Salamis

VIII

Ptolemaios’ nomarch in Memphis was a grizzled Macedonian officer named Alexandros. He’d lost half an ear and the last joint of his right middle finger in one or another of Alexander the Great’s battles. “Talk to my cooks, if you want to,” he told Sostratos. “If they say your oil’s worth buying, I’ll buy it. And if they don’t, many good-byes to you.”

He had more than his share of Macedonian bluntness, plainly. “Do you want to sample it yourself, sir?” Sostratos asked. “Taste what you’re getting?”

“Nah.” Alexandros tossed his head. “All I know about food is, if it’s there, I eat it. Once you’ve made a stew of dead donkey that’s starting to go off—and been glad to have it, mind—you don’t worry about this stuff. Nikodromos, take the Rhodian to the kitchens.”

“Yes, your Excellency.” Nikodromos was Alexandros’ Greek secretary. He had two; the other was an Egyptian who also spoke decent Greek. The Hellene set down a waxed tablet and rose from his stool. To Sostratos, he said, “If you’ll come with me, O best one ….”

Sostratos came. So did Leskhaios, who carried the amphora full of Damonax’s oil. The nomarch’s residence was a maze King Minos might have envied. It had housed Persian provincial governors before Alexander took Egypt, and probably native Egyptian nomarchs before them. There’d been a lot of adding and rebuilding over the centuries.

As Alexandros had a Greek secretary and an Egyptian one, so he had both Hellenes and Egyptians in the kitchens. The most senior Greek cook was a plump, graying man named Rhodoios. “Are you from the island whose name is like yours?” Sostratos asked him, taking as much of the Attic overlay as he could from his speech.

“Bugger me blind if I’m not,” the cook answered. “Born and raised in Ialysos, came to Alexandria, got work with Alexandros, and I’ve stayed with him going on fifteen years now.”

Sostratos beamed. So did Rhodoios. Their accents were almost identical. And Sostratos had another reason to like the man from his own island. As far as he was concerned, any cook who stayed skinny on what he made himself was not to be relied on.

Also …. “From Ialysos, you say? Do you recall a fellow named Damonax? He would have lived on a farm outside of town, but his family had a place in Ialysos, too. He’s about my age, a bit older, so he would have still been a youth when you came to Egypt.”

Rhodoios screwed up his face in thought. “I just might. Good-looking, if he’s the one I think he is. Liked himself pretty well, too.”

“That’s him,” Sostratos agreed, trying not to giggle. Rhodoios had nailed Damonax down in a couple of sentences. “As it happens, he’s my brother-in-law. I’m selling his oil here.”

“Isn’t that something?” Rhodoios whistled softly. “So this’d be oil like the oil I grew up with, is what you’re saying.”

“I’d think so. It is good oil, or I wouldn’t have brought it to Egypt in an akatos. You can get plenty of the ordinary stuff here,” Sostratos said.

“True enough, but that’s not the same. I can get what they call good oil, too—I’m buying with Alexandros’ silver, after all,” Rhodoios said. “And it is good, or good enough. But it’s not what I think of when I think of good olive oil. Different aroma, different savor on the tongue, even a different color. Can I have a taste of yours?”

“That’s why I brought it to you,” Sostratos answered. “The amphora’s sealed, so it should be as fresh as when it went in last fall.”

“I can take care of that, by the gods.” Rhodoios cut away the pitch securing the stopper with a paring knife. After he pulled the stopper out, he bent over the opened jar to sniff the oil. A slow smile spread across his face. “Oh, doesn’t that take me back, now? Doesn’t it just?”

“Taste it, too,” Sostratos urged. “I want you to be sure of what you’re getting.”

“I’ll do that, and gladly,” Rhodoios said. An Egyptian cook had just taken four loaves of bread from the oven and set them on a stone counter to cool. Rhodoios tore a chunk off the end of one. The other man shouted at him in Egyptian. He came back in the same language, with enough effect to make several Egyptians laugh. To Sostratos, he remarked, “I don’t let these sons of crocodiles talk about me without knowing what they’re saying.”

