The Glory That Was

Chapter Five

Several factors conspired to awaken Knut Bulnes well before the sunrise of which Triballos had warned him: the song of the birds, the sound of voices without, the snores of Wiyem Flin, and the unyielding nature of the pile of rope that Bulnes had made his bed. There were also his own inner turmoil and excitement. What the hell had they stumbled into? Could they ever hope to get back?

Bulnes sat up, rubbing his itchy eyes. Flin still lay asleep, a large lump showing in the predawn light through the sparse hair that thinly veiled his pink scalp.

Bulnes went to the nearest window: a simple rectangular hole provided with a crude wooden shutter, now wide open. As he stuck his head out the window the sound of high voices came more loudly, though he could not see the source of the sound. The immediate neighborhood seemed to be filled with buildings not at all like gracefully columnated Greek temples: crudely plain one-storey brick structures without outside windows or decorations.

The owners of two of the voices came in sight: a pair of young women in long-draped coverings, each balancing a large jar on her shoulder. Slave girls fetching the day's household water from the nearest public fountain, thought Bulnes. If a fake, it was a most convincing one.

Though absorbed in this spectacle, Bulnes became aware of a melancholy within him which he finally identified as sorrow for the loss of his yacht. He braced himself with the thought that if he ever got out of this, he'd have the most remarkable piece Trends had ever published. That is, if Prime Minister Lenz had not assumed autocratic power and imposed a censorship.

As the girls passed out of sight, a man hurried in the other direction, bearing a bundle upon his shoulder. In the quarter-hour that followed, others appeared. Bulnes watched, fascinated, until the waxing light warned him that he would do well to waken Flin.

Flin, shaken, muttered: "Nex' watch already? Where are my oilskins — Oh, goodness gracious, then it wasn't just a bad dream of being back in ancient Greece!"

He bounced up from his coil of rope and hurried to the window. Bulnes remarked, "You've been talking about how you'd love to step back into ancient Attika, my dear Wiyem, so now's your chance. I fear, however, we shall be conspicuous in dungarees and yachting caps."

"You mean to wear those?" Flin indicated the heap of native garments salvaged from the casualties of the night before.

Bulnes grinned at his companion's expression of distaste. "Yes. How the devil d'you put 'em on?"

"We'd better look them over for — ah — parasites first."

They dragged the garments to the window, shook them, and began inspecting. Bulnes said, "Hell, this thing's nothing but a big rectangle of cloth. No sleeves, no tailoring at all!"

"Of course. That's a Doric chiton. Ah, got one!"

"Good for you. How d'you wear it?"

"Fold it so and wrap it around you under the armpits. These safety pins will fasten it together over both shoulders and along the open side. If you'll take off your clothes, I'll drape you."

"I feel like the model of some damned couturier," said Bulnes. "Ouch!"

"Sorry, didn't mean to prick you. There!"

Bulnes took a few experimental steps. "Draftiest damned thing I ever wore. Now it's your turn, dear comrade ... What are the remaining pieces? The big ones?"

"Himatia or cloaks. You drape one around yourself any way you like."

"What keeps it in place?"

"A kalos k'agathos holds it with one hand. That's how you know he's a gentleman — his hands aren't otherwise occupied."

Bulnes experimented with the blanket-like rectangle of cloth. "Shouldn't there be belts to go around these chemises?"

"I don't see any. Perhaps they got lost in the dark."

"Then we'll steal a little of the Athenian navy's cordage," said Bulnes, making for a pile of light rope with his knife.

"What about our things?"

"You can stuff your watch and pocket knife into your wallet and hang your wallet over your belt, I suppose. Our own clothes we shall have to wad up and hide here."

Flin looked out the window. "I say, the fog's gone and the sun'll be up any minute."

"We shall have to go then." Bulnes tried on the larger of the two pairs of sandals that had belonged to the dead men.

"And start hunting for Thalia?"

"Not so fast! We don't even know she's here yet. We want to know just what we've gotten into first. Also, we shall have to secure a supply of meals, and you'll have to teach me enough Classical Greek to get along on."

"That shouldn't be hard, since you know Romaic." Flin rested his chin in his hand, then snatched away the hand. "We can't even shave — though this seems to be one of the bearded periods. At that we shall be conspicuous in these whiskers." He stroked his mustache and goatee.

"A few more shaveless days will fix that. Where can we get our money changed?"

"There was a building here called the Deigma, where the bankers had tables. They'll probably try to swindle us."

"When would they be open for business?"

"Around dawn. Nearly everything starts at that time."

Bulnes shuddered. "We seem to have fallen among people who take the old saying about early to bed seriously."

"Naturally, in the absence of an advanced lighting system."

Bulnes grimaced. "One word, Wiyem. When you don't like anything, please don't say loudly: 'This is outrageous — we'd never stand for it in Britain!' "

The streets were filling fast, not only with men in the garb of ancient Greece, but also with others: a few Negroes, some swarthy, shaven men whom Flin identified as Egyptians, bearded ones in jerseys and kilts who he said were Phoenicians, and various others. From time to time Bulnes and Flin were forced to dodge a burden beast, a cart, or the contents of a slop pail.

They climbed partway up the hill of the Munihia (or Mounychia, as Flin called it) near the arsenal, until their street petered out. Thence they saw the checkerboard plan of the Peiraieus stretching off to the southwest. In the other direction the Long Walls extended several miles inland toward Athens proper. The sun was just rising over the oak-clad swell of Mount Hymettos. As the sunlight compassed Mount Aigaleos to the north and crept eastward across the valley, something gleamed over Athens.

Flin burst out, "It's the helmet of the Athene of Pheidias — the so-called Athene Promachos — on the Akropolis! They said you could see it from here. This must be real!"

"What's that, a statue?"

"A big one, ten meters tall. This is simply wonderful!"

"Some food would be even more so," said Bulnes.

When Flin had feasted his eyes, they walked back down the hill toward the Kantharos Harbor, passing an open space in which stood a number of statues and other monuments, among which hucksters shouted their wares. The thickening crowd was almost entirely male. Nobody paid Bulnes and Flin any attention. Flin asked a man the way to the Deigma.

"What did he say?" asked Bulnes.

"He's a stranger here himself."

The next inquiry brought a more cogent response, and soon they found the Deigma: a huge covered colonnade full of noisy humanity. The garlic stench was almost overpowering.

One section of the Deigma was devoted to banks. Each bank comprised a large table at which sat the banker, surrounded by his slaves, his cash boxes, and his rolls of papyrus accounts. In front of most of these tables a group of customers had lined up.

"How much change have you?" inquired Bulnes.

Flin counted. "Three franks, four daims, one five-pen, six pens, three half-pens."

"Take a frank and try three or four of these fellows to see who'll give us the best price."

"Dash it all, I hate haggling," grumbled Flin, but lined up before the first banker's table.

By the time he had reached the third lineup, Flin was complaining about his feet. Even Bulnes admitted feeling a little faint from hunger and from the waves of garlic odor.

"Just this once, and we'll decide which to deal with ..."

"Hey!" said a third voice in English, "Are you the guys who showed up in the Peiraieus last night in civilized clothes and was attacked by Phaleas' gang?"

Bulnes and Flin turned. There stood a muscular young man with a round, snub-nosed, innocent-looking face, clad like their rescuer of the previous night in coat, pants, and pointed cap, and leaning on the bow of a Scythian archer.