When the toe of her rawhide sandal caught on a loose paving stone, the woman, light-headed from hunger, nearly went down; as she struggled with the yawing yoke to keep from falling, a stranger in black Egyptian garb but with thick-soled Persian boots on his small feet, stepped out of the throng and held her up as she regained her footing. “Thank you,” she muttered, prepared to pass on.

“Let me take that for you. Please,” the stranger offered in excellent Athenian Greek, but with an accent the woman had never heard before. As the crowd eddied around them, she studied him, frowning, trying to discern his intentions: to her surprise, she did not find what she saw objectionable, and she realized she needed help with her load. Again she contemplated his face, trying to discern his motives: he had attractive, irregular features, an angular brow, dark close-cropped hair, and wore a silver sigil ring on the first finger of his right hand. His manner was distinguished, with a degree of reserve that marked him as a foreigner as much as his accent and his dress.

She held tightly to the yoke on her shoulders. “No. I will manage.”

The stranger gave a swift smile. “No doubt: I see you are more than capable. But why should you?”

Staring at him, she demanded “Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because you are carrying a child,” he said calmly. “That is burden enough.”

This time she was more firm. “You need not bother.” She made an attempt to wrench herself away, and was somewhat surprised when she was unable to do so, for he made no apparent effort, yet he kept her from going on. “I’m no weakling.”

“Possibly not,” he agreed affably. “But your unborn infant is, and it depends upon you for protection. Your pulse is strong, but it is also fast, and you are sweating, which is hard on you.”

She gave an impatient cough. “I will manage,” she said again, watching him with suspicion, distrusting the attention he gave her.

The stranger turned his dark eyes on hers. “I ask you to permit me to do this for the sake of your baby.”

“And why should that matter to you?” she countered sharply, making no apology for her abruptness.

“Does it not concern you?” he inquired, standing so that the busy traffic of the street would flow around them. “I would have thought, from the way you are walking, that you are apprehensive about carrying the child. If I am mistaken, or if my observation is impertinent, I ask your pardon.”

She stared at him. “How can you know that?” If she were not so hungry, she thought, she would not feel the need to defend herself; she could walk away from this stranger. As it was, she wanted a little time to order herself, to muster her waning stamina before continuing upward.

“Because I am something of a physician, and while I do not think coddling helps a pregnancy, I know that strenuous toil is equally compromising, particularly to someone who has miscarried in the past, which I believe you have done?” He saw her nod as he took the yoke from her shoulders and rested it across his own. “Tell me where you would like me to take this.”

She sighed. “If you must, follow me,” she said, resuming her climb. “But don’t expect me to give you anything more than my thanks for your efforts.”

“I will not,” he told her, easily keeping pace with her.

“I have no money to pay for your service, and I will not be whored,” she stated flatly as she reached another confluence of streets and chose the one leading off to the oblique right; she shoved past a man on a donkey and continued upward past increasingly mean dwellings. “I will not bargain about the matter.”

“To your credit,” said the stranger.

Three young men, their hair fashionably clipped, their beards neatly trimmed and perfumed, dressed in handsome chitons of dyed-and-painted linen came along from the street above; they were laughing among themselves, paying little heed to their surroundings, knowing that the crowd would give way to them. One of them had an amphora in his hands, and he held it aloft as if it were a trophy.

As they went past the woman, she made a sign with her hand to ward off evil.

The black-clad stranger watched this with curiosity. “Do you dislike them so much?” he asked when the young men were safely past.

She glanced over her shoulder at him. “They’re trouble. All rich young men are trouble.”

The stranger nodded, and continued to climb.

A short while later she slipped into an alley, motioning him to stop. “You don’t need to come any farther. I can carry the yoke from here.”

“I am aware that you are able to,” he said with a kindness she had rarely known. “But, do you know, I think I will take it the rest of the way.”

She shrugged. “If it suits you. I warn you, the house isn’t much.” The alley continued to turn to the right, growing narrower as it rose.

“That does not trouble me,” he said.

