Menedemos answered in one word: “Sostratos.”
Sostratos peered back at Jerusalem from the ridge to the north from which he’d first got a good look at the chief town of the Ioudaioi. He sighed. Next to him, Teleutas laughed. “Was she as good in bed as all that?” he asked. Aristeidas and Moskhion both chuckled. They also crowded closer to hear Sostratos’ reply.
“I don’t know,” he said after a bit of thought. He didn’t see how he could keep quiet, not when the sailors already knew so much more than he might have wished. “I really don’t know. But it’s . . . different when you’re not buying it, isn’t it?”
Aristeidas dipped his head. “It’s sweetest when they give it to you for love.”
Menedemos had always felt that way, which was why he liked to chase other men’s wives instead of—or in addition to—going to brothels. Now, after bedding Zilpah, Sostratos understood. He sighed again. He wouldn’t forget her. But he feared she would spend the rest of her days trying to forget him. That wasn’t what he’d had in mind, but it was how things seemed to have worked out.
Teleutas laughed again, a coarse, altogether masculine laugh. “You ask me, it’s just fine whenever you manage to stick it in there.” The other two sailors laughed, too. Moskhion dipped his head in agreement.
In one sense, Sostratos supposed Teleutas had a point. The pleasure of the act itself wasn’t much different for a man regardless of whether he bedded a whore or his own wife or someone else’s. But what it meant, what he felt about himself and his partner afterwards—those could, and indeed almost had to, vary widely.
Had Menedemos been there, Sostratos would have taken the argument further. With Teleutas, he let it drop. The less he had to talk to the sailor, the better he liked it. He said, “Let’s keep moving, that’s all. The faster we go, the sooner we’ll get back to Sidon and the Aphrodite.”
Aristeidas, Moskhion, and Teleutas all murmured approvingly at that. Moskhion said, “By the gods, it’ll be nice to speak Greek again with more people than just us.”
“That’s right.” Aristeidas dipped his head. “By now, we’re all sick of listening to each other, anyhow.” He glanced over at Sostratos, then hastily added, “Uh, meaning no offense, young sir.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Sostratos said. “I know you’re sick of me.”
He didn’t mention the obvious corollary. Aristeidas did it for him: “You’re sick of us, too, eh?”
Once again, Sostratos faced the dilemma of choosing between an unpalatable truth and an obvious lie. In the end, he chose neither. With a wry smile, he asked, “How on earth could you dream of such a thing?” That made the sailors laugh, which was better than offending them or treating them like fools.
They tramped on. After a while, Teleutas said, “I think we ought to look to our weapons. We’ve come this far without any trouble. It’d be a shame if we got robbed when we were so close to getting back to Sidon.”
Sostratos wanted to tell him he was worrying over nothing. He wanted to, but knew he couldn’t. What he did say, regretfully, was, “That’s a good idea.”
He’d never let Menedemos’ bow get far from him while he was on the road. Now he took it out of its case and strung it. The case itself, which also held his arrows, he wore at his left side, slung over his right shoulder with a leather strap. “You look like a Skythian nomad,” Aristeidas said.
“The case looks like a Skythian nomad’s,” Sostratos said, tossing his head, “for we use the same style they do—I suppose we borrowed it from them. But tell me, my dear, when have you ever imagined a Skythian nomad aboard a plodding mule?” That made the sailors laugh again. Sostratos, a thoroughly indifferent rider even on a mule, thought it was pretty funny, too.
Toward noon, half a dozen Ioudaioi came down the road toward the Hellenes. The strangers were all young men, all on the ragged side, and all armed with spears or swords. They gave Sostratos and his companions long, thoughtful looks as the two parties drew near. The Rhodians looked back, not in a way suggesting they wanted a fight, but as if to say they could put up a good one if they had to.
Both little bands got halfway off the road as they edged past each other. Neither seemed to want to give the other any excuse for starting trouble. “Peace be unto you,” Sostratos called to the Ioudaioi in Aramaic.
“And to you also peace,” a man from the other band replied.
One of the other Ioudaioi muttered something else, something Sostratos was even gladder to hear: “More trouble than they’re worth.” A couple of the young man’s friends nodded.