“Good for you. I learned some Aramaic when I went to Phoenicia and Palestine a couple of years ago,” Sostratos said.

“You’re from Rhodes, all right. They don’t grow too many stupid people there.” Rhodoios poured a little of Damonax’s oil into a bowl: a funny little bowl that stood on short legs and hippotamus feet. Then he blew on the chunk of bread—steam still rose from it—and dipped it in the oil. He took a bite, chewed, and swallowed.

“What do you think?” As any good trader would have, Sostratos tried to sound casual. If Rhodoios didn’t like it, he would have to try to unload the olive oil on other Hellenes here, and the nomarch’s headquarters seemed the best bet. Or he would have to go back to Rhodes and tell his brother-in-law he couldn’t sell the oil. That didn’t bear thinking about.

But Rhodoios smiled beatifically. “I taste that oil and I’m seventeen years old again and just finding out about girls.” With what looked like a real effort, he brought himself back from long-ago Ialysos to Memphis. “Alexandros will like it, too. He goes for that new-oil taste—almost leafy, you know?”

“He talks about not caring what he eats,” Sostratos said.

“That’s till he wants to eat it,” the cook replied. Sostratos grinned.

The Egyptian whose loaf Thodoios had torn turned out to know some Greek, too. “Is olive oil. Is nasty olive oil,” he said. “You Hellenes is nasty people for liking it.”

“If your arsehole were any wider, Khamouas, you’d fall right in,” Rhodoios said without rancor. He added something in Egyptian that sounded just as polite. Khamouas said something back to him. They both chuckled. Rhodoios eyed Sostratos again. “So how much have you got, and how much do you want for it?”

Sostratos told him. He waited for Rhodoios to bubble and boil like a pot of beans forgotten over the fire. He thought he had the older man’s measure, and felt sure he’d make a nasty haggler.

But Alexandros’ cook hardly haggled at all, though he wanted only half the oil Sostratos had brought to Memphis. Oh, he made a show of dickering, for the benefit of the other men who were watching and listening to the bargain. But when he clasped Sostratos’ hand, the price was still high enough to keep Damonax not just happy but overjoyed.

“You bastard!” Rhodoios said, though he sounded no angrier than he had with Khamouas. “It’s good stuff, but you’re making me shell out for it. Ah, well, the nomarch won’t complain, not when he gets a taste of it.”

When Sostratos heard that, it was as if the sun rose in his mind. Rhodoios would have fought harder if he’d had to spend his own silver. But how rich was Alexandros? Not so rich as his illustrious overlord, no doubt, but rich enough not to worry much about what the kitchens spent. Sostratos hadn’t understood the kind of wealth Egypt yielded till he began to see it with his own eyes. He wasn’t sure he did even now, but he certainly had a better notion than he’d had before crossing the Inner Sea.

He promised Rhodoios that he and the rowers would deliver the oil the next day. That satisfied the cook, who promised to have the drakhmai to pay for it. Then something else occurred to Sostratos. He asked Rhodoios, “Is there any chance of my getting a guide to take me out to see the Pyramids? I got a glimpse of them from the river, but I’d kick myself for the rest of my days if I came so close without taking a closer look.”

Before Rhodoios could reply, Khamouas spoke up: “My brother-in-law’s cousin, him do that. Take you there, bring you back …. You gots to pay, you know.”

“The world runs on silver the way a fire runs on wood,” Sostratos said. The Egyptian nodded. Sostratos went on, “Will you introduce me to—what’s his name?”

“Him have name of Pakebkis,” Khamouas said. Sostratos repeated the name several times under his breath so it would stay in his memory. Khamouas added, “You ever ride a camel?”

“No,” Sostratos said.

“You ride camel with Pakebkis,” Khamouas said. “Him trader, too. Take this across desert to oasis, bring back that. Him good fellow, Pakebkis, long as you watch he.”

“I’ll watch him.” Sostratos would have even without the warning. If you didn’t watch strangers, who knew what might happen to you? Nothing good—everyone knew that.

