of a king and the wife of a king! They fed her to the dogs! Can you imagine such a people?”

“Shocking,” Sostratos said. But it didn’t much surprise him. He could easily picture the Ioudaioi doing such a thing. He went on, “I think, though, that they will become more civilized as they deal with us Ionians.”

“Maybe,” Himilkon said: the maybe of a man too polite to say, Nonsense! to someone he liked. “I for one, though, will believe it when I see it.”