by John Brunner
But behind him was a fat and fussy fellow in even more expensive garb, including a border on his robe dyed with Tyrian purple. However, it had run disgracefully, proof that he must have bought it from a seller who used cheap mordants.
The latter said, “Is there anybody here except you? I have to get my ship afloat again at once!”
Anastasia was awake too, now. Registering the presence of the strangers, she whimpered and rolled into the darkest corner of the cave.
“I’m Shipmaster Porias,” said the African. “This is my employer, Nikodemos of Alexandria. Tell your woman to calm down. All we want is help in freeing our ship from the sandbank she’s stuck on. We’re shorthanded because we lost a man overside in last night’s gale and three more are badly hurt. We’ll pay you well. But is there anyone here apart from you and the girl?”
“N-no!” At the promise of pay Evgenos found his tongue. “But—uh—I’ll do what I can! What ship?”
“Wipe your eyes and you’ll see her plain enough!” was Porias’s curt reply.
The fat man babbled something about delay. Evgenos ignored him and pushed past into daylight.
And there she was: grounded on the bar guarding the southern bay of Oragalia, which had ensured that this patch of salt-sour ground had never been claimed by anyone until Evgenos and Anastasia were driven to try and scrape their living off it. His practiced eye informed him that she was already starting to lift clear of the entrapping sand.
He wanted to laugh, but dared not. Why, here was his chance to escape for good and all! If he told these strangers he’d help, but his price was a place in their crew…
Behind him Anastasia was rising to her feet. He sighed and changed his mind. He had ordained his own doom.
“The wind will turn after midday,” he said dully. “By then you should have been able to shovel away enough of the sand to free her bow. Now leave us in peace.”
“No! Wait!” Unpredictable as ever, Anastasia was at his side, smoothing down the calf-long black dress which she had slept in because it was her only garment. Brushing back her thick and tangled hair, she smiled at Porias and Nikodemos with all the expertise of a coquette, heedless of her chipped front teeth.
“Evgenos will help you, of course! Won’t you?”—with a meaning glare. “But what cargo does your ship carry?”
“You want to buy something?” Instantly Nikodemos’s commercial instincts were alerted.
Porias snorted and turned away, his posture asking more clearly than words: What could these poverty-stricken folk afford from you?
Anastasia, though, advanced on Nikodemos, hands outstretched, her eyes huge and pleading and full of tears.
“Yes, I do! I so much want—!”
She checked, frightened by the intensity of her desires.
“Well then, what?” Nikodemos snapped. “Just ask!”
“Some—some sort of food that I can’t name!”
“Lord have mercy!” Nikodemos glanced at the sun. “By this time Kranes must be well out to sea, and he’ll have avoided last night’s gale, and—Porias, can you make these people see sense? We may have to dump some of the deck cargo to lighten the ship and float her off! Think that might satisfy them?”
“And what use would they have here for linens and papyrus?” Porias returned with a scowl.
“The linens only weigh heavy because a wave soaked them last night—”
“I don’t want linen!” Anastasia cried. “I don’t want—whatever the other thing was you mentioned! I want food for my baby! I want something I can feel, but I can’t name!”
Moaning, she clenched her fists before her face.
“Oh, for the love of heaven! I’ll pay your man with a jar of Indian pepper, how about that? I’ll wager that’s something you’ve never tasted! Or a pot of honey, which they say is good for pregnant women! Just so long as he works hard and honestly and comes with us now, at once!” Nikodemos was almost dancing up and down with rage and frustration.
“Take the honey,” Evgenos suggested with a sigh, turning in search of his buskins.
“No, we have honey—there are lots of bees on the island! I want…” She bit her lip, considering. “Maybe I do want pepper; I don’t know. Is it good nourishing food that fills the belly and drives away the kind of hunger you can’t name?”
“No, it’s a spice that fills the mouth and disguises the flavor of bad meat!” Porias snapped. “And I imagine you don’t get much of that, good or bad! Your man’s right—you should take the honey. Or a jar of wine, or… Wait: we have Egyptian waterfowl preserved in their own grease, a delicacy!”
