“See? Every day things improve. Pity it didn't know the difference between ten and twelve, though. Cut one of its legs off and we'll have a stew.”
“Cut off a leg?”
“Well, a tortoise like that, you don't eat it all at once.”
Didactylos turned his face towards a plump young man with splayed feet and a red face, who was staring at the tortoise.
“Yes?” he said.
“The tortoise does know the difference between ten and twelve,” said the fat boy.
“Damn thing just lost me eighty obols,” said Didactylos.
“Yes. But tomorrow . . .” the boy began, his eyes glazing as if he was carefully repeating something he'd just heard “. . . tomorrow . . . you should be able to get odds of at least three to one.”
Didactylos's mouth dropped open.
“Give me the tortoise, Urn,” he said.
The apprentice philosopher reached down and picked up Om, very carefully.
“You know, I thought right at the start there was something funny about this creature,” said Didactylos. “I said to Urn, there's tomorrow's dinner, and then he says no, it's dragging its tail in the sand and doing geometry. That doesn't come natural to a tortoise, geometry.”
Om's eye turned to Brutha.
“I had to,” he said. “It was the only way to get his attention. Now I've got him by the curiosity. When you've got 'em by the curiosity, their hearts and minds will follow.”
“He's a God,” said Brutha.
“Really? What's his name?” said the philosopher.
“Don't tell him! Don't tell him! The local gods'll hear!”
“I don't know,” said Brutha.
Didactylos turned Om over.
“The Turtle Moves,” said Urn thoughtfully.
“What?” said Brutha.
“Master did a book,” said Urn.
“Not really a book,” said Didactylos modestly. “More a scroll. Just a little thing I knocked off.”
“Saying that the world is flat and goes through space on the back of a giant turtle?” said Brutha.
“Have you read it?” Didactylos's gaze was unmoving. “Are you a slave?”
“No,” said Brutha. "I am a-
“Don't mention my name! Call yourself a scribe or something!”
“-scribe,” said Brutha weakly.
“Yeah,” said Urn. “I can see that. The telltale callus on the thumb where you hold the pen. The inkstains all over your sleeves.”
Brutha glanced at his left thumb. "I haven't-