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acacia. Gamos didn’t know what the trees were, either, but they found one that had fallen and had not rotted. Agios had carried a leather pouch with tools inside. He took out a saw and cut the trunk into manageable pieces, roughing out boards large enough for his purposes.
    The sun had sunk low when he and Gamos returned to the encamped caravan. Agios put down the wood and the tools and asked for food—he was ravenous—and water. They brought him bread and dried goat’s flesh, and he ate. “Now let me work,” he said.
    He ran his hands over the pieces of the howdah. Agios loved the feel and texture of wood, and he saw that he could salvage nearly all of the broken device. He removed three crucial pieces, fitted them together, and used them as a pattern.
    Night fell and he worked by torchlight, carving the replacement pieces. He liked the unfamiliar wood: with its fine dense grain, it shaped well, and it had a springy strength and a pleasing spicy scent. He ignored the onlookers—none of them seemed to want to go to bed—until, when it was nearly midnight, he secured the new pieces into place.
    The owner of the elephant inspected it, clapped his hands, and said, “Ah!”
    The animal’s handlers deftly restrung the straps and harnesses and replaced the split girth with another length of leather. The animal knelt, they placed the howdah on the beast’s back, cinched and fastened it. And then, the elephant rose—wondrous! Both animal and its burden looked as good as new. The elephant’s owner made an elaborate speech, punctuated with gestures, none of which Agios understood.
    After a long time, when the man had finally finished, Gamos said drily, “He thanks you.” Then he added, “And he says you stink.”

    They had crossed a small stream during their excursion to find wood, and the next morning Gamos took Agios back there to bathe. The had reached a tentative understanding while Agios had worked on the howdah, so Gamos stood guard casually as Agios stripped and stepped into the waist-high water. However, Gamos still kept one hand on his spear and the other near the hilt of his dagger.
    Agios didn’t care. The cool water seemed to return him fully to himself. Grief was still a phantom that clung to his shoulders, but the wine was finally gone from his head. He wondered what it would be like to return to his mountain, to visit the graves, and the thought stabbed into him. He scooped up sand from the riverbed and used it to scrub his skin until it was red and raw. Then Agios dipped beneath the water and ran his hands through the tangle of his hair and his long beard.
    They walked back to the caravan without speaking, but Agios sensed that Gamos was thinking carefully about something the entire way.
    â€œAm I to be chained again?” Agios asked when they were near the road. He held out his arms as if welcoming the possibility, but Gamos took one look at his bloodied wrists and shook his head.
    â€œIf you run I’ll hunt you down.”
    â€œI won’t run.”
    â€œI know.”
    The caravan was already on the move. They traveled until nearly sunset, when they camped again beside the track. Some erected tents, others spread blankets on the ground. Now that they didn’t hang back from him, Agios saw that some women were among the men. “No prostitutes,” Gamos told him with a sad shake of his head. “These are wives. A caravan takes years to go, years to return. Sometimes children are born along the way. By the time they return home with their parents they can walk on their own.”
    Agios tried to close his heart and his mind to the memory of Philos’s birth. Those early years when his son was as fragile as a bird and just about as big. The day he first toddled across the cabin floor. How Philos would have loved to see the elephants!
    Soon , Agios thought as pain stabbed through him. My son, I’ll find death soon