Anastasia’s eyes lightened. But Nikodemos interrupted before she could speak again.
“Not those! They’re a very special item, and they’ll sell for—”
“Do you want the ship refloated?” Porias flared. “Or do you want to keep the stuff and sell it at a loss when we get to Constantinople? Not that it’ll be yours to sell by then, come to think of it, not if Kranes beats us. You know what sort of person he is! He’ll have armed men stationed on the quayside to seize our cargo, and he’ll have bribed the port police to make certain we don’t try and stop them! Do you look forward to spending the winter in jail?”
“Very well,” said Nikodemos sullenly. “But one jar, mind!”
“And one of honey, and one of wine!” Evgenos insisted.
“It’s a deal,” Porias said promptly. “You can take it out of my share if you like, Nikodemos. But if you do, then this will be our last trip together. Let’s get a move on, shall we?”
The man with the wrenched knee and the man with the dislocated arm had been borne ashore by their shipmates. Now they were sitting on their haunches in the shade cast by the bales and bundles which had been taken from the deck to lighten the ship, tending their comrade who had been hit on the head. The latter’s neck was definitely fractured; he lay writhing in pain with his eyes closed. Now and then he tried to say something, but all that emerged was a moan.
Three of the crew were mending the rigging and restepping the mast. The rest were knee-deep in water, wearily plying what came to hand—poles, bits of wood, pottery shards—in their attempts to free the bow. As Evgenos came to join them they paused and looked him over sullenly.
“Well, there’s a plank you can use for a shovel,” Porias said, pointing. “Get to it!”
“Put my pay on shore first,” said Evgenos.
“What?” Porias balled his fists, taking a step closer. “Are you saying that you doubt my word?”
“Not yours. His”—with a jerk of this thumb at Nikodemos, who had darted off to inspect his damaged goods.
“You’re a shrewd bastard, aren’t you?” Porias said grudgingly. “You seem to be a good judge of character, at least… Very well. I’ll pick out the stuff myself and put it over there in the shadow of that rock, all right?”
“Right!” Evgenos answered. He seized the plank and set to with a will.
Despite his gauntness and his hollow belly, he seemed to be fitter than the seamen, and dug much faster than they did. Still, that wasn’t surprising; he hadn’t slaved away half of last night in the teeth of the gale. The sun climbed to the zenith, and he could no longer tell whether he was wetter from seawater than from perspiration, or the other way around. But the ship’s bow was coming free.
“Thirsty?”
And to his surprise, here was Porias with a pottery vase of water on a rope sling, going from man to man and allowing each three mouthfuls, neither more nor less. Wiping the sweat from his eyes after gulping down his share, Evgenos said, “When that’s empty, go find Anastasia. Ask her to show you the spring we use. It runs slow at the end of summer, but it’s good and sweet.”
The prospect of plenty of water for the next leg of the trip cheered the seamen, and they began to look on Evgenos with less jaundiced eyes.
The sun slanted downward. The mast was secure again and the rigging, though lump with knots, was back to usable condition. Evgenos paused,
waiting for the first hint of an offshore breeze. As soon as it came, he tossed his plank aboard the ship and turned to Porias.
“Unfurl your sail and get everyone here to shove her off. She’ll move now.”
Before complying, the shipmaster looked him over curiously. He said, “You seem to know something about ships and the sea. Did you learn it on your way here?”
For an instant memory flared, of a voyage infinitely longer and stranger than any Porias or his master could have undertaken. But there were no words to cast his story in, and anyway nobody would have believed him. Evgenos settled for a grunted, “Yes!”
“So were you—? No, I sense you prefer not to talk about it. Your pay is on the beach, anyway. I hope your girl enjoys it. Now where in heaven’s name is my boss?”
“He’s on board,” someone muttered. “Said he couldn’t stand the heat and had to go below.”
“That’s added a few more talents’ weight to the load we have to shift,” Porias sighed. “I think I’ll make this my last trip with him whether he loses his bet with Kranes or not… Right, men! Yare now, yare! Set your shoulders to the bow and push!”
