20

Raskos

The wounded man came before sunrise; we three were sleeping on the floor. I sat up at his knock, and the girl, Io, sat up, too. I told the boy—his name is Polos—to unbar the door. He would not and looked frightened. I did not want to leave the warmth of my blankets; I tossed fresh wood upon the fire and asked who was there.

“Raskos!” he replied.

Then the farmer came out of the room where he had slept with his wife and opened the door.

Raskos came in. He had a pelta and javelins; I threw off the blankets at once, thinking that I might have to fight. He spoke to the farmer, who laughed, made a fist, and tossed his thumb into his mouth. He waved toward a stool by the fire, and though I could not understand what he said, it seemed that he was inviting Raskos to sit down.

Speaking in the way the Hellenes do, Polos whispered, “He’s not drunk.” He was shaking so much I put my arm about him, at which he breathed violently through his nose, which I think must be a habit of his. He is ten, I would say, or perhaps a year or two older. He has reddish hair and dark eyes.

Raskos spoke more, mumbling and looking around as though he had never seen the house before, often repeating the same words. Io asked what he was saying, and Polos told her, “He says he was lost in the snow.”

I went to a window and opened the shutter. It had indeed snowed during the night; snow a little thicker than my thumb lay over everything, so that all the bushes and trees appeared to be covered with white blossoms, bathed now in moonlight.

Raskos was beseeching the farmer, whose name was Olepys, or something of the sort. I was about to close the shutter when I saw people walking up the road. Three of them were carrying a long and apparently heavy bundle upon their shoulders, and when one pointed toward the house, it was plain that they intended to stop.

But I was too full of my own thoughts to pay much attention to these travelers then. As I latched the shutter, I asked Io, “Do you remember what Cleton told us? I’ve been considering it, and since we’re all awake, I think it would be best if we got an early start.”

She said, “Do you want to send Polos into the city to talk to this Rope Maker?”

I shook my head, for I knew that no strategist was apt to tell the truth to a ragged boy. “The first thing is to locate Hegesistratus and warn him that the Rope Makers are here. We know that they’ve learned about him, and they probably want to kill him.”

“Maybe they have already,” Io speculated gloomily. “I know you don’t remember it, master, but a few days ago Hegesistratus was trying to read the future for you and saw his own death. It sounded as if it was pretty close.”

I was about to tell her that we ought to warn Hegesistratus just the same, if we could, when someone tapped at the door.

It was a weeping woman in a dark cloak. Straggling hair, loose and disordered, hung about her shoulders, and her cheeks were streaked with tears; with her was another, younger woman. The three men who carried the bundle waited a few steps behind them, looking uncomfortable. Two were hardly more than boys.

Io jabbed Polos with her elbow, and he told us, “She says her husband’s dead. They’re going to the burning. They want this man to come.”

“This man” was the fanner, who smiled at the woman, shook his head, and pointed to the stool beside the fire, though there was no one there.

The woman only sobbed the louder, at which the farmer’s wife came out of the room to comfort her. “Ai Raskos!” the weeping woman cried. “Ai Raskos!”

The farmer shouted at her then, and when she paid no heed to him, at the three with the bundle, who shook their heads and would not meet his eyes. In a moment they laid the heavy bundle in the snow and removed some of the cloths; it was a man’s body, and though it was too dark there upon the moonlit snow to be sure, it seemed to me that he looked very much like the one who had awakened us.

The farmer got a brand from the fire and held it above the dead man. His beard was marked with two gray streaks. His nose looked as if it had been broken. An eye stared at us from under a half-open lid; although I wished someone would close it, I did not try to do it myself. An ax or heavy sword had severed his left shoulder, cutting through almost to the final rib.

After a great many whispered instructions to his wife, the farmer replaced one of the youths who had carried the body, and all six trudged away. I made certain the children cleaned their teeth and washed their faces and hands, then went out to saddle our horses, who had passed a comfortable night in the shed with the cows; we had a big white stallion, a white mare, and four others. “Thanks be to whatever god governs horses,” I said to Polos, who had come to help, “that this mare’s not in season.”

