“Are you going to sit there all day, Aziz, or are you going to try to make us some money so that we might have a meal tonight as well?”
Aziz clutched at the ghost of the idea that had haunted his thoughts that morning, but it was too late. The notion dissipated like the dust in the air. He turned to his wife. “Accursed woman, can you not see that I am thinking?”
“Thinking doesn’t put food on the table, husband. It is going to be hot today. If anyone is buying, it will be in the morning. Do your thinking in the afternoon.”
Aziz sighed. He had tried to explain to Istir that he could not control when inspiration struck, but she did not understand. Or, more likely, did not care. She had little use for inspiration, and in truth he could not blame her. Few of his brilliant schemes had amounted to anything, which was why they still lived in this tiny apartment with only one window, which looked directly into the house across the alley. The gods only knew what they would do if they ever had children; there was barely room for the two of them.
There was no point in arguing. Aziz got to his feet and went to the door. Perhaps the idea would return during his walk to the market.
*****
Aziz made his way down the alley past the other small houses to the street that would take him to the vast market near the center of Damascus. Neighbors waved and shouted greetings, and Aziz smiled and waved back, not truly seeing or hearing. The sun peeked over the clay-tiled roofs to his left, the glare in his eyes a nagging reminder of his wife’s admonishment: already the market would be full of people looking to buy food, and Aziz’s tent was still closed.
Still, he did not hurry. This was the last moment he would have to himself today, and he would make the most of it. He walked past the buildings of the big trading guilds and import houses, shaking his head. He had once worked for one of the larger houses, which specialized in coffee imported from Arabia, but he had grown frustrated with the owners’ stubborn refusal to take on debt to finance the expansion of the business. Aziz was convinced that if the firm would buy larger quantities of coffee from their suppliers, they could get a better price, which would allow them to undercut their competitors in Damascus and other cities where they did business. The additional profits would, he believed, allow them to pay off the debt within two years. He had even partnered with an Indian merchant who had once served as the steward for a Pandya prince to develop a prospectus outlining the details of his plan.
The owners of the trading house, though, had no patience for such plans. They did business as they had done so for six generations, and they would continue to do so. Profit, they believed, was attained by applying consistent effort over a long period of time. Borrowing money in an attempt to change one’s fortunes was a fool’s game. Perhaps in an effort to demonstrate this to Aziz, the firm offered to loan him enough money to go into business himself. Aziz, convinced he could not only succeed but also prove to the firm’s owners that he was right, eagerly accepted the terms. That was five years ago, and Aziz had made no progress in paying off the loan. Any money he had left over after paying for his wares and other expenses went toward interest.
And yet, Aziz persisted in believing that the problem was not his idea, but rather the lack of capital. He had hoped that he could earn sufficient profits to implement his plan on his own, but he had underestimated the costs he would face as a sole proprietor. As a result, he was caught in a vicious circle: he did not have the money to buy in volume, so he was forced to buy smaller quantities at higher prices, which reduced his potential profits. His request for an additional loan from the firm had been greeted with amused derision.
He had tried everything he could think of to reduce his costs, but nothing had worked. He had dabbled in selling coffee, wheat, barley, indigo, agave, and a dozen other goods, but his margins remained narrow or nonexistent. His latest idea was to try to determine what goods were available elsewhere that could not yet be found in Damascus. Since the arrival of the Romans, trade had opened up with many distant lands, and it was commonplace to find fruits and vegetables in the markets of Syrian cities that had been unknown a few years before. If Aziz could become the sole supplier of some highly desirable spice, perfume or fabric that had not yet been introduced to Damascus, he could land the kind of windfall profit that would allow him to put into motion the rest of his plan. Lacking the means to travel more than a few miles, though, Aziz was dependent on other merchants for this information—and their reports tended to be inaccurate and self-serving. It was for this reason that he had ended up with seven score bushels of coconuts that he had as yet been unable to unload.
