Harry Turtledove - The Sacred Land

“That’s me,” Menedemos said proudly.

“You’re the chap who had the idea for a ship like this, aren’t you? I heard Admiral Eudemos say so.”

“That’s me,” Menedemos repeated, even more proudly than before. He grinned at Sostratos. “And now I know how it feels to look at my baby, and I didn’t even get a slave girl pregnant.” Sostratos snorted and grinned back.

Menedemos walked with Sostratos through a poor, quarter of Rhodes: the southwestern part of the polis, not far from the wall and not far from the cemetery south of it. With a sigh, Menedemos said, “This is the sort of duty I wish we didn’t have.”

“I know,” Sostratos answered. “I feel the same way. But that only makes it more important we do a good job.”

“I suppose so.” Menedemos sighed again.

Skinny naked children played in the street. Even skinnier dogs squabbled over garbage. They eyed the children warily. Maybe they were afraid the children would throw rocks at them. Maybe they were afraid they would get caught and killed and thrown into a pot. In this part of town, they probably had reason to worry. A drunk staggered out of a wineshop. He stared at Menedemos and Sostratos, then turned his back on them, hiked up his tunic, and pissed against a wall.

“O pat!” Menedemos called, pointing to one of the children. He would have said, Boy! to a slave just the same way.

“What do you want?” the boy, who was about eight, asked suspiciously.

“Where is the house of Aristaion son of Aristeas?”

The boy assumed a look of congenital imbecility. Not knowing whether to sigh one more time or burst out laughing, Menedemos took an obolos from between his cheek and his teeth and held out the small, wet silver coin in the palm of his hand. The boy rushed up and snatched it. He popped it into his own mouth. His friends howled with rage and jealousy. “Me! Me!” they clamored. “You should have asked me!”

“You’ve got your money now,” Menedemos said in a friendly voice. “Tell me what I want to know, or I’ll wallop the stuffing out of you.”

There was language the youngster understood. “Go over two blocks, then turn right. It’ll be on the left-hand side of the street, next door to the dyer’s place.”

“Good. Thanks.” Menedemos turned to Sostratos. “Come on, my dear.

And mind the dog turd there. We don’t want to step in it barefoot.”

“No, indeed,” Sostratos agreed.

They had no trouble identifying the dyer’s: the reek of stale urine gave it away. Next to it stood a small, neat house that, like a lot of homes in a neighborhood such as this, doubled as a shop. Several pots, nothing especially fancy but all sturdy and well shaped, stood on a counter. Menedemos wondered how much the stink from the dyeworks hurt the potter’s trade. It couldn’t help.

“Help you gents?” the potter asked. He was a man of about fifty, balding, with what was left of his hair and his beard quite gray. Except for the beard, he looked like an older version of Aristeidas.

To be sure, Menedemos asked, “Are you Aristaion son of Aristeas?”

“That’s me,” the man replied. “I’m afraid you’ve got the edge on me, though, best one, for I don’t know you or your friend.” Menedemos and Sostratos introduced themselves. Aristaion’s work-worn face lit up. “Oh, of course! Aristeidas’ captain and toikharkhos! By the gods, my boy tells me more stories about the two of you and your doings! I didn’t know the Aphrodite ’d got home this year, for you’ve beaten him back here.”

Menedemos winced. This was going to be even harder than he’d feared. He said, “I’m afraid that’s why we’ve come now, most noble one.” Sostratos dipped his head.

“I don’t understand,” Aristaion said. But then, suddenly, his eyes filled with fear. He flinched, as if Menedemos had threatened him with a weapon. “Or are you going to tell me something’s happened to Aristeidas?”

“I’m sorry,” Menedemos said miserably. “He was killed by robbers in Ioudaia. My cousin was with him when it happened. He’ll tell you more.”

Sostratos told the story of the fight with the Ioudaian bandits. For the benefit of Aristeidas’ father, he changed it a little, saying the sailor had taken a spear in the chest, not the belly, and died at once: “I’m sure he felt no pain.” He said not a word about cutting Aristeidas’ throat, but finished, “We all miss him very much, both for his keen eyes-he was the man who spotted the bandits coming after us-and for the fine man he was. I wish with all my heart it could have been otherwise. He fought bravely, and his wound was at the front.” That was undoubtedly true.

Aristaion listened without a word. He blinked a couple of times. He heard what Sostratos said, but as yet it meant nothing. Menedemos set a leather sack on the counter. “Here is his pay, sir, for the whole journey he took with us. I know it can never replace Aristeidas, but it is what we can do.”

Like a man still half in a dream, Aristaion tossed his head. “No, that’s not right,” he said. “You must take out whatever silver he’d already drawn-otherwise you unjustly deprive yourselves.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Menedemos said. “For one thing, he drew very little-as you’ll know, he saved his silver. And, for another, this is the least we can do to show what we thought of your son.”

“When he died, everyone on the Aphrodite was heartbroken,” Sostratos added, and that was nothing but the truth, too.

When he died. Aristaion finally seemed not only to hear but to believe. He let out a low-voiced moan, then reached under the counter and brought out a knife. Grunting with effort and with pain, he used it to haggle off a mourning lock. The gray hair lay on the counter. Menedemos took the knife and added a lock of his own hair. So did Sostratos; the lock he’d cut off in loudaia was beginning to grow out again. He sacrificed another without hesitation.

“He was my only boy that lived,” Aristaion said in a faraway voice. “I had two others, but they both died young. I hoped he’d take this place after me. Maybe he would have in the end, but he always wanted to go to sea. What am I going to do now? By the gods, O best ones, what am I going to do now?”

Menedemos had no answer for that. He looked to Sostratos. His cousin stood there biting his lip, not far from tears. Plainly, he had no answer, either. For some things, there were no answers.

“I mourned my father,” Aristaion said. “That was hard, but it’s part of the natural order of things when a son mourns a father. When a father has to mourn a son, though… I would rather have died myself, you know.” The sun glinted off the tears sliding down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” Menedemos whispered, and Sostratos dipped his head. No, for some things there were no answers at all.

“Thank you, gentlemen, for bringing me the news,” Aristaion said with haggard dignity. “Will you drink wine with me?”

“Of course,” said Menedemos, who wanted nothing more than to get away. Again, Sostratos dipped his head without speaking. If anything, he probably wanted to escape even more than Menedemos did. But this was part of what needed doing.

“Wait, then,” Aristaion said, and ducked back into the part of the building where he lived. He came out a moment later with a tray with water, wine, a mixing bowl, and three cups. He must have made the bowl and the cups himself, for they looked very much like the pots he was selling. After mixing the wine, he poured for Menedemos and Sostratos, then poured a small libation onto the ground at his feet. The two cousins imitated him. Aristaion lifted his cup. “For Aristeidas,” he said.