The Gryphon's Skull

by Harry Turtledove

  They had more practice or more imagination than he'd expected. Their leader ran a finger around inside his mouth and discovered an obolos he'd entirely forgotten was in there. “Keep it,” he told the fellow.

  “Not me,” the bodyguard said. “I'm no thief.”

  He might not have been a thief, but he would have made a good torturer's apprentice. He ran a straw up Sostratos' nostrils. That produced no emeralds, but did bring on a sneezing fit. He probed Sostratos' ears with a twig. He made Sostratos bend over and probed another orifice, too. He didn't go out of his way to hurt the Rhodian, but he wasn't gentle about it, either. He also made Sostratos pull back his foreskin.

  Before the fellow got any other bright ideas, Sostratos said, “Let me piss in a pot. If I'm hiding anything up there, that will flush it out.”

  “Mm—all right,” the guard said, and, to Sostratos' vast relief, tossed aside another twig. “Lift up your feet, one after the other, so I can make sure you haven't got anything stuck under your arches.”

  As Sostratos obeyed, he said, “How likely am I to have an emerald glued to the bottom of my foot, especially when I had no idea coming here that I would be searched?”

  “I don't know how likely you are to have one there, friend,” the bodyguard answered. “That's why I'm looking: to find out.”

  Finally, for good measure, he used a very fine-toothed comb, one suitable for getting rid of lice and nits, on Sostratos' hair and beard. Since his hair was wavy and his beard curly, and since he hadn't combed them out too well himself, that hurt as much as anything else he'd been through.

  “Are you satisfied now?” he asked when the guard tossed the comb aside.

  “Pretty much so,” the man replied. “Either you haven't got any or you're a sneakier bastard than most.”

  After that less than ringing endorsement, he and his comrades let Sostratos put his tunic on again. He'd just slid it down over his head when the other group of guards led Menedemos past the doorway and toward the andron. His cousin, he was not at all sorry to see, looked at least as put upon as he felt himself—but his hair was well combed now. The men who'd searched Sostratos took him back to the andron, too.

  “Well?” Ptolemaios barked.

  “No emeralds, sir,” chorused the men who'd searched Menedemos, and the ones who'd searched Sostratos dipped their heads. A guard asked Ptolemaios, “Shall we take their ship apart, too, the way this fellow told us we could?”

  Ptolemaios thought that over, but not for long. Then he tossed his head. “No, no point to that. Too many places to hide such small things; you'd only find 'em by luck.” He glowered at the two Rhodians. “I'm not convinced you're telling me the truth, not by a long shot. But I can't prove you're not, so I'm going to let you go: you did serve me well before.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Sostratos said before Menedemos could come out with anything that might land them in more trouble.

  “I suppose you're welcome,” the ruler of Egypt replied. “I suppose.” He jerked a thumb toward the front door. “Meanwhile, why don't you go somewhere else and not give me any reason to call you here again?”

  “Yes, sir,” Sostratos said. “Thank you again, sir.” He hurried out of the andron, Menedemos in his wake. Only after they were out in the street did he pause to let out a sigh of relief.

  “Many goodbyes to that Dionysios,” Menedemos said.

  “Yes, he tried to cover us in dung, didn't he?” Sostratos agreed. “I say we head for home first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh?” Menedemos asked. “Why's that?”

  “Two reasons.” Sostratos looked around to make sure nobody was paying any special attention to them, then stuck his thumb in the air. “For one thing, Ptolemaios wouldn't find any precious stones hidden on the Aphrodite, but he would find the account books that talk about them. And, for another”—he stuck up his forefinger, too— “he might decide to hold us here till he sends to Keos or even to Aigina. Do you want to take the chance?”

  “Now that you mention it, no,” his cousin said.

  “Good. Neither do I.”

  Menedemos said, “We bought the emeralds in Rhodes, not in any of the lands Ptolemaios rules. We didn't break any of his laws to get them. I don't see how he really could condemn us for that.”

  “He's lord of Egypt, the richest man in the world, one of the four or five strongest men in the world,” Sostratos pointed out. “He doesn't need a reason. He can do as he pleases. That's what being one of the four or five strongest men in the world means. If he catches us lying ...” He shivered. “And we brought those stones through Kos before, and what do you want to bet he's made laws against that?”