One of the other Egyptians said something in his own language. Sostratos looked a question at Rhodoios. The other Hellene translated: “Antas says camel hump baked with turnips and dates is a good festival meal.” Sostratos wasn’t dickering now, so his face must have shown what he thought, for Rhodoios added, “It isn’t what I would’ve eaten back in Ialysos, either, but he’s right. It’s good. All that melting fat ….” He smacked his lips.

“I’ll take your word for it.” All Sostratos knew about camels was that they were ugly and bad-tempered, and that horses couldn’t stand their smell. If Pakebkis was going to put him on top of one, he had to hope the miserable creature wouldn’t try to eat him instead of the other way around.

Menedemos found himself watching his tongue much more closely than he was used to doing. He’d been a free and independent Hellene from a free and independent polis all his days, and he’d taken freedom for granted till he came to Alexandria. Even what he’d seen in Athens the year before, when Demetrios Antigonos’ son took the city from Demetrios of Phaleron and Kassandros, hadn’t made him rein in.

Here, though …. How many people in Alexandria were spies and informers? How much did Ptolemaios or his Myrmidons know about all the Hellenes and Egyptians and Ioudaioi who lived here or came here on business? How much did they know about all the myriads up and down the Nile?

More to the point for Menedemos was how much Ptolemaios knew about him, and what he thought of what he knew. Did someone in the refectory report what he ate at breakfast every morning and how much opson he had with his supper bread every evening? Did Seseset tell someone what he said while they were making love and even which posture they used?

Once you started seeing spies, you saw them everywhere and you couldn’t stop seeing them, whether they were really there or not. You had to act as if they were there, as if they were listening. He’d long since seen that Alexandria wasn’t any kind of polis, much less a free and independent one. It was part of the realm Ptolemaios ruled as king in all but name.

Macedonians had always had kings, of course, some good, more not. They were used to running things that way. Hellenes, though, served under Ptolemaios as eagerly as their cousins from the north. A full belly and a nice house mattered more to them than freedom and independence.

But pausing to consider before saying what he thought griped Menedemos worse than bad fish in a stew. It was different from business politeness. Of course you wouldn’t tell someone you were doing business with that he had bad breath or …. Or that you’ve seduced his wife, Menedemos thought, and chuckled to himself.

That was just common sense, though. Keeping your mouth shut about what you thought of a ruler because he might string you up by the thumbs if he heard about it? That was something else again. It made Menedemos wonder if the Macedonians and Hellenes, having overthrown the Persian Empire, had been conquered by Persian notions in their turn.

He wished Sostratos weren’t down in Memphis. His cousin understood how states worked, even if he didn’t always understand the people standing right in front of him. He’d quote Herodotos or Thoukydides or one of those brainy fellows, and everything would at least seem to make sense for a little while.

As things were, Menedemos acted like a happy fool when he walked down Alexandria’s wide, brawling streets. He still haggled sharply, but he stopped saying anything about Ptolemaios, about the way Egypt was ruled, or about the way the wars of Alexander’s generals were going.

An incense dealer—sure enough, there were such men—named Hermokrates, from whom he bought some frankincense, remarked, “You’re a better bargainer than I thought you’d be. By the gods, O best one, not everyone squeezes that kind of price out of me.”

“Isn’t that interesting?” Menedemos kept a stupid smile on his face. But he couldn’t resist a barb of his own: “You’re named after the god of thieves. Does it bother you when you can’t steal from someone?”

“To the crows with you!” Hermokrates said with a laugh. “I know what I have and I know what it’s worth. So do you, and I wouldn’t have looked for that from such a plain-seeming fellow.”

“How about that?” Menedemos trotted out another phrase without much real meaning. If he acted stupid all the time, could he surprise other people the way he had with Hermokrates? Finding out might prove worthwhile.

On his way back to the palace, he bought some honeyed dates and raisins from a skinny woman who sold them off a tray. He didn’t bargain hard with her; a glance told him she needed whatever she could get.

“Thank you,” she said. By her looks, she could have been a Hellene; her tunic and her guttural accent said she was one of the Ioudaioi. She sent Menedemos a thoughtful glance. “You want to find somewhere quiet, spend some more money?”

