The Indigo King - James A. Owen [42]
John shook his head. “But we didn’t. Not in this timeline, remember? That would have happened after Hugo went through the door.”
“Drat,” Jack said. “I keep forgetting.”
Anaximander came back into the courtyard accompanied by a young man who appeared to be a student of his, given the way he responded to the older man’s instructions—not with abject obedience like a servant, but more deferentially than a son or nephew would have done.
“Come, Pythagoras,” Anaximander said, indicating the low table adjacent to John. “Just set the tray here. That will be fine.”
The boy deftly set the tray, laden as it was with bread, cheese, and grapes, on the table and then left.
“I see I’ve allowed the teacher in me to supplant the good host,” Anaximander commented, moving to the center of the courtyard. “You didn’t come here to ask about my philosophies; you wanted to know about my student. I assumed it was because of the legend that has sprung up around the stories that have been told.”
“What stories?” asked Jack.
“You are familiar with our great storyteller Homer?” Anaximander asked. “He of the Iliad, and the Odyssey?”
“Of course.”
“Not long ago,” the philosopher went on, “a rumor began to spread throughout the land that the gods had allowed Homer to be reborn as a youth, to reawaken the Greek people’s belief in wonder and mystery. From town to town and city to city, stories were being told in exchange for room and board. Stories the like of which have not been heard for centuries.
“Great, adventurous tales of fantastic creatures—centaurs and Cyclopes; talking pigs, beautiful sirens, and many, many more. And among these tales were scattered references to the place where they all were supposed to have happened—the Archipelago.”
John and Jack couldn’t resist the impulse to sit up straighter at this. “Your reborn Homer,” John said, “has he actually been to the Archipelago?”
“Better than that, if the stories are to be believed as truth, and not fabrication,” Anaximander replied. “They were born there.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Jack. “Did you say ‘they’?”
Anaximander merely smiled and rose to his feet. He crossed the courtyard and disappeared through one of the doors. The companions heard a muffled exchange of voices, and a moment later the philosopher reappeared, this time accompanied by two young men.
The first was not so much handsome as striking, which came across mostly through the intensity of his eyes. He was swarthy, muscular, and very, very confident.
The second young man was practically identical to the first. He was only negligibly shorter, and a bit more stocky. His complexion was slightly more pale, as if he spent more time indoors than his brother. But it was evident, John realized, that these were not only brothers, but twins.
“Gentle scholars,” said Anaximander, “may I introduce my two prize students—Myrddyn and Madoc.”
* * *
Chaz squinted and peered at the twins as if he’d been conked on the head and couldn’t quite register what he was seeing. “Two of ‘em?” he said to John. “Two Mordreds? I think we just went from th’ kettle directly inta th’ flames.”
John and Jack both stood to receive the visitors, but they were nearly as stunned as Chaz. Myrddyn and Madoc took each of their arms in greeting, and the companions realized that if pressed, they would not be able to say which of them had been the storyteller.
“It depends on the day,” Anaximander said in response to their unasked question. “That’s what has made the rumors of Homer’s return both credible and compelling. The ‘single’ storyteller has at times been reported in two cities on the same night, and has on occasion held an amphitheater full of citizens in thrall for several days with no apparent pause for sleep. These miracles are only possible, of course, because the single storyteller is, in fact, two.”
The twins took some fruit and goblets of wine from the table and settled into the chairs opposite the companions. As Myrddyn and Madoc recounted the events of the day with their teacher, John took the opportunity to examine them more closely.