Owls to Athens

by Harry Turtledove

  “I’m glad you think so. I did, too.” Sostratos’ grin held real relief. He and his father got on a lot better than Menedemos and Uncle , for which he thanked the gods, but he still felt nervous when he made a large purchase in on his own.

  “This won’t be the only chunk you bought, will it?” Lysistratos asked.

  “Oh, no.” Sostratos told exactly how much he’d bought, to the hemiobolos.

  His father blinked, then smiled. “I might have known you’d be precise. And precisely how much did you pay? I’m assuming the rest was of the quality of this piece?”

  Sostratos dipped his head again. “I thought it was,” he answered. “I paid two minai, forty-five drakhmai for all of it. Himilkon started out wanting three minai, and he wouldn’t come down much.”

  “Two minai, forty-five drakhmai.” Lysistratos spoke in musing tones, almost tasting the words. He looked up into the sky, his lips moving silently, as he decided what he thought of that. He wasn’t such a finicky calculator as Sostratos, but he had more experience and, perhaps, better instincts. After half a minute or so, he smiled again. “Euge! That’s very well done, especially if you go to Alexandria next spring. You should get a fine price there.”

  “That’s just what I had in mind when I made the deal.” Sostratos beamed. “I’m glad you think I was right.”

  “Egypt is rich in gold. It has all manner of precious stones—I remember those fine emeralds your cousin got hold of a couple of years ago. But I’ve never heard of any amber there. The jewelers should slobber all over you, the way dogs will if you come out with a piece of meat.”

  “There’s a pretty picture,” Sostratos said, and Lysistratos laughed. Sostratos went on, “We’ll get the rest when I bring Himilkon the silver. He talked about going to Alexandria with amber, too. I trust it more hearing it from you, I will say.”

  “I’m a little surprised he let you bring home any amber at all,” his father said.

  “He told me he wouldn’t have for most people, but he was making an exception for me—and especially for you,” Sostratos answered. “I took that for a typical piece of Phoenician flattery, but maybe I was wrong.”

  “Well, I am flattered that Himilkon would trust the two of us so far,” Lysistratos said. “We’ve done business with him for a while now, and he knows we’re reliable. He’s pretty reliable, too, come to that, as long as you keep an eye on him.”

  “You’d better!” Sostratos exclaimed. “That little game he played just before we sailed, buying up all the papyrus in town and then gouging me when I bought it from him ... It was cursed clever, and I wish I’d thought of it myself.”

  “He’s sly, no doubt of that,” Lysistratos said. “But if a Hellene can’t stay up with a Phoenician when it comes to trade—well, he doesn’t deserve to, that’s all.” He paused, then changed the subject: “Is your cousin well?”

  “Menedemos? I think so, though I haven’t seen much of him the past few days,” Sostratos said. “Why?”

  “Because I was talking with him this afternoon while you were down by the harbor, and he just didn’t seem himself,” Lysistratos said. “Half the time, when I asked him something, I’d have to ask him twice. It was as though he wasn’t really paying attention to me, as though his mind were somewhere else. He looked worried, too, and that made me worry—about him.”

  “I wonder if he’s had a love affair go wrong, or if some husband discovered he was sniffing around where he shouldn’t,” Sostratos said thoughtfully. “That’s what your description sounds like, and I’ve seen him go through spells like that before. Sailing season before last, he seemed awfully glad to get out of , and he needed weeks away to get back to his old self. I remember asking him about it, but he wouldn’t say anything. That’s strange all by itself, for he usually likes to brag. Whatever happened, it hit him hard. Maybe this is more of the same.”

  “Yes, it could be.” His father also sounded thoughtful. “It certainly could. I’m glad you have better sense than to leap headlong into foolish love affairs, by the dog.”

  “Thank you,” Sostratos said. Lysistratos set a hand on his shoulder. Sostratos laid his own hand on his father’s. “And thank you for not jumping down my throat all the time, the way Uncle does with Menedemos.”

  “Philodemos wants things just so. He always has.” Lysistratos’ face tightened for a moment. “Before he had a son, he used to jump on me instead. That’s one reason I don’t keep you on such a short leash as he does with Menedemos: he taught me not to. And I’m more naturally easygoing than he is. I know things won’t always be just so, and I try not to fret about it the way Philodemos does. And you’re steadier than your cousin, generally speaking, for which I praise the gods.”

