Harry Turtledove - The Sacred Land

“I’ll buy them all,” Sostratos said. The scribe’s face broke into a delighted grin. Sostratos went on, “I’ll buy them all if your price is anywhere near reasonable, that is.”

“Well, best one, you know what these things cost,” Glaukias answered. “If you were just walking in off the street to buy one book, I’d try to get eight or ten drakhmai out of you. People like that, a lot of the time they don’t have any notion of what’s what, and you want to make a little extra. But I’ll sell you these for five drakhmai each-six for the two copies of those funeral games, because that’s an especially long book and takes more time and more papyrus.”

“You’ve got a bargain, my friend.” Sostratos did indeed know what books were supposed to cost. He laughed. “I don’t remember the last time I made a deal without haggling.”

“It’s been a while for me, too.” Glaukias sounded almost giddy. What Sostratos paid him would keep him and his family eating for a couple of months. Sostratos wondered how long it had been since anyone last bought a book from him, and how desperate he was getting. When Glaukias went into the back room again, returning with a couple of cups of wine to celebrate, Sostratos suspected he wasn’t getting desperate, but had got there some little while ago.

The wine was just this side of undrinkable. The cheapest he could buy, Sostratos thought. Aloud, he said, “I’m always glad to bring you business, Glaukias. Without the people who make hooks, what would we be? Nothing but savages, that’s what.”

“Thank you so much.” The scribe’s voice was thick with unshed tears. Muttering, he ran the back of his hand across his eyes. “That’s a plain fact, you know. But does anybody think about it? Not likely! No, what I get is, ‘You’ve got your nerve, asking so much to write things.’ If I starve, if people like me starve, where do books come from? They don’t grow on trees, you know.”

“Of course not,” Sostratos said. Glaukias talked right through him. Maybe that was the wine; maybe Sostratos’ remark had struck a chord. Either way, Sostratos was glad to escape his shop.

But that didn’t mean he was done with scribes. Nikandros son of Nikon had a place of business only a few blocks away from Glaukias’. Sostratos didn’t like his work as well as the other scribe’s. He wrote quickly; he could copy out a book faster than Glaukias could. With his speed, though, came sloppy handwriting and more mistakes than Glaukias would have made.

Sostratos didn’t like Nikandros himself as well as he liked Glaukias, either. Nikandros had a face like a ferret’s, a whining voice, and an exaggerated sense of his own worth. “I couldn’t possibly part with a book for less than nine drakhmai,” he said.

“Farewell.” Sostratos turned to go. “If you come to your senses before we sail, send a messenger to the Aphrodite .”

He wondered if Nikandros would call him back. He’d almost decided the scribe wouldn’t when Nikandros did say, “Wait,” after all.

After some considerable haggling-Nikandros did not offer him wine-he got the books for the same price he’d paid Glaukias. “This shouldn’t have taken so long,” he grumbled. “We both know what these are worth.”

“What I know is, you’re flaying me.” Nikandros was not, however, too badly wounded to scoop up the silver coins and put them in his cash box.

“I’m not paying you any less than I paid Glaukias,” Sostratos said, “but to the crows with me if I can see why I ought to pay you more.”

“Oh, Glaukias.” Nikandros sniffed. “I see. I’m paying the price because he’s not a better bargainer. That’s fair. It certainly is.”

“Your ordinary book is five drakhmai in Athens,” Sostratos said. “You know that as well as I do, O marvelous one. Why should it be any different here in Rhodes?”

“And the Athenian scribes are just as scrawny and starving as Glaukias is,” Nikandros said. “I want something better for myself. I deserve more customers.”

“I want all sorts of things. Just because I want them doesn’t mean I’m going to get them, or even that I should have them,” Sostratos said.

Nikandros sniffed again. “Good day,” he said coldly. Now that the bargaining was done, he had trouble even staying polite. How will you get those customers you think you deserve when you do your best to drive people away?

Polykles son of Apollonios also copied books for a living, but when Sostratos went to his shop he found it closed. The carpenter next door looked up from a stool to which he was adding a leg. “If you want him,” he told Sostratos, “you’ll find him in the tavern down the street.”

“Oh,” Sostratos said. The word seemed to hang in the air, “Will he be worth anything when I do find him?”

“Never can tell,” the carpenter answered, and picked up a small file.

The tavern smelled of stale wine and of the hot grease in which the proprietor would fry snacks customers bought elsewhere. The mug in front of Polykles was almost as deep as the sea. The scribe-a pale man with a withered left arm that probably made him unfit for any more strenuous trade-looked up so blearily, Sostratos was sure he’d already emptied it several times, too.

“Hail,” Sostratos said.

“Hail t’you, too.” Polykles’ voice was thick and blurry. Sostratos could hardly understand him. The scribe blinked, trying to focus. “I sheen you shomewheresh before, haven’t I?” He gulped from that formidable mug.

“Yes,” Sostratos said without much hope. He gave his name.

Polykles dipped his head and almost fell over. As he straightened up, he said, “Oh, yesh. I know you. You’re that trader fellow-one of thoshe trader fellowsh, Watcha want?”

“Books,” Sostratos answered. “Exciting books from the Iliad and the Odyssey. Have you got any copied out? I’ll buy them if you do,”

“Booksh?” Polykles might never have heard the word before. Then, slowly, he dipped his head again. This time, he managed to stay upright. “Oh, yesh,” he said once more, “I ‘member thoshe.”

“Good. Congratulations.” He was so fuddled, Sostratos was amazed he remembered anything. “Have you got any?”

“Have I got any what?”

“You’d do better to ask him questions when he’s sobered up, pal,” the taverner said.

“Does he ever sober up?” Sostratos asked. The man only shrugged. Sostratos gave his attention back to Polykles. “Come on. Let’s go back to your house. If you’ve got the books I want, I’ll give you money for them.”

“Money?” That idea seemed to take the scribe by surprise, too.

“Money,” Sostratos repeated, and then, as if speaking to an idiot, drunken child, he explained, “You can use it to buy more wine.” He knew shame a moment later; wasn’t he encouraging Polykles to ruin himself?

Whatever he was doing, it worked. The scribe drained the mug and lurched toward him. “ Let’sh go. Go back to the houshe. Don’t… quite… know what I got there. We can shee.”

He tried to walk through the wall instead of the doorway. Sostratos caught him and got him turned in the right direction just before he mashed his nose against the mud brick. “Come on, friend. We can get you there,” Sostratos said, wondering if he told the truth.

Steering Polykles down the street was like steering a sailing ship through a choppy sea and shifting, contrary winds. The scribe jibbed and staggered and all but capsized in a fountain. Maybe I should let him get good and soaked, Sostratos thought as he grabbed him again. It might sober him a little. He tossed his head. If he goes into the fountain, he’s liable to drown.