“That's right. He's just in to from Alexandria with a round ship full of Egyptian wheat.”
“Why has he got them, then?” Sostratos asked.
“He gets cagey about that,” Menedemos answered. “I think one of his kinsmen works in the mine, somewhere out in the desert east of the Nile.”
“So these may be ... unofficial emeralds, then?”
“That thought did cross my mind, yes.”
Sostratos' eyes narrowed craftily, “Lots of Hellenes from Egypt who can get Ptolemaios' ear come through . If you have to, you might want to point that out to the marvelous Thrasyllos.”
“You're a demon, aren't you?” Menedemos' voice rose in admiration. “I should have thought of that myself.”
They left the house and headed down toward the harbor, a route Menedemos had taken ever since he was old enough to toddle along after his father. He didn't care to think about that now; he didn't like to think about anything having to do with Philodemos. But the journey was as familiar to him as any in the polis could be.
There stood Mnesipolis the smith, banging away at something while his fire sent smoke up into the sky. There was the usual crowd of gabbers and loungers outside the shop of Pythion the cobbler. Sostratos made the remark he usually made, too; “Sokrates taught outside a cobbler's shop just like this one. In Athens, they still show you the place that used to be 's.”
“Pythion can teach you everything you want to know about shoes,” Menedemos said.
“Can he teach me what's true and what's good and what's beautiful and why?”
“Certainly—about shoes.”
“You're no help, and neither is Pythion.”
“Yes he is, if the sole of my sandal is ripped—not that I wear sandals very often.”
“What about your own soul?”
Instead of playing word games with his cousin, Menedemos picked a stone up out of the street and chucked it at a couple of scrawny dogs that were squabbling over some garbage by a wall. The stone hit the wall with a sharp crack. One of the dogs ran off. The other gulped down whatever they'd been fighting about. Then it, too, trotted away.
Agathippos' bakery was as smoky as Mnesipolis' smithy, but the sweet smell of baking bread made Menedemos forgive the smoke. A goggle-eyed gecko clung to the wall at Agathippos'. A crow tried to grab it, but it scurried into a crack in the mud brick and the bird flew away unhappy.
Down by the great harbor, every other building seemed to house a tavern. A man stood pissing against a wall by one of them; a drunk lay asleep in the street outside another. Sostratos clucked disapprovingly and said, “There is a man with no self-control.”
“Can't argue with you,” Menedemos said, “Getting a bellyful of wine is one thing. Getting blind-drunk in the morning?” He tossed his head. “No thanks.”
Gulls and terns wheeled overhead, mewling and skrawking. A pelican, its wingspan as wide as a man was tall, flapped majestically by. Shorebirds skittered here and there with nervous little steps, now and then pausing to peck at bugs or small crabs.
Menedemos pointed ahead. “There's Thrasyllos' ship: the Aura,”
“ 'Fair Wind,' eh?” Sostratos' lip curled. “He ought to call her the 'Breaks Wind.'“ Menedemos let out a yip of startled laughter. Sostratos went on, “How can the skipper of a ship that looks like that have any real jewels? He's probably trying to sell you green glass.”
The ship wasn't much to look at. The eyes at the bow needed repainting, which gave her a sad, half blind appearance. The goose-head ornament on the round ship's sternpost hadn't been touched up any time lately, either. Her unpainted timber was gray with age. Even so, Menedemos said, “You'll see.” He raised his voice: “Oë, Thrasyllos! You there?”
“Where else would I be?” The Auras captain came up on deck. He was a lean little man with a sailor's sun-darkened skin and a narrow, worried face. “Hail, Menedemos. Who's your friend?”
“My cousin,” Menedemos answered, and introduced Sostratos. “He wanted to see your stones, too,” That seemed better than saying, He thinks you're a fraud.
“Hail,” Sostratos said politely, but his voice held no warmth at all.
“Well, come aboard, both of you.” Thrasyllos didn't sound especially happy, either. He wasn't shy about explaining why, either: “The fewer people who know about this business, the better. Come on, come on. My crew's off getting drunk and getting laid. We can talk.”
