H. of Halicarnassus: Inspired by Some Things That Might Have Happened, Maybe - Episode 5

The Bodie of the MOOR - the Invitatione - the Transactione of Menials - PIGRITES demandeth his Libertie - Is hired - Before the Maison - Cupidity of Drink - PIGRITES engageth a Ladie of Ill-Repute

H. looked around nervously, waiting for someone to make the first move. The crowd was still in a state of agitation as its constituents tried to decide whether life had been torn from the body before them justifiably or not. At length the Persian with the sword stepped forward from the hubbub and clapped H. on the shoulders.
"Good show, lad. I owed that Arab son of a bitch all kinds of money, so much it would make your beard go straight." He laughed, and then suddenly appeared grave. "Of course, I had nothing to do with this."
H. gulped. "Of course not."
"That's right. Now that that's out of the way, why not retire to my estate? We're having a few people over, a few of the right people, you understand, and I think you'll be most welcome, seeing as nobody really liked our friend here." He shot a disdainful glance toward the fallen Arab, whose retinue of slaves was still cowering in the darkness outside the theater. The Persian waved a hand in their direction.
"Well, those are yours by right of conquest. I doubt his family will be making much of a fuss. He was a pariah, you see, killed his brother - or maybe your slave knew this when he so effectively dispatched him?" He grinned.
H. put his palms up, facing his interlocutor.
"I have enough to handle in Pigrites, thank you. I'll sell them to you for, I don't know, five minas of silver?"
The Persian's grin broadened.
"Done. Let's be off." He called out to his own retinue of magnificently attired slaves. "You two! Bring those home now. Don't let them get away. Go, boy! Go!" He whistled loudly and the two slaves sprang into action. The Persian began to make his way home, and several of the theater-goers walked with him, laughing and occasionally pointing back at H., who had fallen into line a little ways behind, among the crowd of trailing slaves, and Pigrites with him. Pigrites was still covered in blood, and walked with his head bowed. The Persian slaves were doing little to hide their admiration for their bold compatriot, much to the dismay of their masters, who sent their whip-bearers into the crowds to disabuse them of any notions of revolt. The slaves scattered, and fell even further behind. Now out of earshot, with the crowd of laughing Persians before him, and the slaves trailing forlornly behind, H. spoke without looking at his companion.
"What were you thinking?"
Pigrites did not look up.
"He was going to kill you."
They walked for a while in silence, passing through the darkened streets of Asur, empty except for a few pimps lurking in the archways and slaves advertising the local bawdy-houses. The road began to incline, and they found themselves making their way slowly up hill.
"This leads to the noble estates," said Pigrites.
H. barely heard him.
"Where did you learn to fight like that?"
Pigrites mumbled something.
H. was incensed.
"Boy, you answer me."
Pigrites stopped, and fixed his master with a look. H. was suddenly afraid.
"H.," he said, not bothering any longer with the honorific, "you owe me. I saved your life."
H. met his gaze but said nothing.
"You owe me," he repeated, this time a little more menacingly.
H. cleared his throat.
"And what will you do when I free you?"
Pigrites thought for a moment.
"I'll need work, of course."
H. nodded slowly.
"As a bodyguard?"
"As bodyguard, as concierge, as scribe - I am a man of many talents. I think you're familiar with my work."
H. watched the torches of the Persians in the distance. They had fallen far behind, and the slaves were now passing them. He turned back to Pigrites.
"And how much must I pay for the privilege of employing you?"
"One and a half drachmas a day, not including expenses."
H. mulled the proposition over. This was more than the average skilled mercenary soldier charged, and they had to handle their own expenses. On the other hand, he was terrified of what his slave might do if refused.
"Fine."
A small smile creased Pigrites' lips.
"Wonderful. I'll see you in the morning."
His former slave started back down the hill. H., wondering for a moment, hastened to catch up with his Persian host. A few minutes' jogging caught him up to his host's party. They looked back and cheered as H. arrived. The man with the sword raised his hands and laughed.
"Ah, we thought we had lost you. Come on, we're almost there."
Torches were visible in the distance. These marked the entrance to his host's estate. A pair of footmen stood before the door, scimitars on the belts holding up their garish blue trousers. Seeing the approach of their master, they turned, pulled open the heavy wooden doors, and stood stiffly at attention beside. His host stopped before the doors and turned to address his following.
"Gentlemen, this evening is dedicated to our Greek friend here, who has brought us so much merriment and, what's more, relief!" Some of the men laughed and cheered. "We shall drink to his good health inside. You there!" He pointed at one of his slaves, the group of which had now come into earshot. "Have the kitchen send out the wine. I should like to begin drinking immediately." More cheers.
H. laughed at his host's comments and cheered along with his fellows. He was about to thank his host for his generosity, when he realized that he had no idea what his name was. He leaned over to the Persian next to him.
"I say, whose home is this?"
The man looked at him for a moment, puzzled, before answering in heavily-accented Greek.
"Why, this is the home of Keffir, whom you see before you."
H. nodded and thanked the man. He took a breath:
"I should also like to thank Keffir for his generosity. May the gods bless his household forever."
Keffir beamed.
"You must meet my daughter, friend Greek. She has always liked people her own height."
The men laughed once more, indulging their host, who now began to lead them inside. H. followed, eager for what he was sure would be excellent wine.

Now back in town, Pigrites moved rapidly, focused on a single object. It had been so long. He fingered the few coins he had in his pouch in anticipation. Moving through the darkness, he suddenly found his way blocked by a greasy-looking Persian, all sly grin and flashing teeth.
"Need company?" the pimp asked simply, holding out his hand.
Pigrites reached out and dropped his coins into the open palm. A moment passed as the man felt out the weight of the coins in the darkness. Finally he turned and motioned for Pigrites to follow. They passed through a low arch and descended a staircase illuminated only by the splotchy light cast from a filthy oil lamp. A bouncer with a wicked-looking dagger stood aside and let them pass. They now came into a cramped basement apartment. This held several well-used divans, which themselves held several seemingly bored naked Persian women. The pimp held out his hand, directing Pigrites to pick one. He indicated the one bearing the fewest cuts. The pimp whistled and pointed at the girl. She stood and sauntered off into a side room. The pimp turned to Pigrites.
"You get two passes of the hourglass. If you want more, you pay." He turned a sand-filled glass jar on its side, and made ready to pull the stopper. Pigrites licked his lips and hastened to his room.
The room wasn't much more than a few blankets spread over the cold stone floor, with cushions for bolster. The girl lay against these, her legs spread, apparently eager to earn her pay.
Pigrites grinned. "Hi."
The girl smiled at him, but it was the practiced smile of the courtesan. She pushed up her breasts and begged him to lie with her.
Pigrites stepped out of his clothing and fell into her embrace. Warm flesh. It had been so long. Their lips met. He kissed, with passion, she with practiced reserve. His hands found purchase in every curve. He drew closer and availed himself of the services on offer.
It was not long before he heard the pimp call out.
"Not much longer. Already one pass."
Pigrites sighed.