“Yes, you did say that; I remember,” Sostratos answered. “You were telling me some sort of pestilence there made them flee the country? “

“That’s right.” Hekataios smiled again, this time without a trace of superiority. “You were paying attention, weren’t you?”

“Of course I was, best one. Did you doubt it?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. When you discover how few people have the least interest in the past and how it came to shape the present, you eventually begin to believe no one but yourself has any interest in such things at all. Being proved wrong is always a pleasant surprise.”

“You’ve found me,” Sostratos said. “Please do go on.”

“I’d be glad to.” Hekataios paused to sip his wine and gather his thoughts. Then he said, “When this plague arose in Egypt, the common people there believed some divinity had caused it.”

“That’s not surprising,” Sostratos said. “They wouldn’t have known of anyone like Hippokrates who might have offered a different explanation.”

“No, indeed not.” Hekataios of Abdera dipped his head. “Now Egypt at this time-it would have been about the time of the Trojan War, I believe-was full of all sorts of foreigners, and-”

“Excuse me, most wise one, but how do you know that?” Sostratos broke in.

“For one thing, the Egyptian priests say so,” Hekataios answered. “For another, the Ioudaioi have a legend that they themselves came ‘ere to this country from out of Egypt. Does that satisfy you?”

“Thank you. Yes, it does. But history is only as good as its sources and the questions you ask of them. I did want to know.”

“Fair enough. You do understand the finer points, don’t you?” Hekataios said, and Sostratos wanted to burst with pride. The Abderan went on, “All these foreigners, naturally, worshiped their own gods and had their own rites. The native Egyptians’ rituals were being ignored and forgotten. The Egyptians-I suspect that means their priests, but I can’t prove it-feared their gods would never have mercy on them in respect to the plague unless they expelled the foreigners from their land.”

“And so they did?” Sostratos asked.

“And so they did,” Hekataios agreed. “The most outstanding foreigners banded together and went to places like Hellas: Danaos and Kadmos were some of their leaders.”

“I’ve also heard Kadmos was a Phoenician,” Sostratos said.

“Yes, so have I. Perhaps he stopped in Phoenicia on his way up to Hellas from Egypt. But most of the exiles ended up here in Ioudaia. This isn’t far from Egypt, and in those days no one at all lived here, or so they say.

“I see,” Sostratos said. “But how did the customs of the Ioudaioi become so strange?”

“I am coming to that, O best one,” Hekataios answered. “Their leader at this time was a man outstanding for courage and wisdom, a certain Mouses. He refused to make any images of the gods, because he did not think his god was of human form.”

“The Ioudaioi have kept that custom ever since,” Sostratos said. “I’ve seen it.”

“One could hardly help seeing it-or not seeing it-in this country,” Hekataios said, a little superciliously. “That is the reason the sacrifices this Mouses established differ from those of other nations. So does their way of living. Because of their expulsion from Egypt, he introduced a way of life that was rather antisocial and hostile to foreigners.”

“I don’t know if they’re truly hostile to foreigners, or if they simply want to be left alone,” Sostratos said. “They haven’t treated me at all badly. They just don’t want me trying to tell them about the way we Hellenes live.”

“Well, if that doesn’t make them hostile to foreigners all by itself, I don’t know what would,” Hekataios said.

Sostratos frowned. He thought he saw a logical flaw in the other man’s argument, but for once he let it go. Hekataios of Abdera had studied the Ioudaioi more thoroughly than he had-had studied them as he wished he might have, in fact. “Now that you’ve learned all these things, I hope you write them down so other Hellenes can have the benefit of your inquiries,” Sostratos said.

“I intend to, when I get back to Alexandria,” Hekataios answered. “I want my name to live forever.”

“I understand,” Sostratos said, and sighed. You have to write one day, too, he told himself, or who will remember you once you’re gone? He sighed again, wondering if he would ever find the time.

8

“Hail,” Emashtart said when Menedemos came out of his bedchamber to start another day. “How you?” the innkeeper’s wife went on in her fragmentary Greek. “You to sleep good?”

“Yes, thank you, I slept well enough,” Menedemos answered around a yawn. He scratched. Beyond any doubt, the room had bugs. He saw no point to complaining about it. What room at an inn didn’t? Oh, a clean one happened now and again, but you had to be lucky.

Emashtart was kneading dough on a countertop. She looked up from the work with a sly smile. “You not alonely, to sleep all lone?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” Menedemos said. She’d taken this tack before. Her attempts at seduction would have been funny if they hadn’t been so sad- and so annoying. This is Sostratos’ revenge on me, Menedemos thought. Here’s a woman I don’t want and never would, and what does she care about? Adultery, nothing else but.

She wasn’t subtle about it, either. “You to sleep better, you having woman with you. Woman make you all tired, no?”

“I’m plenty tired by the end of the day, believe me,” Menedemos replied.

“Once upon a time, I famous beauty. Men to fight for me all over Sidon,” the innkeeper’s wife said.

Menedemos almost asked her whether that had been during Alexander ’s reign or that of his father, Philip of Macedon. Alexander had been dead for fifteen years now, Philip for almost thirty. Had Menedemos been only a few years younger, a few years cruder, himself, he would have done it. But Emashtart probably wouldn’t have understood him. And, if she had, she would have been insulted. She’s enough trouble the way things are, the Rhodian thought, and kept quiet.

When, as usual, he refused to rise to her bait, she sent him a venomous look. After pounding the dough harder than she really needed to, she asked, “Is true, what they to say of Hellenes?”

“I don’t know,” Menedemos answered innocently, though he had a pretty good idea what would come next. “What do they say about Hellenes?”

Emashtart glared at him again. Maybe she’d hoped he would help. But when he didn’t, she wasn’t shy about speaking her mind: “They say, Hellenes sooner to put up boy’s arse than woman’s pussy.”

“Do they?” Menedemos exclaimed, as if he’d never heard of such a thing before. “Well, if we did that all the time, there wouldn’t be any more Hellenes after a little while, now would there?” He waited to find out whether she understood. When he saw she did, he gave her his sweetest, most charming smile. “Good day,” he said, and strolled out of the inn.

Behind him, the innkeeper’s wife said several things in Aramaic. Menedemos understood not a word of them, but they sounded pungent. He wondered what Sostratos would have made of them. After a moment, he tossed his head. Not knowing might be better.

“Miserable old whore,” he muttered. “Why doesn’t her husband take charge of her?” A moment’s thought gave him a couple of possible answers. Maybe Sedek-yathon feared his wife. Or maybe he didn’t want her, either, and didn’t care what she did. Well, he can go howl, Menedemos thought. He hurried off toward the Aphrodite . These days, he wished he’d stayed aboard the merchant galley instead of taking a room in Sidon. It would have been less comfortable but would have offered him more peace of mind.

“Hail,” Diokles called as Menedemos came up the quay. The oarmaster was staying aboard the Aphrodite . Every so often, he’d make a sally into Sidon after wine or a friendly woman. Other than that, he seemed content to do without a roof over his head and a mattress under him. Indeed, he kept up his usual habit of sleeping sitting up on a rower’s bench and leaning against the planking of the ship for support. Thinking about that, Menedemos didn’t mind the innkeeper’s wife so much.