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It was at the end of the Summer in 329 BC that the war-weary army of King Alexander III of Macedon made their camp on the southern bank of the Jaxartes river in the land of Sogdiana. As hard as those brave soldiers of Alexander fought to subjugate the Sogdians, they themselves fought with the same veracity and unending tenacity against their conquerors to preserve the freedom to which they had grown so accustomed. For the many wounded and many more whose term of service to their King had simply expired, a settlement was proclaimed at the site of the camp as a place for the wounded to convalesce and for the retired to lay down their roots.
Alexander's army constructed a wall around the site of the settlement at his behest — a great curtain some six kilometres in length to defend the young city from the recalcitrant Sogdian tribes of the surrounding area. Within twenty days, or so the story goes, the wall was completed, and the first of the settlers began to stake their homes within. The city, like many before and many after, would be named after the Macedonian King himself: Alexandria Eschate — "Alexandria the Farthest".
After the untimely death of the young King Alexander III — aptly named Alexander the Great by historians and laymen alike in the wake of his legendary deeds — the Macedonian Empire, which stretched from Illyria to India, was partitioned among his generals. Alexandria Eschate fell under the eventual dominion of Seleucus I "Nicator". The fertile lands of the Fergana Valley above the city attracted further settlement from military retirees, and many Greeks who had been forcibly resettled by the late Achaemenid administration came to make a home for themselves among their countrymen as well. When the Bactrian Satrap Diodotus proclaimed his independence from the Empire of Seleucus's successors, with him went Alexandria Eschate once again, enjoying over fifteen decades of benevolent and rightly-counseled rule by three dynasties of Hellenic kings.
After the fall of the Greek Dynasties of Bactria at the hands of the Tocharoi, the trail of Alexandria Eschate's history runs cold. Though the Roman writer Curtius claims to have known that the land was still Greek-speaking in his time, and though the Han Dynasty of the land of Serica claims to have subjugated a white-skinned people with profuse beards and a taste for wine in their War for the Heavenly Horses, it would seem that the Greeks of Alexandria Eschate simply vanished from the world's sight.
Some ten centuries after the Fall of Bactria, the world had become an entirely different place. Where once many Gods and Goddesses were worshipped by many tribes, now the lands of Europe worshipped one single God in their place. Where once the teachings of Zarathustra were held sacrosanct, the sermons of Muhammad were taught instead. And where once a handful of Greek city-states jostled one another for political dominance over their peers, a single, unified Empire lay straddling two continents. Here is where our story will begin, with a curious soul named Pothos.
Pothos, like the Great King Alexander III of antiquity, was a Greek; beyond this shared quality, the two could not be more dissimilar. Where Alexander the Great was a formidable commander, Pothos was hardly able to handle a simple sword without injuring himself in some fashion. Where Alexander was driven by the promise of glory and eternal fame, Pothos's quest was fueled by nothing more than a whimsical curiosity. Where Alexander was followed by an army of thousands, Pothos travelled alone as an army of but one.
Armed with only a sword and a rumour to guide him, Pothos left his native Thessalonica in the Christian year of 865. There was rumoured to be a time in antiquity when a traveller, by means of the Royal Roads of the Achaemenids, could go from Ionia to Sousiane in just 90 days, and from there to the edge of India in just ninety more; in the turbulent times in which Pothos lived, pitfalls and obstacles abounded as he crossed the storied lands of Media, Parthia, and Bactria. Moving on the advice of locals by employing what little Persian he knew and could pick up along the way, Pothos meandered eastward across the Iranian plateau for two years, before finally reaching the mouth of the Fergana valley, some five-thousand odd kilometres from where his journey had begun two years earlier. By his reckoning, it was the eleventh of April, 867 AD.
