Once Onetor had left, Menedemos told Phainias, “I don’t think we’ll last much longer, either.” Sostratos’ yawn showed he agreed.
“Here—we’ve got beds waising for you, most noble ones,” the Rhodian proxenos said. “Come with me, and I’ll show you.” He took a lamp off its chain to light his way to the back part of the house. Menedemos and Sostratos followed. Menedemos planted his feet with care, not wanting to step in a hole he didn’t see and fall down. Phainias pointed ahead. “These two rooms here.”
Menedemos suspected they’d been storerooms till the Mytilenean’s slaves brought in the beds. That didn’t bother him. Phainias was doing the Rhodians a favor by putting them up at all. He wasn’t an innkeeper; he didn’t have guests often enough to keep rooms permanently ready for them.
Now lamplight spilled out from under the doors. Phainias said, “The night’s a little on the chilly side, my friends, so I hope you sleep warm. I’ll see you in the morning.”
He headed for the stairs. “Which room do you want?” Menedemos asked Sostratos.
“I’ll take the one on the left,” his cousin answered, and went in.
When Menedemos opened the other door, he wasn’t surprised to find a slave woman sitting on the bed. He did grin to find he’d ended up with the woman he’d noticed before. “Hail, sweetheart,” he said. “Are you supposed to help me sleep warm?”
“That’s right, sir,” she answered, her Aiolic accent flavored with something else—she wasn’t a Hellene by birth.
“What’s your name?” Menedemos asked.
“People here call me Kleis,” she said. “It will do. I’m used to it. They can’t say the one I was born with.”
She would have come from somewhere on the Anatolian mainland, Menedemos guessed. She had a round face, a strong nose, very black hair and eyes, a bit of dark down on her upper lip. He thought she was two or three years older than he—just on the other side of thirty.
“Well, Kleis,” Menedemos said, “is it all right?” Some slave women hated giving themselves to men. Menedemos knew a few men who enjoyed taking them all the more because they hated it. To him, they were more trouble than they were worth.
But Kleis nodded—another proof she was no Hellene. “Yes, it’s all right,” she said. “What else have I got to do for fun?” She stood up and pulled her long chiton off over her head. Her breasts were full and heavy, with big, dark nipples.
Menedemos took off his tunic and bent his head to them—first one, then the other. She made a small, wordless noise, down in her throat. Smiling, Menedemos straightened. “I hope it’ll be fun.” He slid an arm around her waist, which was surprisingly slim. “Let’s find out.” They lay down on the bed together.
Sostratos dreamt something had fallen on him, so that he couldn’t move his legs. Had he been in an earthquake? Had sacks of grain, piled high waiting to go aboard a round ship, toppled and pinned him down? He didn’t know. He couldn’t remember. He only knew he was trapped.
He opened his eyes—and stared into the face of a sleeping woman, only a palm or so from his own. Her bare thigh, warm and soft, was draped over his. No wonder he couldn’t move—but he hadn’t been dreaming about such a pleasant trap.
Her eyes opened, too. They were greenish blue, the hair that framed her freckled face foxy red. Like Threissa back on Rhodes, she came from the lands north of the Aegean. “Good day, Gongyla,” Sostratos said. “Did I make a noise and wake you? I was having a strange dream.”
She shook her head. “No, sir. I don’t think so.” She sounded like Threissa, too, though she was several years older. “I just woke up, I think.”
“All right.” Sostratos shifted on the narrow bed. Gongyla took her leg off his. His hand brushed her breast. He let it rest there, and idly, hardly even noticing what he was doing, began to tease her nipple with thumb and forefinger.
“So early?” she said, frowning a little.
He hadn’t really been thinking about having her, but he was still on the randy side of thirty. Her question decided him. “Yes, why not?” he said. A slave woman never had an answer to that. Sostratos did his best to warm her up. He wasn’t sure his best did the job, as he had been the night before.
She still sulked even after he gave her a couple of oboloi. Menedemos would either have ignored that or jollied her into a better mood. Sostratos, not callous enough for the one, tried the other, saying, “You have a pretty name.”
“Not mine,” Gongyla said. “You Hellenes took mine, gave me this one.” By the way she scowled at Sostratos, he might have done it personally.