“I’d love to, my dear, but I have to meet a friend very soon.” Menedemos lied without compunction and hurried away. It wasn’t as if he’d never paid for a woman—what else was he doing with Seseset? But this one stirred sorrow in him, not lust. He got away as fast as he could.

The next morning, he inveigled the serving girl into his room. “You not want me for a while,” she said as she lay down beside him. “I think maybe you find somebody you like better or you pay less.”

“Nothing like that. I’ve just been working hard.” Menedemos did his best to persuade her without using any more words. He hoped he succeeded. He thought he did. But Seseset was here for silver, not—or not just—for pleasure. She might well act without wearing a mask.

“You work hard, yes,” she said after they finished.

“What man wouldn’t, with you?” he said. She liked that, and smiled back over her shoulder at him.

He smiled, too, hoping she couldn’t see he was forcing it a little. The real reason he hadn’t taken her to bed so often lately was that he trusted her less than he had before. He trusted everyone in Alexandria less than he had before: everyone who hadn’t come with him from Rhodes, anyhow.

Drinking wine with Diokles in a little tavern not far from the palace, he spoke in a low voice: “You want to watch what you say in this town. You never can tell who’s listening.”

The keleustes spat an olive pit on the dirt floor. Brine-cured olives, dried and salted sprats—the bowls on the counter held cheap snacks designed to make a drinker thirstier. Tavernkeepers in Hellas played the same game. Then Diokles glanced around to make sure no one was listening just now. Also quietly, he said, “You noticed that, too, huh, skipper?”

Menedemos set a hand on his arm. “I might have known I didn’t need to tell you.”

“Being careful’s never wasted.” Diokles’ hair was gray, almost white. His skin was dark and tough as leather. No one who went to sea got old unless he was careful.

“Do you think it’s worthwhile to warn the rowers, too?” Menedemos asked.

“I wouldn’t bother,” Diokles said, tossing his head. “They don’t know enough to get in trouble running their mouths. If you could tell them not to drink themselves blind and get into tavern brawls over whores …. By the dog, you can tell them till you’re black in the face, but you can’t make the thickskulls listen to you.”

“Pretty much the same thing I was thinking,” Menedemos said with a sigh. “Most rowers don’t have much sense.”

“No? I was a rower. I was a rower for years.” Diokles set his cup on the table and opened his hands, palms up. He hadn’t pulled an oar for a long time now, but still had ridges of callus running across his palms.

“I know. That’s why I said most.” Menedemos didn’t care to anger a man he liked, respected, and needed. He was also sure that, when it came to tavern brawls, Diokles could still more than hold his own. To make sure it didn’t come to that, he soothed the keleustes’ ruffled feathers and bought him another cup of wine.

Everything was fine after that … till Menedemos started glancing around the tavern. Who in there could overhear him? How soon would word of whatever he said get back to Ptolemaios’ henchmen, and perhaps to the lord of Egypt himself?

How soon before you start thinking everyone is spying on you, whether anyone is or not? Menedemos wondered. To keep himself from stewing over that, he got more wine for himself—and a fresh cup for Diokles, of course.

Sostratos and the rowers made their way toward the edge of Memphis as twilight brightened into day. By the way Khamouas led them, he was used to finding his way around in the middle of the night. “Leaving early better,” he said. “Not too hot yet.”

“Not too,” Sostratos more or less agreed, watching the paling sky swallow another star. Then he stepped in something nasty, and realized he would do better to keep his eyes on the ground. He scuffed his foot in the dirt to clean it as best he could.

“Ha!” Khamouas said when the sun’s red disc climbed up over the horizon. “Ra rises.”

“We call the sun Helios,” Sostratos said. “Usually, though, we name the sun god Apollo.” He took the gods less seriously than men had even a couple of generations earlier, but the sun was impossible to ignore.

Several Egyptians waited on the northern outskirts of town along with the camels that would take them and the Hellenes to the Pyramids. Khamouas waved when he saw them. One of the Egyptians, a tall, lanky fellow, waved back. “Is Pakebkis,” Khamouas said. “You can with he talk. Him speak Greek like me.”

