Harry Turtledove - The Sacred Land

“For Aristeidas,” Menedemos echoed.

“For Aristeidas,” Sostratos said. “If he hadn’t spotted the bandits coming, we all might have died there in Ioudaia-and other times before that, out on the sea. He was a good man to have on our ship, and I’ll miss him. Everyone who sailed with him will miss him.”

“Thank you kindly, young sir. You’re generous, to say such a thing.” Aristaion raised the cup to his lips and drank. Menedemos and Sostratos also drank to their shipmate’s memory. The wine was better than Menedemos would have expected it to be. Like the ware Aristaion made, it suggested the best taste not a great deal of money could buy.

“I wonder why these things happen,” Sostratos said, “why good men die young while those who are not so good live on and on.” Menedemos knew he was thinking about Teleutas. His cousin took another sip of wine, then continued, “Men who love wisdom have always wondered such things.”

“It was the will of the gods,” Aristaion said. “In front of Troy, Akhilleus had a short life, too, but people still sing about him even now.” He murmured the opening of the Iliad: “‘Rage!-Sing, goddess, of Akhilleus’…’“

Sostratos had often wrangled with Menedemos about whether the Iliad and Odyssey deserved to hold their central place in Hellenic life. He wasn’t always the most tactful of men; there were times, especially in what he saw as pursuit of the truth, when he was among the least tactful. Menedemos got ready to kick him in the ankle if he wanted to argue philosophy today. But he only dipped his head once more and murmured, “Just so, most noble one. Nor will Aristeidas be forgotten, so long as any one of us who knew him still lives.”

Menedemos took a long pull at his own wine. He silently mouthed, “Euge,” at Sostratos. His cousin only shrugged a tiny shrug, as if to say he hadn’t done anything worth praise. He’d remembered the occasion. To Menedemos, that was plenty. Only later did he wonder whether that was unfair to Sostratos.

The two of them let Aristaion fill their cups again. Then they made their farewells. “Thank you both again, young sirs, for coming and telling me… telling me what had to be told,” Aristeidas’ father said.

“It was the least we could do,” Menedemos said. “We wish we didn’t have to do it, that’s all.”

“Yes,” Sostratos said softly. By the distant look in his eyes, he was back among those Ioudaian boulders again. “Oh, yes.”

They gave Aristaion their sympathies one last time and left the potter’s shop. They hadn’t gone far before a woman started to shriek behind them. Wincing, Menedemos said, “Aristaion must have told his wife.”

“Yes,” Sostratos agreed. They walked on for a few more paces before he went on, “Let’s go back to your house or mine and get drunk, shall we? There’s nothing more we really have to do today, is there?”

“Nothing that won’t keep.” Menedemos put an arm around Sostratos’ shoulder. “That’s a good idea-the best one you’ve had all day, I’m sure.”

“Will we think so in the morning?” Sostratos asked.

Menedemos shrugged. “That will be in the morning. We’ll worry about it then.”

Sostratos opened his eyes and wished he hadn’t. The early-morning sunlight leaking in through the shutters pained him. His head hurt. His bladder seemed about to burst. He reached under the bed and found the chamber pot. After easing himself, he went to the window, opened the shutters, called, “Coming out!” to warn anyone walking by below, and flung the contents of the pot into the street.

Then, still moving slowly, he went downstairs and sat down in the cool, shadowed courtyard. A few minutes later, Threissa, the family’s redheaded Thracian slave girl, poked her snub nose into the courtyard. Sostratos waved to her. He saw her wondering if she could get away with pretending not to see and deciding she couldn’t. She came over to him. “What do you want, young master?” she asked in accented Greek.

Every so often, he took her to bed. She put up with that rather than enjoying it, one reason he didn’t do it more. It wasn’t what he had in mind now. He said, “Fetch me a cup of well-watered wine and a chunk of bread to go with it.”

Relief flowered on her face. “I do that,” she said, and hurried away. Some requests she minded much less than others. Sostratos didn’t even eye her backside as she went off to the kitchen, proof he’d drunk too much the day before. She soon returned with the wine and a barley roll. “Here you is. Roll just baked.”

Sure enough, it was still warm from the oven. “Thanks,” Sostratos said. He made as if to push her away. “Go on. I’m sure you’ve got plenty to do.” She nodded and left him by himself. He took a bite from the roll. It was nice and bland, just what his stomach needed. He sipped the wine, a little at a time. Bit by bit, his headache eased.

He’d almost finished breakfast when his father came downstairs. “Hail,” Lysistratos called. “How are you?”

“Better now than when I first got up,” Sostratos answered. “The wine helped.”

“Pity it’s not springtime,” Lysistratos said. “Raw cabbage is good for a thick head, but this is the wrong season.” He walked over and sat down beside his son. “I understand why you and Menedemos did what you did. Losing a man is hard. Sometimes telling his family he’s gone is even harder.”

“Yes.” Sostratos dipped his head. “His father was such a gentleman- and then, as we were leaving, his mother began to wail…” He grabbed the winecup and gulped the last couple of swallows.

“A bad business. A very bad business.” Lysistratos hesitated, then went on, “I hear you made something of a hero of yourself in the same fight.”

With a shrug, Sostratos said, “My archery isn’t hopeless. I should have shot more of the bandits, though. If I had, we wouldn’t have had to pay a call on Aristaion yesterday.” He wished he had more wine. What he’d already drunk had taken the edge off his headache, but another cup might take the edge off his thoughts. He looked around for Threissa, then decided it was just as well he didn’t see her. A man who started pouring it down early in the morning wouldn’t be worth much as the day wore along.

Lysistratos said, “What do you plan on doing today?”

“I’ll go over to see Damonax and settle accounts with him,” Sostratos answered. “The olive oil worked out better than I expected, but I’m not going to fill the Aphrodite up with it if we go to Athens next spring. That would be like taking crimson dye to Phoenicia. If he can’t see as much for himself, I’ll make it as plain as I have to.”

“I understand.” His father smiled. “I don’t think you’ll have to beat him about the head and shoulders, or anything of the sort. Uncle Philodemos and I made it plain to him that he pushed his luck this past spring. We let him get away with it once because of his own family’s debts, but we’re not going to let him be a permanent anchor weighing down our family’s profits.”

“Euge!” Sostratos said. “How did he take that?”

“Pretty well,” Lysistratos replied. “He is a charming fellow, no two ways about it.”

“Yes, but especially when he’s getting his way,” Sostratos said, which made his father laugh. He went on, “I hope I see Erinna when I’m there. Is she happy with Damonax?”

“She seems to be,” Lysistratos said. “And did you hear last night? She’s going to have a baby in a few months.”

Sostratos tossed his head. “No, I didn’t. That’s wonderful news! I know how much she wants a family.” He hesitated, then asked, “If it happens to be a girl, will they keep it or expose it?”