The Sacred Land sam-3

by Harry Turtledove

  And he was right again. Menedemos couldn’t have denied it if he tried. “All right. Fine,” he said. “We’ll get some papyrus, then. Might as well get some ink to take with it. We’ve done pretty well with ink before.”

  “I’ll see to it,” Sostratos said. “I’m not sure what the market will be, though. It’s not like papyrus; the Phoenicians know how to make their own ink. They’re clever about such things.”

  “They copy everything their neighbors do,” Menedemos said with more than a little scorn. “They don’t do anything of their own.”

  “Himilkon wouldn’t care to hear you say such things,” Sostratos remarked.

  “So what?” Menedemos said. “Are you telling me I’m wrong?”

  Sostratos tossed his head. “No. From what I’ve seen, I’d say you’re right. But that doesn’t mean Himilkon would.”

  Menedemos laughed. “Anyone hearing you would guess you’ve studied under the philosophers. No one who hasn’t could split hairs so fine.”

  “Thank you so much, my dear,” Sostratos said, and Menedemos laughed again. His cousin went on, “When do you plan on sailing?”

  “If it were up to me-and if we had all our cargo aboard-we could leave tomorrow,” Menedemos answered. “I don’t think my father will let me take the Aphrodite out quite so early, though.” He sniffed, “He went out right at the start of the sailing season when he was a captain-I’ve heard him talk about it. But he doesn’t think I can do the same.”

  “Our grandfather probably complained that he was a reckless brat,” Sostratos said.

  “I suppose so.” Menedemos grinned; he liked the idea of his father as a young man having to take orders instead of arrogantly snapping them out.

  “I suppose it’s been like that since the beginning of time,” Sostratos said. “We’ll be proper tyrants ourselves, too, when our beards go gray.”

  “I won’t have a gray beard.” Menedemos rubbed his shaven chin.

  “And you accused me of splitting hairs-you do it literally,” Sostratos said. Menedemos groaned. Sostratos continued more seriously: “I wonder how you’d find out about something like that.”

  “What? If old men were always the same?” Menedemos said. “I can tell you how-look at Nestor in the Iliad.” He paused for a moment, then recited from the epic:

  “ ‘He, thinking well of them, spoke and addressed them:

  “Come now-great mourning has reached Akhaian land.

  Priamos and the sons of Priamos and the other Trojans

  Would be delighted and would rejoice in spirit

  If they learned of all this quarreling-

  That you, best of the Danaoi in council, were fighting.

  But hearken-you are both younger than I,

  For I kept company with better men than you.

  And never did they think little of me.

  I don’t see such men as I saw then:

  Such as Perithoos and Dryas shepherd of the people

  And Kaineus and Exadios and godlike Polyphemos

  And Theseus son of Aigeus, like the immortals.” ‘ “

  His cousin laughed and held up a hand. “All right, all right-you’ve persuaded me. Old men are old men, and they always have been.”

  “A good thing you stopped me,” Menedemos said. “Nestor goes on blathering for a lot longer. He’s a dear fellow… if he doesn’t make you want to kick him. Most of the time, with me, he does.”

  “And why is that?” Sostratos asked. Menedemos didn’t answer, but they both knew why: Menedemos’ father put him in mind of Nestor. Sostratos said, “If you and Uncle Philodemos got on better, you’d like Nestor more.”

  “Maybe.” Menedemos didn’t want to admit more than he had to, so he tried a thrust of his own: “If you and Uncle Lysistratos didn’t get on, you’d like Nestor less.”

  “Oh, I think Nestor blathers, too-don’t get me wrong about that.” Sostratos started to say something else, probably something that had to do with the Iliad, but then stopped and snapped his fingers. “By the gods, I know what else we can take to Phoenicia: books!”

  “Books?” Menedemos echoed, and Sostratos dipped his head.

  Menedemos tossed his. “Are you witstruck all of a sudden? Most Phoenicians don’t even speak Greek, let alone read it.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about the Phoenicians,” his cousin answered. “I was thinking about the garrisons of Hellenes in those towns. They ought to be good-sized; Antigonos builds most of his fleet along the coast there. And they won’t be able to buy books from any of the local scribes, because you’re right-those scribes don’t write Greek. The ones who can read would probably pay plenty for some new scrolls to help them pass the time.”

  Menedemos rubbed his chin as he considered. “Do you know, that might not be a bad notion after all,” he said at last. Then he gave Sostratos a suspicious look. “You weren’t going to take along philosophy and history, were you?”

  “No, no, no.” Now Sostratos tossed his head, “I like such things, but how many soldiers are likely to? No, I was thinking of some of the more exciting books from the Iliad and the Odyssey. Anyone who has his alpha-beta can read those, so we’d have more people wanting to buy.”