“But it’s a famous name among us,” he said.
“Famous? How?” Her eyes called him a liar.
“Gongyla—the first Gongyla I know of—was a friend of the great poet Sappho, here on Lesbos perhaps three hundred years ago.” Sostratos wasn’t sure exactly when Sappho had lived, but this Gongyla wouldn’t know, either.
“Who remembers so long? How?” the slave woman asked.
“People wrote down Sappho’s poems,” Sostratos answered. “That’s how they remember them—and the people in them.”
“Squiggles. Marks.” Gongyla couldn’t read. Sostratos would have been astonished had she proved literate; even among Hellenes, few women were. She brushed back a lock of coppery hair that had fallen down onto her nose. Not least for its strangeness, red hair fascinated and attracted Sostratos. Gongyla frowned in thought. “But these squiggles, these marks, they make this name remembered?”
“That’s right.” Sostratos dipped his head.
“Maybe something to wrising after all,” the Thracian woman said; her Greek had an Aiolic accent, too. “I just thought it was for keeping track of oil and money and things like that.” She hesitated, then asked, “Is Kleis in this Sappho’s poems, too?”
“Yes—she was the poet’s daughter.”
“A woman poet?” Gongyla noticed the feminine endings.
“That’s right,” Sostratos said again.
“How funny.” Gongyla got out of bed, pulled the chamber pot out from under it, squatted over the pot, and then put on her chiton. Sostratos also pissed into the pot. Then he got dressed, too. He noticed Gongyla eyeing him as he might have examined some bird he’d never seen before that chanced to perch in the Aphrodite’s rigging. “You know strange things. Many strange things,” she remarked.
“Yes, that’s true,” Sostratos agreed. Most people noticed; not many noticed it as soon as Gongyla had.
Someone knocked on the door. “You in there, my dear?” Menedemos called. “You doing anything you don’t want to stop just now? “
“No, we’ve taken care of that,” Sostratos replied.
“Have you? How . . . efficient,” Menedemos said. “Well, in that case come out and have some breakfast.”
“All right.” Sostratos’ stomach growled. Waking up in bed with a woman had kept him from noticing how hungry he was. Appetites and appetites, he thought.
He opened the door. When Menedemos got a look at Gongyla, he started to laugh. “Now I understand,” he said. “You’ve got a weakness for redheads. I saw as much with that Keltic girl of yours back in Taras a few years ago.”
“I wouldn’t call it a weakness,” Sostratos said with dignity. “More of a ... taste.” He waited for his cousin to make an Aristophanic pun on that.
But Menedemos just said, “Come on. Have some porridge and some wine. Then we can go talk to Onesimos and Onetor. Do you want to go together to each of them in turn, or shall we beard them separately?”
“I’d just as soon do them separately, if it’s all the same to you,” Sostratos answered as they walked toward the andron. “We’ll save time that way. You can haggle over wine as well as I can, and I’ll dicker with the truffle-seller.”
Menedemos chuckled. “I might have known you’d want to split things like that. Don’t spend so much time asking Onetor questions about truffles that you forget to buy any.”
Phainias was already eating breakfast
in the men’s chamber when Sostratos and Menedemos walked in. “Hail, best ones,” the proxenos said. “Good day to you both.” He used the dual number in talking about the two Rhodians. It seemed natural in his speech, but would have been hopelessly old-fashioned on Rhodes. “I hope you passed pleasant nights.”
“I bent Kleis like a lioness on a cheese grater,” Menedemos said.
Phainias laughed. Sostratos wondered where his cousin had come up with that figure of speech, then realized it probably came from Aristophanes. He said, “I enjoyed myself with Gongyla, too. Do you name all your slave women after people from Sappho’s poems?”
“You’re clever for spotting that,” Phainias said. “Not everyone does.”
“I didn’t,” Menedemos said. “But you’re right, most noble one—he is a clever fellow.”
The Rhodian proxenos went on, “As a matter of fact, I do. Makes it easier for me to remember what to call them. I don’t think I’m the only one on Mytilene who does the same thing, either.”
