The Sacred Land

“My lord, the perfume is… strong.” Sostratos wanted to say concentrated, but had no idea how to do so in Aramaic, or even if the word existed in that language. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to try to talk his way around holes in his vocabulary. He pulled the stopper out of the jar. “Here-smell for yourself.”

“Thank you.” Bodashtart held the jar under his nose, which was long and thin and hooked. In spite of himself, he smiled at the fragrance. “That is very sweet, yes.”

“And the odor stays,” Sostratos said. “Perfume is in olive oil, not water. Not wash off easily.”

“That is good. That is clever,” Bodashtart said. “I have heard you Hellenes are full of clever notions. Now I see it is so. Here, let me show you the beeswax I have.”

“Please,” Sostratos said. The Phoenician had no trouble with the ropes securing his ass’ load. Sostratos sighed. He’d thought he was used to the idea that most people were more graceful and dexterous than he. Every once in a while, though, it upped and bit him. This was one of those times.

“Here you are, my master.” Bodashtart held up a lump of wax bigger than Sostratos’ head. “Have you ever seen any so fine and white? White as the breasts of a virgin maid, is it not so?” He had to eke out his words with gestures; that wasn’t vocabulary Himilkon had taught Sostratos.

When the Rhodian understood, he chuckled. He didn’t think a Hellene would have tried to sell him wax with that particular sales pitch. From his point of view, Phoenicians were even worse than bad tragedians for overblown comparisons and figures of speech. Of course, they probably found most Hellenes bland and boring. Custom is king of all, Sostratos reminded himself once more. To Bodashtart, he said, “Let me see that wax, if you please.”

“I am your slave,” the Phoenician replied, and handed him the lump.

He sniffed it. It had the distinctive, slightly sweetish odor of good wax. Bodashtart hadn’t cheapened it with tallow, as some unscrupulous Hellenes were known to do. Sostratos took his belt knife from its sheath and plunged it deep into the mass of wax, again and again.

“I am no cheat,” Bodashtart said. “I have not hidden rocks or anything else in the middle of the beeswax.”

“So I see,” Sostratos agreed. “You have not. But I do not know you. I meet you on the road. I have to be sure.”

“Shall I open every jar of perfume I get from you, to make sure you have not given me one that is half empty?” Bodashtart asked.

“Yes, my master, if you like,” Sostratos answered. “Fair is fair. How can I say, do not make yourself safe? I ca

“Fair is fair,” Bodashtart echoed. He bowed to Sostratos. “I had heard that all Hellenes were liars and cheats. I see this is not so. I am glad.”

Sostratos politely returned the bow. “You too seem honest. I want this beeswax. How many jars of perfume for it?” He had a good notion of the price he might get for about ten minai of beeswax back in Rhodes. Sculptors and jewelers and others who cast metal used as much of the stuff as they could lay their hands on, and paid well for it.

Bodashtart said, “Ten jars seems right.”

“Ten?” Sostratos tossed his head, then shook it back and forth in barbarian style. “You are no cheat, my master. You are a thief.”

“You think so, do you?” the Phoenician said. “Well, how many jars would you give me for my wax?”

“Three,” Sostratos answered.

“Three?” Bodashtart laughed scornfully. “And you call me a thief? You are trying to steal from me, and I will not have it.” He drew himself up to his full height, but was still more than a palm shorter than Sostratos.

“Maybe we have no deal,” Sostratos said. “If no deal, I am pleased to meet you even so.”

He waited to see what would happen next. If Bodashtart didn’t want to trade, he would take back the beeswax and go on his way toward Sidon. If he did, he would make another offer. The Phoenician bared his teeth in what was anything but a friendly grin. “You are a bandit, a robber, a brigand,” he said. “But to show that I am just, that I uphold fair dealing, I will take only nine jars of perfume for this splendid, precious wax.”

Now Bodashtart waited to see if the Rhodian would move. “I maybe give four jars,” Sostratos said reluctantly.

They shouted at each other again and accused each other of larcenous habits. Bodashtart sat down on a boulder by the side of the road. Sostratos sat down on another one a couple of cubits away. The sailors escorting him started throwing knucklebones for oboloi while he haggled. His mule and ass and Bodashtart’s donkey began to graze.

After a fair number of insults, Sostratos got up to six jars of perfume and Bodashtart got down to seven. There they stuck. Sostratos suspected six and a half would have made a decent bargain, but perfume, except to cheaters, didn’t come in half-jars. Bodashtart showed no inclination to accept only six, and Sostratos didn’t want to part with seven. The market for beeswax wasn’t enormous, and did fluctuate. If someone close to home came up with a lot of it, he’d lose money even paying only six jars of perfume for this lump.

He and Bodashtart glared at each other, both of them frustrated. Then the Phoenician said, “Look at the cloth I have to sell. If I give you a bolt of that-it’s about three cubits long-with the wax, will you give me seven jars of your perfume?”

“I know not,” Sostratos answered. “Let me see it.”

Bodashtart got up and opened a leather sack on the ass’ back. Sostratos would have carried fine cloth inside an oiled-leather sack, too, to make sure water didn’t damage it. Rain at this season of the year would have been unlikely in Hellas and, he judged, was even more so here, but Bodashtart’s donkey might have to ford several streams between here and Sidon.

When the Phoenician held out the length of cloth, all three of Sostratos’ escorts inhaled sharply. In Greek, Sostratos snapped, “Keep quiet, you gods-detested fools! Do you want to mess this up for me? Turn your backs. Pretend you’re looking out to the hills for bandits if you can’t keep your faces straight.”

To his relief, they obeyed. Bodashtart asked, “What did you say to them? And will the cloth do?”

“I said they should watch for bandits in the hills.” Sostratos feared he’d made a hash of indirect discourse; the Aramaic construction was quite different from the accusative and infinitive Greek used to show it. But Bodashtart nodded, so he must have made himself understood. He went on, “Let me have a better look, please.”

“As you say, my master, so shall it be,” Bodashtart replied, and brought it up to him.

The closer the Phoenician came, the more splendid the cloth appeared. Sostratos didn’t think he’d ever seen finer embroidery. The hunting scene might have come straight from real life: the frightened hares, the thorn bushes beneath which they crouched, the spotted hounds with red tongues lolling out, the men in the distance with their bows and javelins. The detail was astonishing. So were the colors, which were brighter and more vivid than those in use back in Hellas.

He’d managed to keep his men from exclaiming over the piece. Now he had to fight to keep from exclaiming over it himself. To him, it had to be worth more than the beeswax. Doing his best to keep his voice casual, he asked, “Where did it come from?”

“From the east, from the land between the rivers,” Bodashtart told him.

“Between which rivers?” Sostratos asked. But then the Greek equivalent of what the Phoenician had said formed in his mind. “Oh,” he said. “From Mesopotamia.” That, of course, meant nothing to Bodashtart.

Sostratos knew Mesopotamia lay too far east for him to go there himself. He would have to get this work from middlemen like the fellow with whom he was haggling.

“Will it do?” Bodashtart asked anxiously. To him, the embroidery seemed nothing out of the ordinary: just a small extra he could throw in to sweeten the price for perfume he really wanted.