“Please yourself,” she said, and went on beyond the end of the alley where the street vanished into the scrubby grass and a house that was little more than a tumbledown shed stood, a rickety fence around a small portion of land inside which a scrawny nanny goat grazed on the stubble of thistles. “This is my home,” she stated with an air of defiance. As she spoke, three skinny youngsters came tumbling out—two boys and a girl; all three were in stained and threadbare clothes, and only the oldest—the girl, around nine or ten—wore sandals, and they were old and tattered. “And these are my children.”

“Indeed,” said the stranger, setting down the water buckets and leaning the yoke on end against the fence.

She patted the younger boy—a small six-year-old with a distracted air about him—and murmured something to his tangled hair, then looked at the stranger. “He’s not quite right, this one. He doesn’t talk very much, and he—But the other two are fine.” Her smile almost shattered as the younger boy hugged her leg.

“Has he been so from birth?” asked the stranger, no suggestion of condemnation in his manner.

“No; he took a fever when he was not quite two, and he hasn’t been . . .” Her words trailed off as she swallowed hard. “Two others died of the fever—a boy and a girl. And, as you said, I have had miscarriages—three of them.”

“That is unfortunate,” said the stranger.

“It could have been much worse,” said the woman. “They could have lived.”

“I must suppose then, that you are a widow,” said the stranger in the silence that followed.

“You would think so, wouldn’t you? It certainly seems that way,” she said with sudden heat as she squinted up toward the bright sun. “But no, I am not. I have a husband.”

“And he is away?” the stranger asked.

“No. He is here in Athens,” she said. “For a while.” His attentive silence prompted her to go on, “He is likely to be exiled. And we with him, or be sold into slavery.”

“What has he done?” The stranger looked genuinely concerned.

“Why should you want to know? It is nothing to you,” she said gruffly as she tried to smooth her hair off her face.

“I am curious,” the stranger admitted.

“There is nothing to be curious about. He is determined to make an example of himself, and us along with him.”

“Make an example of himself?” The stranger’s repetition held her attention.

“So it would seem,” she said evasively.

“For what crime?” he persisted. “Surely not treason, or murder—you would be in the hands of the authorities if that were the case, so there must be other charges. What has he done?”

“Corrupted youth,” she said bluntly. “That’s the charge: that he has corrupted youth. As if those young men who follow him could be corrupted more than they already are.”

“How has he done that? What youth has he corrupted?”

“They accuse him of corrupting the sons of important men. My husband says he is their teacher, and it is true that a group of them follow him as if he were. It seems his teaching has corrupted them, or so many powerful men have sworn, and declared that their sons have been tainted by what my husband has taught.” She reached down and picked up the younger boy, who began to tug loose the knot of hair at the back of her neck, which she endured patiently. “I know the fathers of the young men who follow my husband are opposed to him.”

“What does he teach that is so intolerable—here in Athens—that he must be stopped?”

She looked at the stranger. “I don’t know. He teaches them, not his family. His sons do not read or write.” She was about to turn away, but abruptly continued. “Women are the beautiful evil, as we know, and when our beauty is gone, only the evil is left, or so my husband has told me on several occasions. He says I will betray him if he reveals anything to me, so he tells me little but that I am worse than a shrew for urging him to abandon his companions and undertake to provide for his family.”

“His students do not pay him?” The stranger sounded puzzled. “Teachers are usually paid for their knowledge.”

“No; he will not permit them to pay him.” She sighed.

“But how do they expect him to survive?” the stranger wondered aloud.

“Oh, they take him to their banquets and other entertainments, so he doesn’t starve. A few of them fawn on him as if he were their older lover—and he may well be, for all I know. His ideas are exciting to them, and he . . . he is encouraged to talk, to impart his wisdom, as they call it, and he does it willingly enough. They see he is clothed, although he doesn’t ask it, and prefers older garments to new ones; it is a matter of principle with him, or so he tells me. The young men attend him and strive to guard him against those who . . .” She could not go on.

“They provide nothing for you?”

She gently disengaged her son’s hands from her hair. “I doubt they know much about us. My husband subscribes to the custom of saying little about his wife, although he does insist that I complain too much.”

“Which you have every reason to do, if the case is as you say it is,” the stranger told her.

“I do not dissemble,” she said sharply. “And I do not lie.”

“Judging by appearances, you have good cause to be distressed.”