Despite that, Sostratos looked back over his shoulder several times to make sure the Ioudaioi weren’t turning around to come after his companions and him. Once, he saw a Ioudaian looking back over his shoulder at him and the sailors. “We made them respect us,” he told the other Rhodians.
“A good thing, too,” Moskhion said, “for I always respect bastards who outnumber me—you’d best believe I do.”
“If we run into six bandits, or eight, or even ten, we’re probably fine,” Sostratos said, “because a little band like that can see we have teeth. They might beat us, but we’d cost them half their men. One of those fellows called us more trouble than we’re worth. That’s how most bands would feel about us.”
“What about a band with forty or fifty men in it, though?” Aristeidas asked worriedly. “A bandit troop that big could roll right over us and hardly even know we were there.”
“The thing is, there aren’t very many bandit troops with forty or fifty men in them.” Teleutas spoke before Sostratos could answer. “A troop like that is more like an army than your usual pack of robbers. It needs a village of its own, pretty much, on account of keeping that many men fed isn’t easy. And it’s the big bands that soldiers move against, too. Most bandits turn back into farmers when soldiers come sniffing after ‘em. A big troop can’t do that, or not easily, anyhow—too many people know who they are and where they roost. It either splits up into a bunch of little bands or else it stands and fights.”
Aristeidas thought it over, then dipped his head. “Makes sense,” he said.
It did indeed make sense. It made so much sense, Sostratos sent Teleutas a very thoughtful look. How had the sailor acquired such intimate knowledge of the way robber bands worked? Had he been part of one, or more than one, himself? That wouldn’t have surprised Sostratos, not a bit. There were technical treatises on things like cookery and how to build catapults, but he’d never heard of, never imagined, a technical treatise on how to become a successful bandit. Even if such a monster of a book existed, he didn’t think Teleutas could read.
Moskhion must have been thinking along with him. “I got out of sponge diving because pulling an oar was a better job,” he said. “What did you get out of to turn sailor, Teleutas?”
“Oh, this and that,” Teleutas answered, and gave no details.
The Hellenes took a more westerly route up to Sidon than they had on their way down to Jerusalem. They spent the night in a village called Gamzo. The place was so small it didn’t even have an inn. Having got permission from the locals, Sostratos built a fire in the middle of the market square. He bought bread and oil and wine and, feeling extravagant, a duck. He and the other men from the Aphrodite roasted the meat over the fire and feasted.
Children—and more than a few adults—came out of their houses to stare at the Rhodians. As elsewhere in Ioudaia, Sostratos wondered if these people had ever seen a Hellene before. He got to his feet, bowed in all directions, and spoke in Aramaic: “Peace be unto you all.”
Even though he’d already dickered with them for food, some of them seemed surprised he spoke their language. By their expressions, some seemed surprised he spoke any human language. But three or four men answered, “And to you also peace.” That was the right response.
Even though it was, it didn’t feel hearty enough to satisfy Sostratos. He bowed again. This time, he said, “May your one god bless Gamzo and all its people.”
“Stand up,” Sostratos hissed in Greek to the other Rhodians. “Bow to them. Be friendly.”
One after another, the sailors did. Aristeidas even proved able to say, “Peace be unto you,” in Aramaic. That made the people of Gamzo smile. Moskhion refrained from trotting out his frightful Aramaic obscenity. That made Sostratos smile.
Another gray-bearded man, this one wearing a robe of fine wool, said, “You are Ionians, not so?” Sostratos remembered to nod. The Ioudaian said, “We have heard evil things of Ionians, but you seem to be good enough men, even if you are foreigners. May the one god bless you and keep you. May he lift up his countenance unto you and give you peace.”
“Thank you,” Sostratos said, and bowed once more. A little more slowly than they should have, the sailors bowed again, too. Sostratos added, “And we thank you for your generous hospitality.”