He grinned. “Oh, if we let them cover her a few times, it would be all right. It’s the Earth Shaker, the Sea God. He’s the Horse God, too.”

The white stallion had been rolling his eyes and baring his teeth at me, but Polos calmed him with a touch. “Which one are you going to ride?”

“My own.” I pointed to the one who had worn my saddlebags the night before.

“How do you know that he’s yours?” Polos asked. “Io says you forget from day to day.”

“This isn’t from day to day,” I explained. “It was late when you brought these horses, and the sun isn’t properly up yet.”

Polos thought about that for a moment as he saddled Io’s small, docile chestnut. “Do you remember fighting King Kotys yesterday?”

I admitted that I did not know I had ever fought a king, and added that since I was still alive I appeared to have won.

“You didn’t really fight. He ran away, and then his people killed him for running. Should I call you Latro, or can I call you master like Io does?” Polos paused. “Io’s your slave, did you remember about it?”

I shook my head. “I’ll free her, then, so that she can go home to her father and mother. If you’re not my slave, Polos, you shouldn’t call me master. I’m sorry to hear that this king was a coward; I suppose some kings are, but one doesn’t like to think of them like that.”

“I don’t think he was,” Polos told me, “but it’s not the kind of thing I know much about.”

I laughed at his solemn little face and mussed his hair. “What is?”

“Oh, horses and goats and dogs—all kinds of animals. And the weather. I’m a wonderful weather prophet.”

“Really, Polos? What will today be like?”

“Sunny and windy, at first. The sun will melt this snow, so that the ground gets all muddy. But after that thick clouds will come, and the day will end too soon.”

I sighed, reflecting that he might have been speaking of me, though it did not seem that he intended it.

“Master—Latro—I’ll do anything you say.”

“All right,” I said, “but why are you telling me? Have you disobeyed me? Did I beat you?”

“No,” Polos told me. “I’ve always done everything you told me, although you haven’t told me much. But I wanted to say that I thought you were wrong about some things, and I don’t want you to be angry with me.”

I said we would see about that when I knew our disagreement.

“I think I ought to call you master. If I don’t, lots of people will ask why I’m with you. But if I do, they’ll think I’m your slave, like Io.”

I led him back into the house so that we could toast our stiff fingers at the fire; it gave me an opportunity to consider what he had suggested. “Suppose I were to die, Polos. You say I fought a king yesterday, and if it’s true, I may very well die today. Won’t my heirs—if I’ve got any—claim you? You might have to spend the rest of your life as somebody’s slave.”

Polos shook his head, a little mule. “If the king couldn’t kill you yesterday, master, who’s going to kill you today? And besides, if you have heirs, they’re probably nice people. There are lots of people—not very nice people at all—who catch boys and girls that don’t belong to anybody.”

Io came in, and I asked her whether she had given the woman the money she had promised her after the farmer left.

“Not yet,” Io said. “Not until we’re ready to go, because we might need something else. Do you remember why we’re going, master?”

“To find a man called Hegesistratus, if we can.”

Polos asked me, “Do you remember him? What he looks like?”

I shook my head.

“Or why we want to find him?” Polos persisted.

“Because the Rope Makers want to kill him.” I asked Io, “Hegesistratus is a Mend, isn’t he? When I pronounced his name, it seemed a friend’s in my mouth.”

There was a knock at the door. From the other room, the woman shouted something.

“Raskos!”

Io told me, “Don’t open it!” as I drew my sword.

I had to, if I wanted to go on calling myself a man; but I had not time enough to explain that to Io. Sword high, I opened wide the door with my left hand.

There was no one there. The sun had just risen, and long purple shadows fled from every little ridge of wind-driven snow. The footprints of those who had carried the body to the door—and carried it away—were half-filled with snow already; so was the formless depression where the body had lain. There were no newer, fresher tracks.

