Their first order of business that day was to sell the dozen or so gem stones they'd brought with them. They wandered around the market -- an open air field not far from the Oracle where one day a permanent agora would be built. One with marble colonnades, shade trees, benches, fountains and statues to entice the eye and give succor to weary travelers and citizens. The current collection of tents, stalls, wagons and carts that constituted the market wasn't much more than a noisy, confusing jumble at present, but Methos moved through it with practiced ease, pausing now and again as something caught Jack's eye.

There were several jewelers already in residence, he explained to O'Neill after their first walk through. But only two dealt in stones of any worth. The rest carried silver, gold and bronze trinkets for the more affluent. And only one of the two regularly showed his wares to kings.

He led O'Neill back into the controlled chaos and over to the largest tent in the market. There was no stall out front, or slave to hawk the master's goods. Those desiring to buy or sell would find him, without the need for advertising.

Methos approached the entrance, glancing inside to make sure the jeweler wasn't with another customer then politely scratched at the tent post when he saw the man alone. The jeweler, not much past his prime by Methos standards, lifted a hand to usher them in.

"I am Methos, son of Tok'ra, who offers greetings," he said, taking a seat on the mat opposite the man. "My companion is Yanos, son of Neleus."

The jeweler nodded deeply. "I am Mendanes of Achiaea, who offers welcome to all his customers."

"May the gods smile favorably upon him then," Methos smiled. At least this man wasn't put off by the fact that they were obviously foreign. While O'Neill had tanned over the past few days, enough to bring him a little closer in shading to the population, Methos hadn't and never would. A sunburn was damage to the skin and as quickly as he burned he healed with disgusting regularity. "But we come to sell, not buy, good Mendanes."

The jeweler smiled thoughtfully and clapped his hands. Out the shadows in the corner a slave arose and Methos waited patiently as the boy brought wine already mixed with water and a bowl of figs then returned to his corner. He took a sip and judged Mendanes honest, there being more parts water to wine. An old trick, he knew, to give the customer strong drink before making the price. With a surreptitious glance he checked on O'Neill, who was surprisingly placid, following Methos' instructions to the letter. "Do as I do and say nothing."

With a slight nod of approval Methos reached into the front of his chiton and pulled out a small leather bag, removing the strap from around his neck to lay it open on the mat before him.

Mendanes' quickly stifled gasp was a good sign that he was impressed, not only by the size of the stones, but by their gloss. He picked up a piece of tigers eye and held it to the light. Methos said nothing as one by one he examined the others. Uncut and polished to perfection using modern techniques, they were all exceptional pieces.

Finally, Mendanes put down the last stone and gave a desultory nod. "These are fairly common stones," he said, beginning the time honored dance of the bargain.

"If you aren't interested," Methos said, moving as if to sweep them back into their bag.

"Wait!" the man exclaimed, laying a warm hand on Methos' arm. "Don't be so hasty, young friend. I might be able to find a use for them."

So, now they were friends? Methos thought, amused. Mendanes was obviously eager to buy, but not to be taken to the cleaners. Even if, as Methos well knew, these common stones were the best representatives of their kind the man was ever likely to see.

"I am in no hurry," Methos told him, sitting back. He took another sip of wine and nibbled a fig as Mendanes took another moment to examine the stones again.

"Perhaps I was mistaken and they are not so common after all," Mendanes finally said when Methos made no move rush him. Here was obviously a customer who knew the worth of his wares.

"Not common at all," Methos agreed, taking the hint. If the stones had a unique history, one which would please the ear, titillate the mind and increase the stones value in the eye of the beholder Mendanes would certainly feel better about shelling out a small fortune for them. He'd make at least twice that from the uneducated, but hideously rich aristocracy, who were always trying to keep up with their wealthy friends and neighbors.

"The stones you see before you," Methos said, making up the tale as he went. "Come from the land of Khemet, brought there by the Pharaoh Imhotep from fabled Nubia and washed in the desert sands for twenty years by a thousand slaves until they shone as bright as the stars in the heavens."

"They do have a nice polish," Mendanes allowed.

"A nice polish?!" Methos feigned shock. "Each of these stones was worn for a year in the warm bosom of the pharaoh's beloved daughter, Nefreti. She who killed herself after the death of her lover, Ahknaten -- executed by her father for daring to offer the princess a lotus blossom in the garden! A nice polish indeed!"

Mendanes' eyes widened as he drew an awestruck breath. An hour later, after some cursory haggling and the expected sharing of wine and gossip, Methos and Jack left the jeweler's tent. The little sack around his neck was heavy with gold and silver, but Methos was extraordinarily pleased.

"In the warm bosom of the pharaoh's daughter?" O'Neill finally asked when they were far enough away.