“You are welcome in Gamzo,” the Ioudaian—plainly a village leader— declared. He strode up, clasped Sostratos’ hand, and kissed him on both cheeks. Then he did the same with the rest of the Rhodians. The men in the crowd came up after him. They greeted Sostratos and his companions the same way. Even the women drew near, though the Hellenes got no handclasps or kisses from them. Remembering the kisses he’d had from Zilpah in Jerusalem, Sostratos sighed. Somehow he’d pleased her and made her desperately unhappy all at the same time.
Deciding the Rhodians were safe enough, the folk of Gamzo withdrew back into their homes. Even so, Sostratos said, “We’ll divide the night into four watches. Everybody will take one. You never know.” The sailors didn’t argue with him. He’d half expected that they, or at least Teleutas, would, on the grounds that one sentry couldn’t keep the locals from doing whatever they were going to do. Maybe they’re starting to take me seriously, Sostratos thought with no small pride.
When morning came, Teleutas was all for an early departure. Sostratos’ pride only grew. Even the sometimes difficult sailor was acting responsible. Sostratos wondered if Teleutas was following his example.
It was about the third hour of the day when Sostratos noticed Teleutas was wearing a golden bracelet he didn’t recall seeing before. “Where did you get that?” he asked.
The sailor grinned a sly grin. “Back in that miserable little dump where we stayed last night.”
That was likely to mean only one thing. Sostratos clapped a hand to his forehead. “Papai! You stole it?” So much for responsibility!
“Nothing to get upset about,” Teleutas said soothingly. “We’ll never see that place again in all our days.”
“They made us guest-friends, and that’s how you paid them back?” Sostratos said. Teleutas only shrugged; the ritual duties of guest-friends plainly meant nothing to him. Sostratos tried another tack: “What if all the men in Gamzo come after us and want to cut our livers out?”
Teleutas looked back toward the south and shrugged again. “I’ve been watching. No sign of a dust cloud or anything like that. We’re far enough ahead of ‘em by now that they can’t catch us. By Hermes, the fool I lifted it from probably still hasn’t figured out it’s gone missing.”
“No wonder you swear by the god of thieves,” Sostratos said. Teleutas grinned again, singularly unrepentant. Sostratos might have said a good deal more, but decided the road in a foreign land was no place to do it. He also decided that if the men of Gamzo came after the bracelet and Teleutas he would hand them the ornament and the sailor without a qualm.
He kept that to himself. He didn’t know how Aristeidas and Moskhion would react, and he didn’t want to risk destroying his ability to lead unless he had to. But he vowed he would talk with Menedemos about leaving Teleutas behind when he got back to Sidon. A man who would steal from barbarians he was unlikely to see again might not try stealing from his own shipmates. Then again, he might.
For the rest of the day, Sostratos kept looking back over his shoulder. He saw no sign of the villagers. In a way, that relieved him. In another way, it disappointed him. He might have used them as an excuse to be rid of Teleutas.
Farmers tended vineyards and olive groves. Shepherds and goatherds followed their flocks through the hills. Hawks circled overhead, looking for the mice and other small animals frightened out of cover when the flocks went by. Sostratos saw one swoop down and rise with something struggling in its talons. The struggle didn’t last long.
As the sun sank toward the Inner Sea, another band of young Ioudaioi came toward the Rhodians. There were eight of them. Sostratos saw they were all armed. He didn’t like the way their heads came up when they spotted his comrades and him: it put him in mind of a pack of dogs spotting a sick sheep they hoped to be able to pull down.
“Let’s get off the road and let them go by,” he said. “Look—there’s a clump of boulders where we can make a stand if we have to.”
He hoped the sailors would laugh at him and tell him he was starting at shadows. Instead, they all dipped their heads. Teleutas said, “Good idea. They look like a nasty bunch, and I’ll be glad to see their backs.” If he thought the Ioudaioi looked dangerous, they were only too likely to mean trouble.
By the time they came up to the Hellenes, Sostratos and the other men from the Aphrodite had already taken cover among the boulders by the side of the road. The sailors and Sostratos got their helmets from the pack donkey and jammed them down onto their heads. The Ioudaioi kept on toward the south, some of them trailing the butts of their spears in the dirt. They did not seem to own any body armor.