  His cousin pulled a sour face. “You're probably right. No, you're certainly right. Very well, best one—you've convinced me. We go out tomorrow morning.”

  “Good,” Sostratos said.

  Menedemos chuckled. “Besides, I'd want to spirit you away before Ptolemaios makes you shorter by a head for calling him a fool in front of his men. Did you see how far his eyes bugged out?”

  “I'm a free Hellene, by the gods,” Sostratos said. “If he's not used to hearing people speak their minds, too bad for him.”

  “He being who he is, though, it's liable to be bad for anyone who does speak his mind,” Menedemos said, and Sostratos could hardly argue.

  He and Menedemos had almost reached the Aphrodite when someone called to them from behind. Alarm ran through Sostratos: had Ptolemaios decided to be difficult after all? But when he looked back over his shoulder, he recognized the fellow waving to them from up the street. “Hail, Pixodaros,” he said. “What can we do for you today? “

  “Hail, both of you,” the silk dealer answered. “When I heard you'd come back to Kos, I thought it was a gift from the gods. Have you any more crimson dye?”

  “Certainly,” Sostratos answered. “How much do you need?”

  “How much do you have?” Pixodaros asked.

  “Let me think.” Sostratos plucked at his beard. “I believe we have . . . fifty-three jars. That's based on what we sold. It might be fewer, though. We had to fight off pirates, and they might have stolen a few when they went back to their own ship.”

  “By Zeus Labraundeus, I'm glad to see you well and safe,” Pixodaros said. “May they all go up on crosses!”

  “May they indeed.” Normally, Sostratos was among the most mild-mannered of men. Now he sounded thoroughly grim. Whenever he thought of a pirate picking up the leather sack that held the gryphon's skull and leaping back into the hemiolia from the Aphrodite, his blood boiled.

  “How do you keep such good track of what's sold and what isn't?” Menedemos asked him.

  He shrugged. “I write up the accounts, and I remember them.” It didn't seem remarkable to him. He asked a question of his own: “How do you carry so much of the Iliad and Odyssey around in your head?”

  “That's different. For one thing, the words don't change. For another, they're worth remembering.” Menedemos turned back to Pixodaros. “Please excuse us, best one. We do go back and forth at each other, I know.”

  The Karian smiled. “Kinsmen will do that.”

  “How much dye do you need?” Sostratos asked him.

  “As much as you have. If you had more, I would buy it. I have a lot of silk to dye, and my, ah, client wants the cloth as soon as he can get it.”

  “You can dye a lot of silk with fifty or so jars of crimson,” Sostratos said. Pixodaros nodded, then remembered himself and dipped his head. Sostratos plucked at his beard again. He lowered his voice to ask, “Does Antigonos want to give his officers silk tunics, or is this for the officers' women?”

  Both Menedemos and Pixodaros started. “Not Antigonos—Demetrios, his son. But how can you know that?” the silk merchant demanded. “Are you a wizard?” The fingers of his left hand twisted in an apotropaic gesture Sostratos had seen other Karians use.

  He tossed his head. “Not at all. Who but a Macedonian marshal could afford so much crimson-
dyed silk? If it were Ptolemaios, you would have come out and said so. It might have been Lysimakhos or Kassandros, but they're on good terms with Ptolemaios now, and old One-Eye isn't. He's the one you have the best reason to be cagey about.”

  “Ah. I see,” Pixodaros said. “True—it is all simple enough, once you explain it.”

  Anything is simple, once someone else explains it, Sostratos thought sourly. But before he could say that out loud—and he might have— Menedemos contrived, almost by accident, to tread on his toe. After apologizing, his cousin asked Pixodaros, “And what will you give us for the dye?”

  The merchant looked pained. “You have me where you want me, I know. I only ask you to remember this: if you hurt me badly now, we have years of dealing ahead where I can take my revenge.” He gave Sostratos half a bow. “I too have a long memory.”

  “No doubt,” Sostratos said politely. “Well, what does fifteen drakhmai the jar sound like to you?”

