The Etruscan by Mika Waltari Read Free Book Online Page B

immortals!” I cried in dismay. “Honest warfare for freedom is one thing, piracy on the open seas another. The life of a pirate is short, his death fearful, and his name forever disgraced. He is hunted from one end of the sea to the other, he can find no refuge, and his very name strikes terror into respectable people.”
    “Don’t talk nonsense,” warned Dionysius. “You, a temple-burner, accusing me!”
    “Dorieus and I certainly will not follow you.”
    “Then remain here,” he said with sarcasm. “Remain with these friendly priests and explain to the Persians who you are and whence you came. We’ll meet sometime in the fields of Hades, but I swear that I’ll arrive there much later than you.”
    His words made me hesitate. “It will soon be dark,” he said urgently. “Tell me how best to snatch a physician. We’ll need a good one before many days have passed.”
    “Learned physicians are careful of their skin,” I pointed out. “That’s understandable, for if a sword punctures it, all their hard-learned knowledge will ooze out together with their life. Not even the physicians of Miletus consented to board the ships although they promised to care for all the wounded gratuitously in the city after the victory. No, you will never get anyone to volunteer as physician for your pirate ships.”
    “We’re not pirates if we continue the naval warfare in the enemy’s waters after the others have given up,” argued Dionysius. “I’ll make the physician a rich man like all the others who follow me.”
    “Even if he were to survive, what pleasure would he have from his riches if he were recognized and his past discovered?” I asked. “Nobody would shield him.”
    “Turms,” said Dionysius slowly, “I’m afraid that I shall leave you on Cos, like it or not, unless you stop chattering and do something.”
    With a sigh I left him and began looking around. Suddenly I noticed a short man standing apart from the others. There was something so familiar about him that I called out a greeting before I noticed diat he carried a caduceus. His face was round, his eyes restless, and there was a furrow between his brows.
    “Who are you?” I asked. “In the dusk I thought I recognized you.”
    “My name is Mikon,” he said. “I am consecrated, but unless you give the sign I cannot recognize you.”
    “Mikon,” I repeated. “On the expedition to Sardis I met an Attic pottery maker named Mikon. He went to war in the hope of winning enough loot to open his own kiln, but he returned to Athens as poor as he had left it. He was a strong man with arms like gnarled tree roots, and there was a feeling of security in fleeing by his side from the Persians. Still I never felt as close to him as I do to you.”
    “You came at an opportune moment, stranger,” he said. “My mind is restless and smolders like ashes in a breeze. What do you want of me?”
    To test his views I lauded Aesculapius, the fame of the temple and the wisdom of the physicians of Cos.
    He replied, “A white beard is not always a sign of wisdom. Tradition hampers fully as much as it cures.”
    His words startled me. “Mikon,” I said, “the world is large and knowledge does not grow only in one place. You are not yet old. Why remain here in the path of the Persians?”
    He reached out a friendly hand. “Cos is not the only place I know. I have traveled through many lands, even as far as Egypt; I speak several languages and am familiar with diseases unknown here. What is it that you want of me?”
    His touch was as familiar as that of an old friend. “Mikon, perhaps we all are slaves of fate. You are the kind of man needed by our commander. I am to point you out to him, whereupon his men will hit you over the head and drag you aboard our vessel.”
    He did not flinch but looked at me questioningly. “Why are you warning me? Your face is not that of a Greek.”
    As he looked at me I felt an irresistible power surging through me, raising my