“Four,” stated the Syndonian.
“Five!” a voice called out.
The Syndonian motioned the beggar to him. Baslim moved on hands and one knee, with the stump of the other leg dragging and was hampered by his alms bowl. The auctioneer started droning, “Going at five minims once . . . five minims twice . . .”
“Six!” snapped the Syndonian, glanced into the beggar’s bowl, reached in his purse and threw him a handful of change.
“I hear six. Do I hear seven?”
“Seven,” croaked Baslim.
“I’m bid seven. You, over there, with your thumb tip. You make it eight?”
“Nine!” interposed the beggar.
The auctioneer glared but put the bid. The price was approaching one stellar, too expensive a joke for most of the crowd. The lords and ladies neither wanted the worthless slave nor wished to queer the Syndonian’s jest.
The auctioneer chanted, “Going once at nine . . . going twice at nine . . . going three times–sold at nine minims!” He shoved the boy off the block almost into the beggar’s lap. “Take him and get out!”
“Softly,” cautioned the Syndonian. “The bill of sale.”
Restraining himself, the auctioneer filled in price and new owner on a form already prepared for lot ninety-seven. Baslim paid over nine minims–then had to be subsidized again by the Syndonian, as the stamp tax was more than the selling price. The boy stood quietly by. He knew that he had been sold again and he was getting it through his head that the old man was his new master–not that it mattered; he wanted neither of them. While all were busy with the tax, he made a break.
Without appearing to look the old beggar made a long arm, snagged an ankle, pulled him back. Then Baslim heaved himself erect, placed an arm across the boy’s shoulders and used him for a crutch. The boy felt a bony hand clutch his elbow in a strong grip and relaxed himself to the inevitable–another time; they always got careless if you waited.
Supported, the beggar bowed with great dignity. “My lord,” he said huskily, “I and my servant thank you.”
“Nothing, nothing.” The Syndonian flourished his kerchief in dismissal.
From the Plaza of Liberty to the hole where Baslim lived was less than a li, no more than a half mile, but it took them longer than such distance implies. The hopping progress the old man could manage using the boy as one leg was even slower than his speed on two hands and one knee, and it was interrupted frequently by rests for business–not that business ceased while they shuffled along, as the old man required the boy to thrust the bowl under the nose of every pedestrian.
Baslim accomplished this without words. He had tried Interlingua, Space Dutch, Sargonese, half a dozen forms of patois, thieves’ kitchen, cant, slave lingo, and trade talk–even System English–without result, although he suspected that the boy had understood him more than once. Then he dropped the attempt and made his wishes known by sign language and a cuff or two. If the boy and he had no words in common, he would teach him–all in good time, all in good time. Baslim was in no hurry. Baslim was never in a hurry; he took the long view.
Baslim’s home lay under the old amphitheater. When Sargon Augustus of imperial memory decreed a larger circus only part of the old one was demolished; the work was interrupted by the Second Cetan War and never resumed. Baslim led the boy into these, ruins. The going was rough and it was necessary for the old man to resume crawling. But he never let go his grip. Once he had the boy only by breechclout; the boy almost wriggled out of his one bit of clothing before the beggar snatched a wrist. After that they went more slowly.
They went down a hole at the dark end of a ruined passage, the boy being forced to go first. They crawled over shards and rubble and came into a night-black but smooth corridor. Down again . . . and they were in the performers’ barracks of the old amphitheater, under the old arena.