by Tracy Groot
In the early years of serving Callimachus, if Tallis ever emerged from his rooms with less than a cheerful countenance, Cal sent him back until he came out with a serene expression. It infuriated Tallis at first. Sometimes he remained in his room the entire day, just to spite the old man. His hunger usually won out when kitchen smells wafted down the corridor to his room. He’d go and display a fixedly serene look to Cal, and head for the kitchen. Soon, cheerfulness became as much a part of Tallis as it was of his master.
Cal wouldn’t like this place.
Tallis shifted in his chair. Maybe Kes`Elurah thought he fancied her, when he mistakenly watched her work, and he’d like to tell her he preferred the servant girl to the frosty-eyed mistress of the inn. The servant girl, Arinna, skulked in the common room flicking a rag here and there, sometimes slipping behind the doors of paying guests. Her attempt at a subtle offer to Tallis on his second night at the inn was instead quite plain. Plain, as well, was her desire to conceal her activities from the inn masters.
She had a small son, surely sired by a former guest—the child Zagreus. Tallis had paused when he heard the name. He pitied the boy for having a silly mother who would give him a ridiculous name.
Kes`Elurah pitied the boy too. She dignified the child by giving him work to do. While his mother nibbled on the hair she curled around her finger, wandering the common room in listless attention to whatever duty commanded her, her small son worked with a will, eager to please not his mother but the mistress of the inn. Indeed, Tallis had thought the child belonged to Kes`Elurah, until Jarek corrected him.
“I’m lonely,” Tallis declared to the lake in surprise. It had been so long he’d forgotten what it felt like. “I’m so bored and lonely I’m having nightmares just to entertain myself. I’m as fascinated as an old gossip in the affairs of the people around me.” Pathetic. He didn’t like this feeling. It felt needy.
He leaned on his knees and watched for the fishermen to return. If Tallis knew the fishing trade, he’d ask if they needed help. Not to vanquish boredom, this time. One thing he had plenty of time to think about was the uncomfortable reality of his finances. The purse Cal had given him was carefully counted out to last one month, and he’d been gone from Athens a month and a half.
He’d indulged himself only once on this trip, and that was for a semiworthless scroll purchased at the bookstalls in Alexandria. It was unthinkable to visit Alexandria, with its famous library, and leave without a book. It was what you did in Alexandria: no matter how poor you were, you bought a book. Even if the book was a drowsy piece of the Iliad—the insufferably drawn-out funeral games for Patroclus—it was still as respectable a purchase as he could afford. And a foolish one.
The scroll could have bought him two more weeks at this inn, with extra for incidentals—like reward money for people who answered his message. No one would walk two miles from Hippos for nothing; they would expect compensation. It left Tallis with a horrifying conclusion: He would have to earn his keep.
This morning he had slumped at the writing desk, idling with a silver coin. Coin was the only solid thing left of the Seleucid dynasty. Seleucus was one of Alexander’s mighty companions, one of a handful left holding the reins to a gargantuan empire after Alexander’s untimely death.
What if his lineage had been stable? What if his heirs had not been murdered? There would be no “King Antiochus” on a silver tetradrachm, no tattered remnants of a Ptolemaic line in Egypt. What would Alexander have thought of the decadence to tumble down after his glorious eleven-year reign? Ptolemy spawned a line of rulers with incest as its primary measure to ensure Macedonian bloodlines. Seleucus’s line produced a ruler with ideas so twisted the Palestinian locals took the name he gave himself, Antiochus Epiphanes—Antiochus, God Manifest—and parodied it with Antiochus Epimanes—Antiochus, Madman. Antiochus Madman had none of Alexander’s love of culture, nor respect for religion. He’d made the Jews sacrifice pigs to his own god. Alexander would have strung him up by his tongue.
Tallis grimaced. His own stupidity had put him in financial straits, his hero worship had. If the cheapest inn in Palestine did not need his help, if he could not find other local employment, he would be turned out. Well, and had he stayed in the more respectable establishments in Hippos he’d have been on his poverty-struck way back to Athens long ago.
