An Honest Man

By Thomas A. Brown

Paddy is a single mom in Alaska, struggling to makes end meet, who robs a recently deceased rich man's house. She tries to sell her goods to Jason, a former academic, now interested in nothing more than his next drink.

What she stole may be very old, very valuable, and very rare: a mysterious manuscript that somehow traveled from 13th century Al-Andalusia to 21st century Anchorage.
They find a rich buyer for the manuscript but first they need to contend with blackmail, addiction, and just translating the 800 year old book. Paddy and Jason have to navigate unemployment, kidnapping, and an eccentric sadist with a penchant for conspiracy theory and medieval Arabic philosophy. Paddy and Jason find themselves at the center of a bloody contest started decades ago by the dead man, the buyer, and the conspiracy theorist.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9781664137097

Book preview

PROLOGUE

One may make eunuchs out of men,

but no one can make a man out of a eunuch.

- Diogenes, 4th Century B.C.E.

Plataea, Greece, 479 BC

The battle had exhausted both of them. They sat around a fire stoked by a flaming arrow lodged in the chest of a fallen hoplite, now under a pile of corpses popping and squirming unnaturally in the flames. Pyres like this burned all around them, littering the now quiet field. Olorus reclined on the ground against the body of his dead horse, absentmindedly stroking the mane. Aitiais unfastened a water bladder clasped against another slain Greek soldier recently thrown onto the fire. He drank heavily and tossed the bag to his Greek brother-in-arms, startling Olorus out of his reverie.

Brother, Olorus asked after a long drink, have you no wine?

We are drunk already, Olorus, on wrath and reckless death. Should we keep this pace, the victor – whoever the gods decree that to be – shall have few celebrants to praise his victory. He poked the fire with his sword, turning over a charred torso. Alien as these Persian barbarians may be, they burn well. Perhaps we are too hasty in driving them out. With sufficient numbers we could provoke a greater conflagration than even old Hephaestus had seen in his forge. Save our lumber for much needed battlements and ships.

Truly, I have never been so thankful for the inattentiveness of the gods. Barbarians burning beside good Greeks—Aeschylus’ shame would burn brighter than these pyres.

Times like these consume and test our souls. Charlatans abound in the guise of generals, philosophers, commanders, and politicians, all deceiving themselves into an illusory belief in their own wisdom and moral integrity. Perhaps the gods withhold their attention until they see a participant worthy of it. Aitiais spat into the fire; it disappeared among the sizzling fat and blood.

Are we not worthy? Olorus asked.

Aitiais thought a moment, removing the greaves from his shins before the bronze armor became too hot. The only thing I am worthy of this day, friend, is the assistance of a woman in unbridling my loins. He set the greaves on the ground beside the bladder and exaggeratedly adjusted himself beneath his skirt. I am tired of swords, and welcome a feminine sheath for my arsenal.

Aye, if I do not see my wife soon, I might just take temporary vows with a sheep from the supply train. I may not be particular either—it could be shorn, butchered and seasoned and still relieve my urges.

Aitiais groaned. Do not mention food. I am tired of these meager provisions. Men need more than stale bread and barely seasoned goat for sustenance.

Indeed. I’m unsure what I will open first, the pantry or my wife’s legs.

You have a touch of the poet about you. Aitiais laughed. What is your occupation in the real world?

Droving in Halimous and mining in Thrace. My wife and brother tend the family businesses in my absence. And you, do you have family awaiting your return?

My family and my life is Athens. He stared deeply into the fire. The gods took my wife and denied me a son all at once. Since then, my comfort and task has been instruction in rhetoric, logic, and grammar. My students, such as remain, will be too eager to ply stories from me with bribes of wine and women.

Such as remain? Surely, not all of them will have been involved in this noble misadventure. Olorus gestured to the field around them.

Two seasons ago, one of the battles at Thessaly saw no less than a dozen of my students, nearly a third of the total, fall to Persian swords. War has a method of interminable heartbreak. So I maintain doubt as to how many of my charges will still be such on my return.

They passed the bladder back and forth, drinking in silence, ignoring the crackle of human flesh that kept them warm. Three soldiers strode past, offering an exhausted salute. Olorus dragged the point of his sword across the burnt ground, drawing crude goats and phalluses in the dirt.

