And—statues! Whoever was making those gilded statues would need beeswax to coat his mold and take the fine detail he would sculpt. “Beeswax,” Sostratos muttered. “Beeswax.” He didn’t want to forget.
Stratokles hadn’t withdrawn. “May it be propitious,” he said again.
“Let us reward our liberators with honorary crowns valued at two hundred talents of silver, to show the world that the Athenians’ gratitude is not to be despised or taken lightly. Do I hear an opposing voice?”
Again, Demetrios looked modest and surprised. Again, no one dissented. Again, the decree passed by acclamation. Sostratos slowly dipped his head. Athens would pay, and pay plenty, for the privilege of liberation. Even for a polis as rich as this one, two hundred talents was a lot of money.
“May it be propitious,” Stratokles said once more, and Sostratos wondered what was coming next. He didn’t have to wait long: “Let us consecrate an altar to Antigonos and Demetrios, this altar to be known as that of the Saviors. And let us consecrate another altar where Demetrios first came down from his chariot and set foot on the soil of Athens, that one to be known as the altar of the Descending Demetrios. And let the chief priest who serves the altar of the Saviors henceforth give his name to the year, as the arkhon does now. Do I hear an opposing voice?”
There stood Demetrios. No matter how abashed he looked, his men had just driven Kassandros’ out of Athens. He said he’d set the city free. What could he do if he changed his mind? Anything he wants to, Sostratos thought. The Athenians no doubt thought the same way. Stratokles heard no opposing voices. The decree—one servile enough to make Sostratos faintly sick to his stomach—passed without a single protest from the Assembly.
And more followed. The newly free—or so Demetrios had named them—people of Athens voted to add to the ten tribes among which they divided up their citizens two more, to be named Antigonis and Demetrias. They voted to hold annual games in honor of Demetrios and his father, with sacrifices and a procession. And they voted to include the portraits of Antigonos and Demetrios on the ceremonial mantle offered to Athena in the Parthenon every five years, “along with the images of the other gods,” as Stratokles said. Like the ones that had come before, those motions passed without dissent.
That seemed to be all of them. As if to prove it was, Demetrios stepped forward once mare. He bowed. “Men of Athens, I thank you for your generosity, and f know my father thanks you as well,” he said.
Sostratos fought down a strong urge to retch. That hadn’t been generosity. It had been the most revolting display of sycophancy he’d ever seen. No one, he was sure, had ever flattered even the Great Kings of Persia like this. But now the Athenians, who’d beaten the Persians at Marathon, at Salamis, and at Plataia, who’d preserved liberty for all of Hellas, wriggled on their bellies to kiss the dust through which Demetrios had walked. And they called that freedom! No, he didn’t want to retch. He warned to cry.
Demetrios went on, “You have been kind to my father and me. Because you have, we shall also be kind to you, in the ways I have promised and in any other ways that seem good to us.”
How the Athenians cheered! Demetrios practiced that abashed smile once more. Or maybe it wasn’t so practiced. Maybe all this praise heaped on him really had turned his head. He surely couldn’t have heard anything like it before. Yes, he was Antigonos’ right-hand man, but Antigonos, by all accounts, was not a man one could safely flatter—he had wit enough to see through it. Nor was he one to spoil his sons, either Demetrios or Philippos.
Sokrates had to drink hemlock here, Sostratos thought. He shivered. Two years before, he’d watched Polemaios drink hemlock. Dying of the drug was neither so neat nor so philosophical as Platon made it out to be. But now the Athenians have found a sweeter poison.
Stratokles moved that the meeting adjourn. That drew no more argument than any of his other motions had. The people of Athens streamed out of the theater, by all appearances well content with what they’d done. The morning remained young.
As long as he and Menedemos were in the midst of the Athenians, Sostratos said nothing. All his cousin said was, “Well, well.” That could have meant anything. Sostratos knew what he thought it meant. He agreed, too.
Protomakhos was also conspicuously quiet as he and the Rhodians made their way back to his house. Once inside, he led them to the andron and called for wine. Then, making sure none of his slaves was in earshot, he spoke in low, intense, furious tones: “You young fellows, you come from a polis with a democracy that really works, isn’t that so?”