I could not tell you what caused the adventurer Pothos a greater shock — finding a walled city exactly where Alexandria Eschate had been rumoured to be, or hearing the guards at the city gate hail him in a language much like his own. I may not need to say that his arrival came as something of a shock to the guards as well, who allowed him to enter the city only under duress of their arms to present to their liege. The journey through the city's main causeway was not a long one, but the moments passed slowly as he saw the faces begin to gather about him. There was no question — these were Greeks, or most of them were. But the clothing on their backs was neither like the fashion of the Greeks in Europe and Asia Minor, nor was it like that of antiquity, or at least how Pothos had imagined it. Indeed, with their fur hats, folded qaftans, and long braids, they looked much more like Pechenegs or Khazars than they did Greeks.
At last he entered the palace; it was modest compared to those he had seen Rome and Persia, but in its modesty it held a certain charm. He was brought into a small throne room where his escorts ordered him to halt and wait while one from among them went to fetch his superior. Within a few minutes, a curly-haired, bearded man appeared before him, dressed something akin to a Sasanian satrap. His fingers were adorned with simple gold rings — far from the garish accoutrements of even the lowest of nobles in the Roman Empire. With a polite smile, the man asked:
"With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?"
His Greek sounded a bit off; it came across as out of fashion and archaic to Pothos's ears. "With all respects due, my gracious host, my name is Pothos. I'm a Roman traveller from the west, in search of the famed colony of Alexander the Great in the Land of Sogdia." Pothos shifted his weight to his other leg, lowered his head slightly, and asked: "May I be so bold to ask my gracious host of his own identity?"
"It is my pleasure," replied the ring-bearing man. "That which you have sought, you have found, and I — Kalokyros Philadelphiades — am its King."
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CHAPTER I The Stranger from the West ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡
In his own lands, Pothos had never once been directly in the presence of anything more than a simple baron or city mayor, but here in this foreign land he stood as a guest of a King, albeit of a petty kingdom on the edge of the known world. They walked under the company of guards, travelling side-by-side down a corridor in this ruler's modest palace — in the Empire, this would be a breach of conduct, as the two were not of equal station — and spoke as if they were long-lost friends of some sort.
"It amazes me that the colony is still thriving," said Pothos, looking up at the vaults of the high ceiling. "I'd heard rumours that there were still Greeks living in Sogdiana, but I hadn't expected to find a civilised Kingdom in these lands."
"We've done much to avoid drawing too much attention to ourselves," replied King Kalokyros. His accent was deeply archaic, and it was not without effort that Pothos understood him, but his eagerness to learn drove his efforts. There are those who would like to see us brought to our knees. I'm certain you passed through the lands of the Muhammadans along your travels — did you happen to stay as a guest of the King of Samarqand?"
"I've not been guest to any Kings, your highness," said Pothos deferentially. "But I did travel through Samarqand."
"If you were unaware, their King is a man called Nasser. We once paid tribute to his father, Ahmad, but we have since regained our dignity." The King stopped before a door in the corridor, and Pothos and the guards halted in turn. "I once did the man a great favour, and perhaps he will remember that before he considers looking to our lands with greed in his eyes, but his brothers hold no such feelings of kindness towards me." Kalokyros pulled the carved wooden door open and lifted the curtain aside, revealing a cosy bedchambre within. He beckoned for Pothos to follow as he entered the room. One guard remained to watch the door, and the other followed the King and his guest into the room.
Within stood a bed with an ornate wooden canopy frame draped with gauzy curtains. Two alabaster windows let the sun flood into the room, forming two golden rivers of light across the floor. At the foot of the bed, a wooden chest with an iron frame sat, and across the room was a small fireplace with two wooden chairs before it. Kalokyros waved his hand at the room at large, and said: "While you are my guest, this will be your chambre. I hope this is to your liking."
Pothos folded his hands and bowed slightly in a quick motion, and said: "This is most generous of your highness. I'll make every effort to be a gracious guest."
The King smiled and nodded. "I'll keep a guard posted at your door. Should you need anything, you may inform him."
"I thank you once again," said Pothos.
"Now then," said the King, looking towards one of the alabaster windows with its swirling caramel stains. "I have business I must attend to, and I'm certain that you are weary from your long travels." Kalokyros looked back at Pothos and asked: "How long did you say you had been travelling since you left Hellas?"