Aitiais asked, When did you come to the defense of Greece?

When I heard of Darius’ burning of the fields around Epidamnus, I felt a kinship with those nobles who sweat and bled for their animals. I tend the herds, I enjoy it. Most of my family’s income is derived from the Thracian properties but the herd is what I love. I feel like a man in the fields. Olorus stroked the stiff neck of the dead horse.

The fight came close to Thrace, are you not worried?

Always. However, my brother has mastered the mine operations and long ago proved himself a good steward. There is little more that could be done to assuage my fear. I had to practically beg him to remain with the family and keep watch over our holdings. No easy task. Being the younger son, his blood burned for the battlefields since covered in our blood and piss.

Were you not once so riled by the thought of glory?

What Greek wasn’t?

Boys dream of manhood, men dream of godhood. In between we have the last vestige of innocent, dangerous ignorance. You convinced him to stay, then?

I did. With no small amount of guilt and fear on my part. My wife was unhappy with my decision. ‘Mines be damned,’ she said, ‘your brother fighting beside you, keeping you safe is more valuable than gold.’

Women are often full of illogic but do you consider her position to be ill-conceived?

Olorus sat quiet, bladder in hand. Initially, I was angry. In tandem with my brother she sought to undermine my familial authority. I refused to hear her. I argued with my brother.

May I ask, how did you justify your decision? Many would say that it is the duty of a man to defend his polis, you denied your brother that opportunity.

Just as many would suggest that the first duty is to family and deme; one’s land and neighbors provide comfort and sustenance and should be properly defended as well. However, I had no stomach to consider returning to a home that no longer bore the characteristics that made it so. For many nights, Morpheus haunted me with images of ravaged fields, slaughtered herds and murdered family. A homestead empty of love was not worth contemplating.

You made your decision out of fear?

And make no apologies for it, Orolus said.

I meant no offense, merely indulging my curiosity, Aitiais replied.

Of course. You are an educated man and educated men tend towards such habits.

All men are educated, all men are moral, it is the limits of each which define our character. For my part, the first duty is to oneself. Any man with designs on my life will be met with the sword.

Is there not something greater for which to offer your life and effort? Olorus asked.

There is no doubt. But it would be my choice to do so. I would have given my life and every other man’s to keep my wife beside me. Just as you would do for yours, gods and duty be damned. And should I have my next meal in Hades, I will meet my son there and he will be proud of my example. Aitiais fell on his back with a sigh, the warm ground moist beneath him. I yearned to give my own son the benefits of my learning. Life can be cruel, and often so. Have you a son?

As yet, he exists only in my heart. Olorus sat up, facing his comrade. However, when my seed eventually blossoms, he will be named after a distant cousin. Thucydides. A strong man of royal descent in Athens. I believe he fights with the Spartans at Samos, although I do not know. When I have a son of age and he is old enough, would you be willing to educate him in the arts and the gods as your student?

It would be an honor and a pleasure. Though I spare little time for the gods these days. Aitiais spat the words into the fire. With as little as they have done for me, I feel no compunction to tell others of their existence.

You would not teach men to know their gods? Olorus asked warily.

I prefer to teach men to know themselves, Aitiais replied. Morality and knowledge may be the property of the gods but they benefit only men. My curriculum is one of constant inquiry, reflection and self-awareness.

Know thyself. Olorus nodded in recognition. You visited Delphi, then?

I did. That wisdom, plus the horror of these past years in bloody service to besieged Greece, has perhaps lent me insights which will alter my teaching. In truth, this is the first in many months that I have considered it.

Troops moved in around them, men from Corinth, Megara, and Athens. Weary soldiers, muddy and blood-caked, sat down around the other fires. Metal clanked and banged as they divested themselves of shields, swords, helmets and greaves, dropping them onto the ground. They warmed themselves, passing bladders of water and wine, and rebuked the silence with the low murmur of talk. Before long, deep snores, punctuated by the occasional burst of raucous laughter, filled the air.

Olorus joined a group of Athenians, returning with a wine-bladder that he handed to Aitiais. So you have not forsaken the gods then, Aitiais?