The Aura could probably carry ten times as much as the . Even so, Menedemos wouldn't have traded his akatos for the merchantman for anything in the world. The round ship lived up to her description, with a beam close to a third of her length. Even with a fair wind behind her, she would waddle along like a fat old man, and she'd be slower yet struggling to make headway against contrary breezes. “An amphora with a sail,” Menedemos muttered as he strode down the gangplank.
“Amphorai have better lines than this floating hip-bath ever dreamt of,” Sostratos answered, also in a low voice.
But Thrasyllos' big, ugly ship had certain advantages of its own. He had a much smaller crew than Menedemos needed on the , for he required no rowers, only men to handle the enormous square sail now brailed up against the yard. That kept his expenses down, and meant he could haul cargo that wouldn't have been profitable aboard the merchant galley.
Thrasyllos also enjoyed more comfort than Menedemos did. He had a real deckhouse on the poop, and could sleep in a bed even if the Aura had to spend a night at sea. Menedemos didn't mind occasionally wrapping himself in his himation and sleeping on the timbers, but he could see how other men might.
“Show my cousin these emeralds,” he said as he came up to the round ship's captain.
“Let's go inside the deckhouse,” Thrasyllos said nervously. “You never can tell who might be watching.”
Menedemos was willing, but Sostratos tossed his head. “No. The light won't be any good in there. If I'm going to look at these stones, I want to be able to do a proper job of it.”
“My cousin has a point,” Menedemos said.
“Oh, all right.” Thrasyllos didn't sound happy about it. He kept peering around the harbor, as if he expected Ptolemaios himself to emerge from behind a careened fishing boat. “Here.” He reached into a leather sack with a drawstring mouth, took out a couple of stones, and set them in Menedemos' palm as if not trusting Sostratos to touch them.
“Let me see,” Sostratos said. Menedemos handed him the emeralds; whether Thrasyllos did or not, he knew his cousin was almost painfully reliable.
He also knew, just at a glance, that Thrasyllos was showing his biggest and finest gems. One of them was wide as his fingernail, the other only a tiny bit smaller. Both had the astonishing deep rich green color that had drawn his eye when the captain from Egypt first showed him the stones.
“Interesting,” Sostratos said, keeping his voice as neutral as he could make it. He was a merchant; he knew better than to show any sort of enthusiasm. But he couldn't help adding, “They are gemstones of a sort, no doubt about it.”
“I said so,” Menedemos told him.
“So you did.” Sostratos gave him a measuring stare. “But you've been known to ... How should I put it? To let your enthusiasm run away with you.”
“At least I have enthusiasms. You're as cold-blooded as a frog.” Were they alone, Menedemos might have had a good deal more than that to say. Sostratos wasn't the real opponent here, though. Thrasyllos was. And so Menedemos contented himself with adding, “You see why I'm interested in them.”
“I can see why you might be, anyhow.” Sostratos looked at Thrasyllos. “My cousin didn't tell me what you're asking for them.”
Thrasyllos licked his lips. “A mina apiece,” he said.
“A pound of silver?” Sostratos made a production of returning the emeralds. “I'm sorry, O marvelous one, but I have to tell you I think you're quite mad.”
“Brekekekex koax koax,” Menedemos said softly—the noise of the chorus of frogs in ' play. Sostratos ign
ored him, and Thrasyllos plainly had no idea what the nonsense words meant.
The captain of the Aura said, “You wouldn't talk like that if you know what my nephew went through to sneak these out of the mines. He stuck 'em up his arse, is what he did, then dosed himself with poppy juice so he wouldn't have to take a shit for a couple of days, till he was well away from there.”
Sostratos unobtrusively rubbed the palm of his hand on his chiton. Menedemos fought down laughter. His cousin had always been a little on the prissy side. But Menedemos was using Sostratos as a weapon against Thrasyllos here, and so he said, “They are interesting, but your price is way out of line.”
“Somebody will pay it,” Thrasyllos said, but he sounded none too confident.
“Somebody will give your name to Ptolemaios, is what will happen,” Menedemos said, and Thrasyllos flinched as if he'd hit him. Pressing his advantage, Menedemos went on, “He's not down in Alexandria—he's right over there in Lykia with a big fleet. You think you can outrun his war galleys in this wallowing scow? Good luck, best one.”
“Menedemos and I now, we know how to keep quiet,” Sostratos added, his tone suggesting they were the only people in the whole world who did. Menedemos dipped his head in solemn agreement.