By the time Aziz arrived at the market, it was teeming with people. All the tents were open, and the vendors were haggling loudly with potential customers. The air was redolent with a potent mixture of garlic, onion, cinnamon, cloves, and a dozen other scents. Aziz threaded his way past the throngs toward his little tent.
“A little early for you, isn’t it, Aziz?” asked Gunura, the fabric merchant. “I’m worried you’re not getting enough sleep.”
Aziz made an obscene gesture toward Gunura and continued walking. He reached his tent and began to untie the door flaps, muttering a good morning to Shullat next door.
“There was a man buying coconuts about ten minutes ago,” said Shullat. “He bought all of Samuel’s and was looking for more. I told him to come back in half an hour, but he said he needed to be in Emmaus by nightfall.”
Aziz managed a nonchalant wave, but his guts tightened. Had he missed his one chance to unload his inventory? If Istir found out, there would be hell to pay. Perhaps he would still sell enough to buy some flour or eggs so Istir could make supper.
But the crowd already seemed thinner by the time Aziz got his tent open and his wares put on display. Besides the coconuts, he had dates, almonds and walnuts. Because of his low volume of sales, he traded only in nonperishable goods; there was good money in oranges and grapes, but there was also great risk: if he couldn’t unload them in a day or two, he would take a loss. Aziz rarely traveled to acquire goods; he bought all his inventory from traveling merchants and farmers who went from town to town selling large quantities at low prices. The trick was essentially to know more about the local demand for the goods than the seller. An olive farmer, desperate to unload his crop, might be willing to accept a pittance, unaware that he had beat all of his competitors to Damascus that season. This was a rare occurrence, however; generally the farmers and specialized merchants knew as much or more than Aziz, and he would have to pay nearly as much for each date or olive as he charged his own customers. Operating at such margins garnered him enough silver to pay the fee to keep his tent at the market but little more.
By the time the sun reached its zenith, the crowd had thinned to a few stragglers who seemed more interested in the shade provided by the tent canopies than in buying anything. Aziz, who hadn’t an ounce of fat on his body, nevertheless was sweating through his thin cotton robe as he sat on a stool behind the rickety tables that held his wares. Many of the merchants were already packing it in for the day, and Aziz wondered if he should do the same. That meant facing Istir, though, and without any eggs or flour to mollify her. So he waited, hoping that he might make a few denarii.
That’s when he saw them: a few tents down were three men who looked as out of place as a camel in the court of Solomon. They clearly didn’t speak Aramaic and didn’t know the etiquette of the marketplace. Their clothing was strange too: the sleeves of their robes were tapered too narrowly, and the color was mottled, like the fabric had been poorly bleached. And yet the fabric looked expensive, tightly woven of some mix of fibers Aziz had never seen. He longed to get a better look, but he did not want to appear desperate. He prayed the three men would come closer.
For the moment, they hung back, watching one of the few remaining buyers haggling with a grain merchant. Occasionally the three would speak in hushed tones to one another. They seemed more interested in the dynamics of the haggling than in the pr
oduct itself, as if they were visitors from a far land where such markets did not exist. They had something of the look of the Slav about them, pale men from the west who lived in the forests and knew little of farming or shepherding. Occasionally a party of such men, sent by some Slavic chieftain, would appear in Damascus and be awed by the size of the city and the variety of goods to be purchased here. More than once Aziz had bought more furs than he could handle from Slavs, paying only a handful of silver.
The buyer, a cantankerous old Jew, at last aborted the negotiations by waving his hand dismissively and walking away. The three strangers immediately lost interest and moved toward Aziz’s tent. They were no Slavs, that was certain. Their clothing and mannerisms were all wrong. They were too tall, and their skin was too dark—and yet lighter than that of any people native to Syria or Judaea. And that fabric! Aziz longed to touch it. Just a little closer….