And after a lot of slipping and sliding on the loose bottom, they forced the boat clear. Hanging on to a cable along with four of the seamen for fear she might adrift, Porias shouted at Evgenos.
“Don’t suppose you’d care to ship with us, would you? We could use an extra hand as smart as you!”
Last night Evgenos had been dreaming of a chance to quit this island where everybody seemed to hate him except Anastasia… and sometimes lately he hadn’t been quite sure about her. But if he accepted this invitation, when he came back he could count on one thing beyond a doubt: she would have been turned into a widow even though she wasn’t one. Even if she and the baby survived, he would be a complete outcast. And he had been an outcast before he found his way to Oragalia…
Would these men accept him as one of themselves, let him make a career as part of this ship’s crew? More likely they’d be glad to see the back of him once the voyage was over and they had no more use for his services. Besides, he had gathered that Nikodemos stood to lose ship and cargo too if he arrived late at Constantinople. Then he’d be stranded further from home than ever, and moreover in a great city. He had no experience of cities, but he had been warned that a man could feel more alone in a vast crowd than by himself in the middle of a desert or an ocean. It was better to be reluctantly tolerated on Oragalia than to endure that kind of bitter loneliness.
On top of all of which there was Anastasia, and soon there would be the child too—his first…
He forced a smile, shook his head, and shouted back.
“Thank you, Shipmaster! But I’ve made a life here!” The double meaning of the phrase startled him for a second; it had been unpremeditated. “I wish you a swift safe trip from now on, anyhow!”
“It’s a kind thought! I’m obliged!”
The men were making haste to climb aboard, carrying their injured shipmates on their shoulders through the shallows. Nikodemos had reappeared and was shouting something about retrieving the goods that had been dumped on shore, but nobody seemed to be paying him much heed.
Nor Evgenos. Despondently he turned away to collect the preserved Egyptian waterfowl, the wine and the honey. His mind filled with miserable second thoughts: could he not have demanded more, much more? And was he right after all in declining to leave the island? Life was harsher here, in some senses than at sea, and there were people who praised great cities despite their drawbacks…
But here was Anastasia coming to meet him. Her eyes grew wide as she looked not at what he was carrying but at the abandoned cargo.
“They left all that behind? Oh, you can take it to the village and people will pay us well for it! It’s cloth isn’t it?”
“Did you guide Porias to the spring?” Evgenos asked, abruptly aware how tired his long hot morning’s work had made him; he looked forward to sampling the wine, above all.
“Yes!” She started. “Was that wrong?”
“No, I suggested it. They weren’t bad people, you know. They could have beaten me into working for them, couldn’t they? Then, of course, I wouldn’t have worked half so hard… What am I talking about. Let’s get home. I’m dreadfully hot and thirsty, and half-starved.”
“But oughtn’t you to bring all that stuff to the cave right away? Suppose somebody else—”
“Who? Who ever comes this way, except some of your relatives by stealth, at night?”
“I’ll bring it, then!”
“No! You work too hard anyhow for a woman in your condition—”
“I have to, don’t I? If I didn’t—”
He forced himself to remain calm, but interrupted nonetheless.
“I’ll bring everything up to the cave before sundown, and later I’ll carry it to the village and sell it as you recommend. But there are some folk on the island who might try to steal it, aren’t there? We’ll have to be careful about how much we admit to having. And I’m too tired to make plans right now.”
He feared for a moment that she was going to argue; he added hastily, “Besides, what I have here is exactly what you’ve been saying you want. Let’s sample it.”
Yielding, she reached out to relieve him of part of his load.
The instant the seals on the jars were broken, the still air of the cave was filled with the most delectable aroma. With a cry of joy Anastasia drew out and devoured one after another of the potted birds, using for want of a better dish to save them from the sand a tile he had found that bore a scratched inscription in a language neither of them could read. With immense relief Evgenos relaxed, taking only token portions for himself until she decided to tackle the honey instead. Like the wine, it was exceptional, far richer than any made on Oragalia.