“I will be much more, when he is condemned, as will his children,” she said. “This may be hard, but what is ahead of us will be far worse, I fear.”

“Will none of his students take these children into their household?” It was not an uncommon arrangement, and he was somewhat surprised she had made no mention of it.

“I doubt most of his students know much about us, or our situation.” She put her boy down, tousling his hair as she did.

“Because he says nothing?” the stranger suggested.

She nodded. “And his silence contributes to his troubles, and ours.”

“Then he is truly in some danger,” said the stranger.

“Yes. Oh, yes. When he first became the object of suspicions, it sickened me. Now—” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “If our children weren’t in want, I wouldn’t object to what he does, not any longer. He is a man who has purpose and understanding. He has chosen his way, and I would not deny him anything that aided him if our children were well-fed and properly clothed. But you see how it is. My husband has forgotten us, and we are left to flounder. He does what he must, and I honor him for that, but I can’t ignore the plight of these three.”

“Doesn’t he see what has become of you and your children when he visits you—He does visit you, does he not?”

The woman directed her gaze past the stranger’s shoulder. “He visits occasionally, when he has no other obligations. When he is here, he cares only for a compliant bedmate and I do not refuse him that. I do what a wife must, but I am no longer happy about it. He has made himself a figure of importance, not to mention infamy, among the great ones of the city. He is well-fed, he has a soft bed to sleep in, his clothes are clean, and that suffices him. If he would only see that the house was repaired and I had cloth enough to make proper chitons for the boys, and a peplos for Thalia; she is getting to an age when she must be more attentive in her dress. If he would only think of finding a husband for her.”

Thalia frowned at her mother. “I don’t need anything yet—not new clothes or a husband.”

“But you do,” said her mother. “If your father cares nothing for your welfare, so be it; but you deserve better than he has given you.” Her bitterness startled her daughter, and she modified her tone, “but I can’t be so lax, or so preoccupied as he is. What would become of you if I didn’t look after you?” This was clearly an old dispute among them, and no one bothered to continue the ritual of argument. The woman turned to the stranger. “So you see how it is.”

“Yes, I do,” he said, and apparently changed the subject. “Have any of you eaten today””

“There was a little cheese for the morning,” said the woman evasively.

“Which it would seem you did not eat. I suppose you gave what you had to your children?” He held up his hand before she could summon up some sort of denial. “Is there anything more in the house?”

“A little flour, and we will have a bit of milk from our goat,” she admitted, amazed that she should reveal so much to him. “With that and a handful of nuts, I can make flat cakes for us all.”

“Hardly sufficient nourishment, particularly for your unborn child,” said the stranger. He studied the three children, then said to their mother, “Would some meat and a string of onions be useful to you?”

Her sarcastic laughter sounded unusually loud. “And oil, and melons, and garlic, and cabbages, and cheese.”

“Certainly,” said the stranger at once. “All of that, and more besides. But have you vessels in which to cook?” Do you have wood for your fire?”

“What business is it of yours?” she demanded, then fell silent.

What business, indeed? he asked himself inwardly, and decided it was as much curiosity as compassion. “I am willing to make it my business,” he said aloud, “if you will permit me to.” He inclined his head. “You may call it a whim, if you need an explanation.”

“Such whims can be costly.” She pinched the bridge of her nose again. “I do not want to be beholden to you; I have no way to redeem my obligation but with the lives of my children.”

“You have no reason to fear me,” he told her as Thalia tugged at her mother’s garments.

“Mama, I’m hungry,” she said just above a whisper.

“We’re all hungry, girl,” said the woman.

“If you will not object, I will fetch foodstuffs for you, and a proper pot to cook them in, and new bread.” The stranger could see the disbelief in the woman’s face. “I am not mocking you: believe this.”

“I do as best I can,” she said.

“No doubt,” he agreed. “But with a little help, you will do much better.”

She glared at him. “If you seek to discredit my husband—”

“I should think he has done that all by himself,” said the stranger in the black Egyptian clothes and Persian boots.