“Yes,” Sostratos said. Menedemos dipped his head.
The Rhodian proxenos took a long pull at his winecup. Then he went on, “Me, I’m not a youth any more. I’m old enough to remember how democracy is supposed to go. I recall the days before Philip of Macedon won at Khaironeia and put all of Hellas under his boot. People then cared about the way things went. They cared about doing what was right, doing what was best. They cared about something besides bending over and showing Demetrios how wide their arseholes were.” A disgusted look on his face, he drained the cup and dipped it full again.
Sostratos said the only thing he could think of that might make the Athenian feel a little better; “You haven’t had a real democracy here for quite a while, most noble one. Maybe, now that this is done, your people will get the hang of it again.”
“Do you think so?” Protomakhos asked morosely. “I don’t, Stratokles got to play the sycophant today, but plenty of others haven’t had the chance yet. They’ll take it. And they’ll take revenge on everybody who backed Demetrios of Phaleron, too. You wait and see. If Kleokritos didn’t go over the border with his master, I wouldn’t lay an obolos on his chances of living to grow old. Would you?”
“Well, no,” Sostratos admitted. The proxenos was all too likely to be right. Whenever one faction ousted another, the first thing it usually did was get its own back against its rivals. Sostratos could have gone into detail about that; he’d read Herodotos and Thoukydides and Xenophon. But few Hellenes needed to read the historians to understand what their folk were capable of. Protomakhos almost certainly hadn’t. Hellenes who knew themselves, knew their own kind, could see what was coming.
Menedemos said, “As long as the city doesn’t break out in civil war”—he might have been talking about a pestilence—”we’ll do all right. And so should you, best one,” he added, pointing to Protomakhos. “They’ll probably want to buy lots of slabs of marble to inscribe the decrees they passed today”
“Yes, I suppose they will.” Protomakhos seemed less than delighted at the prospect. But then he brightened, a little. “If they are going to buy them, they may as well buy them from me.”
“That’s the spirit!” Menedemos dipped his head. He seemed perfectly friendly toward the dealer in stone. Knowing how . . . friendly Menedemos had been with Protomakhos’ wife, Sostratos found that bemusing. He knew Menedemos shouldn’t jeer at the man he’d cuckolded, but his cousin was proving an even better actor than he’d expected.
With an effort, Sostratos wrenched his thoughts away from adultery. Commerce, he told himself. Think of commerce. Turning to Protomakhos, he asked, “Do you know who’s likely to do the statues of Antigonos and Demetrios in their chariot? I’d like to see him as soon as I can—that will be my best chance to sell all the beeswax I got in Ioudaia.”
“Euge, my dear!” Menedemos exclaimed. He beamed at Sostratos. To Protomakhos, he said, “Isn’t my cousin the cleverest fellow?”
Oh, yes, Sostratos thought. You like my wits well enough when I turn them toward ways of making us money. But when I use the same logic to point out how you might want to choose a different road for your own life, you don’t want to hear me. But what’s more important in the end, silver or satisfaction? He clicked his tongue between his teeth. Menedemos, no doubt, would define satisfaction differently.
Protomakhos played the diplomat: “Both you Rhodians are doing well for yourselves. As for sculptors, my
guess would be they’ll choose Hermippos son of Lakritos. He trained under the great Lysippos, and he’s the best in the polis nowadays.”
“Lysippos was a fine sculptor, sure enough,” Sostratos said. “There’s that Herakles of his back in Rhodes—people admire it.”
“Oh, that one,” Menedemos said. “I know the one you mean. Yes, he could make bronze and marble breathe, sure enough.”
“I’ve seen some of his work, too,” Protomakhos said. “Hermippos isn’t quite in the same class, but he does well enough.”
Sostratos almost remarked on that, but held his peace. People would admire Lysippos’ work for generations; his name would live on. For every Lysippos, though, how many men did well enough to make a living, perhaps even well enough to gain some reputation while they were alive, but would be utterly forgotten five years after earth covered them? Others besides Thoukydides had written about the Pelopon-nesian War. What scribe copied their works these days? Before long— if it hadn’t happened already—mice would nibble the last papyrus roll that held their histories, and then they would be gone. Other bards besides Homer must have sung. Who remembered them?