Methos shrugged. "What did you want me to say? That they were blasted out of a rock formation by a Goa'uld staff weapon, polished in a gravel filled tumbler by an archaeologist and given luster in a weak solution of bicarbonate acid by Major Carter?"

"Doesn't quite have the same ring to it, does it?" O'Neill agreed.

"Not quite," Methos nodded.

"Yeah, but is it enough to get us to Egypt?"

Methos felt the weight against his chest and smiled. "More than enough to give us a damn good start."

***

"Where to next?" O'Neill asked as they headed down a side street.

"Flesh market's on the other side of town," Methos said, licking his sticky fingers. For lunch, they'd found a stall where an early version of the shish-kabob was sold, using goat instead of lamb. Then they'd stopped at a kiosk where an old woman made dough balls, deep fried in oil and drizzled with warm honey.

"Flesh?" O'Neill repeated.

"Meat of every kind," Methos explained. "Two legged and four. They keep it out of town because of the stench."

"Thanks for the warning," O'Neill grimaced as they headed in that direction. Even this far away the scent of animals was redolent in the warm, heavy air.

"Oh, the slave sales are over for the day," Methos told him lightly. "Those are held in the morning when their bodies are clean and fresh. Wouldn't do to have the merchandise looking wilted and smelling of the pens. Might lower the price."

"Sweet," O'Neill muttered. "Let's just get this over with."

Methos didn't bother to respond. He was sorry to have to be so blunt. To rip away all the illusions of the bright white history books O'Neill had grown up with. But there was no other way. No matter what O'Neill thought of himself and his capabilities as a tough as nails covert operative, the man had still been gently raised. If he was going to survive in this world and help his people to survive along with him, then he had to understand the simple facts of everyday life.

The pens, a mere quarter mile away as they reached the edge of town, were quiet at the moment, and Methos did nothing to draw O'Neill's attention to them. In the heat of the day this part of the market was never busy. And given a choice, had Methos been alone, he'd certainly have waited and gone the next morning. But he wasn't, and not trusting O'Neill's gut reaction to the sight of a slave auction, he'd decided not to put it off.

They moved across the wide field where temporary paddocks had been set up. Just some wooden posts and rope to keep the animals from wandering off. There were goats, sheep, chickens, geese and ducks for sale near the front, but the larger animals were all towards the back. Donkeys, mules and cows came next then the paddocks spread out further apart and Methos nodded to himself as he saw a fine pair of oxen being watered and fed.

The man in charge of them was obviously an overseer for one of the larger estates. Only the very wealthy could afford to keep these animals given the amounts they ate. But the wealthy rarely sold such riches, using the beasts both in the fields and to draw their wagons, though on rare occasions they might sacrifice one for a wedding. If they were selling then it clearly meant trouble at home. A poor crop that threatened to affect the family's social status, or an illness which had spread among the other animals and reduced their income. Still, what was trouble for one was often good fortune for another.

Methos didn't spend time on pleasantries with this man, who was no doubt tired from having spent the day talking to potential buyers and wouldn't have appreciated the waste of his time. The overseer named a price, which Methos refused, offering another amount far less than they were worth. They haggled for half an hour and when the man stood firm at six silver drachma for the pair, Methos knew that this was the lowest price set by the owner and accepted.

He gave the overseer a quarter of the amount as earnest money to show his master, then asked the man if he wanted to make something extra. The overseer, glad to be of service now that his job was done, and always willing to help out a paying customer if it put something in his purse, accepted Methos' charge to buy them a good, sturdy ox cart and enough feed to last the journey home. He gave the man his smallest silver coin and named a fee. Not very much, but then the man would likely pocket most of the money left over from the purchase. It was expected and they both knew it.

After making arrangements to meet the following day to complete the transaction, Methos paused on the way to the horses to drink some water.

"That looked expensive," O'Neill commented as Methos offered him some.

"Very," he agreed. "But they're just for cover. We'll sell them once we get to the coast. Should even make a bit of money off the sale."

O'Neill shook his head, giving Methos back his canteen. "Are you ever going to tell me what this plan of yours is?"

"And spoil the surprise?" Methos looked shocked. "I'm living just to see the expression on your face when it's revealed."

The colonel gave him a wry smile. "Let's hope it's one you can live with."

"The risk is half the fun," Methos grinned, moving toward the nearest corral. He liked only one of the animals he saw there and wandered further afield, hoping for better, then way off in the distance heard the panicked, angry whinnying of a terrified horse.

"Come on, let's see what the ruckus is about," Methos said as frenzied shouts and at least two other horses joined in to trumpet anger and alarm.

"You're not thinking of helping anyone, are you?" Jack called after him. "Methos?!"