  “What does it sound like?” Pixodaros exclaimed. “Piracy. Robbery. Extortion. In your dreams, you sell it for half that much. Because you have me, because I need it, I will give you half that much.”

  “You gave more than half that much in silk when we stopped here in the springtime,” Sostratos said.

  “Silk is one thing. Silver is another,” Pixodaros replied. He haggled as fiercely as he could, but found himself at a disadvantage: the Rhodians knew how much he needed the dye. That meant they could bargain fiercely, while he couldn't. At the end, he threw his hands in the air. “All right, twelve drakhmai the jar it is. Bandits, both of you. How much silver is that altogether?”

  “Let's see exactly how many jars we have.” Sostratos called orders to the sailors. They brought forty-nine jars of crimson dye up onto the quay. He muttered to himself. “That would be ... 588 drakhmai all told—not Ptolemaios' light drakhmai,” he added.

  “I understand. I'll be back.” Pixodaros hurried off into Kos.

  Menedemos snapped his fingers. “I promised to give a sheep at the Asklepeion here if the men healed well after the fight with the pirates. Now I won't be able to.”

  Sostratos thought, then tossed his head. “No, you promised to give a sheep here if you could, or on Rhodes if you couldn't. As long as you offer the animal to the god, you're not forsworn.”

  “Are you sure?” his cousin asked.

  “Positive.”

  “All right. Good. That's a relief,” Menedemos said. “We do want to leave as soon as we can. And then”—he sighed—”it's back to Rhodes.” Sostratos still had no idea what troubled him there. He wondered if he would ever learn.

  12

  Walking into the andron of the family house, Menedemos felt himself shrinking from a man to a youth, perhaps to a little boy. When he sailed the Aegean, he dealt with prominent merchants—some of them older and richer than his father—as equal to equal. They saw him as he was today. In Philodemos' eyes, he fell back into the past. He knew he always would, as long as his father lived.

  “Not as good a run as you had last year,” Philodemos said.

  “We made a solid profit, sir,” Menedemos said. “And we took fewer risks than we did last year.”

  When he'd come home the previous fall, Philodemos had done nothing but complain about the chances he'd taken in Great Hellas. Now his father said, “Well, those risks paid off. Here, you might as well have stayed in Rhodes and done your trading at the harbor, the way Himilkon the Phoenician does.”

  That wasn't fair. Even so, Menedemos didn't argue. In his father's eyes, he was almost certain to be wrong. Instead, he changed the subject: “I'll want to talk with Himilkon before we go out again next spring. Sostratos thought we might sail east to Phoenicia and get rid of one set of middlemen on goods from that part of the world.”

  “Your cousin has good sense,” Philodemos said. That was true. Had he left it there, Menedemos wouldn't have minded. But he added, “Why don't you ever have good ideas like that?”

  Menedemos could have claimed going east as his own notion; it had been as much his as Sostratos'. Had he done so, though, he knew his father would have found some reason not to like it. I can't win, he thought. But arguing with his father wouldn't get him anything, either. He gave up, saying, “It's good to see you well.”

  “I could be better,” Philodemos said. “My joints pain me, as those of a man with my years will. Old age is a bitter business, no doubt about it.” After a sip of wine, though, he admitted, “It could be worse, too, I will say. My teeth are still mostly sound, and I thank the gods for that. I wouldn't want to have to live out my days on mush.”

  “I don't blame you,” Menedemos said.

  His father said, “You did well with those emeralds. How much were you getting for those last few?” When Menedemos told him, he whistled. “That's good. That's very good.”

  “Thank you.” Are you well? Menedemos wondered. Are you sure you won't hurt yourself, saying I did something right?

  “I feel I ought to pay my fair share of what you made for them, not what they cost you,” Philodemos said.

  Oh, so that's it, Menedemos thought. Say what you will about him—and I can say plenty—my father's as stubbornly honest as Sostratos. Aloud, he said, “You can do that if you feel you must, sir, but if anyone's entitled to buy at wholesale, not retail, it's the founder of the firm.”

  That won him a smile—no mean feat, seeing how spikily he and his father got along. Philodemos said, “You may be right. I'll talk with my brother and see what he thinks.”