Hellas. The pronunciation of the name of his homeland stuck out, for in Pothos's more mainstream dialect of Greek it was now pronounced Ellas. "It's, erm— about two years, I would say," he replied.
"Two years!" the King replied, accentuating his surprise in his intonation. "Well, I suppose you're in need of some rest. But allow me to extend an invitation to the banquet hall for dinner tonight — I'm sure the members of my court would enjoy hearing some stories about what has become of our brothers in the West."
"It is deeply appreciated," said Pothos, nodding politely.
"I look forward to it," replied the King as he turned towards the door. The guard followed him out and pulled the door shut behind them, leaving Pothos alone in the chambre.
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The banquet hall, like much of the palace he had seen, was modest in size, but full of warmth, activity, and the scents of bread and aromatic rice as Pothos entered. Without a word, a guard tapped him upon the arm as he passed through the door to the room, startling him.
"Not to frighten you, dear Guest," said the guard with a rough Koine accent, "but his majesty the King has instructed me to show you to a seat near the head of his majesty's table, if it pleases you."
"Oh- yes, of course," stuttered Pothos. The guard beckoned and Pothos followed him to the front of the banquet hall. At the centre of the middle table was a highly theatrical presentation of grilled meats and palaw with almonds, raisins, and cherries throughout. There was an empty seat at the King's table at his majesty's left hand. The guard pointed with his palm — "There," he said: "is a seat for you, by the King's request."
"Thank you," said Pothos, and the guard returned to the door.
The King smiled warmly at Pothos, and held his hand out to indicate the empty seat. "Come, my guest, and take your place at the table," he said, shouting just loud enough to be audible over the dull roar of the courtiers' conversations. Pothos stepped up onto the raised floor where the King's table sat perpendicular to the other tables in the hall, rounded the corner, and seated himself in the empty chair.
"Your majesty is a gracious host," said Pothos.
"Think nothing of it," replied the King. "May I introduce you to my wife, Haikaterine?"
Pothos leant forward to peer around the King and saw his young wife there, glancing at him through only the corner of her eyes and not turning to face him. The name Aikaterine was still a common one in his country, but the rough breathing on the first syllable had long since been lost in the Greek of Europe.
"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance," said Pothos.
"Indeed," she replied coldly, maintaining her cold stance. "I'm told you're a foreigner travelling from the Old Country?"
The Old Country. How funny, Pothos thought, that he should be thought of as somebody from the Old Country. "From Ellas, yes. I've-"
The King slammed his hand down on the table, startling both Haikaterine and Pothos. "There! Didn't I tell you?" said the King with a hearty laugh.
"What the absolute devil, husband?!" exclaimed Haikaterine, clutching at her chest. The banquet hall quieted down as attentions turned to the head of the table.
"Didn't I tell you?" said the King once again. He turned to Pothos, who was sitting straight and wide-eyed, and said: "Say that once more — what is your country called?"
"Ellas?" replied Pothos cautiously.
"There! In how he pronounces Hellas you can hear it. He speaks without any daseia."
It dawned upon Pothos that his host had noticed his lack of rough breathing just as well as he had noticed the King and his court's employment of it.
"Tell me, oh Ellene," began the King, resting back into his seat. "Do all Greeks now speak this way?"
"To my knowledge, yes. The rough breathing — daseia as you called it — is considered a rather ancient way of speaking in the West."
A chorus of muted 'ooh's and 'ahh's rose up from the courtiers in the banquet hall, who were now paying attention to the King's table. The King took notice of this, and stood up from his seat to address them. "Greetings, esteemed members of the Court! As you've probably already heard by means of rumours, we have a guest in our midst." Kalokyros tapped Pothos on the shoulder and beckoned for him to stand, which he did reluctantly. "I present to you: Pothos, a traveller from the Old Country!"
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CHAPTER II Precarious Peace ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡
Two days after the arrival of the Western stranger, another rider came up along the river Jaxartes, driving hard under the midday sun against the spring winds that rolled down along the Fergana Valley. He spurred on his horse in a wild fervour, as if he were in a race against the very chariot of Apollo himself and were losing ground. The dry valley dust kicked up about him formed a lingering trail where his horse's hooves had trodden.