Thrasyllos licked his lips again. His shoulders stiffened, though. Menedemos would have bet he was going to be stubborn. But one of the Rhodian dock loungers chose that moment to wave and call out, “Oë, Menedemos!”
“What is it, Moiragenes?” Menedemos asked impatiently.
The shabby, skinny man couldn't have played his part better had Menedemos paid him a mina of silver. “You hear the latest?” he said. “Ptolemaios just took Xanthos in Lykia away from old One-Eye, and they say he's going to move on Kaunos, too.”
“No, as a matter of fact, I hadn't heard that,” Menedemos answered, watching Thrasyllos much more closely than he seemed to. The news hit the merchant skipper like a twenty-mina rock flung from a catapult.
“How do you know it's true?” Sostratos asked Moiragenes. Menedemos wished his cousin hadn't chosen that moment to play the historian.
“Fellow who brought the news is called Euxenides of Phaselis,” Moiragenes answered. “He got out of his home town two jumps ahead of Ptolemaios, got out of Xanthos one jump ahead of him, and he didn't want to try his luck at Kaunos, so he came here instead.” He waved and went on down the pier to pass the news to someone else.
“Well, well,” Menedemos said to Thrasyllos. “Isn't that interesting?”
“Ptolemaios won't come here,” Thrasyllos said.
“Of course not,” Menedemos said in soothing tones. “Gods be praised, really is a free and autonomous polis. But sooner or later, you're going to have to sail away. Do you want to deal with traders whose grandfathers were in the business of buying and selling things, or will you take a chance on getting a little more from somebody who might cut your throat or might just blab instead?”
“To the crows with you,” Thrasyllos whispered. “You're not a man. You're an evil spirit.”
“All right. If you don't want to dicker . . .” Menedemos took a few steps toward the gangplank. Sostratos followed him.
He hadn't left the Aura's deck before he heard the word he'd been hoping for: “Wait!” Thrasyllos croaked.
For dramatic effect, Menedemos did take a couple of steps up the gangplank before pausing. Even then, he asked Sostratos, “Do you think it's worth our while?”
“No,” Sostratos said, and Menedemos could have kissed him. In lieu of that, he spent a little while taking his cousin around so he could stay and haggle with Thrasyllos. Sostratos did such a good job of acting reluctant, Menedemos wondered if he really was. No matter. Menedemos got his own way, as he was accustomed to doing.
“Well, if you won't pay a mina apiece, what will you pay?” Thrasyllos demanded when Menedemos and Sostratos finally came back to him.
“How many of those emeralds have you got to sell?” Menedemos asked in turn.
“Fourteen,” Thrasyllos said. “How big an arsehole do you think my nephew has?”
“You'd know that better than I, O best one,” Menedemos murmured. Sostratos almost succeeded in turning a guffaw into a cough. The joke, fortunately, went right by Thrasyllos. Menedemos said, “I haven't seen all fourteen of these stones yet, you know. I'm sure the ones I have seen are the best you've got, so the others are going to be worth less.”
“No such thing,” Thrasyllos said, but his show of indignation couldn't have sounded convincing even to himself, for he didn't push it.
“I'll give you . . oh, two minai for the lot of 'em,” Menedemos said. “Two pounds of silver free and clear for you—or one for you, one for your nephew, if you're in a generous mood.”
“Two minai?” the captain of the Aura echoed. This time, his anger was altogether unfeigned. “You time-wasting, whipworthy bastard, get off my ship, and take your kinsman with you. If I had a dog, I'd set him on you both.”
“Well, what do you think they're worth?”
“I already told you: a mina apiece. Fourteen minai all told.”
“And I already told you, I'm not going to pay that much. What would you take? I'm gambling, remember. These stones are new, so I don't know what I can resell them for.”
“To the crows with you, pal—that's not my worry.” Thrasyllos hesitated, then went on, “I wouldn't take a khalkos, not a single copper, less than twelve minai for the lot of them.”
“Still too much. Still far too much,” Menedemos said. He'd been afraid the round-ship captain wouldn't come down at all. That would have meant he'd have to go up first, and would have shown weakness, for he would have gone up—he wanted those stones. Now he could say, “I might give you three,” and not worry: Thrasyllos had weakened first.
