Left of Africa Read online

  Chapter 1

  "Thief!"

  The cry was a bull-throated roar which should have drawn the attention of everyone within a hundred yards, but failed to do so. The walls of the little building were thin, and numerous crannies let the torchlight from inside stream out into the darkness, but there were too many men talking and singing at once to make one more sound very noticeable.

  One pair of ears heard it, though. A small shadow which had been huddled against the base of the wall rose abruptly, revealing itself as human, and leaped away.

  "Thief!" The roar was even louder this time, and someone inside must have heard it. The laughter died down abruptly, and a leather hanging which covered the door was twitched aside. Several heads appeared, showing clearly against the torchlight, and one man came out a pace or two. He could see nothing, of course; there was no moon, and starlight is not enough for a man who has been too close to a fire for hours past. The one who had stepped outside realized this after a moment, and used his lungs instead of his eyes.

  "Phaxos, you lazy idiot, where’s your thief? I can’t see anyone. If you’ve disturbed us for nothing I'll whip the hide off your back before I sleep tonight. Where are you?"

  The only answer was a wordless grunt. The slave was too busy to give any other. Unlike his master, he had been outside long enough to see fairly well, and the intruder had been silhouetted more or less clearly against the cracks of light from the building; consequently Phaxos had been able to cut off the first lunge for freedom.

  The little shadow apparently saw, too; it stopped when the slave’s figure loomed in its path, and dodged back toward the beach. Phaxos sprinted in pursuit, as well as he could in the darkness. He had the advantage of knowing the ground; twice the fugitive stumbled, suggesting that he did not. The second time had occurred just as the door hanging opened, and a moment later Phaxos decided that he was close enough to jump.

  He almost missed; it was the grunt he gave as his flying body struck the ground that answered his master’s question. By rights the shadow should have escaped, for a fall like that would have lost a man twenty yards in any race, but as the slave hit the ground one of his outstretched hands touched and closed around a skinny ankle. Another thud and grunt told more plainly than words that the fugitive was no shadow, and if there had been any doubt of the matter it was settled an instant later. A howl from Phaxos was followed by several angry words which had to do with teeth, and even before a torch was brought out at the order of his master the latter could tell pretty plainly what was going on.

  "You little fox— you’ll bite me, will you— you'll steal from my master— you’ll—" the remarks were interrupted at regular intervals by thuds which might have been a fist striking flesh or a head striking the ground.

  "That’s enough, Phaxos. Let him up, but don’t let him go. If you kill him we won’t know what he was doing." The torch had arrived, and the master was standing over the struggling pair on the ground. With visible reluctance, the slave obeyed; a set of freely bleeding tooth marks on his right wrist explained why he would probably rather have gone on punishing his captive. However, a look at the latter suggested that there had been punishment enough, and aroused a trace of pity even in the heart of a waterfront tavern keeper. "Bring him inside. We'll find out what he was up to."

  "He’s a thief! I said so!"

  "And I said he would be brought inside." The innkeeper glared at his slave, and one fist clenched in an absent-minded fashion. Phaxos’ eyes dropped.

  "Yes, Master." He seized the hair of his now unresisting captive and jerked him savagely toward the open doorway. "Come on, thief. The master will know what to do with you."

  The crowd in the doorway melted back as the group approached, making way and then gathering behind to form s more effective barrier to the prisoner’s escape than the leather door hanging would have been. The group from outside went to the center of the room, and the crowd formed a ring of curious faces on all sides. The captive took a single, sweeping glance around him— as far as the grip in his hair permitted.

  He saw a crudely built chamber perhaps thirty feet long and twenty wide, walled with roughly squared timber and roofed with straw thatch. At one end an open door led into another room, which proclaimed itself to be a kitchen by the sounds and smells coming from it; the only other intentional opening was the door leading outside, through which he had just been dragged. The chinks which had let out so much light were not noticeable, though they probably would have been during the day.