“It’s efficient,” Sostratos said, borrowing Menedemos’ word. “Makes perfectly good sense to me.” A male slave came in with porridge for him and Menedemos. Salt fish and bits of chopped olive livened up what would otherwise have been a bland bowl of barley mush. Sostratos dug in with a horn spoon. Between bites, he asked, “You said Onetor’s house was around the block from you?”
“That’s right,” Phainias answered. “Go one street north, then turn left, Onetor lives in the third house on the left-hand side of the street.”
“One street north, left, third house on the left.” Sostratos dipped his head. “Thanks. I’ll remember that.”
“He will, too,” Menedemos said. “And if we come back here next year, he’ll still remember it then.” He sounded half proud, half wary about Sostratos’ memory.
“I’m not a trained monkey,” Sostratos said. “You don’t need to show me off.”
“Nothing wrong with keeping track of things in your head,” Phainias said. “I only wish I were better at it.”
Once Sostratos had finished breakfast, he said, “I’m going to head over to Onetor’s. We’re up and the sun’s up, so he ought to be up, too.”
When he went north from Phainias’ house, the breeze blew straight down the street and straight into his face. He was glad he had to walk only one block before turning. Then the houses on the north side of the east-west street shielded him from the worst of the wind. He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to look as neat as he could.
At the third house on the left, he knocked on the door. “Who’s there?” someone called from within.
“Is this the house of Onetor son of Diothemis?”
“That’s right. Who are you?”
“I’m Sostratos son of Lysistratos, one of the Rhodians Onetor dined with last night. I’d like to talk business with him.”
“Wait a minute.” The door soon opened. A redheaded Thracian slave—a man—stood aside to let Sostratos in. “My master is finishing breakfast in the andron. He asks if you’ve eaten.”
“Yes, thanks,” Sostratos replied. The Thracian led him through the entry hall and into the courtyard. Onetor put down a winecup to wave to him. He waved back, saying, “Hail, most noble one.”
“Hail.” Onetor raised the cup to his lips once more. “I’ve got a headache from last night,” he said. “A little more wine will take the edge off it. Are you hungry? We have plenty.”
“I ate with Phainias,” Sostratos said. “I hope I’m not too early for you.”
“Oh, no. Don’t be silly, best one.” Onetor tossed his head. “The sun’s in the sky, so anybody who’s not ready for business has only himself to blame. I’m no pampered Persian slugabed, to crawl out from under my blanket at noon. My wife was working in the garden sill you knocked. I’m sure she’s finding something to do upstairs now.”
“Good. That’s all right, then. . . . Oh, thank you.” A slave came into the andron with a cup of watered wine for Sostratos. He took a sip, then went on, “Tell me about truffles, if you’d be so kind.”
“What do you want to know? Grades, prices, that sort of thing?”
“Not yet. I was hoping you’d just tell me about them. They don’t grow on Rhodes, and I’d like to know as much as I can, both so I can tell my customers more and because I’m a curious sort myself.”
“Yes, I nosiced that at Phainias’ last night,” Onetor said. “You’ve got that Attic way of talking. Did you study at the Academy? “
“No, at the Lykeion, under Theophrastos,” Sostratos answered. “That’s another reason I’m interested: Theophrastos makes a specialty of plants, so I always like it when I get the chance to add to what he taught me.”
“Well, all right,” Onetor answered. Sostratos would have been surprised if he’d refused; few people could resist talking about what they did for a living. The truffle-seller continued, “You may or may not have heard they grow underground.”
“Yes, I did know that,” Sostratos said. “I’ve also heard they grow best after rainy seasons where there’s plenty of thunder.”
“I’ve heard that, too, but I don’t believe it,” Onetor replied. “I’ve never seen it make one bit of difference. If there isn’t much rain in a rainy season, that’s another story. They don’t do so well then, but what crop does?”
“Fair enough,” Sostratos said. “That certainly stands to reason. What sort of soil do they prefer?”
“Sandy, usually—you often find them close by the seashore.”
“How do you find them?” Sostratos asked. “You can’t just dig at random on a beach.”