And then they had passed. There were no buyers to observe here, so the strangers kept moving. They wanted to stay among other people, where they could blend in and observe the negotiations between buyers and sellers. What were they looking for?
“Gentlemen!” cried Aziz, before he knew what he was doing. The three men, now several tents down, kept walking. They either did not understand or they had no desire to speak with Aziz. Shullat, packing up his own wares, turned to stare at Aziz. Aziz didn’t care. He had missed one opportunity today and he would not miss another. He ran after the men.
“Gentlemen,” he said again, now only a few paces from the men. The three whirled to face him, and their speed and bearing reminded him of Roman soldiers. Was that who they were? Romans disguised as merchants, perhaps investigating tax evasion in the market? No, it made no sense. The Romans were not so subtle, and in any case they would have found less absurd costumes.
The three men stared at him, suspicion (and possibly fear?) on their faces. The tall man, who seemed to be the leader, stood in the middle of the group, his right shoulder shifted toward Aziz, knees bent, hands just above his waist. Not quite a fighting stance, but ready to act if Aziz made a wrong move. The man on his right, a big blond bear of a man, and the one on his left, younger and slighter, had their right hands just inside their robes, as if they were about to produce weapons. None of them spoke.
Aziz put his hands in the air and said, “Peace, gentlemen. Aziz ibn Batnaya is at your service.”
Chapter Forty
The three men stared at Aziz, not understanding. Sweat poured down their faces; they were even more uncomfortable in this heat than Aziz was. A few of the merchants who were still in the area lent semi-interested glances toward the group, but they made no move to intervene. They see nothing but a desperate merchant harassing three foreigners for a sale, he thought. I, however, see more deeply. There is something strange here. Strangeness denotes novelty, and novelty presents opportunity.
“Please, come with me to my tent. I have water and a place for you to sit. I have various goods for you to purchase if you like, but I am most interested to know from what distant land you hail, and what brings you here. I am Aziz ibn Batnaya, purveyor of fine goods.” He rambled, desperate to keep the strangers’ attention, although it was clear they understood nothing he was saying. At last he pointed to the empty water skins that hung from their belt. He pointed to his mouth and then to his tent.
The leader said something to the others and the three seemed to relax a bit. He nodded to Aziz and motioned for him to lead the way. Aziz gave a bow and hurried back to his tent.
“Gentlemen, are you interested in olive oil?” asked Shullat.
“Shut up, Shullat,” Aziz said. “They do not speak Aramaic.” He gestured to the strangers to sit on the mat in front of his tent, and they did so, looking about cautiously. Aziz made sure to make slow, deliberate movements and keep his hands in sight. He picked up the clay jug of water that he had filled from the well the previous afternoon, drank a few swallows himself, and then handed it to the leader. The leader hesitated a moment and then drank deeply. He handed it to his comrades, who did the same. The big man emptied the jug, and Aziz smiled and nodded to indicate that it was all right. Aziz picked up a handful of dates from the table and offered them to the leader, who held up his hand and shook his head. Aziz grabbed the man’s hand, and one of the men produced a metal device from his robe, which he pointed at Aziz. The leader growled a low order to the man, and he put the device back. Aziz smiled, turning the leader’s hand palm-up and putting the dates in it. He gestured to the table in an effort to indicate that the strangers should help themselves. Then he picked up the water jug from the ground where the third man had set it and pointed in the direction of the well. The leader nodded, and Aziz hurried off.
The well was on the other side of the market, and Aziz had to wait for several people who had gotten there first. He was certain that by the time he returned to his tent, the strangers would be gone. But they were still there, munching on dates. Shullat had left, and no one else paid them any mind. Aziz sat down across from the three, setting the jug in the middle of the rug.
“Thank you,” said the leader, in strangely accented Latin.
“Ah, so there is a language we share!” Aziz exclaimed.
The three men stared at him.
“Well, it’s a start,” said Aziz. “Where… are… you… from?” he said, leaving a pause between each word.
