"Chaire!" said the newcomer, and followed the salutation with a string of gibberish.
Bulnes shook his head and replied: "Thanks, but who are you?"
More unintelligible sounds.
"Is this" — Bulnes waved an arm — "Piriefs?"
Light dawned on the stranger's face. "Esti ho Peiraieus!" he said, and then went off into another spate of chatter.
Bulnes turned to succor Flin, whose balding head was rising out of the cone of darkness around the base of the pillar.
Flin's uncertain voice came "Ei Skythotoxotes?"
"Pany men oun," replied the man. He and Flin spoke, the former swiftly, Flin more slowly. After several interchanges Flin turned to Bulnes.
"He's a copper. One of the corps of so-called Scythian archers, slave-policemen owned by the city of Athens in ancient times. Where the deuce are my glasses?"
"How'd he happen to be here so opportunely?"
"His present duty is that of night guard in the Arsenal of Philon, and he heard the racket. He wants to know what part of Greece you come from — says you have the strangest accent he ever heard."
"No use telling him I'm from three thousand years in the future. Is that really Classical Greek you're chattering?"
"Absolutely," Flin said. "Though he seems to have a terrific accent himself. Natural, if he's a Scythian or Thracian."
"So to talk to him in modern Greek is like using modern English on King Alfred?"
"Exactly so. Ah, here they are!" Flin had found his glasses.
The archer spoke.
"What's that?" asked Bulnes.
Flin explained, "He says we shall have to come with him to the office of his superior here in the Peiraieus."
"What then?"
After further dialogue Flin continued: "We shall be held there for the rest of the night, and tomorrow we shall be taken up to Athens for a hearing before the Polemarchos."
"Who's he?"
"He presides over criminal cases involving foreigners."
Bulnes said, "Whatever weird sort of business is going on, I don't care to be caught up in the official gears. Ask him who these stiffs are, if you please."
"He says the fat one is a notorious local gangster, a lieutenant of someone called Phaleas."
"Then even he should be able to see we're guilty of no crime. Why can't we bribe him to help us drop the corpses in the harbor and let us go?"
"What, bribe an official in the performance of his duty?"
"Oh, come off it, my dear Wiyem. This isn't England. It's either ancient Greece or a good facsimile thereof."
"But — but ..."
"If this lad's a slave, they probably don't pay him anything, so he's used to grafting a bit in order to enjoy some of the comforts of life. Go ahead, ask him."
Flin put his question and reported, "He won't say yes or no. It depends on the amount, I suspect."
"What's the purchasing power of our coins?"
"Rather high. One should be able to live comfortably for a month on a modern half-kraun."
Bulnes dug into the change-pocket of his dungarees and examined his coins by the firelight. One silver half-kraun; four silver franks; one silver daim; three aluminum five-pens; five copper pens, and a copper half-pen. A complete assortment of the Empire's coinage — if you did not count the big silver krauns used in some parts of the world in lieu of their paper equivalent.
He handed Flin a frank and said, "Try this."
There followed a lengthy palaver. At last the archer grinned and popped the coin into his mouth. Flin said, "I explained it's a Tartessian drachme. We're Tartessians."
"What are Tartessians, if you please?"
"And you a Spaniard! Tartessos was a famous ancient city that once flourished near Cadiz. Since the Tartessians were considered a rich and civilized people, I thought passing ourselves off as such would give us the most prestige."
The archer leaned his bow stave against the pillar, knelt, and began to strip the bodies.
"What's he doing?" asked Bulnes.
"He says that, confidentially, he sells their clothes and effects. If we don't tell on him, he won't tell on us."
"What does he expect to get for them?"
"Since they were rather well worn to begin with, and now have got knife holes and bloodstains, he doubts he can get a couple of oboloi apiece."
"How much was an obolos?"
"About two pens. There are a couple."
The archer had thrust a finger into the mouth of one of the corpses and dug out a couple of plump little coins about as big around as a pencil. After a similar investigation of the other cadaver he stood up, and grasped the ankle of the gang leader's corpse. He spoke.
Flin said, "He wants us to help him drag these bodies to the waterfront!"
"What's wrong with that? Take the other end of the big stiff, and I'll manage the little one myself."
"Touch them? I — I can't!" bleated Flin.
"Su madre!" roared Bulnes, then got control of himself. "My dear old man, please pull yourself together, unless you want to get your fool throat cut ... Grasp his ankle firmly. There now, it doesn't hurt!"
They set off, dragging the bodies through the mud. Bulnes said, "He agrees we're at Piriefs, but we might try to find out when."
"I'll ask ... He says it's the archonship of Apseudes."
"When was that? Or perhaps I should say, when is it?"
"Blessed if I know."
"I thought you knew all those things."
"Be reasonable, Knut. Could you give the names and dates of all the Spanish kings from Euric on down?"
"I see. Either we've gone back in time, the way they do in those fanciful stories, or somebody's staging a colossal hoax. You might ask him about places to sleep."
"He says there's an inn, but it's full of bedbugs."
"Hm. And I suppose we shall be either swindled by the innkeeper or murdered by another gang of cutthroats ..."
They came to a pavement ending in a sea wall, beyond which Bulnes saw the glimmer of water.
"Ballete!" said the archer. Bulnes heaved on his corpse, and the body splashed into the water. The other followed.
Bulnes thought fast. Unless prevented, the archer would now amble off into the night, leaving him and Flin to start their hunt for shelter all over again. He said, "Let's walk him back to his arsenal. What's his name?"
"Triballos. I've told him you're Bouleus and I'm Philon."
"Why?"
"No Greek would bother pronouncing a foreign name, so we might as well use the nearest Greek equivalents."
Flin resumed his halting conversation with Triballos while Bulnes stalked behind them, deep in thought. The Scythian would have to be used with care. On one hand, the man was a link to this strange world they had blundered into. On the other, Triballos, though technically a slave, was an official; and something told Bulnes that contact with officials was to be avoided by a pair of illegal visitors.
Another formless, fiery glow appeared in the fog. As Bulnes came closer, he saw it was made by a torch in a wall bracket on the front of a large building.
Bulnes fished out his daim and handed it to Flin, saying, "Kindly tell him we'll give him this for those costumes and a lodging for the night in his arsenal."
"What d'you want with those rags?"
"You'll see. Tell him, please."
When the offer had been translated, the archer looked at the coin, weighed it in his palm, and finally broke into a grin.
"He says all right," explained Flin.
The Scyth pushed open one of the two big doors, took the torch from its bracket, and led the travelers inside. The building proved long and relatively narrow. They stood at one end of a central nave bounded by two rows of pillars. A stone balustrade connected the pillars of each row, with a bronze latticework gate in each intercolumnation. On the sides of the building Bulnes could see the spidery shapes of frames on which sails were stretched, and piles of spars, oars, and timbers.