  “I praise the gods that we do get along, whatever the reasons,” Sostratos said. “Whenever I think of Menedemos and Uncle , I know how lucky I am.”

  “How lucky we are,” Lysistratos corrected. Sostratos grinned. He didn’t mind that correction at all.

  Now I’ve had what I wanted for so long, Menedemos thought. Why aren’t I happier? He had no trouble finding one of the reasons he wasn’t happier: he hadn’t been able to lie with Baukis since the night of the festival. He’d never found a time when either his father or some of the house slaves weren’t around. He’d paid several visits to brothels since, but what he bought at a brothel made him feel good for a little while without solving his real problem, which was that making love with someone he loved had proved fundamentally different from taking pleasure with a whore.

  His father noticed him moping, too, though Philodemos didn’t know all of what he was noticing. He even offered what, from him, amounted to sympathy of sorts: “If her husband’s home now, son, you have to make the best of things till he goes away again. No point to wandering around like a bitch who’s just had her pups drowned.”

  Menedemos was eating olives in the andron when his father came out with that bit of advice. He’d been about to spit out a pit. Instead, he choked on it. His father pounded him on the back. The pit came loose. He spat it across the men’s chamber, then wheezed, “Thank you, Father.”

  “Any time,” Philodemos answered. “You can suffocate on one of those polluted things if you aren’t careful and you aren’t lucky. Or isn’t that what you meant?”

  “Well. . . some of both,” Menedemos said.

  With a sigh, Philodemos said, “Way you’ve been dragging around here, way you’ve been muttering snatches of poetry when you think nobody’s listening, way you’ve . . . Well, a lot of things show you’ve gone and fallen in love with whoever your latest wife is. Adultery’s bad enough, but love’s worse, because it makes you stupider. I don’t want you to do anything to get yourself in trouble, and I don’t want you to do anything to get the family in trouble. If I talk to you now, maybe I can keep you from acting too foolish. Maybe. I hope so, anyway.”

  He does care about me, Menedemos realized with no small astonishment. He mostly has no idea how to show it—it comes out as anger because I don’t act the way he wants me to—but he does. And what am I supposed to do about that?

  It shamed him. The mere idea of wanting his father’s wife had shamed him for years—but, finally, not enough to stop him. He had it coming, on account of the way he treats me had been in the back of his mind—sometimes in the front of his mind—ever since. If that wasn’t true, if he couldn’t even pretend it was . . .

  He started to cry. It took him altogether by surprise. One moment he was fine, or thought he was, and the next tears were streaming down his cheeks.

  “Here, now. Here, now,” Philodemos said awkwardly, at least as startled as Menedemos was himself. “It can’t be as bad as that.”

  “No—it’s worse,” Menedemos choked out. Once the tears started, they didn’t want to stop. He saw his father as a series of shifting, blurry shapes, not as a man at all.

  “You see? This is what love does to you.” But Philodemos, for a wonder, didn’t sound outraged or scornful. He put his arm a
round Menedemos: a rough caress, but a caress even so. “You think this never happened to me? You’d better think again.”

  Menedemos was sure this had never happened to his father, for his grandfather hadn’t remarried after his grandmother died. Imagining his father in love with anyone took work. “Did it?” he asked in a small voice, trying to gulp his way out of weeping.

  “Oh, yes. Oh, yes,” Philodemos said. “She was a hetaira, not another man’s wife—I’m not quite so foolish as you.” Even in sympathy, even in consolation, he couldn’t omit the gibe. He went on, “Her name was Arkhippe, and I thought the sun rose and set on her. This was before you were born, you understand, before I wed your mother.” Now, as he looked back across the years, his voice softened. So did his features. As they did, Menedemos realized how much his father looked like Uncle . Most of the time, he had trouble seeing the resemblance, for Philodemos wore a severe expression that contrasted with his younger brother’s cheerful air.

  After some small silence, Menedemos asked, “What happened?”