The Immortal ignored him, moving easily through the crowd which had gathered to watch. At the front, he found a waist high fence, more sturdy than the rest, and given the current behavior of the occupants Methos could guess why.

An unbroken white stallion, taller than most Greek horses, though nowhere near the height of an Arabian, ran the length and breadth of the area followed by his equally wild consorts. A pair of fine mares, one a reddish brown color, the other black with white hocks.

"They're perfect," he whispered as O'Neill came up beside him.

"They just kicked the shit out of that guy over there," the colonel responded, discreetly pointing toward a man being carried from the field by his companions.

"Don't be a wuss, Yanos."

"You're calling me a wuss?!"

Methos rolled his eyes and turned to look for the owner. He found him as the crowd dispersed. A tired looking man, who seemed extremely agitated as the buyer he'd thought he'd had furiously shook his head, shouted a few choice curses and left.

"Hey, friend!" Methos called to one of the men still milling about. "What's the story on that lot?" He nodded at the horses and the man shrugged.

"The sire was mad. Bad blood, if you ask me. But old Archimedes," he nodded toward the owner. "He figured he could make back his money if he bred the bastard to gentle dams. Instead, they bred true. Now he'll have to put them down, like he did the sire last summer after it killed a groom."

"That would be a shame," Methos murmured thoughtfully as the man walked away.

"Are you out of what's left of your mind?!" O'Neill demanded. "Didn't you hear? Those things are dangerous!"

"Nonsense," Methos responded lightly. "They just haven't been handled right."

O'Neill's face went blank. "That wasn't an invitation for discussion, Captain."

Methos glared at him to no effect then finally sighed. "Colonel, who are you going to trust? Some illiterate peasant who's probably never even sat a horse? Or me?" he asked snidely. "You know, there's a reason we were called The Horsemen and not Those Four Running Guys in Scary Masks. I've never once had to put down a steed for bad behavior -- even when I specifically trained them to kill with their hooves."

For a long moment O'Neill stared at him then paused to watch the horses. They'd calmed down a bit and were resting after their run. "You think you can handle them?" he finally asked.

"I don't think I can. I know it! Look at them," Methos pleaded. "They've got strength and endurance and that fool Archimedes can't even see it! We can buy them for a song and sell them when we get to Egypt for ten times what he'll charge us here."

"I must be losing it," O'Neill finally muttered. "All right, Methos. Permission granted. Go buy the horses."

It wasn't quite that easy as they soon discovered. Archimedes, already fearful of charges being brought against him by the man who'd been injured, was loath to allow Methos into the corral. He was so young and couldn't possibly have enough experience to handle The Beast as Archimedes called the white stallion. Look what had happened to Anoos. A man twice his age who'd spent his whole life around horses. Finally, Methos made him an offer he couldn't refuse. He'd pay him for one horse, in advance, and if he couldn't sit the animal Archimedes could keep the money.

The old man laughed long and hard at that. "If you can sit The Beast, boy, you can have the others for the price of the one."

"That's a deal," Methos grinned as they shook forearms. He looked at Jack who simply rolled his eyes and shook his head as the Immortal handed over the money. "Do me a favor, Yanos?" he asked as he shrugged off his himation and folded it neatly.

"Carry your broken body off the field of battle?" O'Neill asked sarcastically.

Methos chuckled. "That too when the time comes. Right now, just hold onto these." He handed over his cloak and sword then quickly stripped off his long chiton which would only get in the way, tossing it casually over his shoulder. Then, naked but for his sandals, Methos approached the animal cautiously.

Around the paddock a crowd gathered, probably eager for more blood and violence. But Methos knew better. He moved and as the stallion followed turned him into the sun, quickly darting around to wrap the tunic about its head, covering his eyes. The Beast moved nervously for a few moments until he finally settled. Then, quick as he could, Methos grabbed the horse's mane and jumped on his back, knotting his fingers deeply into the full tufts at his neck. The stallion remained quiescent for an instant then shook his head in confusion. The loosely wrapped chiton fell away and the horse suddenly went wild.

Methos held on for what seemed like endless hours as the stallion bucked and twisted. His shoulders burned with the effort to keep his hands in place while his spine seemed to jar further out of alignment with every painful second. Long minutes later the horse finally understood that he couldn't throw his rider and Methos heaved a sigh of relief as the animal quieted. He leaned forward, wincing as his raw backside slid against the rough brush of the stallion's coat, wrapping stiff arms around the animal's neck while whispering soft words of encouragement into his ear. Stifling a groan of agony he slid off, then pulled the stallion's head down and gently blew in his nostrils. There were more soft words and a brief time spent patting the animal's nose, until Methos judged him calm enough to release.