  Benches and tables, all of extremely rough construction, were scattered around with no obvious plan— some of the benches were overturned, probably by the men leaping up in response to the alarm of Phaxos. The men themselves were dressed differently from the natives of Tartessos. Their feet and chests were bare, and the leather belts supporting their waist cloths also carried weapons. Not one of them was without a knife, and most had short swords. Most of the men were taller than the general run of Tartessans, though perhaps not much heavier. For their part, the men looked even more curiously at the prisoner -the slave and innkeeper were no strangers. Still with Phaxos’ hand clenched in his black hair, it was hard to judge his exact height; but it was quite evident that he was less than shoulder high to any man in the room. The few articles of clothing he wore were in tatters, and his face and chest bruised and bleeding. He might have been ten or eleven years old. Pity, and even kindness, were perhaps not as common in the days of Nebuchadrezzar as they became later, but they did exist. The innkeeper’s voice was milder than it had been when he finally spoke. "Who are you, and what were you doing at my wall?" The boy tried to turn his head to look at his questioner, but the grip in his hair prevented. "Let him go, Phaxos. He can’t get away now.’" The slave obeyed, and the prisoner drew away from him after one quick glance at the other’s still bleeding hand. A brief flicker of expression, which might have been a smile of satisfaction, showed on his face, but he said nothing. The innkeeper repeated his question. The boy eyed him for a moment, apparently considering his answer; but if he had intended to speak, he was interrupted. The slave’s uninjured hand caught him on the side of the head and sent him staggering into one of the armed men. "You will answer when the master asks you a question!" Phaxos’ words expressed righteous indignation at the disrespect shown his master, but no one in the room supposed that was the cause of his anger ~ least of all the master. The latter’s feeling was made plain enough; as the boy struggled back to his feet an even louder thud sounded, and the slave stumbled to his hands and knees on the opposite side of the ring of watchers. The innkeeper’s face showed no expression. "Get the lash," he ordered. For a moment Phaxos looked worried: then his face cleared. "Yes, master. That will make him talk."

  "It is not to make him talk, but to keep you quiet. Get it!" The slave did not dare show any resentment, but the glance he cast at the boy revealed no friendliness. He started toward the kitchen, where the lash was kept, and the ring of watchers parted to let him through. The innkeeper watched him thoughtfully until he disappeared through the kitchen doorway, then turned his attention back to the small captive, who had recovered his balance and was once more watching him silently. "Now, then. I asked you a question. Were you stealing?" The silence was briefer this time; the boy had apparently made up his mind. "No. You can see I have nothing. I could not have come in, and I don’t suppose you keep anything worth stealing outside."

  "My guests sometimes do— the more foolish ones. But what were you doing?"

  "Listening." The innkeeper smiled for the first time. "Listening to what? There was nothing being told here but the usual seamen’s lies." The boy’s eyes grew big and his face took on a startled expression visible even under the dirt and blood, while a few chuckles from the a
rmed watchers suddenly built up into a roar. "But surely they don’t all lie. I could tell that some were, but..." The laughter died out more suddenly than it had begun. The innkeeper, however, still seemed amused. "Careful, young one," he chuckled. "Everyone knows sailors are liars, but you have to be big or a good fighter before saying so when they are around... I can get away with it, but perhaps you'd better be careful."

  "But I don’t exactly see— I know people make up stories for fun, but..." The innkeeper interrupted.

  "Let’s get back to my questions. You were listening to these fellows outlie each other, you say, and weren’t stealing anything. Why were you listening?"

  "I wanted to hear about other places. I wanted to know what they are like. I don’t like any of the places I’ve been so far."

  "Hmph. I thought you were a foreigner, from your talk— "

  "But you punished the slave for hitting me! Why?"

  "I hadn’t ordered him to hurt you; and why should I have anything against you just because you’re a foreigner? If I didn't like foreigners I’d have a hard time earning a living. I’m the only Tartessan in the room right now, remember!" The boy looked a little startled.

  "I never thought of that. Wherever I go, people drive me away— but maybe it’s not because I’m a foreigner, at that. It was the same way in the first village, where I was born—" He stopped abruptly, and the expression changed to one of alarm. Apparently he had said more than he had meant to, but the innkeeper could not see why. There seemed little unusual about the waif; even the watching mariners were losing interest and returning to their benches. Noting this, he took time from his pondering to hurl an order in the direction of the kitchen.

  "Phaxos! Forget the lash for now. Get the food in here— remember we have customers!"

  "At once, Master."

  "Now. You say people don’t like you, and until now you thought it was because you were a foreigner. A lot of people don't like me, though not for that reason, but it doesn’t hurt me." The little fellow almost smiled.

  "Maybe when I’m your size it won't hurt me either. If I were, I wouldn't have just bitten your slave’s hand, or let him hit me so many times."

  The innkeeper thought that over for a few moments. He was mildly sorry for the youngster, but felt no particular responsibility for him. He lived in a time when selfishness was nothing in particular to be ashamed of; on the other hand, he was not actually cruel. If the boy had sneaked to the inn merely to listen to sailor yarns, there could be little harm in him. There was also the possibility that the little fellow might be willing to work for his food and the privilege of listening. That, of course, might depend on just who he was, and whether he had anyone ground Tartessos to take care of him.

  "What's your name, anyway?" Once again there was the hesitation; apparently the boy had formed the habit of trying to guess whether a question was meant to hurt him, before he answered it. At length he spoke, however.

  "I’m Gizona."

  "Gizona? I never heard such a name before. Where do you come from?"

  After the usual pause, '"I was born in a village up near the head of the river."

  "What is it called?"

  "Just the village, or Chekoled’s village. Chekoled was the head man."

  "Have you always lived there?"

  "No."

  "How about telling me the story, instead of making me pry every word out of you?" The pause was even longer than usual; it was hard to tell whether the boy couldn’t decide what the man wanted, or just couldn’t decide how much truth to tell.

