H. of Halicarnassus: Inspired by Some Things That Might Have Happened, Maybe - Episode 2

In which H cometh to the Highe Streete - The Peoples in their Many - Accounting of the Journey of H. - The Mysterie of Pigrites - Congress with a Breadmonger - Successful transaction - The Poore and Betrodden - H. to marryeth a Fine Woman of Virtuous Charackter

2. Freshly bathed and glistening with olive oil, H. stepped out onto the market-street of Asur. Pigrites, letting down the door-flap through which his master had stepped, followed close behind. They beheld a river of humanity surging along the market-course, lapping up the goods along her banks, carrying them away to destinations unknown. This brook babbled unintelligibly, at least to H.'s ear; a thousand sounds issued from a thousand exotic tongues, and their congress made them all the more incomprehensible. He watched as representatives from dozens of nations passed by: Phoenicians, Thracians, Bithynians, Assyrians, Egyptians, Lydians, Medians - these among many he could not yet name. Each, he knew, carried a story with him, a fragment of his nation's history, wrapped up in shawl or robe or chiton or vest.
He breathed in the dry summer air and stretched out his arms, as if to take in the entire scene before him.
"Tell me about this place, Pigrites. I was occupied with my writing in the carriage, so much so I hardly noticed when we arrived at the inn. I couldn't even tell you how we got here, or from where we came!"
Pigrites sighed.
"Sir hired a carriage from Ephesus with his considerable inheritance. We followed the course of the south-flowing stream Erydna, a branch of the Maeander. Having travelled for thirty-five parasangs, we arrived in Asur, which lies near the terminus of the Erydna. It is not a large place, but the market here is, as you can see, quite popular. It's one of the few places at which one can stock one's provisions before making the southern overland journey into Pisidia, and so plays host to merchants from all over. It started as a Doric colony, but the population is mostly Carian now. Though under the broader administration of the satrap of Caria, the tyrant Hadocles is still in charge of local affairs here."
H. let his arms fall to his side. He spoke without turning his head.
"How do you know so much, boy?"
Pigrites thrust out his chin.
"My people are taught to pay the utmost mind to everything that falls under our gaze."
"Your people?"
"Yes."
H. turned around and gestured in annoyance.
"No, who are your people? You look Italic to me."
Pigrites grinned.
"Tyrrhenians sell their slaves far and wide."
Unwilling to pursue the matter further with his reluctant slave, H. turned his attention back to the market. He was hungry, and the breakfast of cold lamb brains offered by the innkeeper had turned his stomach. Wading into the crowd, H. eventually managed to fight his way to the stall of a fruit vendor.
The vendor, who had been with cupped hands crying out in Persian what H. could only assume were the types of goods he was selling and their prices, turned his attention to H. as he approached. The vendor addressed H. in broken Greek.
"Ah, you a Greek, yeah, yeah, I speaken it good. Okay, Greek, you liken dates. I know this. You liken olive oil. I know this. You liken the barley-grind and raisins. Yeah." He removed a cloth which had been covering a wicket basket. "'Beholden, Achilles!' like says your Homer." H. peered into the basket. Inside were round flatbreads, brushed with olive oil and studded with dried grapes and dates. They smelled wonderful.
"How much?" asked H.
"For you is special price. I taken one-sixth obol, and you getten one delicious khurpatzum."
Pigrites suddenly came up from behind and began shouting at the vendor.
"Outrageous!" he said in Greek, before switching to Persian, in which he accused the merchant of a wide array of crimes and religious offenses. The merchant raised his hands and began screaming back at Pigrites. Back and forth the accusations flew, until the vendor at last put his palms up, facing H., and said, in Greek:
"Okay, your friend is good guy. One-sixteenth obol, special price only today."
H. looked at Pigrites, who nodded. He pulled a coin from his pouch and handed it to the vendor, and he in turn reached into his basket and gave him a khurpatzum.
"Light of Ahura Mazda be with you, friend Greek."
H. sat beside the vendor's stall on the steps of a covered portico, glad to be out of the harsh sun. Pigrites stood beside him and pushed away or kicked any beggar who got too close. The streets were full of these bent, almost-naked, sometimes limbless men and women, and while at first their wretched condition stirred H. to pity, their unbearable smell quickly drove away any charitable thoughts forming in his breast.
He ate quickly, eager to get on with the day's work. He had, on the advice of a certain merchant in Ephesus, planned to meet with the tyrant in Asur in order to get funds for his trip, but that design had produced no fruit. He was planning to travel to Egypt overland and to write down the history of all the peoples encountered, no small endeavour, and his inheritance, though ample, was nowhere near large enough to sustain him and what he hoped would be his considerable entourage; he needed a patron. If the tyrant wasn't going to help him, then he would need a Persian noble or a rich merchant.
As if monitoring his thoughts, Pigrites broke in.
"Perhaps sir should marry a daughter of the nobility."
H. was stunned.
"How did you know what I was thinking?"
Pigrites looked off into the distance.
"I have no idea what sir is thinking. My thoughts are simply on the attractiveness of Persian ladies. Their long dark hair, their lush lips. Why, if I were free, that's what I would do."
H. took another bite of flatbread and munched pensively.