Forty years ago he had envied these men! How gladly he would have exchanged places! But what a difference now. With pride he looked back at his trailing caravan, well- chosen camels and donkeys, loaded high with valuable goods from Damascus. All this was but one of his possessions.
He pointed to the plowers, saying, “Still plowing the same field where they were forty years ago.”
“They look it, but why thinkest thou they are the same?”
“I saw them there,” Sharru Nada replied. Recollections were racing rapidly through his mind. Why could he not bury the past and live in the present? Then he saw, as in a picture, the smiling face of Arad Gula. The barrier between himself and the cynical youth beside him dissolved.
But how could he help such a superior youth with his spendthrift ideas and bejeweled hands? Work he could offer in plenty to willing workers, but naught for men who considered themselves too good for work. Yet he owed it to Arad Gula to do something, not a half-hearted attempt. He and Arad Gula had never done things that way. They were not that sort of men.
A plan came almost in a flash. There were objections. He must consider his own family and his own standing. It would be cruel; it would hurt. Being a man of quick decisions, he waived objections and decided to act.
“Wouldst thou be interested in hearing how thy worthy grandfather and myself joined in the partnership which proved so profitable?” he questioned.
“Why not just tell me how thou madest the golden shekels? That is all I need to know,” the young man parried.
Sharru Nada ignored the reply and continued, “We start with those men plowing. I was no older than thou. As the column of men in which I marched approached, good old Megiddo, the farmer, scoffed at the slip-shod way in which they plowed. Megiddo was chained next to me. ‘Look at the lazy fellows,’ he protested, ‘the plow holder makes no effort to plow deep, nor do the beaters keep the oxen in the furrow. How can they expect to raise a good crop with poor plowing?”
“Didst thou say Megiddo was chained to thee?” Hadan Gula asked in surprise.
“Yes, with bronze collars about our necks and a length of heavy chain between us. Next to him was Zabado, the sheep thief. I had known him in Harroun. At the end was a man we called Pirate because he told us not his name. We judged him as a sailor as he had entwined serpents tattooed upon his chest in sailor fashion. The column was made up thus so the men could walk in fours.”
“Thou wert chained as a slave?” Hadan Gula asked incredulously.
“Did not thy grandfather tell thee I was once a slave?”
“He often spoke of thee but never hinted of this.”
“He was a man thou couldst trust with innermost secrets. Thou, too, are a man I may trust, am I not right?” Sharru Nada looked him squarely in the eye.
“Thou mayest rely upon my silence, but I am amazed. Tell me how didst thou come to be a slave?”
Sharru Nada shrugged his shoulders, “Any man may find himself a slave. It was a gaming house and barley beer that brought me disaster. I was the victim of my brother’s indiscretions. In a brawl he killed his friend. I was bonded to the widow by my fattier, desperate to keep my brother from being prosecuted under the law. When my father could not raise the silver to free me, she in anger sold me to the slave dealer.”
“What a shame and injustice!” Hadan Gula protested. “But tell me, how didst thou regain freedom?”
“We shall come to that, but not yet. Let us continue my tale. As we passed, the plowers jeered at us. One did doff his ragged hat and bow low, calling out, “Welcome to Babylon, guests of the King. He waits for thee on the city walls where the banquet is spread, mud bricks and onion soup.’ With that they laughed uproariously.
“Pirate flew into a rage and cursed them roundly. ‘What do those men mean by the King awaiting us on the walls?’ I asked him.
“To the city walls ye march to carry bricks until the back breaks. Maybe they beat thee to death before it breaks. They won’t beat me. I’ll kill ‘em.’
“Then Megiddo spoke up, ‘It doesn’t make sense to me to talk of masters beating willing, hardworking slaves to death. Masters like good slaves and treat them well.”
“‘Who wants to work hard?’ commented Zabado. ‘Those plowers are wise fellows. They’re not breaking their backs. Just letting on as if they be.’
“‘Thou can’t get ahead by shirking,’ Megiddo protested. If thou plow a hectare, that’s a good day’s work and any master knows it. But when thou plow only a half, that’s shirking. I don’t shirk. I like to work and I like to do good work, for work is the best friend I’ve ever known. It has brought me all the good things I’ve had, my farm and cows and crops, everything.’
“‘Yea, and where be these things now?’ scoffed Zabado. ‘I figure it pays better to be smart and get by without working. You watch Zabado, if we’re sold to the walls, he’ll be carrying the water bag or some easy job when thou, who like to work, will be breaking thy back carrying bricks.’ He laughed his silly laugh.
“Terror gripped me that night. I could not sleep. I crowded close to the guard rope, and when the others slept, I attracted the attention of Godoso who was doing the first guard watch. He was one of those brigand Arabs, the sort of rogue who, if he robbed thee of thy purse, would think he must also cut thy throat.
“‘Tell me, Godoso,’ I whispered, ‘when we get to Babylon will we be sold to the walls?’
“‘Why want to know?’ he questioned cautiously.
“‘Canst