Now she bristled. “He is a fine teacher, my husband, for all he is unwilling to provide for us. He is an eminent man, a hero, trying for greatness, to teach so that his teaching will be remembered. He may not treat us any better than most poor men treat their wives, but he has much to offer, and would be held in high esteem if only he didn’t insist on clashing with the authorities.” She squared her shoulders. “He has knowledge and imparts it well, and it is to his credit that he will not be intimidated, little as I may like what that means to us. He may have been unwise in his choice of students, and he has become a thorn in the side of the state, but his teaching deserves to be heard.”

“All you say may be true, and to the extent that he is a good teacher, he deserves praise, but he exacts too high a price from you and your children for his teaching if you are hungry and he is not,” said the stranger, fully aware that he had not heard the husband’s side of it, but keenly sensitive to the deprivations the man’s wife and children were enduring on his account; he sensed her thoughts flickering like fish in shadowed water, and he wondered what they held.

She folded her arms. “I do not want to see him harmed, but I can do nothing about that, so I will do everything I can to see that our children suffer no more for his folly.” She cocked her head. “My father was a rope maker—he did quite well for himself, supplying ropes to quarrymen and the builders of temples. He arranged this marriage for me because he thought it would advance me, to be married to a man of learning. If he were still alive, he would be appalled at how I live.”

The stranger nodded, and glanced toward the complex of temples on an adjacent hilltop. “Rope makers have much to do in Athens.”

“Yes, they do,” she said, making no apology for the pride in her voice. “He kept us fed and we lived in a sturdy house. All my sisters had dowries—not large but enough for—” She stopped, as if fearing she had said too much. “My father helped us, before he died, and my husband thanked him for it.”

“A pity that did not continue.”

She shrugged. “Wives must share the lot of their husbands. At least I am not confined to the house as many women are.”

“No, that fate has not befallen you,” said the stranger, going on more crisply. “If you will ready your hearth, I will return shortly with food for you, and a pot, as I told you. If you can rest for a short while, it will do you good.”

“Rest?” She laughed. “I will make ready for your return.” She squinted at the goat. “I’ll milk her; that will give the children something more to drink than water.”

“I will be back,” he reiterated, seeing the doubt in her eyes.

“Well and good,” she said, dismissing him.

The stranger took a step back, watching the three children dejectedly follow their mother into the house; he considered what he had seen and heard, then he turned and made his way back down the hill to the agora, the central marketplace where farmers offered their produce for sale and vendors of all sorts hawked their wares, while at the far end, livestock of all descriptions were bartered for. Taking stock of what was displayed, he bought a butchered lamb; a sackful of onions and peppers; a bundle of grape leaves; a spray of mint and another of basil; two strings of onions and one of garlic; a bottle of oil; a large, pale-green melon; a round of cheese; three flat breads; an iron cleaver with a wooden handle; a skin of wine; a large iron pot; and a bundle of cut fire-wood. To this he added a bolt of green linen and one of soft Colchis wool. These he loaded onto a low sledge which he purchased from a vendor at the front of the marketplace, and, after covering all with a sheet of rough linen and tying it all down with heavy twine, he set about returning to the woman’s house, making his dragging of the sledge appear more difficult that it was so as not to draw attention to his remarkable strength. As he progressed up the slope, he was trying to decide how to approach her about more assistance. He was fairly sure she would reject anything so obvious as outright gifts, or offers of patronage, but perhaps something could be done with her older boy. He was still mulling over the possibilities as he approached her house, where he noticed two soldiers were now flanking the flimsy gate, spears in hand. He slowed his approach, trying to discern what was happening.

One of the soldiers noticed him, and pointed at him with his spear. “You. Stop.”

The stranger did as he was ordered. “There is trouble here?”

“And well you know it,” said the soldier gruffly as he swung around to confront the foreigner in black Egyptian clothes.

“Why should I?” The stranger made sure his question had no element of challenge in it, only curiosity.

“You are bringing this woman—” the soldier began.

“I am bringing her food for her children,” said the stranger, maintaining a respectful manner.

“For what reason?” The soldier put up his spear.

“They are hungry, and she is pregnant,” said the stranger.

“There are many such women in Athens,” said the soldier. “Why bring food to this one, whose husband is an enemy of the people?”

“I am not bringing food to her husband; I am bringing it to her, and her children.” He patted the covered sledge.

“For his sake, no doubt,” said the soldier.