The lone rider approached the gates of Eschate, allowing his steed head up to the very last moment before reining him to a halt. The beast bellowed and snorted as he came to a stop before the gates of the great Greek colony. From atop the gatehouse, a guard hailed the rider.
"Hail, rider! Identify yourself!" called the guard.
"My name is Lykoktonos Deliogenes — I am a servant of his majesty's Logothete of the Course, Sergios Dorogenes!" proclaimed the rider. From a satchel on his hip he took out a sealed roll of parchment. "I come bearing a message from the Logothete addressed to his majesty from my master's mission in Samarqand!"
"Very well," replied the guard from atop the gatehouse. "We'll see you to the palace immediately!"
The guard atop the gatehouse gave a signal with his hand, and the gates were pushed aside by a pair of his comrades. The rider entered the city walls, and a guard stepped forward and placed a hand on his horse's bridle and up the main causeway they went. The horse's breathing wheezing breaths betrayed the roughness of their ride, piquing the guard's interest.
"It sounds like you've done all you could to get here in the nick of time, heh?" asked the guard.
"Not a single stop was made," replied the rider. "The Logothete wished this letter to arrive in his majesty's hands as quickly as possible."
"You've done well in your mission, I'm sure," said the guard, nodding. "Once this message is delivered, we'll stable your horse and give you a place to rest, I'm sure of it."
"It is most appreciated," said the Rider, scratching at the back of his head. "And undoubtedly it will be needed." He patted his horse's neck, and added: "This old boy got me here with time to spare." The horse nickered in responsive turn, as if he understood what his rider had said.
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"You don't mind having me present for this?" asked Pothos sheepishly.
"Certainly not," replied Kalokyros, leading him into the throne room where the messenger waited. "You can observe and compare our style of rulership here in Sogdiana to that of your own country these days, and perhaps we'll both even learn something."
They entered the throne room and both the messenger and the guard fell to one knee and bowed their heads before the approaching king. Kalokyros cleared his throat, and said: "Rise, both of you." The two stood back up, and the guard stood at attention. The King waved him off and said: "Carry on, guardsman."
"Yes, my liege," replied the guard, taking a post outside of the heavy doors of the throne room.
"And you?" Kalokyros pointed to the messenger with his open palm. "I am told you have a message to deliver." The king placed a hand on Pothos's shoulder, and added: "This is a guest of mine; he's here to observe our manners of governance in Alexandria Eschate."
"The pleasure is all mine," replied the messenger, bowing his head slightly in Pothos's direction. Pothos's face flushed and he felt a hotness behind his ears; he had never been greeted with such honours in his own country, and hardly expected such formality.
The messenger drew the parchment once more from his satchel, flicked the seal and opened the message. "To his esteemed royal Highness, Kalokyros, King by the grace of the Gods and the love of the People of-"
Kalokyros waved his hand, and said: "Perhaps we could skip this formality and delve straight into the contents of the message, if that doesn't offend your master."
"O-of course," stuttered the messenger. He looked back down to the parchment and continued to read. "I am writing to inform you of a recent political development here in the Sâmânid Kingdom. His excellency and your friend, Emir Nasser, intends to make war against the rebellious apostate, the Afshîn of Osrushana."
Kalokyros stroked his beard and pursed his lips. "Indeed," he said, eyes becoming distant. Pothos shuffled his feet and glanced around.
The messenger continued: "His excellency the Emir understands that this may be a troubling aggression so close to your own borders and perhaps a frightening transgression given the religious nature of his war — he assures you that you, his friend, need not worry about any incursions into your own lands."
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CHAPTER III Theology and Throatcutting ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡
Spring retreated and allowed Summer to overtake the valley of Ferghana in its stead. The Stranger from the West remained at the court of Kalokyros, dazzling his courtiers with tales of the mighty Roman Empire, now rightfully ruled by the Greeks, and of their struggles against the Heathen Muhammadans of the Arabian Caliphate. In turn, they filled the gaps in Kalokyros's knowledge of the ancient culture and faith of his people before the coming of the Saviour. They told him fantastic tales of Gods and Heroes, both of origins he recognised as natively Hellenic and of foregin Persian or Egyptian origins, which he conjectured was a natural result of the conquests of Alexander the Great.
