"You must find it quite a contrast."
"Contrast!" she leaned forward on her stool. "Many a time I have thought I should go mad. Why think you I told them to admit you? Danae in her tower had no more frustrating lot, locked up with no company but a husband old enough to be my father, and occasional visits from these vapid Athenian dames — I, who as a young girl ran and wrestled naked on the athletic field like a man ..."
During this conversation she had been hitching her stool farther and farther forward, and now was gently pressing her thigh against his. Her face was flushed, breath coming fast, dark eyes half-closed and mouth half open. All the slaves seemed to have vanished.
Bulnes's own pulse began to pound — but then he thought of the enormous complications and decided to be good — this once anyway. Another time ...
He drew back stiffly, saying, "Tell me, what is Euripides working on now? For rumors of his fame have reached far Tartessos."
"Oh," she said, with a look that expressed regret for having admitted this stick of a foreigner in the first place. "Some huge tetralogy — I never keep track of his works ..."
Chapter Twelve
The street door opened. In came a man as tall as Bulnes, with bushy eyebrows, a patriarchal nose, and a graying beard down to his solar plexus. Behind him a younger man with a mass of papyrus-rolls under his arm looked askance at Bulnes, though the older one seemed to find nothing amiss.
"Bouleus of Tartessos? Bouleus of Tartessos? Do I know you, my dear fellow? Thank you, Melite, but you had better go back into the gynaikonitis like a good girl. What said you your name was, my dear sir?"
Bulnes told him again.
"Ah, yes, I remember. Why you scoundrel, you are the barbarian who caused such an unseemly disturbance this mor — But no, that cannot be, because you are tall and thin like me, whereas this man was short and thick like Kephisophon. Was he not from Tartessos too? Do you know him?"
Bulnes told his prepared story.
"Ah, yes, that is the way of it. It shows the inscrutable workings of Fate, for if Melite had not had a cold last week, she would have seen the Aias at the local theater, and I should not have had to convey her all the way to Athens. How did you hear of this regrettable incident?"
"Our friend Sokrates sent his slave to inform me.
"Do you mean Sokrates Sophroniskou the philosopher?"
"Yes."
"Why said you not so at once? Sokrates is an old and valued friend of mine, and any friend of his is welcome. What did you think of the play?"
"I have not see it," said Bulnes.
"Oh ... you are not the man who attended it and accosted my wife. What say you his name is? Philon of Tartessos. Ah, yes. A wonderful tragedian, the Sophokles, think you not? We are friendly rivals, you know. He was good enough to say that without my competition this year it is like no contest at all."
"Why are you not competing?"
"I did not finish my tetralogy in time. I am so wretchedly absent-minded, I forgot that the date comes early this year."
"Really?" said Bulnes, glad to remember some of the lectures on Greek drama Wiyem Flin had inflicted upon him. "Is one of the plays about the witch Medeia?"
"Why, yes. How could you know?"
"It seemed likely. I know the general plot of that myth. It has penetrated even to Tartessos, as has your own poetic reputation."
"Yes, you are quite a literate and civilized people, are you not? I hope to work in a good word in the Medeia for regarding barbarians as fellow human beings. Could I read you some of the passages we worked out today?"
"I should be honored."
"Very well, Kephisophon, find that section where Iason offers Medeia to provide for her after their divorce ... Ah, here we are."
And the dramatist began tramping back and forth in the court, orating, waving his manuscript, and flapping his himation:
His incredible beard lashed the spring air. Every few minutes he would turn on Bulnes with, "How do you like that?"
Bulnes made comments as intelligent as his limited knowledge permitted, and even suggested a trifling change or two. Then a slave came out of the gynaeceum and whispered into the ear of Euripides.
"Ah, I forgot again! Hippodamos is coming for dinner!" said the poet. "My dear fellow, I hate to rush you off this way, but you know how it is.
Here, take a piece of manuscript with you to read. I should like your criticism, since you seem well-informed in such matters. Kephisophon, find the rough draft of the opening scene and give it to Bouleus. You understand, though, Bouleus, that the final version is considerably improved."
"Thank you," said Bulnes. "But excuse me ...
"Oh, yes, there was something else you wished to see me about. Now what was it?"
"About my friend in the jail. Will you withdraw the complaint?"
"Certainly, now that you have explained it. What was your explanation? No matter. Let me see — I shall not go to Athens soon again, but I will write a letter tomorrow and send it to the Polemarchos by a slave. Remind me of that, Kephisophon. And now rejoice, my foreign friend, and fail not to let me know your opinion of the play."
Bulnes stepped out into the broad street and started back toward Athens. His rest had much strengthened him, and now if he could only get a bite to eat ... He stopped as he passed the Hippodamian Agora and bought a small loaf and a sausage (to hell with trichinosis, he thought) and a scoop of mustard. With these he made a fair approximation of an American hot dog, a snack he had grown very fond of in that country.
He resumed his hike, holding his loaf with one hand and munching, and the roll of manuscript with the other. The sausage seemed to be made mainly of blood and tripe, not bad but not very tasty either. He shook out the scroll and held it up to read by the pink light of the setting sun. Hell, he thought, all the words run together. As if Greek weren't hard enough to read with the words separated! Still he'd no doubt have to make a stab at it to keep on good terms with Euripides ...
He rolled the manuscript up, tucked it under his arm, and set off again, when a man stepped out from behind a building, snatched the scroll out from under Bulnes's arm, and ran.
"Hey!" roared Bulnes. "Come back here!"
He realized that in his excitement he had spoken English, which from many years of use had become more natural to him even than Spanish. Furthermore, he had no idea of the Greek for Stop thief!"
He looked around. Not a Scythian in sight.
Policemen were the same in all places and ages. He ran after the thief, who doubled around a couple of corners and almost lost his pursuer.
The man's chiton bobbed ahead in the twilight, heading for one of the gates. He flew through, and Bulnes pounded after him, sandals slapping. Bulnes's first thought had been of Phaleas the gangster and his band, but it did not seem likely that a member of a Peiraic gang would flee toward Athens with his loot.
Although Bulnes was hardly in shape for a five-mile run, his fury at the farstard's impertinence kept him going. Moreover, he would have an embarrassing time explaining the disappearance of the manuscript.
The thief was evidently a younger man, for he pulled steadily ahead of Bulnes on the road for Athens. He splashed through the ford across the Kephisos, half-fell, recovered, and limped when he came out of the water on the far side. Evidently he had sprained an ankle. Bulnes regretted it wasn't his neck.