Like a man slowly emerging from a trance, Menedemos looked up from the silk to Zakerbaal. “How much of this do you have?” the Rhodian asked. “What price do you want?”
Zakerbaal sighed, as if he too didn’t much care to return to the mundane world of commerce. “I have twelve bolts in all, each much like this in size, some in different colors,” he answered. “I would have bought more, but that was all the trader had. Price?” He smiled a sad smile. “I would say it is worth its weight in gold. And now I have made you want to flee, I doubt not.”
“No, best one.” Menedemos tossed his head. “If I’d heard about this without seeing it, I would have laughed in your face. Now . . . Now I understand why you say what you say.” He did laugh then. “Telling you something like that makes me a terrible trader, one who deserves to be overcharged. But here, for this, I can’t help it. It’s the truth.”
“You respect the cloth,” Zakerbaal said seriously. “I respect you because of it. With stuffs like this, we throw out the ordinary rules.” He mimed tossing the contents of a chamber pot out the window and into the street below.
“Worth its weight in gold, you say?” Menedemos asked, and the Phoenician nodded. Menedemos didn’t even try to argue with him. Considering how far the silk had come, considering how fine it was, that seemed fair. But he didn’t want to give up gold or silver for the silk, not directly. “What would you say if I offered you half again its weight in my Koan silk here? “
“I would say, that is not enough,” Zakerbaal replied at once. “Koan silk is all very well. I mean no insult, Rhodian, but I say this is far better. I say it is so much better, if ever it comes here often and in large quantities, the Koans will go out of business, for they cannot compete with it.”
Half an hour before, Menedemos would have laughed at him. With the silk from the distant east in his lap, under his fingers, he suspected Zakerbaal might be right. Even so, he said, “All right. Koan silk is not so splendid. How can I deny it? But Koan silk is still very fine cloth. Koan silk is still no common thing itself in Phoenicia. So—one and a half times the weight is not enough, you say. What would be enough?”
The Phoenician looked up toward the sky. His lips moved silently. Sostratos got the same faraway expression when he was calculating. At last, Zakerbaal said, “Three and a half times.”
“No. That’s too much.” Menedemos tossed his head once more. Zakerbaal had indeed dealt with a good many Hellenes, for he showed he understood the gesture by a small nod of his own. Menedemos, for his part, knew that nod wasn’t one of agreement, only of acknowledgment. He went on, “Here in Sidon, you’ll be able to get just about as much for Koan silk as you will for this cloth from out of the east, because they’re both foreign and exotic in Phoenicia.”
“There is, perhaps, some truth in what you say, best one, but only some,” the cloth merchant replied. “What I have is better than what you are trying to trade for it, though.”
“And I’m offering you more Koan silk than the eastern silk I’d get in return,” Menedemos said. In Hellas, Koan silk wasn’t exotic, but it was expensive. Just how much he might get for twelve bolts of these new stuffs. . . He didn’t know just how much, but he was ever so eager to find out. “Three and a half times by weight leaves me no profit.” He doubted even that, but Zakerbaal didn’t need to know his doubts.
“Three times, then,” the Phoenician said. “Bolt for bolt, Koan silk is heavier than the fabric I have, because yours is so much coarser and thicker.”
They haggled for the next hour, each calling the other a liar and a thief. Menedemos sometimes enjoyed taking on a skilled opponent, even if that meant ending up with a little less than he would have otherwise. By Zakerbaal’s small smile, he felt the same. The closer they came to a bargain, the harder they dickered over tiny fractions. At last, they settled on Koan silk for two and seventeen thirty-seconds the weight of the eastern silk.
“My master, you should have been born a Phoenician, for you are wasted as a Hellene,” Zakerbaal said when they clasped hands.
“You’re a formidable fellow yourself, most noble one,” Menedemos replied truthfully. He resolved to make sure that Zakerbaal weighed both kinds of silk on the same pan of his scales. So skillful a bargainer would surely find a way to make everything possible work for him. But the cloth merchant didn’t even try setting one kind in one pan and the other in the other. Maybe that was a compliment to Menedemos. Maybe it meant Zakerbaal had some other way to cheat. If so, Menedemos didn’t spot it.
