was not mistaken in my surmise. Yes,
well. . . We will speak of it later. When we are safe.”
He picked up the cup and, after a pause in
which he seemed to be gathering his courage, bolted down its
contents. A drop slid down his chin, glistening like oil.
“You will leave this matter to me, My
Lord?”
“I will leave it to you.”
“Good, then—just remember to be Lathikados
the slave and not Tiglath the prince, and I think I can promise us
a good outcome.”
“If it depends on no more than that, we will
live forever.”
The thin smile that flickered over Kephalos’
face, like a shadow in the fire, suggested he was less hopeful.
We waited in silence. Slaves came in to
prepare the banquet, setting out bowls of flowers and scented water
and a brazier to keep off the night chill. There were jars of wine
that had been left to sleep all day at the bottom on the river so
they would be sweet and cold. Oil lamps were lit. The cook appeared
to receive her final instructions. At last we were left to
ourselves again.
It was already late before we heard the sound
of Hiram’s sandals on the stairs.
“Good! You have not begun without me,” he
said. Like Kephalos, like myself, he was dressed in new garments.
He wore a bright yellow turban fastened by a pin set with blue
stones. His beard had been freshly trimmed and shone with oil.
He sat down heavily, his eyes glittering. He
had been drinking.
“No, I waited. After all, you are the guest
of honor.”
Kephalos smiled and nodded to a slave, who
broke the seal on one of the wine jars, poured half into a great
bronze pitcher, and then mixed in three cups of water, one after
the other, from a silver jug that stood at Kephalos’ elbow.
“No more than that!” Hiram protested, a shade
too loud. “Too much water and a man cannot grow suitably drunk—hah,
hah, hah!”
“Too little and a man risks becoming sick,”
Kephalos observed, smiling again, dismissing the slaves that his
guest might not disgrace himself in front of them. He seemed in a
temper to humor this oaf, who he had said would surely betray us.
Or perhaps he still thought there was room for compromise.
The dinner was brought in—rice and millet,
cooked vegetables, roasted lamb, even honeyed locusts. Kephalos,
whose appetite I had never known to fail him, ate even more
voraciously than usual, but Hiram hardly touched his food. He
seemed only interested in wine.
“Do you feel so starved after a few months on
the caravan route?” he asked. “Or do you wish to show me that I
have nothing to fear from poison—hah, hah, hah!”
He shared the joke with no one. Kephalos did
not laugh, and I, who sat behind him, still less. This seemed to
annoy Hiram of Latakia.
“I see your slave eats nothing,” he announced
glumly.
“He shows respect,” Kephalos answered. “He is
a good servant.”
“Perhaps not so good a servant to his last
master—now, who would that have been?”
This time he did not seem to care that he
laughed alone.
At last, and as if the subject had been
forced on him, Kephalos shrugged his shoulders.
“I’ve no idea. I know nothing of his
history.”
“Then perhaps he was a foundling, stolen by
wicked genies. Perhaps his father was some great man—perhaps even a
king.”
“It seems unlikely enough to be true.”
With his own hand, Kephalos poured more of
the wine into his guest’s cup and his own. Hiram drank it off in
almost a single swallow, and Kephalos filled his guest’s cup yet
again.
“This is good wine,” Hiram said, as if he had
just made the discovery. Already his speech was becoming
slurred.
“The best that this city can offer, the
proprietor tells me—and I have no doubt that in Babylon the best is
very good indeed.”
Hiram shook his head, and then set the cup
down. He seemed to have forgotten all about it. He was staring at
me, frowning. He seemed to hate me.
“Yes, I do believe it,” he murmured finally,
almost to himself. “I do believe his father
well. . . We will speak of it later. When we are safe.”
He picked up the cup and, after a pause in
which he seemed to be gathering his courage, bolted down its
contents. A drop slid down his chin, glistening like oil.
“You will leave this matter to me, My
Lord?”
“I will leave it to you.”
“Good, then—just remember to be Lathikados
the slave and not Tiglath the prince, and I think I can promise us
a good outcome.”
“If it depends on no more than that, we will
live forever.”
The thin smile that flickered over Kephalos’
face, like a shadow in the fire, suggested he was less hopeful.
We waited in silence. Slaves came in to
prepare the banquet, setting out bowls of flowers and scented water
and a brazier to keep off the night chill. There were jars of wine
that had been left to sleep all day at the bottom on the river so
they would be sweet and cold. Oil lamps were lit. The cook appeared
to receive her final instructions. At last we were left to
ourselves again.
It was already late before we heard the sound
of Hiram’s sandals on the stairs.
“Good! You have not begun without me,” he
said. Like Kephalos, like myself, he was dressed in new garments.
He wore a bright yellow turban fastened by a pin set with blue
stones. His beard had been freshly trimmed and shone with oil.
He sat down heavily, his eyes glittering. He
had been drinking.
“No, I waited. After all, you are the guest
of honor.”
Kephalos smiled and nodded to a slave, who
broke the seal on one of the wine jars, poured half into a great
bronze pitcher, and then mixed in three cups of water, one after
the other, from a silver jug that stood at Kephalos’ elbow.
“No more than that!” Hiram protested, a shade
too loud. “Too much water and a man cannot grow suitably drunk—hah,
hah, hah!”
“Too little and a man risks becoming sick,”
Kephalos observed, smiling again, dismissing the slaves that his
guest might not disgrace himself in front of them. He seemed in a
temper to humor this oaf, who he had said would surely betray us.
Or perhaps he still thought there was room for compromise.
The dinner was brought in—rice and millet,
cooked vegetables, roasted lamb, even honeyed locusts. Kephalos,
whose appetite I had never known to fail him, ate even more
voraciously than usual, but Hiram hardly touched his food. He
seemed only interested in wine.
“Do you feel so starved after a few months on
the caravan route?” he asked. “Or do you wish to show me that I
have nothing to fear from poison—hah, hah, hah!”
He shared the joke with no one. Kephalos did
not laugh, and I, who sat behind him, still less. This seemed to
annoy Hiram of Latakia.
“I see your slave eats nothing,” he announced
glumly.
“He shows respect,” Kephalos answered. “He is
a good servant.”
“Perhaps not so good a servant to his last
master—now, who would that have been?”
This time he did not seem to care that he
laughed alone.
At last, and as if the subject had been
forced on him, Kephalos shrugged his shoulders.
“I’ve no idea. I know nothing of his
history.”
“Then perhaps he was a foundling, stolen by
wicked genies. Perhaps his father was some great man—perhaps even a
king.”
“It seems unlikely enough to be true.”
With his own hand, Kephalos poured more of
the wine into his guest’s cup and his own. Hiram drank it off in
almost a single swallow, and Kephalos filled his guest’s cup yet
again.
“This is good wine,” Hiram said, as if he had
just made the discovery. Already his speech was becoming
slurred.
“The best that this city can offer, the
proprietor tells me—and I have no doubt that in Babylon the best is
very good indeed.”
Hiram shook his head, and then set the cup
down. He seemed to have forgotten all about it. He was staring at
me, frowning. He seemed to hate me.
“Yes, I do believe it,” he murmured finally,
almost to himself. “I do believe his father
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