Discovering the fact, she calmed and set the rest of the jar aside.
“If I eat more, I shall make myself ill,” she sighed. “I shall take a little every day, but only a little, until it’s gone. It will be for the sake of our child. Such sweetness cannot but do him good.”
Evgenos was leaning back contentedly against the rocky wall. Hard work, wine and good food were combining to make him drowsy. Leaning toward him, she tapped his knee.
“It’s nearly sundown, and you did say you’d bring the other things up here!”
Grumpy, but resigned, he forced himself to his feet and went to keep his promise.
There were eight big bales altogether, each as much of a load as he could manage because they were still soaked with seawater. Five were of fine linen, a great prize. The others, he guessed, might be of papyrus, for which he foresaw small demand on the island. Perhaps, though, the priest or the lawyer might find a use for it, and in any case if he left it in the open it would certainly draw the attention of would-be thieves.
Having set the bales where they would dry most quickly, he returned to Anastasia and found her dozing. At his touch, however, she stirred, and said with her eyes still closed, “Those men made me think of Pedro, you know.”
Yawning, stretching, preparing to lie down beside her in the gathering dark, he said, “How do you mean?”
“Was he not a trader to his very bones, yet not content with ordinary goods? Would he not always set the highest store by what was marvelous and strange, and did he not expect everybody else to feel the same?”
“Go on.”
Sleepily, she did so.
“The world he lusted to find a way to, then, must have been a place of wonders so far exceeding the normal run of our experience as to defy description. Were there foods? Then they must transcend ambrosia. Were there cloths and fabrics? Then they must be softer than a morning breeze and warmer than the summer sun. Were there dyes? Then their colors must be such as never yet graced any rainbow. Were there furs? Then they must retain the life of the beasts that yielded them, caressing and conforming to the bodies of their wearers. Were there drugs? Then they must not only cure the regular diseases, but
instantly confer such gaiety and vigor as never any did in the drab world he left behind!”
“Yes, that’s the sort of place which would suit Pedro. So he found it?”
“It’s… necessary to believe he did.”
“And no doubt”—Evgenos rolled to embrace her, licking mingled fat and honey on her cheek—“he dreamed of making his fortune out of it.”
“Not one fortune. A thousand. There was no end to the strangeness of that place. Eagerly he settled down to send home a report… and could not even draft one. Gene, are you paying attention?”
“Yes, yes!”—amid the tresses of her hair. “Why could he not make out his report?”
“The world was truly unfamiliar. So it did indeed defy description.”
PART EIGHT
THE EXHIBIT
is a graffito on a red clay tile, scarcely legible.
It marks the desperate need of somebody to be remembered
THE MONTH
is November
THE NAME
is Naruhiko
Seven years ago, one of the arrogant and vainglorious Romans who now ruled the Middle Sea had found his way to the otherwise unimportant island of Oragalia, and decided to turn it into his private estate, calculating that he could make it self-sufficient if he introduced modern methods of farming and irrigation. He had also intended to build a villa in the Italian style, centered around an atrium with a fountain as fine as any at Pompeii. But the marble and mosaic which he dreamed of cost too much, and he died before his overambitious project was completed.
Almost the only relic of his intrusion was a channel which brought fresh water down from hillside springs to the miniature forum of the town that had developed beside the eastern bay. There it was fed first into a stone trough, for drinking and cooking, and the citizens came and went from dawn to dusk with jars and skin bottles to be filled. Lower down, it trickled into a wide basin, and this was used to water livestock, and for laundry. Families rich enough to own a slave or two, but not a private water supply, sent them thither most days, and they behaved as bossily as their owners, insisting on priority over every other would-be user. Because the alternative was to beat their clothes in seawater and spread them to dry on the rocks of the shore—treatment that wore the fabric out in next to no time—the poorer sort generally deferred to them, hanging back until the basin was foul with grease and masses of shed fiber clogged the outflow, whereupon they had to set to and clear the mess away with their bare hands. Sometimes the delay could cost them half a precious day.