His Greek might not be perfect, but it was infinitely better than Sostratos’ Egyptian, which didn’t exist. “Thanks,” Sostratos said, and gave the cook a thick silver didrakhm.

Khamouas spoke in crackling Egyptian to his brother-in-law’s cousin. Pakebkis answered in the same language. “He say we do like we say before,” Khamouas translated. “Three drakhmai a man, ten-and-eight all told.”

“Yes.” Sostratos dipped his head. Then he made himself nod, as he had sometimes in Palestine to make sure the locals understood. “I will give you half now, half when you’ve brought us back here.”

“Is good,” Pakebkis said—sure enough, his Greek was no more villainous than that of his kinsman by marriage. He held out his right hand, palm up. Sostratos paid him nine drakhmai. Pakebkis examined them, then stowed them in a belt pouch. “Is good,” he said again. “You, me, friends of you, friends of me, we go together. All friends.”

“All friends,” Sostratos echoed, hoping it was true. The rowers and Egyptians eyed each other like two packs of dogs meeting in the street. All of them carried a spear or a sword or a club or a sturdy knife. One Hellene might vanish without a trace in a foreign land. Half a dozen Hellenes might still vanish, but not without putting up a fight.

One of the camels turned its large, ugly head toward Sostratos. Its jaw worked—not up and down, but from side to side. Then, with purpose (with malice, he would have sworn), it spat at him. He jerked aside just in time. The glob of saliva splashed the ground, not his face. The Egyptians thought it was hilarious. Sostratos found himself less amused.

“How do we get on those big, funny-looking critters?” asked a rower named Trityllos. “I didn’t reckon they’d be so tall. They make horses look like donkeys beside ’em.”

Pakebkis walked over to the camel that had spit. It tried to bite him. He smacked it on the nose. It let out a groan full of horrible indignation. The formalities complete, he tapped it on the back of a foreleg. It squatted on the sand. “You see?” Pakebkis said.

The saddle looked more like a padded bench made to fit on the camel’s hump and strapped around its belly than anything else Sostratos could think of. Grinning, Pakebkis waved him forward. Gulping, he went. The rowers were grinning, too, at seeing him try it before they had to. If they laughed at him for showing fear, he’d never be able to lead them again. Be what you wish to seem, he thought, though philosophy didn’t come easy then.

At Pakebkis’ gesture, he got on the saddle. The camel sent him a yellowish stare full of ancient evil. Pakebkis tapped its foreleg again and said something in Egyptian. One piece at a time, the animal stood, jerking Sostratos this way and that as it did. He didn’t drop the reins, but he came close.

He stared down from higher off the ground than he’d even been aboard a beast. “You all good?” Pakebkis asked. Sostratos started to dip his head, then managed a shaky nod. Pakebkis seemed used to people unsure of themselves on camelback. He got the other Hellenes mounted, too. A couple of the Egyptians knew what they were doing around camels. The others, plainly no more than hired toughs, gabbled and exclaimed like the rowers.

Pakebkis mounted last. Like most of the others, his camel made hideous noises at having to carry a man. He whacked it with an iron-tipped goad. It made different dreadful noises, then shut up. When he poked its sides with his heels, it started north at a surprisingly good clip. The other camels followed in a ragged line.

Sostratos had heard camels called the ships of the desert. He’d always thought that was because they could carry men and goods through wastes no other creatures could cross. Now he discovered they had a rocking, swaying motion very different from that of a donkey or a horse. The height at which he traveled magnified the effect.

He wasn’t the only one who noticed. “Hope I don’t get seasick!” Trityllos said. The rest of the rowers laughed. So did Pakebkis and a couple of other Egyptians who knew some Greek. Sostratos wished he thought it was funnier.

Sand lay thin over soil. They followed a trail even Sostratos could recognize. A lot of travelers over a lot of years had made their way north from Memphis to see the Pyramids. They’d scarred the land the way a mine slave’s shackle came to scar his ankle.