  "My parents just happened to be there when I was born— they were foreigners. They died when I was a year old, and other folks took care of me— sometimes. Four years ago they told me to stay away from them, and not even to look at them any more. Chekoled let me live in one of his sheds as long as I did all the things he ordered; but even he didn’t like me, and everyone else in the village hated me. Finally he got angry too, and ordered me to go away from the village. So I came down the river."

  "Didn’t you meet anyone you could stay with on the way? There are lots of villages on the river."

  "No. They always chased me on, after a while."

  "How did you stay alive during the winter? You must have started before then-it’s early spring now, and you couldn’t have made the whole trip since the weather grew warm."

  Something about this question seemed to startle the boy; he simply stared for a moment at the innkeeper, and gave no answer.

  "I know how he lived. He stole." It was Phaxos’ voice; the slave had paused in his task of serving the guests. Gizona looked at him, but said nothing; so did the innkeeper, but his expression caused the slave to resume his work hastily.

  "Well, sometimes I stole. I worked when I could, but when they came to dislike me and ordered me away, I had to get food so as to travel. I haven't stolen since I got to Tartessos.

  "You’ve been working, then?"

  "Yes. For a silversmith. He hasn't told me to go, yet."

  "But why were you here, then?"

  "I told you. I wanted to hear people tell about other places. I thought maybe I could hear about a place where I could go and no one would hear about me and come to hate me and order me away.’"

  "What do you mean, hear about you?" The innkeeper leaned forward, eyeing the boy sternly. "You haven't been telling me the whole truth. I thought it was funny that people should dislike you just because you were foreign. It sounds as though they were afraid of you. Why? Tell me now!"

  Gizona said nothing; he was too miserable to speak, and his face showed it. Up to now the conversation had been friendly, and he had even been hopeful that it might lead to the trip he wanted-to get once and for all out of the reach of the story that had followed him ail the way down the river. Now he had brought the thing up himself, through his own carelessness.

  There seemed to be nothing to say.

  "Tell me! You can’t lose anything; now that I know there is something else, I can’t help being suspicious until I know what it is. If you tell me, at least you have the chance that it won’t bother me."

  "Master, may I speak?" It was Phaxos again, this time carefully avoiding his master’s anger.

  "What is it?"

  "Master, I know why he is sent away. I have heard of this boy in the market. May I tell?" The innkeeper looked from his slave to the boy. He would not have been surprised if the youngster had attacked Phaxos, or tried to make a sudden rush for the door; but he showed no sign of doing either. He simply sat still, not only silent but with such control over his features that the man could not even guess what he was thinking.

  "Tell, Phaxos." Gizona’s expression did not relax, but he turned his eyes on the slave.

  "They say in the markets, Master, that there is a boy wandering the streets of Tartessos who has come from the upper river and brings bad luck with him. He has worked for many in the town— Timco the boat builder, whose apprentice split three oar staves in one day, was one, and I heard the apprentice tell of it. One of Bordu’s dogs became sick and died while the boy worked for him— I heard Bordu’s young son telling a friend. It is said that he did something to offend a priest in a village far up the river, and the priest put a curse on him so that bad luck would follow him wherever he went—" "That’s a lie!" The innkeeper had gradually given his whole attention to the slave; with the sudden cry he turned back toward his captive. Gizona was on his feet staring furiously at Phaxos, his small hands clenched into fists, trembling violently with rage. "It’s a lie!"

  "All of it, or just part?" The innkeeper did not seem at all excited, and the boy calmed down a little as he answered.

  "Just part of it, I guess. The wood was spoiled and the dog died, but I had nothing to do with it. It just happened."

  "What about the curse? Was there any?"

  Gizona looked at the floor, then up again.

  "Yes, but not the way your slave says. Chekoled was a priest as well as the headman of the village, and when he
got angry and drove me out he told the village that he had cursed me. It was a lie, though; because if it was a curse, I had it long before then, before my parents died, and he never said he’d cursed them."

  "But it was a bad luck curse? Bad luck does follow you around?"

  "I don’t know if it follows me any more than anyone else. The curse didn’t say anything about my luck, or anyone else’s. That’s just a market story, and your slave doesn’t know any better than to believe it."

  "Maybe I’d believe it too, if I hadn’t any reason not to. You admit there was a curse—"

  "But not Chekoled’s!"

  "That doesn’t matter. If it wasn’t a bad luck curse, what was it? What does it do to people?"

  "It doesn’t do anything to anyone but me. The curse is on me, and I don’t see why anyone else worries about it!"

  "What is it, then?"

  Gizona was silent for several seconds. He glanced around the room, noting that all the guests had stopped eating and were once more listening eagerly; but there seemed nothing to do but goon. The innkeeper was right; he could not be any worse off by telling the rest. "I can’t forget," he said slowly.