He’d have to talk to Jarek and see if he could earn his keep. He’d have to work, like a slave. The only indignity worse than a childish nightmare was swapping his toga for a tunic.
Zagreus sat on a stool in a corner of the kitchen, sitting quiet with Mistress Kes. He was cleaning off the crusty black from the sides of the cooking pot where his mother had let the porridge boil over. His mother got the scolding and he got the cleaning. Zagreus didn’t mind. He liked to sit quiet with Mistress Kes.
She was making a paste with leaves in her mortar and pestle. Sometimes she put salt into the paste, sometimes oil. She worked it smooth, and gave Zagreus a smile now and then. He wished she wouldn’t. Once in the morning was enough, because it was her real smile. When she didn’t give him unwanted smiles, she frowned at her paste. Something vexed her, and what vexed Mistress Kes vexed Zagreus.
“I had a bad dream last night,” he offered.
“Did you?” She wasn’t paying attention. “What was it about?”
“It was scary.” He hesitated. “Samir said he came last night.”
She worked the paste and pretended not to hear, and he pretended it didn’t matter.
Zagreus knew when things bothered Mistress Kes. He knew when she was sad. He worked extra hard then, tried to be extra good.
Was it basket day? Basket days were sad days for Mistress Kes. Twice a week she took the empty basket from the tall man and filled it again. She filled it with loaves of bread, smoked fish, whatever she had on hand. Sometimes she made the paste and put it in a small jar and put it in the basket. She put other things in and made it look nice. Sometimes a posy of herbs, sometimes a piece of parchment, broken off from a scroll she kept hidden from Master Jarek.
Once she did an odd thing on basket day. She placed a bunch of fresh greens in the basket, then got very still and gave a strange cry. She clutched the bundle of greens close, pressed them on her cheek, then kissed them. She put them carefully in the basket. He saw a tear drip off her nose. He pretended not to see and was extra good that day.
A while back she had Demas days. Those days her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright. He liked Demas days. He didn’t like Demas—his mother did, and Demas liked his mother—but he was glad for Mistress Kes on Demas days. She was happy then, and things felt fine.
New days had settled on the inn. Maybe these were Master Tallis days, though he didn’t make her cheeks flush and didn’t brighten her eyes. Zagreus was a little scared of Master Tallis because he was so different from the other guests. He dressed different; he spoke funny. His skin was pale, and it burned in the sun. He was fussy, Mistress Kes said, and nosy. But things felt right around Master Tallis, things felt safe. Sometimes he winked at Zagreus, and there was kindness in his eyes. Demas had never noticed Zagreus.
“Finished?” said Mistress Kes.
“Almost.”
“Clean your nails when you’re done.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mother never asked him to clean his nails. Mother never saw if his nails were dirty. Mistress Kes took care of Zagreus, and Zagreus took care of Mistress Kes.
Troubled, he stopped scrubbing. “Is it Auntie day, Mistress Kes?”
She stopped working the pestle. “No.”
“Is it basket day?”
“Tomorrow is basket day.”
Ah. He applied his brush to the pot again. Then days when she was quiet-vexed must be Master Tallis days.
He raised his head at a sound in the common room. He hopped off his stool and set down the pot. He wiped off his hands and went to the doorway. He observed for a moment to see what he could see, then reported to Mistress Kes.
If the gods were trying to communicate with Tallis, why would it be through dread? It was the sum total of the dream last night, its substance, its detail, and its interpretation: dread. What would the philosopher/dream-interpreter think about that?
“There is someone here to see you.”
He jumped at her voice. He rose from his chair at the lake and smoothed his toga in a huff, cheeks flaming.
“I’m sorry—I should have walked loudly,” Kes`Elurah said, and he glanced at her.
He smiled wryly. “I was deep in thought,” he replied, looking down the path to the inn.