  “All right,” Menedemos said. That was where things would matter, sure enough. As far as this line of the family was concerned, it was just a matter of two accounts for the same silver. But, to Uncle Lysistratos, it would be a question of whether the money belonged in the firm's account or out of it. Menedemos went on, “I still think he'd do the same thing.”

  “He might well,” his father replied. “But if he did, he would ask me, and so I'll ask him.”

  “How does your wife like the stone?” The question put Menedemos on dangerous ground: not so dangerous as it might be, for his father had no inkling of what he felt for Baukis, but dangerous even so. He knew as much, and asked anyhow.

  Philodemos smiled again, this time not at Menedemos but at the world at large. His lean, rather pinched features softened. For a moment, he seemed a different man, and one much easier to like. He said, “Timakrates the jeweler mounted it in a splendid ring, and she was glad to get it.”

  How glad was she? How did she show it? Menedemos could picture the answers to those questions readily enough. He shook his head, trying to get the pictures out of his mind. To keep his father from thinking he was unhappy—and to keep him from jumping to more unfortunate, and more accurate, conclusions—he said, “I hope she gives you a son.”

  “Seeing as another son would make your portion less, that's a generous thing for you to say.” Philodemos didn't sound suspicious, but did sound surprised. “Maybe you're growing up after all.”

  “Maybe I am.” Menedemos was convinced he'd grown up some years before. He was also convinced his father would never believe it. He asked, “How are things between her and Sikon?” That was a safer question.

  His father snorted. “You know cooks. He's convinced he rules the roost. If you try to tell him anything else, he starts screaming that nobody will be able to eat his food any more, and that we'll never manage another proper dinner party again. He spends money as though he stamped it himself.”

  “He doesn't steal much,” Menedemos said. “Everything he makes is good. If we can afford good opson, why shouldn't we enjoy it?”

  On the instant, Philodemos' features returned to the hard cast Menedemos knew so well. “Yes, if. If, on the other hand, mullet and squid and dogfish bankrupt us, then we should keep a closer eye on what he spends. You may not care about such things—”

  “Who says I don't?” Menedemos broke in.

  His father ignored him. “—but Baukis believes in watching where th
e drakhmai go. We still eat well, but we'll have some silver left for you to squander when you do come into your inheritance.”

  “That's not fair. I'm making us money,” Menedemos said.

  “Less than last year,” Philodemos said again.

  Menedemos made as if to tear his hair. “Last year you called me an idiot for taking some of the chances I took. I took fewer chances this year, and we made less money. Now you complain about that! How can I please you?” It's simple, he thought. / can't.

  “Lower your voice. Do you want the slaves hearing all our business?” Philodemos said.

  “No.” All Menedemos wanted was to get away. That was generally true whenever he talked with his father. It had been true before Philodemos wed Baukis, and was doubly true these days. Now he wanted—he needed—to escape Rhodes altogether, not just the andron or the house. And he would be stuck here till spring. With a growl that might have come from the throat of a cornered wolf, he got to his feet. “If you'll excuse me, Father...”

  He went into the kitchen, where Sikon was expertly shucking boiled prawns out of their shells. The cook was chewing as he worked, which meant he'd sampled a few, or maybe more than a few. Philodemos fed his slaves well; he wouldn't mind that. And who'd ever heard of a scrawny cook, or at least of a scrawny cook worth having?

  But when the door opened, Sikon looked up in alarm. When he saw Menedemos coming in, he relaxed. “Gods be praised, it's just you, sir. I was afraid it might be the lady.” He rolled his eyes and let his head twist bonelessly in a gesture he must have filched from the comic stage.

  “She'll learn,” Menedemos said uncomfortably. He didn't like to hear anyone criticize Baukis. That had little to do with her position as manager of the household, much more with the position he would have liked her to . .. Stop that! he shouted at himself, as he did several times a day.

  Sikon, of course, had no idea what he was thinking. Had the cook known, he wouldn't have dared roll his eyes again and say, “Maybe she will, but when? And will she drive me daft before she does? She fusses over every obolos I spend.”