Are you sure you want to write a history? Sostratos wondered. If you don’t write it, you’ll surely be forgotten, he answered himself. If you do, you have a chance of living on. Any chance is better than none.
He dragged his mind back to the business at hand. “Where does this Hermippos have his shop?” he asked Protomakhos.
“Just north and west of the agora,” Protomakhos replied. “The Street of the Panathenaia divides, one road going to the Sacred Gate, the other to the Dipylon Gate. Hermippos’ shop is on the road to the Dipylon Gate, a couple of plethra past the boundary stone that marks the quarter of the Kerameikos.”
The next morning, Sostratos got his lump of beeswax out of the prox-enos’ storeroom and made his way up the street leading to the Dipylon Gate. To his relief—and more than a little to his surprise—he found Hermippos’ shop without much trouble. The sculptor was an excitable litde man in his thirties, with broad shoulders and big hands. “No, you thumb-fingered idiot, this way! How many times do I have to tell you?” he shouted at a harried-looking apprentice as Sostratos came up. He glowered at the Rhodian. “And what do you want?”
“Hail, Hermippos,” Sostratos said, eyeing the work in progress: an armored Athena in marble, a competent piece but with nothing about it to draw the eye back for a second look. Protomakhos had gauged the man well. “Are you going to be making the gilded statues of Antigonos and Demetrios? “
“Why do you want to know?” the sculptor asked suspiciously. “I don’t need any new ‘prentices; the one I’ve got gives me enough headaches. And if you think you can wangle some kind of kickback from me for the commission, to the crows with you. I’ve got it straight from Stratokles.”
“You misunderstand, O best one,” Sostratos said, instantly glad he didn’t have to deal with Hermippos every day. “I have fine beeswax to sell you.”
That got Hermippos’ notice. “You do, eh? Let’s see it. Some people would try to sell me cow turds and call ‘em wax.”
“No cow turds,” Sostratos said. “Here.” He took the lump out of the sack. “See for yourself.”
“Hmm. Hmm,” Hermippos looked pleased in spite of himself. He reached out to feel of the beeswax as Sostratos set it on the counter. Sostratos watched his hands in fascination. He had long, elegant fingers, but they bore the scars of countless burns and cuts. His palms were nearly as callused as those of a rower. The pale blotches of burn scars went most of the way up his forearms. Hermippos nipped off a tiny piece of wax with the nails of his thumb and forefinger so he could taste it as well. After smacking his lips, he dipped his head. “Yes, that’s the genuine article. I’ve had people try to sell me tallow, too, the abandoned temple-robbers.”
“I don’t play those games,” Sostratos said. “I’ll get the best price I can, but I sell top-quality goods.”
“I’ve never heard anybody who doesn’t say that.” Hermippos turned to his apprentice. “Do something useful for a change—give me a chisel.”
Muttering, the young man obeyed. Sostratos wouldn’t have wanted to work for Hermippos. He also wouldn’t have wanted to be Hermippos in a sculptor’s studio, working side by side with someone he constantly abused. Too many lethal implements were too handy. What was to keep that apprentice from driving that chisel into his back or picking up a hammer and smashing in his skull? Only the fellow’s own self-restraint, and Hermippos seemed to enjoy flaying that every time he opened his mouth.
The sculptor thrust the chisel into the beeswax again and again, grunting with effort. He finally grunted one last time and, without a word of warning, tossed the chisel back to the apprentice. Taken by surprise, the fellow dropped it on his foot—fortunately, not point-down. He yelped anyhow. “Just be more careful next time,” Hermippos snapped. He gave Sostratos another grudging dip of the head. “You didn’t hide any rocks in there to make it seem heavier than it is.”
“No,” Sostratos said. “I made the same check when I bought it from a Phoenician.”
“You weren’t born a fool, then.” Hermippos raked his apprentice with a glance. “Unlike some people I could name.” He took a deep breath. “All right, Rhodian. You’ve got it. I want it. How much are you going to try to gouge me for?”
“Four minai,” Sostratos answered.
“What?” Hermippos howled. “Why, you cistern-arsed, dung-eating catamite! Furies take you! I could buy a slave for that. Maybe T should. I’d get more use from him than I do from this two-legged donkey here.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the apprentice.