“Io,” I said, “you can speak the way these people do, can’t you? A little?”

Io nodded. “It’s Thracian, master—we’re in Thrace. I’ve picked up a bit, and Polos knows it.”

I said, “Then, Polos, you must warn the woman that Raskos may come back. Do you understand me? If he does, she mustn’t open the door. She must tell him, through the door, that he is dead.”

Polos nodded solemnly.

“The snow’s fallen since he died, I think, and changed the landmarks he knew. Snow’s something one usually finds only high up on mountains, so if he comes again before it melts, she must tell him—without opening the door—exactly how he can reach the spot where his body will be burned.”

When Polos had spoken with the woman as I told him and Io had given her a coin, we rode off. “Just before that happened”—Polos jerked his head to indicate the farmhouse—“I was going to tell you I thought you ought to ride the white one. You rode him when you fought King Kotys, and I don’t believe he’ll give you any more trouble.”

I shook my head. “He had a hard day, yesterday, I imagine. Didn’t I ride him a long way, Io?”

She nodded. “A very long way, master. We were both really tired when we stopped here, and so were the horses.” Each of us was riding one and leading another.

Polos asked, “What if somebody wants to fight with us?”

“Then I’ll get on him,” I promised. “And he’ll be better rested for not being ridden now.”

Polos looked from me to the big white stallion, considering. “You are heavy.”

“Of course I am, and I’m wearing a sword and mail.”

“Oeobazus has a sword with a gold hilt, but I think yours must be better.”

I asked who Oeobazus was.

Io told me, “The Mede we made the king free. Really, you made him, mostly. You’ve been keeping up your new book really well, so there ought to be a lot about it there. But probably you shouldn’t try to read it while we’re riding, especially in this wind.”

“All right,” I said, “I won’t.”

Polos asked, “Sometime will you show me how to fight with a sword?”

“You’ve seen him,” Io said. “I know you were watching us the last time. You saw what my master did.”

“I was watching,” Polos admitted, looking at me. “I saw what he did, but I don’t know how he did it. Four men came at him together, and I thought he’d be killed, but he killed them, one after another. There can’t be many swordsmen like him.”

I had to confess that I no longer recalled the incident he described.

“But you know how to do it. What would you do if you were faced with four together?”

“Get away,” I told him, “if I could.”

“But if you couldn’t?”

I turned the problem over in my mind, seeing soldiers with spears and swords who were not actually there, but who had once, perhaps, stood before me in that way. “Determine which is the leader, if you can,” I told Polos. “One is always the leader when there are four, the one the rest would be ashamed to have see them run. It’s very likely that there aren’t really four trying to kill you. One is trying to kill you, and three are trying to help him. Disable him at once, if you can. Killing him is good, of course; but a deep cut in his sword arm or his leg may be just as good.”

We stopped at a solitary house; Polos talked to the people there and told me that they said they had seen no strangers, and that he felt they were telling the truth. I spoke loudly: “They haven’t seen Hegesistratus?” I did it hoping that Hegesistratus would hear me and know my voice, but no one answered.

On the road again, I said, “Your sword must be a part of you, Polos. Do you understand that?”

He nodded. “But when I held your sword last night, it didn’t want to be.”

“Falcata’s too heavy for you,” I told him, “and you haven’t handled her nearly enough. It’s good to have a good sword, but it’s better to know the sword you have and keep it sharp. Some scabbards dull the blade, because they’re lined with hard wood; some of them even have bronze where it rubs the sharp part of the blade. If you’ve got a scabbard like that, sell it and get another—only leather or wool should touch the edge.”

Polos nodded; I could see he was thinking about what I had said.

“And yet you must always remember that it isn’t the best sword that wins, but the best swordsman.”

A man carrying two javelins was walking some distance ahead of us—a man who, as nearly as I could judge, left behind him no tracks. I asked Polos about horses, knowing them a subject that would occupy Io as well, and learned much.