avarice, that web of tenuous, insinuated threats had
once more, if only this once more, prevailed. We were safe enough
in the camp of Hiram of Latakia. He had seen the wisdom of not
attempting to cut our throats.
He uncrossed his arms and made a wide gesture
of welcome, as if to acknowledge the fact.
“You may travel with us as far as Babylon,”
he said.
“And, of course, you will gratify me by
accepting my contribution toward the expenses of the journey.”
Kephalos reached inside his tunic and produced a small leather
pouch. “Shall we say—some twenty shekels of silver? Ten now, and
ten when we reach Babylon. I trust that seems reasonable to
you?”
. . . . .
All men despise a foreigner. If his habits
are dissimilar he is without manners, unclean, uncouth and savagely
indifferent to the feelings of others. If he cannot speak their
tongue it is because he is as mindless as a beast. To be unlike
others is to be less than human. Such is the prejudice of every
nation, which men carry with them even into lands where they
themselves are the foreigner.
That day, traveling with the caravan, we set
our faces to the south. There was no risk of our losing our way. We
would follow the Tartar River and then, when it disappeared into
the spring mud, ride on until we reached the Euphrates, where it
forms a great eastward loop into which we could not help but be
drawn. That night, when we camped, Kephalos dined with Hiram, and
I, the slave, was suffered to eat out of the common pot of horse
drivers who scorned me as their inferior because they were free men
and had been born in the Land of Hatti and could not begin to
comprehend my Ionian gibberish.
Yet I was tolerated around their fire, if
only grudgingly and in silence. No one mocked at me or tried to
strike the food bowl from my lips, for I carried a sword. Their
contempt, like their master’s, was tempered by a reasonable
fear.
It is instructive to listen to the
conversations of men who imagine they speak among themselves
without being understood. I sat next to them on the bare ground,
and they talked, in Aramaic, of me and of my good master, as if I
were as insensible as a log.
“This Hugieia of Naxos, the fat rogue; I, for
one, have never heard of a place called ‘Naxos’ and do not believe
it exists.”
“This one—by Mother Kamrusepa, how he stinks!
Tomorrow we must remember to sit downwind of him,” murmured a great
oaf with one eyelid stitched shut over an empty socket. “I will be
just as glad when Hiram catches him asleep in his tent and puts a
knife under his ribs.”
He glanced at me furtively from time to time,
peering around the bridge of his nose as if he were concealed
behind the corner of a building, but could not be brought to look
me straight in the face.
“I cannot imagine why he hesitates, since we
are many and one man with a sword and a few rabbit-stickers is yet
but one man.”
“A scorpion, even when you crush it under
your heel, still has a sting. Hiram knows his business.”
There was a general hum of agreement around
the campfire.
“Doubtless he wishes to discover where the
Ionian conceals his money,” the man went on, licking the grease
from his fingers as he finished eating. He had the longest arms I
think I have ever seen on a man, and the muscles in them wobbled
loosely. “It would be a nuisance for him if he killed the great sow
and then couldn’t find it, eh?”
He smiled, revealing teeth as rotten as
year-old tree stumps.
I said nothing. Whoever spoke I did not look
at him, but maintained an appearance of uncomprehending
indifference. When it was time to sleep and I went to the tent
Hiram had loaned us, I told Kephalos everything I had heard.
“I am not surprised,” he answered. “Having
had dinner with him, I would not be surprised to hear that as a
child he had sold his mother into a brothel. I would not be
surprised to hear that he never had a mother.
“What of the others—do you think we have
anything to fear
once more, if only this once more, prevailed. We were safe enough
in the camp of Hiram of Latakia. He had seen the wisdom of not
attempting to cut our throats.
He uncrossed his arms and made a wide gesture
of welcome, as if to acknowledge the fact.
“You may travel with us as far as Babylon,”
he said.
“And, of course, you will gratify me by
accepting my contribution toward the expenses of the journey.”
Kephalos reached inside his tunic and produced a small leather
pouch. “Shall we say—some twenty shekels of silver? Ten now, and
ten when we reach Babylon. I trust that seems reasonable to
you?”
. . . . .
All men despise a foreigner. If his habits
are dissimilar he is without manners, unclean, uncouth and savagely
indifferent to the feelings of others. If he cannot speak their
tongue it is because he is as mindless as a beast. To be unlike
others is to be less than human. Such is the prejudice of every
nation, which men carry with them even into lands where they
themselves are the foreigner.
That day, traveling with the caravan, we set
our faces to the south. There was no risk of our losing our way. We
would follow the Tartar River and then, when it disappeared into
the spring mud, ride on until we reached the Euphrates, where it
forms a great eastward loop into which we could not help but be
drawn. That night, when we camped, Kephalos dined with Hiram, and
I, the slave, was suffered to eat out of the common pot of horse
drivers who scorned me as their inferior because they were free men
and had been born in the Land of Hatti and could not begin to
comprehend my Ionian gibberish.
Yet I was tolerated around their fire, if
only grudgingly and in silence. No one mocked at me or tried to
strike the food bowl from my lips, for I carried a sword. Their
contempt, like their master’s, was tempered by a reasonable
fear.
It is instructive to listen to the
conversations of men who imagine they speak among themselves
without being understood. I sat next to them on the bare ground,
and they talked, in Aramaic, of me and of my good master, as if I
were as insensible as a log.
“This Hugieia of Naxos, the fat rogue; I, for
one, have never heard of a place called ‘Naxos’ and do not believe
it exists.”
“This one—by Mother Kamrusepa, how he stinks!
Tomorrow we must remember to sit downwind of him,” murmured a great
oaf with one eyelid stitched shut over an empty socket. “I will be
just as glad when Hiram catches him asleep in his tent and puts a
knife under his ribs.”
He glanced at me furtively from time to time,
peering around the bridge of his nose as if he were concealed
behind the corner of a building, but could not be brought to look
me straight in the face.
“I cannot imagine why he hesitates, since we
are many and one man with a sword and a few rabbit-stickers is yet
but one man.”
“A scorpion, even when you crush it under
your heel, still has a sting. Hiram knows his business.”
There was a general hum of agreement around
the campfire.
“Doubtless he wishes to discover where the
Ionian conceals his money,” the man went on, licking the grease
from his fingers as he finished eating. He had the longest arms I
think I have ever seen on a man, and the muscles in them wobbled
loosely. “It would be a nuisance for him if he killed the great sow
and then couldn’t find it, eh?”
He smiled, revealing teeth as rotten as
year-old tree stumps.
I said nothing. Whoever spoke I did not look
at him, but maintained an appearance of uncomprehending
indifference. When it was time to sleep and I went to the tent
Hiram had loaned us, I told Kephalos everything I had heard.
“I am not surprised,” he answered. “Having
had dinner with him, I would not be surprised to hear that as a
child he had sold his mother into a brothel. I would not be
surprised to hear that he never had a mother.
“What of the others—do you think we have
anything to fear
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