“No; I am unacquainted with the husband,” the stranger said calmly. “I happened upon this woman by chance. I knew nothing whatsoever of her husband until she told me.”

“It is only chance that her husband is condemned,” said the soldier sarcastically, and nudged his comrade in the arm. “He is here by happenstance.”

“I am,” said the stranger.

“Very good,” said the soldier, laughing. “A creditable liar.”

“If I lie, then you may accuse me openly. You will find,” the stranger went on, cutting off what the soldier was about to say, “that I am here from Egypt, although I am not an Egyptian; I lived there for some time.” He did not mention that the time he had spent in Egypt was reckoned in centuries. “I arrived three days ago on the Wings of Horus, a merchant ship bringing cloth and dates and papyrus to the markets of Athens. Erastos of Argos who dispatches ships for the Eclipse Traders at Piraeus will speak for me, if you require that I be identified by someone other than myself. My manservant, an Egyptian named Aumtehoutep, is at the house of Philetides Timonestheos, and will confirm what I tell you. I am trained as a physician and I am partner in a trading company.”

“Why would a physician engage in trade?” asked the soldier.

“Because any good physician seeks to better his art. There are substances, herbs, and other healing items that are procured in distant lands,” said the stranger politely but with an air of authority. “Being part of a trading company makes it easier to obtain those things that a physician may require.”

“And you are?” the soldier asked, beginning to sound annoyed. “You must have a name.”

“Djerman Ragosh-ski,” he answered promptly, combining one of his Egyptian names with the patronymic of his very distant childhood. “I am a partner in the Eclipse Traders, as I told you.”

“Not an Egyptian surname; and certainly not a Greek one,” said the soldier, considering. “I will ask my officer if you might give this gift—” he made the word sarcastic “—to the woman for her children.”

“Why is he here at all?” Ragosh-ski asked, making his inquiry one of curiosity, not challenge.

“Her husband’s fate has been decided, and hers will be in the morning; it is likely that slavery will be her lot, and the lot of her children. There are plans she must make, and arrangements to accommodate the plans. She must hold herself in readiness.” The soldier nudged his companion. “The girl should bring a good price: she’s young but she’s promising.”

“True enough,” said the second soldier, sounding bored. “They’ll have to sell her even if they execute the others.”

“The boys, too, I would guess,” said the first. “Pity that younger one isn’t . . . right.”

“There’s bound to be a use for him somewhere.” The second spat and leaned more heavily on his spear. “I don’t like this kind of duty.”

“The officer can’t come alone,” said the first soldier. “What if the woman and her children had friends with them?”

“They have this friend,” said Ragosh-ski.

“But you aren’t here to fight, and you’re foreign, so that wouldn’t be prudent,” said the first soldier. “Others might be ready and able to defend them.”

“And two of us might not be enough to hold them off,” said the second soldier with a shrug. He regarded Ragosh-ski for a long moment, then said, “You don’t strike me as dangerous.”

Ragosh-ski bowed slightly. “Not just at present,” he said with a chuckle.

The soldiers joined him, and might have said something more, but their officer came surging out of the house, the woman behind him, shouting insults and imprecations at him; he paid no attention. He donned his horse-hair crested helmet and signaled his men to follow him, shouting over his shoulder, “We will return in two days, and you will have to be ready or face the consequences.”

The woman screamed, “My husband will be newly dead then. I must have time to mourn him with our children. There are offerings we must make.”

“Mourn him in your servitude; the gods will accept your plight on his behalf. In any case, I suppose his students will probably buy you and your children,” the officer yelled back at her, hardly breaking stride as he went away from her house, the two soldiers trailing behind him.

“You’d best not be here tomorrow, Ragosh-ski,” advised the soldier who had questioned him. “It could work against your interests.”

“It might,” said Ragosh-ski, noticing the older boy staring out at him through a knothole in the wall of the shack.

“Well, I have warned you,” the soldier declared as he reached the first turn in the street.

Ragosh-ski watched the three depart, his expression severe. He realized that a decision would have to be reached quickly. Once the soldiers were out of sight, he opened the ramshackle gate and went into the house, tugging the sledge with him. “I know this is not a good time, but you will want what I bring,” he said as much to announce himself as to point out the fruits of his errand.