The Rhodian’s burden on the way back to the Aphrodite was lighter than what he’d taken from the ship, but he didn’t mind. In fact, he felt like kicking up his heels. No, he didn’t mind at all.
I shouldn’t be doing this, Sostratos told himself. It’s wrong. If Menedemos knew, how he would laugh. . . .
Then he laughed at himself. He was enjoying himself too much to care whether his cousin would mock him.
“Keep going,” he said, panting a little. “Don’t stop there.”
“I don’t intend to, my dear,” Hekataios of Abdera answered. “I was only getting a pebble out of my sandal. The temple of the Ioudaioi is just around this next corner here.”
I should be in the market square, selling whatever I can, Sostratos thought. But Menedemos does know I aimed to learn about the loudaioi, too. Of one thing he was certain: his cousin wouldn’t have minded if he’d stayed away from the market square to bed the innkeeper’s pretty wife. That was how Menedemos would have entertained himself in Jerusalem. If I find my amusement in different places, Menedemos will just have to make the best of it.
Along with Hekataios, Sostratos rounded that last corner. Having done so, he stopped in his tracks and pointed. “That’s a temple?” he said, unable to hide his disappointment.
“I’m afraid so,” Hekataios told him. “Not very impressive, is it?”
“In a word, no,” Sostratos said. He was used to the colonnades, the entablatures, and carved and painted friezes that marked out a sacred place throughout the Hellenic world. Where poleis were rich, the shrines would be built of gleaming marble. Where they were not so rich, or where no more suitable stone was close by, limestone would serve. He’d even heard of temples where tree trunks did duty for columns.
The Phoenicians worshiped their gods with rites different from the ones Hellenes used. And yet, as Sostratos had seen in Sidon, they’d come under the influence of Hellenic architecture, so that from the front their shrines looked much like those to be found anywhere in the Hellenic world from Syracuse to Rhodes. The same held true for other barbarians like the Samnites and Karians and Lykians.
Not here. Seeing this temple in the northern corner of Jerusalem was almost like a blow in the face: it reminded Sostratos just how far from home he was. A stone wall defended the perimeter of the temple precinct. It wasn’t the strongest work Sostratos had ever seen, but it was a long way from the weakest. Laughing, he said, “I thought this was part of the citadel.”
“Oh, no, best one.” Hekataios of Abdera tossed his head and pointed northwest, up toward higher ground. “There’s the citadel, surrounding the governor’s palace.”
Sostratos craned his neck. “I see. It’s well sited. In any fight that breaks out between the governor and the Ioudaioi, the governor and his garrison here have the advantage of the ground.”
“Er—yes.” Hekataios dipped his head. “I hadn’t thought of it in quite those terms, but you’re perfectly correct. The palace, of course, dates back to Persian days, so the Great Kings must have been nervous about trouble from the Ioudaioi even then. An interesting point.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Sostratos said. “How old is the temple?”
“It was built in Persian times, too,” Hekataios answered. “But it’s supposed to lie on the spot where an older temple stood before Jerusalem was sacked.” He shrugged regretfully. “History in these parts is pretty much a blur before the days of the Persians, unless you want to believe all the mad fables abou
t Queen Semiramis and the rest of those absurdities.”
“They are hard to swallow, aren’t they?” Sostratos agreed. “Hard to make any real sense of history when you’re trying to investigate times too distant to let you question the people who shaped events.”
“Just so. Just so,” Hekataios said. “You do understand how these things work, don’t you?”
“I try.” Sostratos realized the older man took him for a merchant and nothing more. With some asperity, he said, “I may have to buy and sell for a living, O marvelous one, but I’m not an ignorant man on account of that. I studied at the Lykeion in Athens under the great Theophrastos. I may not be lucky enough to study full time”—the look he sent his companion was frankly jealous—”but I do what I can in the time I have.”
Hekataios of Abdera coughed a couple of times and turned as red as a modest youth hearing praise from his suitors for the first time. “I beg your pardon, my dear. Please believe me when I tell you I meant no offense.”