Onetor hesitated, then seemed to decide it was safe to answer. “If there were truffles on Rhodes, I don’t think I’d tell you,” he said. “You might turn into a compesitor. But I’ve never heard of them there, either, so I suppose I can say something about that, anyhow. For one thing, there’s a certain kind of grass—we call it truffleleaf—that grows above them. That gives me a clue where to look.”
“What does this grass look like?” Sostratos asked. Onetor smiled and didn’t say a thing. “All right, all right—forget I wanted to know,” Sostratos told him. “You said that was one thing. What’s another?”
“When I’m out hunsing truffles, I have help,” Onetor said.
“What kind of help?”
Again, Onetor didn’t answer. Sostratos realized he’d learned about as much as he was going to. A dog wandered into the andron: a flop-eared mutt with its tongue lolling out. Onetor scratched it under the chin and behind those floppy ears. Its tail wagged frantically.
“Friendly beast,” Sostratos remarked.
“Porpax? Yes, I’d say so.” Onetor scratched the dog again. It tried to jump up into his lap. “Careful, you silly thing,” he said, fending it off. “You’ll make me spill wine on myself.”
“You named him after the handle of a shield?” Sostratos said. It was a fairly common name for a dog. “Does he shield your house from burglars?”
“He makes a good enough watchdog, yes,” Onetor said. As if to prove it, Porpax barked, though he didn’t seem to want to go after Sostratos. The Rhodian, in fact, wondered if he was too friendly to make a proper watchdog, if he wouldn’t fawn on the thieves when he was supposed to bite. Onetor said, “He has other uses, too.”
“Such as?”
Sostratos didn’t mean anything by the question; he was just making conversation. But, once more, Onetor declined to answer. The smug way he didn’t answer made Sostratos wonder if Porpax was somehow connected to the truffle trade. That struck him as unlikely, though— why would a dog want anything to do with fungi? Porpax ran off, yapping.
The slave came back, this time with a bowl of barley porridge and a spoon. Sostratos tossed his head. “No, thanks,” he said. “As I told your master, I had breakfast before I came here.”
But Onetor said, “Try this anyhow, most noble one. It has some shaved truffles in it, to give you a notion of the flavor.”
“In
that case, I will,” Sostratos said. The first thing he noticed was the rich, almost meaty aroma rising from the porridge. When he tasted it, his eyebrows flew upwards. He knew he shouldn’t show how impressed he was. Sometimes, though, a man simply couldn’t help himself. If he’d said he didn’t care for the flavor, Onetor would have known he was lying, “That’s . . . very fine,” he managed at last, and ate up the porridge as fast as he could.
“Glad you like it,” Onetor said. “I wouldn’t want you to buy without knowing what you’re gessing.”
“I can see why,” Sostratos said, a little ruefully, or maybe more than a little. He’d known truffles were expensive. Now he understood the reason. He wondered just how much Onetor would try to squeeze out of him.
“Do you think you’d be interested in taking my goods to Athens?” the truffle-seller asked.
“I’m sure I’d be interested,” Sostratos answered. “Whether I can afford them is likely to be a different question.”
Onetor grinned at him. He could grin; he wasn’t nearly so gloomy as Onesimos. He said, “For top grade, I charge three simes the truffles’ weight in silver. I don’t haggle. If you want them, that’s what you’ll pay. You won’t find anybody cheaper in Mytilene, and you won’t find anybody with better goods.”
Any trader could say that. From the frequency with which Onetor’s name had come up in the agora, he was the leading truffle dealer in town. Sostratos supposed he could charge six or eight drakhmai in Athens for each drakhma’s weight of truffles. But there might be a better way. “Do you have to have silver?” he asked. “Or can we trade goods for goods, and both resell at a profit?”
“That depends,” Onetor said. “What have you got?”
“Papyrus and ink from Egypt...” Sostratos began. Onetor tossed his head. Sostratos said, “I did expect those would do better in Athens. I’ve also got Koan silk, which is worth its weight in silver, too.”
“It’s pretty stuff, but I’m not interested in it,” the truffle-seller said. “Kos isn’t that far from here; silk’s fairly common on Lesbos.”
“All right, best one,” Sostratos said. “I have fine beeswax from Ioudaia—”
Owl to Athens Page 11