The woman looked up, staring at him. “I didn’t realize you’d returned,” she said, sounding dazed. She stared at him, as if not trusting her eyes. “You brought—”

The daughter lunged out of the alcove where she had retreated. “Food! He brought food!” She slapped the covering on the sledge. “I can smell it!”

Her mother took her by the shoulder. “Calm down, Thalia.”

The girl did her best to contain herself, stepping back from the sledge and saying only, “I’m hungry.”

“We’re all hungry,” said the woman, sounding utterly weary. She glanced at Ragosh-ski. “So you brought what you said you would bring?”

“Have a look for yourself,” Ragosh-ski offered, bending to untie the twine that held the load in place.

There was a long silence as the woman peeled back the covering and stared at the food and the pot. “You have been . . . most kind.” The words sounded harsh and unfamiliar as she spoke them. She bent down and touched the two bolts of cloth. “Most kind.”

“If this suits your purposes, then I am content,” said Ragosh-ski, stepping back so that the woman could begin to unload the sledge.

“This food will be useless by this time tomorrow, when the soldiers come again. They won’t allow us to take food with us.” She sighed. “But we will have an ample last meal together. Perhaps I can cut new garments for us, as well; we will look less like beggars.”

“You need not be beggars,” said Ragosh-ski.

“No; we can be slaves,” said the woman without emotion.

“Not slaves either,” he said.

She rounded on him. “You saw the soldiers—it must be one or the other.”

“Then I hope you will make the most of your evening to consider what I offer.” Ragosh-ski paused, making sure he had her full attention. “The authorities may watch Piraeus to keep you from leaving, but they will not—they cannot—be at Megara, and I can arrange for you to travel with a merchants’ train of ox carts bound for there at dawn. From that place, I can arrange for you to go overland to the Gulf of Corinth, or by sea to one of the islands, as suits you. You can make your way in the world according to your desires. Depending on your skills, there will be work for you in any place.”

“So you would expect me to work?” The woman did not quite laugh this time.

“No; you would expect to work. You have made it clear that you do not trust any aid too freely given.” He looked at the children. “If you have work you would like to do, tell me so that I may find a situation for you. You would be together; your children would not be sold and you could deliver your baby in safety.”

The woman looked toward her children. “I don’t want to lose them.”

Ragosh-ski smiled. “Yes; hard enough to lose your husband. Tomorrow the soldiers return. But they will not guard you through the night, will they?”

“Why should they?” The woman laid out the food on a narrow plank table and pressed her lips together. “Where would they expect me to go—Where would I take these children?” She shook her head. “They know where they will find us tomorrow.”

“The sea laps many shores,” said Ragosh-ski.

The woman laughed harshly. “And what ship would take us? Megara is all very well, but what then? And for that matter, what merchant would carry us in an oxcart? Women are known to be unlucky on ships, and I haven’t money to pay for passage, and women on the road are targets for mischief.” She picked up the garlic and sniffed it. “I might as well try to walk to Thessalonika, or swim to Rhodes.”

“Arrangements can be made,” said Ragosh-ski.

“For what?” She raised her head and glared at him. “For removing us and then selling us to foreigners, far away, where the customs and news of Athens have no meaning?”

“No. For passage so that you may have the safety of distance from Athens, and some protection from those willing to provide it,” said Ragosh-ski.

“And you would know such men?” The woman laughed bitterly.

“Yes,” he responded simply. “I would.”

The woman looked away. “You tempt me, foreigner.”

“You may call me Ragosh-ski,” he offered. “That way I will be a bit less foreign.”

“Such a cumbersome name—It only serves to enhance your foreignness.” She looked again toward her children huddled in the corner, then shrugged, making up her mind. “Come. Unload the rest of the sledge. Put the cloth in the covered box in the corner. Thalia, use the wood to build up a proper fire so I can put this all to cooking.” Taking up the new cleaver, she tested it against her thumb and nodded. “Well-honed.”

“So the seller claimed,” said Ragosh-ski.

She brought it down on the melon, watching the taut skin open and the soft interior with its load of seeds spill out. “Do you think there is a place it would be safe for me to go? A place where we could remain?”