He got the emeralds for five minai, fifty drakhmai. “Thief,” Thrasyllos ground out even as he clasped Menedemos' hand to seal the bargain.
“By no means,” Menedemos said, though he was sure he would turn a handsome profit on the deal. “Ptolemaios won't hear about this even if he brings his whole fleet into the harbor here.” That made Thrasyllos nervous all over again, as Menedemos had hoped it would. He turned to Sostratos. “Would you be so kind as to get the gentleman his silver while I wait here with him?” I'll make sure he doesn't change his mind, was what he meant.
Sostratos knew as much. He knew more than that, for as he dipped his head, he said, “If I get it, your father won't hear about it quite so soon,”
“Maybe.” Menedemos waved him away. Sostratos went, a grin on his face. Menedemos didn't like yielding him the last word, but liked squabbling with him in front of a stranger even less.
When Sostratos got back, he wore a sword on his hip and had a couple of burly slaves with him. Even in law-abiding , carrying five and a half minai of silver was not to be taken lightly. “Here you are,” Sostratos said, handing Thrasyllos the fat leather sack he'd brought. Menedemos held out his hand, and Thrasyllos gave him the much smaller sack with the emeralds.
Before leaving the Aura's deck, Menedemos opened the sack, poured the stones into the palm of his hand, and counted them. “Don't you trust me?” Thrasyllos asked in aggrieved tones.
“. . . twelve . . , thirteen . .. fourteen,” Menedemos muttered. Then, having satisfied himself, he replied, “Of course I do, best one.” Now I trust you. “Better to be safe, though.”
“Safe?” the round-ship captain echoed. “I don't think I'll ever feel safe again. You'd better go now, before one of my sailors comes back and wonders who you are and what you're doing here.”
“Just as you say,” Menedemos answered. If this wasn't Thrasyllos' first smuggling venture, he would have been amazed. I wonder if I could blackmail him into giving us the emeralds for nothing, he thought. More than a little reluctantly, he tossed his head. He'd made a bargain. “Come on, Sostratos.”
Thrasyllos dashed into the deckhouse with his silver, no doubt to stow it in the safest, most secret place he could f
ind. As Menedemos and Sostratos went down the pier, Sostratos said, “You were thinking about squeezing him even harder, weren't you? I saw it in your eyes.”
“Who, me?” Menedemos said in his most innocent tones. They both laughed.
When Menedemos got home, he found his father waiting for him in the courtyard. “Let's see those gemstones you just bought,” Philodemos said.
So much for keeping things quiet, Menedemos thought. Sostratos must have told his father why he needed the money, and Uncle would have hotfooted it next door to give Philodemos the news. “Here you are, sir,” Menedemos said, and handed his father the little sack he'd got from Thrasyllos.
As he had himself, Philodemos poured the emeralds out into the palm of his hand, Menedemos had brought them up close to his face for a better look. His father didn't. Philodemos held them out at arm's length. Even then, he grumbled; his sight had lengthened over the past few years. But at last he dipped his head. “You'll get some money from jewelers and rich men, sure enough. How much did you pay for the lot of 'em? Six minai?”
“Five and a half, Father,” Menedemos answered.
“You could have done worse,” Philodemos allowed: high praise, from him.
Inspiration smote Menedemos. He said, “Why don't you keep one of the stones, Father, and get it made into a ring or a bracelet for your new wife? She'd like that, I'd bet—it'd be something not many Rhodian women could match.”
Only after the words were spoken did he pause to wonder what sort of inspiration that had been. But Philodemos, to his great relief, noticed nothing out of the ordinary. “Do you know, that's not a bad idea,” his father said. “Women are fond of trinkets.” He eyed Menedemos. “You know all about what women are fond of, don't you?”
That was just general sarcasm; Philodemos sounded about as pleased as he ever did. “No man knows all about what women are fond of,” Menedemos said with great conviction. “I may have found out a little something, though.”
His father snorted. “Enough to get you into trouble from Halikarnassos to Taras.” Enough to get me into worse trouble right here at home, if I let it, Menedemos thought. His father went on, “Here, pick a nice one for me,” and held out his hand. “My eyes aren't up to such things these days.”
The Gryphon's Skull Page 7