It was an evening in the later part of June when the King allowed the Pothos to accompany him to the sanctuary of the Goddess Demeter. They entered the pronaos into the dark heart of the sanctuary, where the last of the natural illumination of the fading day flooded in. It was much as Pothos had pictured it — votive offerings to the Goddess lined the sides of the sanctuary between the columns, which, although they were not marble, struck him with the same regency as those of the acropolis he had once seen at Athens. His eyes followed the length of the columns from the stylobate up to their ornate Ionic volutes. There in the darkness, the form of the Goddess became visible behind a veil of shadows. Her eyes peered down upon the two as her right hand reached out, as if to indicate the expectation of an offering.
"Do they still have such sanctuaries in our old country?" asked Kalokyros, eyes raised to the idol that stood over them. "I have heard that much of our ways have been lost since the coming of the God of Israel."
"There are still temples," replied Pothos. His gaze was locked with that of the statue of Demeter's — cold and piercing, as if he stood before the very judgement seat on the day of reckoning. A sudden feeling of ice rushed the length of his spine, and at once he felt that this colossal pagan woman was very real.
"But?" asked Kalokyros. Pothos broke from Demeter's judgemental stare to look over at Kalokyros, whose head was turned to face him. "It seemed your thought was unfinished," added the King.
"Many are in disrepair," admitted Pothos, lifting at his collar. A cold rush of air entered his shirt — had he really sweat so much to feel this sudden chill? Perhaps he was still under the influence of the great pagan woman staring him down. "And many more have been converted to churches."
"Churches, you say?" asked Kalokyros, perplexed. "To the God of Israel?"
"Indeed," replied Pothos. He silently performed the sign of the cross, furthering the perplexion of his gracious host.
"Have you ever seen the Parthenon of Athens, Pothos?"
"I have," he replied truthfully. "Once. When I was young."
"It still stands?" asked Kalokyros.
"The structure, yes," said Pothos. "But now it is a church."
"How disheartening," replied Kalokyros. The disappointment in his voice struck Pothos and rather surprised him. It had never truly occurred to him that people had once believed as deeply in the pagan faith as they did now in his own Christian faith; even the devotion of the half-believers, the Jews and the Muhammadans, he could understand, but there was something about the pagan faith that was simply very removed from his reality.
"If it is any alleviation," said Pothos: "The Parthenon of Athens is still dedicated to a Parthenos."
"Indeed?"
"Parthenos Maria, the Mother of God."
Kalokyros's perplexion only worsened. "It seems rather nonsensical that a timeless, omnipresent God would have a mother, doesn't it?"
"She was only the mother to God the Son," replied Pothos. "And only in his human form."
"Ah," said Kalokyros. "But, God the Son? Do you not believe in only one God, the God of Israel?"
"Yes, but threefold," Pothos explained. "God is but one God, but he has three co-eternal, consubstantial hypostases: God the Father, God the Son, and the Holy Ghost." He felt very proud of his ability to explain the concept, feeling a fervour welling within him. "The three hypostases of God are distinct, yet exist in homoousion."
"I see," said Kalokyros. The silence returned, and once again Pothos could feel the daggerlike gaze of the pagan idol upon him. His eyes returned to lock with hers, and for a surreal moment he felt minuscule, like a sheep cornered by a fierce lion. From outside the sanctuary, the sound of drums and chanting began to grow, tethering him to a world from which the interior of this sanctuary was decidedly quite separate.
"You know," said Kalokyros, shuffling his feet. "Your beliefs aren't so very different from those of the Muhammadans. I can't imagine that you should make constant war with them when you believe in the selfsame God and have many of the selfsame commandments."
"If it were only so simple," said Pothos, shaking his head.
"Because they hold a different prophet?"
"Because Jesus was no prophet — he is God the Son," replied Pothos, his fists clenching. "And Muhammad was no prophet — but a fraudster and an apostate."