With a grateful hand, he drank the wine. No more than they have forsaken me. Forgive my sacrilege, Olorus. My tongue has been loosened by carnage and disappointment, what passes my lips may be recanted once my calm is restored.

No apologies are necessary. War makes a mess of the minds of men as much as it does their bodies.

All I can promise you right now, brother, is honesty. And the search for it. I have decided that my curriculum shall be concerned with the creation of honest men. A truly honest man, aware of himself, of his limitations, of his advantages, and of his obligations. I will provide instruction in logic, grammar, and rhetoric so that my students may recognize themselves and others honestly. That they make a discussion amongst themselves, putting truth to trial. Fulfillment of one’s personal potential is a moral duty, the earnest achievement of such should be the goal of education. The promises of the world given to us by the gods supply many examples of righteous behavior, belief in those gods is not requisite.

What do you believe in, then? Olorus asked as he nestled back against the fur of his horse-corpse pillow.

I believe in you, brother. He waved his hands around him, encompassing the entire field and all the men in it. As I believe in all my fellow Greeks standing beside me. I fight for myself and for you and for them. Whether or not the gods exist, it is not in their hands that I place my life. It is in yours. And the other soldiers around us. I have witnessed more bravery in these past years than I have read or considered in all the legends, all the philosophies, and all the prophecies created by man. I follow the example of brave Greeks, like you, not that of the gods.

Olorus was asleep. Aitiais sighed, pulled his cloak over himself, and closed his eyes. His wife and son waited for him in his dreams and he thanked the gods for allowing even such a fleeting vision of his beloveds.

CHAPTER 1

God’s law allows no distinction between morality and responsibility.

- Al A’ma al-Baman – 13th century

Anchorage, Alaska, 2010

It had been a relatively peaceful day, no whack jobs or psychos, only one drunk who took a while to understand that he could not buy cigarettes at a pawnshop. Jason stood outside in the bright Alaska summer, enjoying a Marlboro, reading Archaeology magazine, one of the few remaining vestiges of his spectacularly content, ho-hum old life.

He took a long drag, gazing at a picture of a broken Greek column on the page. To defend Greece, they gathered on the plains below the ruined city… he read. Over two thousand years ago this was a scorched battlefield, you can imagine exhausted soldiers talking philosophy—the meaning of truth—warming themselves on the pyres of the barbarian masses they had just defeated in battle… He turned and looked at the pawnshop doors. Hmmm, barbarians…

His boss poked his head outside. What are you doing? Get back to work!

…Can’t get away from them. He took his time going back in.

Not a single customer in the store. He perched on the counter and resumed reading, irritated with his boss. He heard the faint voice of the manager, way in the back, remind him to not sit on the glass countertops—who, ten minutes later, repeated his admonishment as he left to go drop off the week’s business at the bank. Jason was inspired, as he frequently is at this time, to obey. The second the manager’s car pulled out of the parking lot, Jason would place a ‘Be back in five minutes’ sign on the door and dash to the liquor store across the street.

Seven and a half minutes later, Jason was mixing a bottle of cheap vodka with mint mouthwash in the pawnshop break-room, to mask his breath at work. His swilling was interrupted by an obnoxious banging on the glass door. So I forgot to re-open, Christ, what do these losers need from a rundown place like this that can’t wait till I finish a drink? He muttered irritably as he placed his mix flask in the pants’ leg pocket of his cargo pants and walked to the entrance and unlocked the front door.

What the hell, man? the woman exclaimed as he opened the door for her. There are other places I can go to unload this shit, you know!

With the vodka warming his stomach, he was unfazed. Well, maybe you can take your shit to these other places, then.

She was just over five feet, with a dark complexion, a somewhat chubby face, attractive. Small lips pursed together in aggravation, she glared at him with hazel-green eyes. Slung over her left shoulder was a large, ugly, brown and green canvas bag clearly filled with some sort of box and assorted other unidentifiable crap which she would now attempt to unload on Jason.

Without waiting for him to finish opening the door, she walked into the store and set the canvas bag down onto the counter. So you guys buy computers and DVDs and stuff, right? That’s right, thought Jason, we buy whatever crap you stole. Jason murmured his assent.

Guns too, right?

He walked behind the counter, waving indifferently at the pistols, rifles, and knives displayed on the walls behind him and in the glass counter before her. What do you think?