Finally, an inquiry! Would they settle for the scroll in payment? He had a small bottle of his favorite scented oil, for which he had little use since visits to the baths had been reduced to a once-a-week luxury. To part with his oil, however, was unthinkable. He’d become a barbarian for certain.
She started down the path, and he followed. Was now a good time to bring up possible employment? Any time would be humiliating. He caught up to her.
“Kes`Elurah,” he began.
“Kes,” she replied.
“I, ah, was wondering—does your father need any help around here?”
“You can’t pay?” she asked.
For the second time his cheeks flared. “I did not intend on staying in Palestine this long. I didn’t bring enough money.”
He stopped with Kes`Elurah outside the kitchen door, and slipped off his sandals to slap them together before crossing the threshold. “I suppose we can discuss employment opportunities another time. Where is my visitor?”
“In the common room. I gave her some wine.”
He looked up from his sandals. “Her?”
Kes shrugged. “You were expecting a he?”
He knocked the rest of the dirt from the sandals and slipped them on. “I hadn’t thought about it. I posted an inquiry in the forum, I suppose anyone could—” And a thought stopped his words. Nearly stopped his heart.
Kes was entering the kitchen doorway, but he seized her arm and pulled her back. He held her aside while he peered through the kitchen to the common room door. It was opened, but from here he could not see any visitor.
With an indignant look at his grip on her arm, she began to speak, but Tallis quickly pulled her around the corner to the back of the inn. He covered her mouth and spoke low.
“This woman—did you see an imprint on her forearm—a mark—a tattoo?” What did he remember of Portia? Nothing, he could not see her face. “It would be ivy or grapevines.”
His mind raced with his heart. What else did Lysias say about Portia? She was plain—he said she was plain. But nothing would identify her more clearly than the tattoo that accompanied an initiate of the Bacchantes. A priestess of Dionysus would proudly bear such a mark.
He carefully removed his hand from Kes’s lips. Her green eyes searched his, quick with surprise.
“I did not see any tattoo. Would you like me to look? I can be discreet.”
Portia had dark hair, he suddenly remembered. “Is her hair black? Is she plain?”
The green eyes flickered. “Far from it. She’s quite beautiful. That I can tell. And her hair is light brown, with sun in it.”
He held her a moment longer, closed his eyes in relief, and was quite suddenly aware of himself. He pulled away, murmuring, “I’m sorry. I—”
But there was no explaining his behavior. He smoothed down his toga, avoiding her face, and started for the kitchen. This time she seized his arm.
“There is fear in your eyes,” she accused quietly. “If there is one thing we know, running this inn, it’s where fear belongs and where it doesn’t. It doesn’t belong with you.” Her eyes narrowed, more with curiosity than accusation. “Why is it there?”
He snatched his arm from her. Who did she think she was, Callimachus?
“You don’t know me,” Tallis scoffed.
“I know what I see. My father thinks you are a good man. If this is true, why is fear now in your eyes?” She was clearly unperturbed by the fact that she detained him from the person in the common room. Unperturbed by her honest words, which perturbed Tallis greatly.
“How do you know fear so well?” he asked, and when she did not answer, he started for the doorway.
“Tallis,” she called, and he stopped from surprise. He looked over his shoulder.
“I just wanted you to know . . .” She nodded in the direction of the common room. “Zagreus says there is no fear in her eyes.”
After a moment he nodded and went to receive his guest.
She was standing in the doorway of the inn, her back to him. Her image, the one he would carry with him, was of folds of pearly green fabric, softly illumined by the late afternoon sunlight in the doorway, artfully draped on her frame. An alabaster buckle held the folds of fabric at her shoulder, and her undertunic was creamy, matching the tone of her skin. A mother-of-pearl clasp caught her hair, a light-brown arrangement of softly curled and artfully arranged loveliness, tendrils of which lay on her neck. Sun was in her hair, as Kes had said. She was smiling at someone through the doorway, a short someone.
She clasped her hands together and laughed, then knelt in the doorway and said something Tallis could not hear, though he heard her gentle tone. Here was a lady, an elegant, patrician Greco-Roman lady, Athens come to him, whose expensive perfume finally reached his nose. The scent was fresh and lovely, foreign in this common room, quickening his heart. Alluring, in the sweetest sense of the word.
