"That has its advantages," said Thyestes. "We thus see to it that the men get a chance to put a word in edgewise."
"And like most human institutions, its disadvantages as well," said Pyrron, clearing his throat. "As a philosopher, I hold all manners relative and matters of convention. But, as I believe in adapting myself to circumstance, you shan't find me backwards with my Persian bows."
Vardanas' house stood in spacious grounds against the western wall of the city, where the wall overlooked the Chavaspes. At Vardanas' knock, a peephole opened in the door in the blank brick wall that faced the street. The door opened. There came a barking of clogs and sounds of bustle within, as though people rushed about with last-minute preparations.
We trooped past the porter, doffing our hats and helmets. The dignity of our entrance was marred by Pyrron's tripping over the doorsill and almost falling.
The man who greeted us was tall but bent, with a long gray beard and an arched nose like that of Vardanas. He wore a long robe of plain materials.
"Welcome!" he said. "I am Thraitaunas son of Tachmaspas by name. May Auramasdas befriend you! Enter, friends of my son, and use my house as your own."
From Thraitaunas' gravity no one would think he had been scurrying about like a frightened mouse to ready his place for guests. It struck me that he was as uneasy about us as we were about him. I gave him my best Persian bow and broadcast compliments and blessings as if he were a king instead of a minor landowner.
As my eyes grew used to the gloom of the anteroom, I saw that a number of other people were lined up behind Thraitaunas. First my host presented a lean dark-skinned man of his own age, with shaven face and head, as Beliddinos, the high priest of Mardoukos in Babylon. Then he introduced his family: his surviving wife Houtausa, a thin pale woman with downcast eyes; his son Kambouzias, whose beard was just beginning to sprout; his son Ariakas, about eight; his daughter Nirouphar, almost my height; his younger daughters Mousa and Gambia.
Under Vardanas' direction, the camp men brought in the chests and stowed them in a locked storeroom. Kambouzias showed me to a long narrow bedroom and said: "When you have washed and decked yourself, lord, my father is fain to show you his garden."
Like all Persian gardens, that of Thraitaunas was of oblong shape with a cross-shaped water channel running the length and the breadth of it, a summerhouse at the farther end, and trees around the edge against the walls. Everything—paths, pools, benches, and plants—was arranged with rigid symmetry. Thraitaunas handed me a cup of water.
"Water of the Chavaspes," he said, "which our kings used to send the length and breadth of the empire so they could always drink it."
To me it tasted like any other water, though I knew that Persians distinguish among fine shades of taste in water as most nations do in wine. I uttered fulsome compliments.
"You speak Persian well," he said. Then he showed me round the garden. "This is a rarity, the yellow double rose of Isatis. Alas, Troop Leader—what is your name again? Ah, Rheon." (Like many Persians, Thraitaunas could not make an I sound.) "Alas that you will not be here two months hence, when they will all be in bloom! For four months this garden is a blaze of color, where now you see but thorny stumps and snags. What says Gautarzas?
Nirouphar, the eldest daughter, came into the garden with Pyrron and began showing off the plants. There was little understanding betwixt them, as she spoke almost no Greek and he had but few words of Persian. Nevertheless, "showing the garden" is a Persian ritual to which all guests must submit, whether or no they are fond of flowers.
Nirouphar wore red trousers and, over them, a kind of long embroidered saffron coat. She was a handsome filly, tall and well made. Her strong back and graceful croup promised some man many long delightful gallops. She had the same high-bridged nose, dark complexion, and curly raven mane as her brother Vardanas.
Now Vardanas appeared, looking far different from when I had seen him last. His long robe glimmered with gold and silver thread. The waxen ends of his mustache swept out like the horns of a wild bull, and a large red spot was painted on either cheek. This custom illustrates Pyrron's theory of the relativity of manners. Amongst us, face paint is deemed effeminate in a man; but Persians use it on formal occasions even when the man is as manly as one could wish.
"Tell us your adventures, Rheon," said Thraitaunas. "My son has given me but a few words."
We sat on benches in the garden and sipped wine while Vardanas and I told our tale. When one of us got dry, the other took up the account. Thraitaunas was stirred by the parts about fighting and hunting, muttering, "Vaush, vaush!" and plying me for further details.
The Babylonian priest, Beliddinos, clad in a long embroidered robe, gazed keenly upon us and shot out searching questions regarding war and statecraft. Meanwhile the servants busied themselves with the hearth in the courtyard, around the corner from where we sat. The delicious smells of Persian cookery wafted into the garden and seduced my thoughts from our narrative. I foresaw another defeat in my lifelong battle against my waistline, a conflict wherein the final skirmish has not yet been fought.
Pyrron made heavy going of this conversation in a tongue of which he was largely ignorant. And, methinks, he was a little put out, as he was used to being the man to deliver any lectures that were to be uttered. He rose and began to wander about the garden, whispering to himself.
Presently Nirouphar, as dutiful hostess, joined him. They sat by themselves and spoke softly, heeding us not. By bending an ear, I made out that she was giving him a lesson in Persian. Pyrron, always obliging, entered into the spirit of it but mangled the words until the lass could not help laughing, drawing a frown from her father. I felt a twinge of annoyance—not that I knew or cared aught about the wench, but it irked me to see this gangling booby garner the most nubile maiden present without a visible effort, whilst poor plain Leon, with his snub nose and his thick wrestler's form, sat solemnly answering the queries of a pair of ancients.
"... and here we are," said Vardanas, winding up his tale.
"Good!" growled Thraitaunas. "Were I young, I too would travel afar; I too would serve strange Icings; I too would see unearthly sights. But woe! My aches and ills! My knee bothers me; last month an aching tooth drove me all but mad. Now, my son, I trust you have had your fill of travel. I need your help with the stock. I am too old for much riding. And we have some special new stock to care for."
"Do you mean we got possession of some of the royal herd of—" began Vardanas, but his father cut him off with a gesture.
"Later, later," he said. "Are you home for ever and aye?"
"Not yet. I must needs go to Athens with Leon first."
Thraitaunas scowled. "I said I needed you! Must I then give a direct command? Or has travel sapped your respect for your father's will?"
"I gave my word to the king," said Vardanas. "After we deliver the elephant I shall be free."
"Fie! But a promise is a promise, I suppose. We shall speak of this anon."
The talk then turned upon lighter matters until Houtausa heralded dinner. We went into Thraitaunas' living room, where small eating tables had been set up.