Big vultures wheeled in the air high overhead. You won’t eat my flesh, Sostratos thought, and then, By the gods, I hope you won’t.

A jackal vanished into a hole: sharp-nosed like a fox, but with a different gait and bigger ears. Sostratos was the kind who classified things, partly because he was who he was and partly because he’d studied under Theophrastos the botanist in Athens. The rowers seemed more inclined to joke than classify. “Between the scavengers in the sky and the ones slinking on the sand, in two days won’t be anything left of us if we keel over here,” Thersandros said.

Pakebkis translated the gibe for his men who knew no Greek. They grinned and laughed. Sostratos smiled; people were people under the skin, whether Hellene or barbarian. An Egyptian looked up at the vultures, then caught the rowers’ eyes and held up one finger, as if to say they’d be supper in only one day if they died here. When the Hellenes understood him, they laughed in turn.

A low rise in front of the Pyramids did a fair job of keeping Sostratos from getting as good a look at them as he would have liked. The sun shone off the white limestone that sheathed their outsides. It also beat down on the men traveling through the desert to view them.

Sweat dripped into Sostratos’ beard. Jars of Egyptian beer were tied to each camel’s saddle. “You gots to drink!” Pakebkis called. “You not wanting vultures eating at you, you gots to drink!” He matched action to word.

Sostratos dutifully imitated him. Used to wine, the Hellene still found beer thin, sour stuff. But he also noticed that this beer was cooler than it would have been had it come from a skin or a metal jug. He’d seen that before; as much as the greater cost of metal, it was a reason Hellenes commonly used pottery jugs for water and wine.

The rowers seemed to fancy beer even less then he did. Sostratos echoed Pakebkis’ order: “Drink it like medicine if you don’t want to drink it for fun,” he said sternly. “The Egyptians know how to live here. Don’t let yourselves cook because you hate beer.”

“I’d sooner drink the muddy old Nile,” Leskhaios said.

“And start shitting your guts out till you bleed from your prokton?” Sostratos said. “Nobody who can get anything else drinks water. It gives you a bloody flux too often. And foreign water’s even worse than what we’ve got back home.”

“Yes, Papa,” the rower replied.

“To the crows with you!” Sostratos snapped. This was the thanks you got for trying to help people? Well, all too often it was.

Then the camels, sure-footed even when the going got rough, made it to the top of the little rise. The rowers stopped teasing Sostratos. Like him, they gaped at the spectacle laid out before them.

Two of the Pyramids were noticeably larger than the third, but even the smallest one dwarfed any construction Sostratos had ever seen before. The Egyptian Sphinx looked nothing like the sphinxes of Greek myth and legend. It looked like a lion with a human head decked out with a headdress Sostratos had already seen on wall carvings of Egyptian pharaohs.

Off to the right, in the direction of the Nile, lay a village or small town. From Herodotos, Sostratos remembered it was called Bousiris. The ramp that ran from the river toward the Pyramids showed how the builders had got their stones where they needed them. If you had enough people and enough time, you could do almost anything.

Sostratos and the rowers weren’t the only sightseers gawking at the grandiose monuments Egyptian kings had raised for themselves in ancient days. Nor was Pakebkis the only guide. Other Egyptians led curious men—and even a handful of women—mounted on camels or donkeys.

And people from Bousiris tried to sell them beer and wine and snacks and tiny terra-cotta Pyramids whitewashed to look as if they were clad in limestone and little painted figurines, also of burnt clay. Those last intrigued Sostratos. “Do you speak Greek?” he asked a man with a tray of them.

“Malista!” the Egyptian answered. “Talk Greek good.”

“Tell me what your small statues are, then,” Sostratos said.

“Them is ousabti figures.” The Egyptian might not have much grammar, but he could make himself understood, all right. “Bury with you bunch of they. Them work in afterlife for you, so you don’t got to nothing.”

That tickled Sostratos’ sense of whimsy enough to make him ask, “How much?”

“Four oboloi eaches,” the ousabti-seller answered. “Maybe you buy one man, one woman, hey? Man, he do work things for you after you dead. You and woman, meantime—” He gestured lewdly.

