H. of Halicarnassus: Inspired by Some Things That Might Have Happened, Maybe - Episode 4

The Very Fine Gardenne - H. near to Fainting in the Gallerye - Pigrites arouseth the Gentry with an Addresse - H. incipitates his Tale - a single Inverity therein - Pangnosis, grandchilde of Jove - the Clergy of Miletus, like unto our Abbottes - The Tablettes of Science - Science Betook by Bandits and Scoundrels - The MOOR, purveyor of paprika, returneth - He seeketh PIGRITES - The clashe of Steelle - H. unmanned - An misfortunate Ende for the MOOR - H. seeketh Lodging

The sun was setting on the common garden of Asur. The imperial gardeners, a hard day's work finished, returned to their homes and yelled at their wives, as was the Persian custom. The quality of their work was evident even to the casual garden visitor. Six tiny irrigation streams flowing from the Erydna watered a lush cornucopia of vegetation: trees, shrubs, flowers of all kinds, imported from all over the empire. Marble statues, many of Greek gods and probably sculpted by Ionians, nestled amid the greenery, at ease beside the occasional, more abstract Zoroastrian-themed work. Shadows danced, occasioned by the wicker torches fixed in the ground at regular intervals. A small theater, commissioned at the request of the local Greek community, lay at the inner edge of the park, close enough to the Erydna to receive the cool evening breeze wafting in from it. It was hard not to feel at ease here.
And yet, behind the unpainted skene of the theater, H. paced nervously. Where were the people? Not a single seat had yet been filled. He began to rehearse his stories once more.
Some time later, he heard voices from the seats. He peeked out from behind the skene, and saw a few Persians standing before the entrance to the theater, chatting. They were well-dressed, their dark beards were neatly-braided, and they had retinues with them. H. was elated: these were exactly the sort of people he had been looking for.
Pigrites appeared from the darkness beyond the theater and ushered them up to their seats, which overlooked the circular orchestra. Questioned about the nature of the night's event, his slave would give up nothing.
This process was repeated a few more times over the next hour, until at last the theater was almost full. With great dignity, Pigrites advanced to the orchestra, whence he looked up at his audience.
"Noble sirs, an unforgettable experience has been promised you; be assured that we intend to deliver . My master, who levies no fee, who asks nothing but your indulgence, has come to the great and prosperous city of Asur to inform you of his many remarkable discoveries. He is a learned man, a sage, and his opinion carries great weight among his people."
With this, Pigrites left the orchestra and disappeared behind the skene. Quiet reigned.
H. swallowed nervously. He had prepared for this. He took a long draught from the cup of wine which had been set out for him and, now filled with the god, he strode out onto the orchestra floor.
All eyes were on him. Some men chuckled slightly when they realized he was a Greek: surely, they thought, this is just another quack doctor peddling his wares. These folded their hands over their ample bellies and prepared themselves to be entertained.
H. cleared his throat and raised his right hand.
"A moment for trivialities, gentlemen. I must know if there will be any difficulties understanding my language. I, regrettably, have not been blessed with training in your noble tongue, and am forced to employ to my own."
A Persian in the front row barked a reply, in Greek:
"Age! Get on with it, Greekling. We know your tongue. How could we not? You people never shut up; we learn it even unwilling."
The men laughed, and H. smiled magnanimously.
"Eien. Then my people have brought you some knowledge already, at no cost to yourselves. I propose to bring your further knowledge still. I am a traveler from the Ionian city of Halicarnassus. I have been to many places, and learned much. I have conferred with the priests of Miletus, seen the ruins of ancient cities on Samos, have supped with Scythians on the steppes." This last was a lie; he had not yet been to Scythia. The crowd looked on, waiting for the hook. H. continued.
"Tales abound of an island city which, ten thousand years ago, sank into the sea. Some say it lies far to the west, beyond the Pillars of Heracles, in the River Ocean. This is a lie." The crowd murmured and leaned forward collectively. "First, I must tell you about the priests at Miletus, from whom one part of this story comes. The story begins with Pangnosis, a grandson of Zeus and gifted with the knowing of everything. When he had been taught to read and write, Pangnosis, realizing that he was mortal (only direct progeny of gods can live on Olympus, after all), thought that it would be important to record his knowledge. He gathered about him all the scribes alive at that time (the priests tell me that this was six thousand years ago, but I do not believe them, because at that time the Titans were still at war with the Olympians, and the gods had not yet had children; we can assume it was a long time ago, however) and bade them record his utterances. At first the scribes did not know why they should trust Pangnosis. They were busy with palace work, they would say, and would try to leave. One by one, however, Pangnosis told to them their darkest secrets, and all of them, shocked by his impossible accuracy, were persuaded to stay with him. For the next eighty years, up until his death, the scribes recorded his every utterance. Much of it was worthless, as Pangnosis had a tendency to get fixated on a single subject, which he would pursue until it was exhausted. A digression could take months, and many tablets were filled detailing such things as the mating rituals of creatures at the bottom of the sea, or else the ten thousand kinds of snowflakes at the top of a mountain. But often he would say something wise and interesting, and these things too were recorded on the tablets. After his death, the scribes (or rather, their own descendants, as many had died and been replaced for their children while working for Pangnosis) vowed to preserve this knowledge. A great library was built to house the tablets and to study them. The library was said to have had ten thousand rooms, each dedicated to one of the subjects on which Pangnosis lectured. However, over the millennia many of the tablets were lost to pirates and invading armies. You see, the tablets were all made of gold or silver, materials which were very common in the time of Pangnosis (it being the golden age). As time passed, these metals receded into the earth and were no longer common, so men looking for easy plunder, having come to know of the library from word of mouth, went there to steal the tablets and melt them down. Eventually, only a few tablets were left: one detailing the perfect recipe for mead, another bearing a copy of the peace treaty between peoples called the Tubus and Porphyrnians (about whom we know nothing), and finally a set of tablets containing the true history of the island city we call Atlantis. The descendants of the original scribes, their numbers now very few thanks to constant warfare, now resolved to spirit these tablets away. They went on a boat to the place where the city of Miletus now is, and they stayed there, dedicating themselves to studying the few tablets that remained. Unfortunately, these tablets too disappeared, appropriated by the king of the city of that era in order to fund his insane war against the Assyrians (who were dominant at that time in Asia). Fortunately, the scribes had committed to memory the contents of the tablets, and they passed this down through the generations. Anyway, this is what the Milesian priests tell me, and I believe them, because I have tasted their mead and it is the finest in the world. The Samian priests tell almost the exact same story, except that they say that the descendants of the scribes came to Samos, and that it is they who possess the true story of Atlantis, but I do not believe them, because although they maintain they received the recipe for the world's best mead, in fact their mead is quite ordinary, similar to that which one could find in any poor deme of Attica. So much for the origin of the story."