“Far country,” said the leader. “Geneva.”
“Yeh-ni-veh,” said Aziz.
The leader nodded. He tapped his chest. “Jason,” he said.
“Yeh-son.”
The leader pointed to the big blond man on his left. “Olson.” He pointed to the other man, who seemed somewhat younger than the others. “Creed.”
“Olson. Creed,” Aziz repeated. He tapped his own chest. “Aziz ibn Batnaya.”
“We buy food,” said the one called Yeh-son.
“Very good!” said Aziz. “I sell food.”
The man seemed to understand. He motioned toward the tables laden with dates and coconuts and then held both of his hands before him and moved them apart from each other, as if to indicate something growing.
“You need more than I have?”
“More,” said the leader, nodding. “Very more.”
Aziz’s heart began to beat faster. “Dates? Coconuts? Olives?”
The leader nodded. “Very kinds. Very number.” Then he listed several types of food, only about half of which Aziz could make out. He understood wheat, rice, and barley. The man also seemed to be asking for sheep and… some other type of animal. He got to his feet and walked in a circle with his knees bent, bobbing his head and flapping his arms with his elbows pointing outward and making a strange clucking noise. “Chicken!” cried Aziz. The man touched his nose and smiled, which Aziz took as a good sign.
“I can get all of these for you,” he said. “How much?”
The men looked at each other, not understanding.
“Number,” said Aziz. “How many?”
Yeh-son nodded. “Two hundreds of men,” he said.
Aziz managed to contain his excitement. It was possible the man had misspoke. “You want food for two hundred men?”
“Yes,” said the Yeh-son. “Seven years.”
Now Aziz was confused. Were they looking for a long-term food supplier? “You want food for seven years?”
“Yes,” said Yeh-son again. “Food for two hundred men. Food for seven years.”
Aziz couldn’t believe it. The man obviously didn’t understand what he was saying. He tried to think of a way of getting clarification. “I don’t suppose you speak Greek?” he asked in that language. When this received no response, he tried Hindi. They stared again. Aziz sighed. Latin it was.
The one called Olson said something to Yeh-son, looking inside Aziz’s tent. Aziz turned to see what had caught the man’s attention. There was nothing there but some empty sacks and an old abacus—a tool Aziz made little use of, since his sales transactions rarely required
complex calculations. “You wish to see the abacus?” he asked.
“Abacus,” said Olson, nodding.
Aziz got up and retrieved the abacus. He handed it to Olson and sat down again.
“Two hundred men,” said Olson, in Latin that was even more thickly accented than Yeh-son’s. “Seven years.” Olson moved the beads slowly, as if unfamiliar with the device, but he performed the operation correctly. The abacus now showed fourteen hundred. Olson clearly knew how to use the abacus and understood the principle of multiplication.
Aziz looked to Yeh-son, who nodded. “Yes.”
Praise God, thought Aziz. They really did want to buy food for two hundred men for seven years!
“Wait a moment,” Aziz said. “I must get something.” He had no idea if the strangers understood him, but he figured they would not be eager to be moving on in this heat. He got to his feet and went quickly to a stall down the way, where another merchant was closing up his tent. It took some effort, but Aziz managed to convince the man he was negotiating a large sale on his behalf. He returned to the strangers with a small sack of flour.
Aziz sat down, setting the flour down between them. “One sack of flour,” he said. “One man. One week.”
The men conferred for a moment and then Yeh-son nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Food one week.”
Aziz gestured to the abacus, and Olson gave it to him. Aziz slid the beads back to their starting positions. “Fifty weeks in a year, seven years,” he said, performing the multiplication with the beads. The calculation was simple enough for him to do in his head, but he wanted the men to see it. “Three hundred fifty weeks. Two hundred men. Seventy-thousand sacks of flour.”
The Legacy of the Iron Dragon: An Alternate History Viking Epic Page 26