A roar of applause sprang up as The Beast trotted off to graze -- a beast no longer -- but Methos simply ignored it to find and put on his dusty but undamaged chiton, and hide his quickly healing posterior. The rest he would pay for later, he knew with painful certainty as he headed for the exit and Archimedes, who looked both pleased and disappointed all at once. He might be quit of three obstreperous horses, but he was also out a good sum of money. A well deserved loss, in Methos' opinion.

"I'll be by to collect my horses tomorrow!" he called to the old man, who simply waved a hand in acceptance and nodded, then he grabbed Jack's arm and hurriedly led him away.

"What's the rush?" O'Neill asked as they reached the town proper and Methos ducked around the corner. He caught the Immortal just as he fell, lowering him gently to the ground as he groaned in agony, every muscle in his body suddenly seizing up.

"Shit! Shit!" Methos hissed as he writhed and curled, pressing his legs together as his thigh muscles cramped so tightly he thought he'd scream.

"What the hell is wrong?!" O'Neill demanded.

"What the hell do you think is wrong?!" Methos managed to gasp. "That hurt!"

"Well, yeah," O'Neill nodded. "Especially the bare ass routine. But you're Immortal. So..."

"So nothing," Methos choked. "I just pulled every muscle in my body. But they aren't damaged! Stretching them is a natural process, like heartburn. I may not get an ulcer, but it sure as hell hurts!"

"Oh, brother!" O'Neill muttered, throwing down his pack as he knelt beside the Immortal. He quickly found what he wanted and pulled out a large white tablet. "Here," he said, getting an arm around Methos' shoulders. "Get this down."

"I'm an Immortal! Don't be absurd," Methos whispered as he quickly became exhausted. "Give me a few minutes and I'll get moving. If I stay warm tonight it might not be too bad in the morning."

"Unacceptable," O'Neill responded flatly. "I need you on your feet now, not in a couple of days. Besides, I'm making it an order.And what do you mean you can't take pain meds because you're immortal? What kind of idiotic idea is that?"

Methos stared at Jack in astonishment then glanced at the tablet. It certainly couldn't hurt. And he'd prescribed similar pain relief for countless others, though he'd never once considered it for himself. In truth, the idea had never occurred to him. With a faint sense of trepidation Methos took the pill and stuck it in his mouth, grimacing an instant later as the bitter medicinal taste of the thing made him want to wretch.

"Ech!" He spat out the tablet as O'Neill laughed, giving him some water.

"Don't tell me you've never done drugs?!" he chortled, picking up the tablet and cleaning it off.

"Only the really good pharmaceuticals," Methos grimaced as he wiped his mouth. "But I never popped pills or used needles. My last foray into the ozone layer came in a sugar cube and went by the curious name of Mellow Yellow."

"You've never taken a pill?!"

Methos shook his head, struggling to sit up. "And after that, I never want to. That's awful!"

O'Neill's shoulders shook with mirth. "You're not supposed to bite and swallow. Just swallow."

Methos shrank back as he offered it again, until O'Neill sighed in disgust and grabbed his face. "Tilt back, open wide, tongue down," he ordered.

He could barely move a muscle to walk, let alone fight, so Methos simply squeezed his eyes shut and gave in to the horror. It felt too big for his throat as the tablet touched the back of his tongue and he nearly gagged. But there was water being sloshed into his mouth and O'Neill shouting the unhelpful phrase, "Think oyster!" as he shoved Methos' jaws closed, rubbed a thumb across his Adam's apple and forced him to swallow. At last, Jack released him and Methos fell back, coughing hard.

"Your bedside manner sucks!" he hissed when he'd finally caught his breath, wiping his face with the back of a hand.

"And you're a lousy patient," O'Neill shrugged. "Now eat this," he added, shoving one of the leftover honeyed dough balls at Methos.

"I'm not a child," Methos grimaced. "The spoonful of sugar technique won't work with me. I'm still pissed at you!"

"This isn't a treat," O'Neill explained calmly. "I just put eighteen hundred milligrams of Ibuprofen in your stomach. You need to eat something to keep from puking it up."

"Eighteen hundred?!" Methos exclaimed, horrified as he quickly accepted the food.

"Yeah, we use it for gun shot," O'Neill told him. "Now, just sit back. Takes about twenty minutes before it really kicks in."

"Sit back?" he asked around the food in his mouth. "In another twenty minutes I won't be able to walk at all! I have to keep moving!"

"No, you don't have to keep moving. You have to sit back and rest."

"But--"

"Who are you going to trust?" O'Neill grinned. "A bunch of ignorant Immortals who've never thought of using modern medicine? Or me?" he asked smugly. "You know, there's a reason Doc Fraiser is always nearby when I come through the Stargate."

Chapter 15