  “It’s a nice notion. It’s a clever notion, by Zeus.” Menedemos gave credit where it was due. “And books are light, and they don’t take up much space, and we can get a good price for them.” He dipped his head-in fact, he almost bowed to Sostratos. “We’ll do it. Go talk to the scribes. Buy what they’ve got written out and see how much they can copy before we sail.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Sostratos said.

  Menedemos laughed. “I’ll bet you will. If I sounded that eager, I’d be going off to visit a fancy hetaira, not some nearsighted fellow with ink stains on his fingers.”

  His cousin didn’t even splutter, which proved his point. “I’m always glad for an excuse to visit the scribes,” Sostratos said. “You never can tell when something new and interesting will have come into Rhodes.”

  “Happy hunting,” Menedemos said. He wondered if Sostratos even heard him; his cousin’s eyes were far away, as if he were thinking about his beloved.

  Even a polis as large and prosperous as Rhodes boasted no more than a handful of men who made their living by copying out books. Sostratos knew them all. The best, without a doubt, was Glaukias son of Kallime-don. He was fast, accurate, and legible, all at the same time. None of the others came close. Naturally, Sostratos visited him first.

  However good Glaukias was, he wasn’t rich. His shop occupied a couple of downstairs rooms in a small house on a street near the Great Harbor; he and his family lived above them. The shop did face south, which gave Glaukias the best light for copying.

  A skinny, angry-looking man was dictating a letter to him when Sostratos came up to the shop. The fellow sent him such a suspicious glare, he hastily withdrew out of earshot. Only after the man paid Glaukias and went on his way did Sostratos approach again.

  “Hail, best one,” Glaukias said. He was about forty, with big ears, buck teeth, and, sure enough, a nearsighted stare and inky fingers. “Thanks for withdrawing there,” he went on. “Theokles, the fellow who was here, is certain a Samian merchant is cheating him, and that the Samian has hired people here in Rhodes to keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn’t get what’s his by right.”

  “By the dog of Egypt!” Sostratos exclaimed. “Is that true?”

  Glaukias rolled his eyes. “Last year, he got into the same sort of mess with a trader from Ephesos, and the year before that with somebody from Halikarnassos… I think it was Halikarnassos. He quarrels with people the way some men go to a cockfight. If he had his letters, he wouldn’t have anything to do with me-half the time, he thinks I’m part of these schemes to defraud him.”

  “He sounds daft to me. Why do you keep writing letters for him?”

  “Why?” Glaukias smiled a sweet, sad smile. “I’ll tell you why: he pays me, and I need the silver. Speaking of which, what c
an I do for you?”

  Sostratos explained his idea, finishing, “So I’ll gladly buy whatever copies you’ve made of the quarrel of Akhilleus and Agamemnon, or of Akhilleus’ fight with shining Hektor, or of Odysseus’ adventure with the Cyclops, or of his return and his revenge on the suitors-that sort of thing.”

  “I see,” Glaukias said. “You want all the high points from the epics.”

  “That’s right,” Sostratos said. “People don’t have to buy books-I want the parts that would make them spend their money on Homer when they could be buying Khian wine or a night with a courtesan instead.”

  “People don’t have to buy books,” the scribe echoed mournfully. “Well, the gods know I’ve seen the truth of that. But you’re right. When they do buy, that’s usually the sort of thing they’re after. And so, when I don’t have someone’s order in front of me, I copy out books like that from the epics. Let’s see what I’ve got.” He disappeared into a back room, returning a little later with ten or twelve rolls of papyrus.

  “Oh, very good!” Sostratos exclaimed. “That’s more than I’d hoped for.”

  “I do stay busy,” Glaukias said. “I’d better stay busy. If I’m not busy, I’m starving. Personally, I wish I didn’t have so many rolls to sell you. That would mean other people had bought ‘em.”

  “What all have we got here?” Sostratos asked.

  “The high spots, as you said,” the scribe answered. “Most are the ones you talked about, but I also made a couple of copies of the next-to-last book of the Iliad: you know, Patroklos’ funeral games.”

  “Oh, yes. That’s a good one, too.” Sostratos unrolled one of the books and eyed the writing in admiration. “I wish I could be so neat with a pen. Your script looks as though it ought to be carved in marble, not set down on papyrus.”

  “Believe me, it’s only because I have so much practice.” But Glaukias couldn’t help sounding pleased.

  “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.

  The carpenter who lived next door to Polykles looked up from that stool. “Euge,” he told Sostratos. “I never thought you’d pry him out of the wineshop.”

  “As a matter of fact, neither did I.” Sostratos wasn’t proud of how he’d done it. “Now let’s see if it was worth doing.”

  Once they went inside, Polykles pawed through rolls of papyrus. “ Here’sh one.” He thrust it at Sostratos. “That what you want?”

  Sostratos undid the ribbon holding the scroll closed. When he unrolled the scroll so he could read what was on it, he let out a long sigh of sorrow and pain. He turned the scroll so the scribe could see it. It was blank.