H. took a deep breath. At this signal, Pigrites rushed out from behind the stage with his cup of wine, which H. in short order drained, then disappeared. The crowd spurred him onward, entranced. H. was about to continue, until he saw a figure standing at the right hand entrance to the theater. This man, an Arab, was glowering at H., and apparently had been doing so for some time. He marched onto the orchestra floor and, pointing an accusing finger at H., denounced him before the small crowd.
"This man is charlatan! Beware lest he make false promises, rob you and sully the good name of your daughters!"
A chill went down H.'s spine. It was the spice merchant from Ephesus. What were the odds that he would have followed him to Asur?
He bellowed at H.
"Where is my slave? Pigrites? Where are you?"
Pigrites emerged slowly from behind the skene. The crowd looked on, enthralled by the drama before them.
The Arab merchant pointed to the ground in front of him.
"Come here. Now."
Pigrites stood his ground, and looked to H. for support. H. folded his arms over his chest.
"Now hold on. Pigrites here is my property now. You didn't follow through on your promise to get me audience with the tyrant."
The merchant was apoplectic.
"Fuck your mother, Greekling!" Several members of the audience registered their offence at this impropriety with loud cries. "I guaranteed nothing! Hadocles is a fearful, paranoid man, and does not invite to his house every sniveling child from the colonies just because they ask for it."
H. stood, saying nothing. The man had a point: he hadn't guaranteed anything. The knot in his belly told him this wasn't going to end well, and the spinning of the room told him he had once again drank too much wine.
The Arab drew a curved sword from his sash. The glint of polished bronze in the flickering torchlight was an awesome sight.
A man from the crowd stood up and raised his hands.
"Ho there! This isn't a fair fight at all. Our Greekling has no weapon." He pulled another sword from his own belt, this a short one, better suited to stabbing than slashing. He tossed this to H., who caught it gingerly, being not particularly experienced in the handling of such implements. Nevertheless, he held it before him as though he had been using such things all his life, hoping to inspire some fear his opponent. The Arab laughed.
"All this for a little slave? I hope he sucks your dick real nice, Greekling." The Arab brandished his sword and began to advance on H., who retreated a short distance. They began to orbit the circle of the orchestra, each seeking an advantage over the other.
The crowd, now standing, began to cheer on their favourites.
The Arab roared and surged forward, swinging wildly at H., who parried the blows by pure instinct, but was driven backward almost into the crowd, the members of whom now swayed backwards, not wanting to get involved in the fight. H. now took the offensive and lunged clumsily at the Arab, who danced around the blow and poked H. in the thigh the with the tip of his scimitar. The pain was incredible, but it could easily have been a killing stroke; he was being toyed with, he realized.
The Arab merchant put his sword on his shoulder.
"Come now, this is almost a joke. Why don't you just have your slave fight for you? I was going to kill him in any case once I was through with you."
The crowd laughed at his challenge.
Suddenly, Pigrites pushed through the crowd and took his place on the orchestra floor. He snatched the sword from his master, who stepped back automatically. Wordlessly, with a look of grim concentration on his face, Pigrites launched himself at his former master. Surprised by this sudden onslaught, the Arab took a step backward to brace himself. This was all that was needed: Pigrites spun on his heel and delivered a brutal snap kick to the Arab's gut. The crowd gasped. Doubled over, the merchant put up his sword in a feeble gesture of defiance, but to no avail, for Pigrites moved in with astonishing swiftness and, gripping the long hair of his former master, exposing his neck with a quick jerk, he ran the edge of his own sword across it. Dark blood bubbled up around the sword as it split his throat open, and the Arab fell to the ground, kicking spasmodically. His sword clattered beside him. For the next few moments, all that could be heard was the gooey gurgling of the once-fearsome Arab as the life ebbed from him. Then, he was dead.
Pigrites, covered in sweat, wiped the gore from the blade on the trousers of the dead Arab merchant. He handed it back to the Persian who had given it to H. The Persian looked at the slave in astonishment. Pigrites addressed the crowd:
"Tonight has been very trying for my master. If any of you would be so kind as to lodge him for the night, he would gladly share with you the benefit of his wisdom. As you can see," he said, gesturing to the fallen body nearby, "he has acquired many enemies in his tireless pursuit of knowledge."
The crowd murmured.