“Oh, I believe you.” That wasn’t the problem. The problem was all the assumptions Hekataios had been making. Sostratos didn’t know what to do about those. He doubted he could do anything about them. Hekataios was obviously a gentleman from a privileged family. Like anyone who didn’t have to get his hands dirty, he looked down his nose at men who did. He was polite about it; Sostratos had met plenty of kaloi k’agathoi who weren’t. But the bias remained. With a sigh, Sostratos said, “Let’s go on toward the temple, shall we?”
“Certainly. That’s a good idea.” Hekataios sounded relieved. By talking about the curious customs of the Ioudaioi, he could escape talking— and thinking—about the curious customs of the Hellenes. “We can go into the lower court here—anyone’s allowed to do that. But we can’t go into the upper, inner, courtyard, the one surrounding the temple itself. Only Ioudaioi are allowed to do that.”
“What would happen if we tried?” Sostratos asked—he wanted to get as close a look at the temple as he could. Unlike the shrines in Sidon, this one, he could see even from a distance of several plethra, had been built by men who knew nothing of Hellenic architecture. It was a plain, rather dumpy rectangle of a building, oriented east-west, its face adorned with sparkling gold ornaments, a curtain over the entrance. In front of the temple stood a large altar—ten cubits high and twenty broad, Sostratos guessed—of unhewn white stones.
But Hekataios of Abdera was tossing his head in dismay. “What would happen if we tried? First off, they wouldn’t let us. The priests of the Ioudaioi run things here—Antigonos’ men don’t. Second, if we did manage to sneak into the inner court, they would say we polluted it just by being there. They take ritual cleanliness very seriously. Didn’t you see that in your travels through Ioudaia coming here?”
“Well, yes,” Sostratos said. “But even so—”
“But me no buts,” the other Hellene said. “What would happen after we tried to go into the inner court is that Jerusalem would see rioting of a kind you wouldn’t believe. Even if the Ioudaioi didn’t murder us—and they probably would—Antigonos’ men would want to, for causing so much trouble. You have to be a dangerous madman to want to try to go up there. Do you understand me?”
“I suppose so,” Sostratos said sulkily. Hekataios waited. Sostratos realized something more was expected of him. The guard at the gate had warned him about the temple of the Ioudaioi, too, so it really was a problem for Hellenes. More sulkily still, he gave his word: “I promise.”
“Good. Thank you. You worried me there for a moment,” Hekataios said. “Now we can go on.”
“Thank you so much,” Sostratos said. Hekataios of Abdera ignored his sarcasm. They entered the outer courtyard. Looking around, Sostratos remarked, “It’s all cobblestones. Where are the bushes and saplings that mark off a holy precinct?”
“They don’t use them,” Hekataios said. “They think this is enough.”
“Strange,” Sostratos said. “Very strange.”
“They’re strange people. Hadn’t you noticed that?”
“Oh, you might say so.” Sostratos’ voice was dry. “What I think is especially peculiar is the day of rest they take every seven.”
“They say their god created the world in six days and rested on the seventh, and so they think they should imitate him.”
“I understand that,” Sostratos said. “It’s not what bothers me. I don’t believe their god did what they say he did, but never mind that. If they spent that seventh day relaxing, well and good. But it’s more than that. They won’t light fires or cook or do anything much at all. If soldiers attacked them, I don’t think they would fight back or try to save their own lives. And that’s crazy, you know.”
“As a matter of fact, yes. I agree with you completely,” Hekataios of Abdera told him. “One thing quickly becomes plain when you start looking at the way the Ioudaioi live their lives: they have no sense of proportion whatsoever.”
“Sense of proportion,” Sostratos echoed. He dipped his head. “Yes, that’s exactly what they’re missing. Nicely put, noble one.”
“Why, thank you, my dear. You’re very kind.” Hekataios looked suitably modest.
“I was talking with my cousin—he’s back in Sidon now—on the way here,” Sostratos said. “One of the proverbs from the Seven Sages came up: ‘Nothing too much.’ I don’t believe that one would appeal to the Ioudaioi.” He didn’t think it appealed to Menedemos, either, but he didn’t care to discuss that with a near stranger.