"Calm your anger, my friend," said Kalokyros, holding out a hand. "This is a sacred place."
Pothos unclenched his fists and drew a deep breath, closing his eyes and lowering his head. "I apologise."
"It's well enough," said Kalokyros, smiling and patting Pothos on the shoulder. The sound of chanting and drums from without the temple grew in intensity. "Come on; let's join in on the festivities."
The two turned to exit the temple, exiting the sanctuary via the pronaos through which they had entered prior. On the temple grounds below, a large bonfire was ablaze in the darkening twilight. The pair descended the crepidoma and made their way through the tall grasses to the edge of the temple grounds where the fire burned. The fuel within crackled and houghed as the flames roared above, and chanting in the name of Gods long forgotten in the west rang out over the steady beat of fours of the drums. The ceremony was a private one of the court — the common rabble were barred from entering the temple grounds on this evening.
As they approached the bonfire, a hand reached out and clasped Kalokyros's shoulder. Startled, he turned his head to see his Mystikos, Kyrillos. Pothos halted and turned to investigate the sudden commotion.
"Forgive me, my liege, but I have a matter of some import I must discuss with you," said the Mystikos. Kalokyros opened his mouth to voice a reply — or perhaps a protest — but the Mystikos interrupted, adding: "It must be heard by your ears only, my liege." Kyrillos looked to Pothos. "Would you be gracious enough as to grant us a moment, dear guest?"
Pothos looked to Kalokyros, who nodded and waved him off. "Go, mingle for a bit. I'll return momentarily."
With some hesitation, Pothos bowed with folded hands, then turned to walk towards the bonfire. He looked over his shoulder to see the Mystikos and the King walking in the other direction. No help from there, he thought. Best to join in the festivity. He approached the site of the fire, where benches surrounded the pit and those who were not taking part in the ceremony sat. Finding an empty seat at the end of a bench with a space between himself and the next reveller, he settled in and began drumming his fingers against his knees, watching the scene unfold before him.
A dancing girl twirled aimlessly in his direction, stumbling a bit and giggling as she approached. She tossed her raven-black braids over her shoulders and stepped up to Pothos, and asked: "This seat, is it taken?"
Pothos looked up at her, dumb for words. "I- well, no, there's nobody to my knowledge, but-"
"Excellent," said the girl, turning and falling back into the empty seat. The closeness of their seats meant that nearly the whole length of their bodies from knee to shoulder were in contact. Pothos inched away as far as the bench would permit him to do so. Thank God for this darkness, he said, knowing that in the light he would be visibly flushed. His efforts were quickly proven to be in vain, as the girl leaned closer to him, placing both hands on his shoulder and resting her chin upon them.
"So, what's your name?" she said, nearly shouting in his ear over the sounds all about them. He could smell wine on her breath. Of course, he thought.
"I- my n-name-" he stuttered. She seemed to notice how flustered he became, and covered her mouth to giggle.
"Ah, come now! You needn't be bashful," she said. She spoke Greek with good diction and pitch, but there was a certain roughness to her accent. She sounded like a Persian who had lived among Greeks her whole life. "I'm Ayasun," she said, pointing to herself with an open hand. "Your name?"
"Pothos," he replied.
"Se gignōskōn kaírō," she replied. Her eyes went wide for an instant as she hiccoughed, and she covered her mouth and giggled: "Oh my — pardon me!"
"Consider yourself quite pardoned," Pothos replied with a cold distance.
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"Why, that insolent fool!" hissed Kalokyros.
"Keep your voice low," said the Mystikos, looking over at the bonfire. "I'm certain he's here tonight, and the last thing we need is some kind of leak."
"Indeed, indeed," Kalokyros agreed. "Well, what evidence do you have of Sabatios's treason?"
"Not enough that we could clap him in irons without some kind of outcry from the council," replied the Mystikos. "Damn him!"
"Well, then, we shall have to deal with this problem by some other means," said Kalokyros, looking over his shoulder.
"The man's clearly insane," said Kyrillos. "We've known since the very murder of his wife."
