“No-balls, I doubt very much if you ever have been-or ever will be-close to Kurash, Kings of Kings, may Ahura Mazda smile upon him and make long his reign.”

“Ku-” The rest of the name could not get through the lump of ice that suddenly filled Mithredath’s throat.

“Aye, Kurash. A ship came in with the word he’d overthrown and slain your worthless Khsrish the day you left for the old ruined inland town. Good riddance, says I. Now we have a real King of Kings again, and now I don’t have to toady to a half-man anymore, either. And I won’t. Get out of my sight, wretch, and thank the good gods I don’t stripe your back to send you on your way.”

The satrap’s mocking laughter pursued Mithredath as he left the hall. His servants followed, as stunned as he.

Even the vestiges of dignity deserted him as soon as he was out of sight of the satrap’s residence. He sat down heavily and buried his face in his hands so he would not have to see the passersby staring at him.

Tishtrya and Raga were muttering back and forth. “Poor,” he heard one of them say. “He can’t pay us anymore.”

“Well, to Ahriman with him, then. What else is he good for?” the other replied. It was Raga. He dropped the leather sack. The potsherds inside clinked. The sack came open. Some sherds spilled out.

Mithredath did not look up. He did not look up at the sound of his servants-no, his ex-servants, he thought dully-walking away, either.

They were some time gone when at last the eunuch began to emerge from his shock and despair. He picked up a sherd. Because one man had died, his own life, abruptly, was as shattered as the pot from which the broken piece had come, as shattered as long-ago Athens.

He climbed slowly to his feet. Perhaps he could beg one of his darics back from Polydoros. It would feed and lodge him for a couple of weeks. Then he could-what? At the moment he had no idea. For that matter, he did not even know if the Hellene would give him the gold.

One thing at a time, he thought. He stopped a man and asked the way to the bankers’ street. The man told him. Nodding his thanks, he tossed the potsherd on the leather sack and started off.

This story was my first professional sale. It was not, however, my first professional appearance. The magazine that bought it, Cosmos, folded after four issues-and before the story saw print It later ran in Isaac Asimov’s. The idea from which it sprang came from my ex-wife, who was not then ex-, whose name appears in the table of contents as coauthor. The research and almost all the writing are mine. The marriage ended up failing, as sometimes happens. The story, I think, still works.

“More wine, gentlemen?” Clodius Eprius asked, eyeing his two guests with faint distaste. He had wanted to leave for his country estate to supervise the harvest, but this dinner meeting was keeping him stranded in Vesunna like some vulgar lampseller. When both men nodded, he sighed and rose from his couch. Picking up the red earthenware jug, he filled their cups and poured himself a hefty dollop, as well.

All drank; the two strangers murmured appreciatively. That warmed Eprius a little. He said, “It’s not Falernian, but this is a fine vintage. It was laid down the year Hadrian died, eight-no, nine years ago now. A fine vintage,” he repeated. “Do you know, they’re even shipping our Aquitanian wine to Britain these days.”

“Really?” One of his visitors, a short blondish fellow who called himself Lucius, looked interested. His comrade kept his nose in his cup. A tall, solidly built man with hard, dark eyes, he had not said three words all through dinner. Lucius had introduced him as Marcus.

For no reason he could name, Eprius’ guests disturbed him. It was not their accent, though Lucius, who did most of the talking, flavored his Latin in a curious fashion. No, the way they looked at their surroundings nettled their host more. Itinerant booksellers like these men would have seen many splendid villas in their travels, to be sure. Eprius knew his house would not have seemed imposing to anyone newly come from Rome or Antioch. But a fountain laughed in the courtyard, and the statues around it were good work. So was the hunting scene picked out in mosaic on the dining room floor; craftsmen from Rome had created it. His home was no hovel. It did not deserve Lucius’ patronizing stare or the contempt Marcus scarcely bothered to conceal.

He drained his wine. “Well, good sirs,” he said, “you told me you had a proposition I might find interesting, could it be kept in sufficient privacy. I have met your request. My servants are already at my other home, and I’ve given my valet the evening off. I am at your disposal, gentlemen. How do you wish to entice me?”

“We thank you, my friend,” Lucius replied, “for a fine meal and for the kindness you have shown two men you do not know. We will think your courtesy limitless indeed if you answer one question for us.”

“Ask, sir, ask.”

“I am sure you know Vesunna is not a town to which we usually travel, fine though it may be. But while we were in Massilia we heard a rumor so astounding, if true, that we hurried north to investigate.”

“You have not asked your question,” Eprius pointed out. There was a tinge of smugness in his voice, and Lucius did not miss it.

“It’s true, then. You do have a copy of Sophokles’ Aleadai?”

“And if I should?”

“May we see it?” For the first time Lucius displayed real eagerness. Even Marcus’ dour features almost smiled.

“I keep it in my private suite. Wait here a moment, if you will.” Taking a lamp to light his way, Eprius bustled out of the dining room, down the hall, and into his sanctum. The first thing he spied there was a stout walking stick. He seized it gratefully, for he had been a trifle lame since falling from a horse a couple of years before.

He shuffled rolls of papyrus, finding Book Three of the Aeneid, Book One of the Iliad, a bill from the sheep doctor Valerius Bassus, Book Seven of the Aeneid, and, at last, the work he sought. A copy of the Aleadai had been in his family for almost three hundred years. One of his ancestors had been a centurion in Lucius Mummius’ army when that general had sacked Corinth, and had taken the original document as part of his loot. Finding that the ravages of time had made it almost illegible, Eprius’ grandfather had had it recopied. It had been rare then. Eprius still recalled the old man chuckling as he described the surprise of the copyist who redid it. He could well understand booksellers coming a long way in search of such a work.

Lucius took the roll like a lover caressing his beloved. Yet he handled its spindles clumsily, almost, thought Eprius, as if he were not used to unrolling a book to read it. Don’t be a fool, he told himself: A book dealer sees more books in a month than you will in ten years. The wine has simply made his fingers awkward. He certainly reads well enough-he isn’t even moving his lips, which is more than you can claim for your reading.

A passage seemed to please the stranger, who began to read aloud. His accent was, if anything, stronger in Greek than in Latin, but he paid scrupulous heed to the complex meter of the tragedian’s verse. Despite himself, Eprius was impressed.

Lucius read silently once more, faster and still faster, whipping through the scroll now with a speed that left Eprius blinking. A lamp went out, but Lucius never noticed. He read aloud again:

“ ‘Stop! It is enough to have been called father,

If indeed I begot you. But if not, the harm is less,

For what one believes carries more weight than the truth.’ “

He turned in triumph to Marcus.”That clinches it!” he said. “This is one of the sections Stobaeus quotes, and this is the genuine Aleadai!”