That you’re a dickish little white boy, that’s what I think. How about old stuff? Like old guns and books? You buy those? She unfastened the coarse white rope holding the bag closed. How much can I get for this crap I found?

Right, he thought, she found it. Everyone just finds brand new DVD players, or clean clothes eight sizes too big for them, or clan heirlooms which had been in someone’s family for generations until someone had an addiction too powerful to overcome. Not usually. This isn’t an antique store. I’ll see what you got, but we really only buy what we have a chance of selling, so I doubt we’ll buy any of it. Besides, for things beyond the usual range, the manager has to approve it. Lay it out though, let’s see what it is.

With gentle indifference she laid out an old VCR, a worn leather-bound book, what looked like on old over-sized jewelry box, and a few white plastic bags filled with various dissimilar objects. Jason let out a sigh. He knew it: crap and junk.

Can I unload any of this stuff here?

Does that VCR work? Jason asked.

Of course. She didn’t really know.

I’ll check it. If it works, I might give you five bucks for it. Jason was thinking of his next drink. How quickly could he end this? And haven’t these people heard of freaking eBay or craigslist? Why the hell do they bug him with this junk?

She gestured to the rest of her stash. And?

I told you we aren’t an antique store. Your best bet would be to sell this crap online. I mean that book looks old but it’s probably just water-damaged. That box would be good kindling in a burn-pit.

I grew up with five older brothers and sisters, Paddy opened the box and upended one of the plastic bags onto the counter, I know when someone is trying to shoo me off. He turned his head away from the unpleasant noise of metal on glass, as Paddy emptied the other bag. They looked down at an assortment of jewelry, books, knick-knacks and one beautiful weapon.

Damn, is that a blunderbuss pistol? He picked up the antique gun and gently turned it around in his hands, admiring the craftsmanship. He stroked the barrel, the stock, the flash pan, envying the former owner. Tenderly his fingers probed the trigger; it had an odd secondary switch that sent a five inch long bayonet swinging out from the top of the barrel. Ha! Awesome! It has a bayonet on top of it! Where did you say you got this from?

Told you. Found it. So that’s worth something then?

This is a rare weapon. I think it was mainly used during the late eighteenth century. Check out the beautiful brass barrel, and it looks like the steel components might’ve been handmade. Ha! Freaking great! It has a rainproof pan! Ha! See here? How this piece, it’s called the frizzen, when it’s in the down position in the rear, you see how its shape covers the pan neatly, still leaving some space? Brilliant.

She was bored. So will you buy it or what?

"This is a well-designed replica. I mean, whoever built this, they knew what they were doing. Got all the details right, the pins, the pointless but very pretty engraving. People don’t make weapons like this anymore, this is a gun and a work of art. Well, I guess technically they do, I mean, hello," Jason waived the gun in front of his face.

So can I sell this thing or not?

It. Is. A. Replica. What didn’t you understand about that? You can sell it but probably not here. And definitely not for very much. It’s a fake. A well-made fake, constructed from good material, but a fake. Check online. You’ll have better luck. Next time Paddy saw Robert she was going to plant her fist in his flattened Filipino face. ‘Antiques are always valuable,’ my sweet dark ass, she thought. Shafted out of the best stuff. Why did she even bother to go with them on this job? How do you know it’s a fake? I mean if you’re an expert, why you working here?

Well, he began, eager to show off, for one, these weapons were manufactured and used pretty exclusively in the late eighteenth century. Almost three hundred years old and there is no damage to the steel or to the wood. If anything, it should have at least lost its sheen and the wood should be cracked. It is possible, though, that it could have been stored in a non-humid, cold, and safe environment and been well maintained over the centuries, so to be sure I looked at the big inscription on the barrel. He looked right at her and shoved the gun in her face. This one here, the one that says, ‘Artax, Cellatica, 2005.’

Paddy stared at him. And that means what to me, idiot?

He stammered apologetically and explained, Oh. Yeah. Artax is the manufacturer, they specialize in replicating old weapons like this. He held up the pistol with one hand like a model demonstrating the wares on a shopping network. Cellatica is where it was made, in Italy I think, and 2005 was when it was made. He stared