One of them waved to the Hellenes as he went past. “Peace be unto you,” he called. A couple of his pals laughed. Sostratos didn’t like the sound of that baying, mocking laughter. He didn’t answer.
“Maybe they’ll decide we’re a tough nut to crack, and they’ll go on by,” Moskhion said. “That’s what you said they do most of the time.”
“Maybe. I hope so.” Sostratos watched the young men head on down the track in the direction of Gamzo. “All the same, though, I don’t think we ought to leave this place for a while yet. They may try doubling back to catch us out in the open.” He thought about the hawk and about the little animal that had writhed—for a bit—in its claws.
Aristeidas peered out from a south-facing crevice between two good-sized stones. After perhaps a quarter of an hour had passed, he stiffened. “Here they come!”
“Oh, a pestilence!” Sostratos exclaimed. He’d been cautious, yes, but he hadn’t really believed the Ioudaioi would come back and try to rob his companions and him. But when he peered south himself, he saw that Aristeidas was right. The Ioudaioi were loping across the fields toward the boulders among which the Rhodians sheltered.
“Shoot the gods-detested catamites!” Moskhion said.
Sostratos put an arrow in the bow and drew a bead on the closest Ioudaian. The fellow wasn’t quite in range yet, but he would be soon. Sostratos drew the arrow back to his breast and then, in Persian fashion, back to his ear. The would-be robber ran straight at him—probably hadn’t seen him there among the rocks.
Well, too bad for him, Sostratos thought, and let fly. The bowstring lashed his wrist. Real archers wore leather guards. Sostratos knew as much but didn’t have one. But he felt very much like a real archer a moment later, for his arrow caught the Ioudaian square in the chest.
The man ran on for another couple of paces, clawing at the shaft. Then his legs might suddenly have gone from bone and flesh to wet clay. They gave way beneath him. He crumpled to the ground. The Ioudaioi shouted in surprise and dismay.
“Euge! Well shot!” The Rhodians were shouting, too. “Give ‘em another
one!
“I’ll try.” Sostratos nocked a second arrow. The onrushing foes weren’t trying to dodge. The only way they could have given him easier marks would have been by standing
still. He drew the bow and loosed in one smooth motion.
A second Ioudaian toppled, this one with an arrow through the thigh. He let out a horrible scream of pain. Sostratos didn’t think that wound would be mortal, but it would take the man out of the fight. He couldn’t ask for anything better, not now he couldn’t.
“Knock ‘em all down!” Teleutas said.
“I’ll do my best,” Sostratos answered. Already he’d cut the odds against his side from two-to-one to three-to-two. But the Ioudaioi he hadn’t shot were getting dreadfully close.
He let fly at another man, a shot he should have made in his sleep—and missed. Now he scrabbled for an arrow with desperate haste. He’d have time for only one more shot before the fighting went hand-to-hand. He loosed again, at the same bandit, and hit him just above the bridge of the nose. The Ioudaian fell, dead before he hit the ground.
No one cheered this time. The surviving Ioudaioi were scrambling toward the Rhodians. A couple of them flung rocks to make Sostratos and his comrades keep their heads down. “Curses upon them,” one of the robbers said. “Already they’ve cost us too much.”
“We have to pay them back,” another Ioudaian said. “Come on! Be brave!”
They couldn’t know that Sostratos understood Aramaic. He hadn’t hailed them when they went by before. It didn’t matter, not yet, but it might.
A rock banged off a boulder just above his head, then hit him in the back on the rebound. He yelped. A Ioudaian with a sword came toward him. The fellow’s face wore a furious snarl.
Sostratos had only an eating knife on his belt. He stooped and picked up the rock the robber had flung at him. He hurled it back with all his strength. It caught the Ioudaian on the shoulder. He howled out an obscenity. Sostratos had to fight to keep from giggling like an idiot—the curse was the same as the one Moskhion had brought out on the road a few days earlier. The Rhodian grabbed another rock and threw it. It thudded into the robber’s ribs. With that, the Ioudaian decided he’d had enough. He turned around and ran away, one hand clutched to his chest. Sostratos hoped the rock had broken something.
Sacred Land Page 35