“Cost too much.” Sostratos kept things simple for the Egyptian. “I’ll give you four oboloi for a man and a woman.”

“You spit in my eye like camel you on!” the fellow exclaimed, clapping a hand to his forehead in badly acted despair. They haggled for a bit, and wound up splitting the difference. Sostratos gave the Egyptian a drakhma and got his ousabti figurines.

Mountebanks climbed all three Pyramids—no easy trick, not with their outer layers of smooth limestone. The acrobats, or whatever the right name for them was, seemed to slide down once they reached the apex of a Pyramid. Sostratos got close enough to one of them to see that he had a leather patch sewn to the seat of his linen kilt, so evidently the sliding was real enough.

The Sphinx intrigued him even more than the Pyramids. No matter how enormous they were, they struck him as exercises in geometry. He imagined Pythagoras pacing along next to one, pointing with a stick and deducing theorems as he went. The Sphinx, now, the Sphinx had a touch of humanity to it.

As he came up close to it, he discovered he wasn’t the only one who’d thought so down through the years. Graffiti marred its arms, some written on the stone, others scratched or carved into it. Some were in Greek, others in Aramaic or the hieratic script Egyptians used when they wrote hieroglyphics quickly.

One Greek scratching made him smile. I, Xenopheles son of Xenon, wrote this, read the first line. Below that, either Xenopheles or someone else had added, So did I, Knife son of Nobody.

Off at the edge of the desert, a couple of long-legged, long-necked birds at least as tall as a man stood watching for a little while, then ran away at least as fast as a galloping horse. Pointing at them, Sostratos asked Pakebkis, “What do you call those?”

“Them is ostriches,” the Egyptian answered. “For you Hellenes, I hear you say strouthos for one.”

“Do you?” Sostratos said drily. Strouthos was the Greek word for sparrow. Either Pakebkis had got it wrong, a Hellene was playing a joke on him, or someone was trying not to show how much a bird that size impressed him.

“Them hard to hunt, but good if you catch,” Pakebkis said.

“Do they taste like chicken or duck?” Sostratos asked.

“No.” The guide shook his head. “Red meat. Taste like cow. Maybe more better.”

“Now I know something I never knew before,” Sostratos said.

“Sometimes, some butchers in Memphis, they got,” Pakebkis said. “Khamouas, he know where, when, I bet. He tell me the Ptolemaios like it.”

Ptolemaios had hunted lions and tigers in the crumbling wreckage of the Persian Empire and in India. He’d fought against elephants by the Indos River, and weren’t there more elephants down in southernmost Egypt, or maybe beyond its southern border? And he’d eaten ostriches, too? What sort of marvels hadn’t he known?

Pakebkis reached down and grabbed one of the jars of beer tied to his camel’s odd saddle. He swigged from it. “Got to keep drinking. Drink, drink, drink,” he said. “You no drink, Ra strike you dead.” He pointed at the sun.

Thus encouraged, Sostratos drank more himself. The more he poured down, the more he sweated. He urged the rowers to drink again, too. He didn’t want one of them falling off a camel from heatstroke. They chaffed him less than they had earlier in the morning, when the weather was cooler.

After a while, Pakebkis asked, “You see all things you to see want?”

“Yes, I think so. Thanks.” Sostratos wished he had some way of making pictures so he wouldn’t have to trust fading, unreliable memory for the rest of his life. But some things were simply too big to forget. “When I have grandchildren, I’ll bore them silly with my story of how I came to Memphis and saw the Pyramids.”

“They just there,” the Egyptian said.

“They’re just there if you’re here. You are, so you can take them for granted,” Sostratos said. “There’s nothing like them in Hellas, believe me, or anywhere else in the world. If I crossed the sea to trade in Egypt, I wasn’t going to miss them.”

“The sea? Water all over everywhere till you no find land?” Pakebkis’ eyes widened in wonder. “Maybe one day I go down Nile to Alexandria. I to see that want. Maybe.” Everything was a marvel to someone who didn’t know about it.