Laughing, Hekataios dipped his head, too. “You’re right. The loudaioi, I think, do everything to excess.”
“Or sometimes, as with their day of rest, they even do nothing to excess,” Sostratos said.
Hekataios laughed again. “Oh, that’s very nice. I do like that.” He made as if to clap his hands.
Sostratos went up as close to the terraced stairway leading up to the inner courtyard as he could—close enough to make Hekataios look nervous. He stared at the temple. “How old is it?” he asked.
“It was built, I believe, in the reign of the first Dareios,” Hekataios replied. “But, as I said before, this isn’t the first temple. There was another one before it, but that one was destroyed when Jerusalem was sacked.”
“I wish we could figure out exactly when that was,” Sostratos said.
“Before the days of the Persian Empire, as I said before—that’s all I can tell you,” the other Hellene said with a shrug. Then he snapped his fingers. “Come to think of it, though, the Ioudaioi do have a sort of a history that talks about such things, but who knows what’s in it? It’s not in Greek.”
“A history? A written one?” Sostratos asked. Hekataios dipped his head. Sostratos said, “I read Aramaic—a little, anyhow.”
“Do you? How strange.” Hekataios raised an eyebrow. “But that won’t help, I’m afraid.”
“What? Why not?”
“Because this book the Ioudaioi have isn’t in Aramaic,” Hekataios answered.
“What? Well, by the dog, what language is it in? Egyptian?”
“I don’t think so.” Hekataios pondered, then tossed his head. “No, it can’t be. I know what Egyptian looks like—all those little pictures of people and animals and plants running riot all over everywhere. No, I’ve seen this book, and it looks as if it ought to be in Aramaic, more or less, but it isn’t. It’s written in the language the Ioudaioi used to speak before Aramaic spread all over the countryside, the language the priests use when they pray.” He pointed toward the men in fringed robes and fringed, striped shawls who were sacrificing a sheep at the altar.
“Is that what it is?” Sostratos said in relief. “I was listening to them before we started talking just now, and I couldn’t make heads or tails of what they were saying. I thought it was just me. Whatever language that is, it sounds a lot like Aramaic—it has the same set of noises at the back of the throat—but the words are different.”
“That sort of thing happens with us, too,” Hekataios observed. “Ever try
to make sense out of what Macedonians say when they start talking among themselves? You can’t do it, no matter how much the language sounds as though it ought to be proper Greek.”
“Some Hellenes can—the ones from the northwest, whose own dialect isn’t too far away from what the Macedonians speak,” Sostratos said. “So it’s not quite the same.”
“Maybe not. I certainly don’t care to have to try to figure out Macedonian, and I have to do it in Alexandria every now and again.” Hekataios made a wry face. “The men with the money and the power too often aren’t the ones with the culture.”
“No doubt, O best one,” Sostratos said politely. He wanted to scream in Hekataios’ face instead, something like, You stupid, self-centered twit, you don’t know when you’re well off. You’ve got patrons in Alexandria, and what do you do? You complain about them! And yet you have the leisure to travel around doing research, and you’ll be able to sit down and write your book and have scribes make copies of it, so that it has a chance to live forever. How would you like to deal in perfume and beeswax and balsam and linen and silk instead? Do you think you would find the time to touch pen to papyrus then? Good luck!
He hoped none of that showed on his face. If it did, it was liable to look uncommonly like murder. He hadn’t known this sort of savage envy since he’d had to go home from the Lykeion. For him, a spell in Athens had been the capstone on his education. For others there, it had been the first step toward a life lived loving wisdom. He went back to the world of trade. They went on to the world of knowledge. As his ship sailed out of Peiraieus, bound for Rhodes, he’d wanted to kill them, simply because they got to do what he so desperately wanted to do.
Over the years, his resentment of scholars had faded. It had . . . till he met Hekataios, who complained of problems Sostratos would have been delighted to have.
“Shall we go back?” Sostratos said. “I don’t think I want to see any more.” What he really didn’t want to do was think about Hekataios’ good fortune.
Sacred Land Page 28