"I know," said Kalokyros, beginning to pace back and forth. "Damn him. Damn that man!"
"Listen," said Kyrillos. "I believe we can remove Sabatios through more clandestine means." Kyrillos placed his hands on Kalokyros's shoulders to stop him from pacing. "Now, listen, my liege. I've already spoken to Orestes the Augur on this matter. Between himself and myself, we could do very well to see to this traitor's disposal."
"Oh," asked Kalokyros. "What did you have in mind?"
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CHAPTER IV Domestic Bliss ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡
The heat of August was relentless that year, while the winds which normally swept down from the Tian Shan mountains to the east had halted, leaving the city of Eschate to bake beneath the late summer sun. All around, the locals had traded their heavier woolen garments for gauzy cotton xalat robes. Pothos, quite unaccustomed to the heat, could only fare so long on iced wine and peppermint dogh.
With the King's permission, Pothos set out to the north of the city where a mountain stream broke through the rocky ramparts that formed the mouth of the Fergana valley. It was perhaps a half-hour ride from the gate to the stream, which Pothos traversed with mild haste. Arriving at the side of the crystal waters, he dismounted and affixed the reins of his mare to a nearby tree. Descending into a small rock cut where the waters rushed through, Pothos knelt at the bank and placed a hand in the stream. The cold water sent a chill up his arm and down his spine as it ran between his fingers. Perfect, he thought to himself.
Pothos stood and looked around. From the distance he was invisible from the distant city gates, and in the rock cut he was hidden from the nearby Sogdian village that sat at the foot of the hills. He turned back to the waters, knelt once more, and cupped his hands, pulling up some of the cold mountain water to splash it in his face and hair.
Unfastening the neck-clasp on the collar of his tunic, Pothos pulled the garment up and over his head, rolling it up and tossing it back away from the bank. Shoes and footwraps came off next, suffering the same fate of being tossed haphazardly aside, followed by the loose trousers he had adopted wearing since being among the people of Eschate.
His whole body tensed as his right foot entered the rushing waters. He sured up his footing in the sands below, and then took another, further step with his left foot. The stream deepened with a sharp drop, and he was suddenly to his knee in the cold water. Another hesitant step brought him to his thigh, and one more to his waist, when he drew a quick, shocked breath as the cold water embraced him. With a deep breath, he lurched forward, diving into the waters, fully submerging his head and his body before rising back up, gasping for air and pushing his hair out of his eyes.
Pothos swam a short way out into the middle of the course of the stream, where the water was easily two or three heads deeper than he was tall. It was clear all the way to the sandy bottom, where a few smooth stones poked up through the sediment. The cold waters now felt comfortably cool, and Pothos floated for a few minutes before turning back to swim to the bank once more.
As his feet attained the stream's bed and Pothos began to emerge from the water, he saw a figure rising above the rock cut. In an effort to hide his nakedness, he kicked back away from the shore and back into the waters. Looking up, the figure crossed the threshold of the cut — and was revealed to be none other than the Sogdian girl who had taken such a fancy to him in the last months.
Ayasun looked down into the cut and spotted Pothos; she threw him a wave and a wide smile, not seeming to think anything of his state of undress. Pothos felt a heavy blanket of shame fall upon him as he watched this girl climb down into the rock cut.
"Looks as though we had the same idea, huh?" she shouted from the bank.
"I suppose that is the case," said Pothos, treading water. "And I suppose you'll want the swimming hole to yourself for a bit? I'll certainly yield-"
"Nonsense," said Ayasun, untying the sash around her xalat. She kicked off her shoes and allowed the xalat to drop from her shoulders and fall to the sandy ground. Pothos shielded his eyes as best as he could.
"What on earth do you think you're doing?" exclaimed Pothos, gaze yet averted.
"Going for a swim," Ayasun replied, walking into the water with no reflection of the shyness Pothos displayed. "Do the women in your country not bathe by some chance?"
"Yes but- that isn't my point!" Pothos stammered. "The women in my country do not show their nakedness to men who are not their husbands!"