Sostratos sent the harried youngster a sympathetic glance. The apprentice’s lips moved silently. Squeeze him, he mouthed. He needs the wax. Nothing on Sostratos’ face showed that he’d seen. Inside, though, he smiled. Hermippos’ bad temper was going to cost him money.
“I’ll give you a mina and a half, and you ought to be glad to get that much,” the sculptor growled.
“No. Good day.” Sostratos picked up the lump of beeswax and made as if to go.
He didn’t miss the look of alarm that flitted across Hermippos’ face. “Well, two minai,” Hermippos said. Sostratos didn’t put down the beeswax. He started to walk away. “Two and a half!” Hermippos called. Sostratos kept walking. “All right, three, then!” the sculptor cried.
That was enough to make Sostratos stop. He ended up selling the wax for three minai, seventy-five drakhmai. When Hermippos went to get the silver, Sostratos told the apprentice, “I’ll gladly give you five drakhmai for the tip. Come to the house of Protomakhos, near the theater. “
“I wish I could say I didn’t need it, but Hermippos doesn’t pay me well enough to make that anything but a lie,” the young man said. “I’ll be there. I—” He broke off, for Hermippos came back with the silver just then. Sostratos carefully counted it, but the sculptor hadn’t tried to cheat him. He headed back to Protomakhos1 house well pleased with himself, even if he was paying a small commission.
“Perfume from Rhodes!” Menedemos held up a jar in the agora. “What man could resist a woman who wears perfume from Rhodes, the island of roses? Fine perfume from Rhodes!”
Plenty of people seemed able to resist his sales pitch. They walked past as if he didn’t exist. He’d seen that only in the very largest and most sophisticated poleis: Rhodes, Taras, Syracuse, and now here in Athens. Most places, people stopped and listened to the pitch even if they didn’t intend to buy. What else did they have in the way of entertainment? Things were different here, though. Athenians had more choices available than people in most towns did. They’d seen too many men trying to sell too many different kinds of things. Unless they felt like buying—which no one at the moment seemed to—one more didn’t much interest them.
Several of Demetrios’ soldiers strolled through the agora, looking now here, now there. They spoke a wide variety of Greek dialects; Menedemos wondered how they
understood one another. One of them, a handsome, well-built man in the early years of middle age, broke away from his friends and came over to Menedemos, saying, “Hail, Rhodian. We’ve met before.”
Menedemos hated people who introduced themselves like that. This fellow did look familiar, but . . . He snapped his fingers. “Euxenides of Phaselis!” he exclaimed, recognizing the man—he’d taken Euxenides from Rhodes to Miletos a couple of years before. “By the dog, O best one, so we have. You’re one of the best carpenters I’ve ever seen. That steering oar you made . . . What are you doing in Athens?”
“Making catapults. That’s what I do best,” Euxenides answered. I’ll tell you, the Athenians have junk, too. They won’t, though, not when I’m through.” His Greek, though basically a Doric dialect like Menedemos’, held overtones of hissing and sneezing; Phaselis, on the southern coast of Anatolia, was a town inhabited by both Hellenes and Lykians.
“Isn’t a catapult a catapult?” Menedemos asked.
All of Demetrios’ soldiers laughed. “Hear the civilian!” Euxenides exclaimed, a smile on his face. “No, indeed, my friend. There are two main types—flexion machines, which are bent like overgrown bows, and torsion engines, which use twisted skeins of hair or sinew for their hurling force. Torsion engines throw harder and throw farther, but most of what they’ve got here are the old-fashioned flexion type, I’ll fix that, by Hephaistos ... if I can lay my hands on enough sinew.” That made him look worried. Then, suddenly, he pointed at Menedemos. “You’re a merchant. You wouldn’t happen to know who might have a supply, would you?”
“Sorry, but no,” the Rhodian answered. “If I wanted sinew, though, I’d go to a butcher, or maybe to a priest after sacrifice.”
“About what I aim to do,” Euxenides said.
“Did you stop just to say hail, or can I really sell you some perfume?” Menedemos asked, “If you’ve got a sweetheart or a hetaira you want to impress, there’s nothing better.”
Owl to Athens Page 29