“I do,” said Ragosh-ski. “At Chalcedon, widows are permitted to continue the work of their husbands, until the oldest son is of age to inherit.”

The woman scoffed. “What manner of teacher would I be?”

“If your husband is unknown to the people of Chalcedon, then nothing constrains you, and you may select what suits you best,” said Ragosh-ski. “You will have documents to show that this is your right. You may also have documents to say your place of business was destroyed and you could not afford to rebuild. So long as you have money enough, there will be no questions asked.”

“And where am I to get money? If I had money, there would have been no call for you to purchase all this.” She reached for the skin of wine, unstopped it, and squeezed the blood-colored liquid into her mouth. Glaring at him defiantly, she said, “Would you want any of this?”

“No, but I thank you for your offer. I do not drink wine.”

She stared at him. “Perhaps something else””

“Perhaps,” he agreed. “But later.”

She took an old, wooden cup from the end of the table, tipped it over, then filled it with wine, then handed the cup to her daughter, “Share this with your brothers, mind.”

Thalia smiled as she took a careful sip, smacking her lips before handing the cup to her nearest brother. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and stared longingly at the halved melon. “Mama?”

“Take it outside and get the seeds out for the goat, and then you may have some. Remember it must be shared.” The woman stoppered the wineskin again and looked at Ragosh-ski. “Tell me why you are prepared to do so much for me. And never mind saying it is a whim.”

Ragosh-ski answered her slowly, thoughtfully. “Most of the people in Athens, as in all the rest of the world, are . . . as if they are sleepwalking. They live but they are not wholly alive, not vital, not immersed in living. Those who are are like beacons.”

“You can’t think I am one such,” said the woman, shaking her head in disbelief. “How could I be?”

“It has nothing to do with situation,” said Ragosh-ski, thinking back to his many decades at the Temple of Imhotep. “It has to do with the truth within.”

“Now you sound like my husband,” she said, and picked up the yellow and green peppers, sliced them in half, and pulled the seeds from within them, setting the seeds on a narrow shelf to dry out of habit.

“Then he must know your value,” said Ragosh-ski.

“He calls me a shrew, and worse,” she answered, vigorously chopping the peppers.

“In that, he is mistaken,” said Ragosh-ski.

She stopped her work. “I thank you for saying so,” she muttered, cautious of his praise.

“If you depart tomorrow, you will not have to answer for his actions any longer.” He nodded to her.

“I would want him to know, if I decide to leave.” She resumed hacking the peppers, making them into ever-smaller bits of vegetable.

“I will carry word to him, if you like,” said Ragosh-ski.

She scraped the peppers into the large cooking pot, then set to work on the onions; their pungent odor quickly filled the little hut. “Better you than the soldiers, I suppose,” she said thoughtfully. “At least you can tell him we are safe.”

“Then you will go?” Ragosh-ski asked.

“I don’t know. But tell him we are with friends, or anything you like, so long as it is not the truth.” She used the edge of her hand to shove the onions into the pot.

“Not the truth?” He could not follow her intention.

“He has said he will accept whatever is meted out to him,” she said, her eyes still fixed on the middle distance. “And I am certain he said it sincerely. But what if his followers persuade him to bargain? What might become of us then?” She bent to pick up the butchered lamb, slinging it onto the table and preparing to remove the meat. “Tell him whatever story you think will most serve our purpose—the children’s and mine.”

Ragosh-ski ducked his head. “If that is your wish.”

“It is what must be done, for all our sakes,” she said, and stopped working long enough to stare at him. “No matter what I decide, I am grateful to you for this, Ragosh-ski.”

For a long moment, Ragosh-ski said nothing. Then, “What is your husband’s name? For whom shall I ask at the prison?”

“He is called Socrates. I am Xantippe.” She slapped down a wedge of lamb and began to cut it into smaller chunks.

“I will attend to it,” said Ragosh-ski.

“You will return before dawn?” Xantippe asked as her children came rushing back inside, each clutching a section of melon; the two boys were yelling.

“Certainly before dawn,” said Ragosh-ski.

Xantippe reached to restrain her children. “I will have a decision by then,” she promised. “I will hope that sleep brings wisdom.”

Ragosh-ski nodded as he went to the door. “Then I will wish you sweet dreams.”