He heard a splash, and looked up. Ayasun had disappeared below the water; Pothos managed to locate her below the glassy surface just as it was too late for him to kick away. With a splash she appeared right before him, throwing her hair back and treading water inches from his face. Pothos gasped and lurched backwards towards the middle of the stream.
"Oh, come now, Pothos — I thought we were getting along so swimmingly," said Ayasun with a giggle.
"Were or were not — that doesn't make this any less improper!" said Pothos.
She inched closer to the hesitant Pothos like a lion to its prey. "And what could I do to alleviate this impropriety, hm?" He felt her hand against his chest, and another wrapped around his torso as she pulled herself up to him. "If I may be so bold?"
Pothos looked up and away, trying to hide the redness of his face as Ayasun clung to him. Words were failing him. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and sighed. His feet were beginning to make contact with the sand below them as they drifted along in tandem. With his toes he was able to push in towards the shore, where he was able to stand without treading water as she remained with her arms wrapped around him. He looked back down to see her eyes attentively turned up at him, imploring an answer. Once again he looked away and sighed deeply.
"Ayasun," said Pothos, voice cracking slightly. Ayasun covered her mouth as she giggled. Pothos only blushed harder and rolled his eyes. "You're so difficult, you know?"
"Why does it have to be difficult?" she asked, furrowing her brow and cocking her head. "I know you like me — you're a fool if you think you've done anything to hide it."
Pothos said nothing. The silence spoke on behalf of his concession that she was right.
"You said it yourself — a woman in your country doesn't show her nakedness to any man but her husband," said Ayasun.
"What are you suggesting?" asked Pothos, squinting.
"As much as a fool as you can be — I think you can figure this one out on your own."
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Another month passed in the city of Eschate, and the dryness of the summer began to recede with the oncoming of light showers which rolled along the valley. From the heat they brought no relief, but the dry dust was once again bound to the earth by the rain.
Kalokyros stood just inside the portal to his balcony, watching the dark clouds rolling overhead as a few stray raindrops plip-plapped onto the floor outside of the door. In the distance there was lightning, but not the sort that reached the ground — merely a bolt from the quiver of the Thundering God travelling through the clouds.
A guard and an usher entered the room behind the King. "Your majesty," called the Usher.
Kalokyros turned. "Yes? Has he been brought to me?"
"Indeed," said the usher, urging Pothos into the room. Pothos lowered his head.
"That'll be all, then," said the King, waving off the usher and the guard. He beckoned for Pothos to join him near the door, which he did at a leisurely pace. "Greetings, my friend. How are you these days?"
"All's well," replied Pothos. "And, may I congratulate his highness on his wife's condition?"
"How very kind," said Kalokyros. "And I hear you've found your own wife among my very court!" he added with a hearty laugh. "I congratulate you, dear friend. And I suppose that means you'll remain here for some time?"
"I suppose that does indeed," Pothos replied.
"In that case," said Kalokyros, facing Pothos and placing his hands upon his shoulders. "I have a family matter that perhaps you could help me with."
"It would be my pleasure to serve," said Pothos. "His majesty need only ask."
"I haven't even told you what I require!" laughed Kalokyros. Pothos shrugged, and Kalokyros continued: "Ah well. As it were, my elder son already has a destiny to fulfill. My younger son, however, still has yet to have his path in life decided."
Pothos nodded with understanding.
"So, I would like to propose," said Kalokyros, holding the palm of his hand out as he spoke: "that he receive an education from you — a western education."
"An edu- from me?" Pothos asked. "Why, I'm hardly qualified," he added deferentially.
"Nonsense," said Kalokyros, waving his hand in disagreement. "You have your own education to rely upon, and you have two years of experience in life travelling in the lands of Persia — you would certainly grant my son a unique perspective in life."
Pothos mulled over the possibility before him. Surely he wouldn't be qualified in his own country, for although he was a scholar, he was not a great man of science or literature or court intrigue or martial prowess. But it was as Kalokyros said — he did indeed have firsthand experiences which few could brag of.
"What say you, Pothos?" prodded Kalokyros, raising his brow. "Will you do this for me?"