He should clear his throat to alert her to his presence, but he didn’t want to. She finally noticed him herself, and turned, bringing to bear the full loveliness Tallis knew he would find. Who was Tallis, that she should come to him?
“You should have sent a servant,” were his first words to her, tinged with reprimand. He would remember this later and wish he had said something else.
Even her half smile ignited the dreary common room. What would a full smile do, spray it with lightning?
“I came with a servant. He is outside with my son.”
My son, she says, and that is an instant pity.
Tallis and the woman regarded one another until the woman glanced pointedly at the long table where a goblet of wine waited. He quickly gestured for her to be seated and joined her across the table.
Kes`Elurah arrived with another goblet of wine and a pitcher. She placed the goblet in front of him, filled it, and topped off the goblet of the woman. She addressed Tallis, saying, “Will there be anything else, sir?” in the only servile tone he’d ever heard from her—the only time she’d ever addressed him with an honorarium, and the only time she’d served him table wine without her palm out for payment. It made him glance at her, and the look on her face was passive dignity. She could have been an actor.
He deferred to his guest, asking if she or her child required any further refreshment, but she shook her head. To Kes`Elurah he said, “No. Thank you.” She nodded, and he watched her head for the corner counter near the kitchen.
“I’d like to guess at your name,” Tallis said, turning to the lady. “Are you Julia?”
“I am. Do you still work for Callimachus?”
Had he mentioned Callimachus in the posted message?
To answer his mute surprise, she said, “You told me you wanted to be an historian of Alexander. Have you written anything?”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken. We never had a conversation. I never would have forgotten it.”
She laughed softly, and the sound freshened the room. “Apparently you already have. It was quite a long conversation, and I entertained hopes, back then, that it wouldn’t be forgotten.” She tilted her head. “Don’t you remember? They were running you ragged, and you finally had a chance to sit down on the back porch. You thought you were alone.”
Dumbstruck, Tallis sat back. “That was you?”
It was past midnight, and Tallis had been up before dawn, chasing down last-minute accommodations for the people who had arr
ived and were not on the list—Tallis was always the last to know when Callimachus had invited more. He had to find seven more beds, scare up seven more place settings (they had borrowed all the fine servingware they could, and now Tallis had to scour Athens for more), and inform the cook of extra arrivals. The cook had a fit because seven more people meant another bottle of fish sauce, and it couldn’t be any fish sauce—no, it had to come from a place on the west side that had closed its doors by sundown. He had to find out who owned the store, find where he lived, and beg for another bottle. The fish sauce alone took two hours.
The new leaders of the satellite schools had filled Callimachus’s house to overflowing, and the chatter and excitement and the wine had flowed on that first day until all were littered about the estate either asleep or in contented whispering enclaves. When Tallis thought no more was required of him, he collapsed on a chaise in what he thought was the only empty place on the grounds.
“We had quite a conversation, didn’t we,” Tallis said, marveling that she was the one.
“Well, I thought so . . . you didn’t even acknowledge me the next day,” she replied in a twinkling rebuke.
“I couldn’t find you,” Tallis protested. “It was dark—I never got a clear look at your face.” Finally, an interesting woman—lost to him the very next day. Lost to him until eight years later, when he finds out she’s not only the loveliest creature he’s ever seen, but she’s married and has a child. “Tell me you remember Aristarchus finding me.”
“I remember.”
“He was furious. And now I am furious at him. And don’t think I didn’t try to find you.” He shifted in his seat. “Do you know how many conversations I eavesdropped on, listening for your voice?”
Do you know I’ve listened for you for years?
Fatigue and the concealing darkness and the amphora of wine Julia shared with him had loosened his tongue. They had spoken of everything from Alexander to mosaic, Julia’s field of work at the new school in Hippos. They talked for at least a half an hour before Aristarchus found him and dragged him off.