  His father’s usual sour look returned. “I told you—she was a hetaira,” he replied. “She was out for what she could get. When I gave her more than anyone else, she loved me—or she said she did. But when she took up with a gilded fop who owned a big farm on the east coast . . well, after that she forgot she’d ever heard my name. She ended up betraying him, too. They’re both dead now, and the fellow who beat me out had no sons. I go on, and so does my line.” He spoke with a certain somber pride: about as much as he ever let himself show when the subject had anything to do with Menedemos.

  “You’ve never talked much about this,” Menedemos said. “Now I understand—a little—why you worry so about what I do with women.”

  “Of course I don’t talk about it,” Philodemos said impatiently. “A hurt like that isn’t a battle scar you display to show how brave you were. You put it away and do your best to pretend it never happened. I do, anyway.” His face defied Menedemos to challenge him on his choice. After another pause, he changed the subject: “High time we get you married off. Maybe then you won’t play the cuckoo, leaving your eggs in other birds’ nests. By the dog, you’re old enough now.”

  Menedemos thought of Protomakhos and Xenokleia. His father, fortunately, didn’t know about that. He also thought about Baukis. Philodemos, even more fortunately, didn’t know about that, either. Menedemos said, “I don’t think I’m ready for a wife of my own.” Not when the one I wish I had is yours.

  But Philodemos, again fortunately, was unable to follow his thought, and replied, “It’s time. Thirty is a good age to wed, and you’re getting close. Finding the right family, finding the right girl, will take a while, and so will the dicker over her dowry. But you’ll be glad when it’s done. Having a woman to come home to every day will settle you down.”

  Not if she’s someone I don’t want, someone I don’t care about. One more thing Menedemos found it best not to say. All he did say was, “Maybe.”

  His father took politeness for agreement. Philodemos was and always had been remarkably good at hearing what he wanted to hear, and hearing it the way he wanted to. He said, “I’ll start asking around. I can think of three or four likely maidens about the right age just like that.” He snapped his fingers.

  “There’s no rush,” Menedemos said. His father was also remarkably good at not hearing what he didn’t want to hear. He hurried out of the house, as if he expected to come back with a match all sewn up by suppertime. Maybe he did. Menedemos started to call him back, but what was the use? He’d waste his breath, he might anger his father, and he wouldn’t change a thing. Besides, he didn’t think Philodemos would come back with a match. The older man had said it would take time, then ignored his own words.

  As if to escape the mere possibility, Menedemos went to the stairway and started up to his own room. No sooner had he set foot on the lowest stair than he heard footsteps coming down. He climbed the stairs with a lightened heart after that, his feet hardly seeming to touch them—it was Baukis. Her pace sped up, too. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom of the stairwell, he saw the smile on her face. He knew his own wore the same kind of smile, too.

  They both stopped halfway. Menedemos looked up past Baukis to the second story. She looked down past him to the doorway that led out to the courtyard. This was probably the only place in the house where they could meet without the fear that a slave was, or could be, spying on them.

  “I love you,” Menedemos said softly.

  “I love you.” Baukis’ smile crumpled like the thin timbers of a fishing boat when a trihemiolia’s ram slammed into them at full speed. “Oh, Menedemos, what are we going to do? We can’t ... I mean, we mustn’t. ...”

  “I know.” He reached out and took her hands in his. By the way she held on to him, she might have been pitched from the deck into a sea full of sharks. He leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers. He wanted to do so much more than that. He wanted to, but knew he couldn’t. Even that little was too much, for it left him all on fire inside— on fire, and feeling as if a torturer were flaying him, one digit of hide at a time.

  “After the festival, we never should have ...” Baukis kept on leaving her sentences unfinished, but Menedemos kept on knowing how she would have ended them.

  “I know,” he said again. Regardless of what he said, though, he wouldn’t have traded those few minutes for any in the rest of his life— or for all the rest of his life put together.

  “I can’t look at your father—at my husband—the same way anymore,” Baukis said miserably, but her hands kept clutching Menedemos’. He dipped his head. He couldn’t look at his father the same way anymore, either. Sudden alarm—no, sudden terror—in her voice, she asked, “Where is Philodemos?”

  “He’s not here. He decided I needed a wife, and he’s gone off to start looking for a match.” Menedemos spoke the truth without thinking.

  Baukis gasped in dismay. “Oh, no! I couldn’t stand it if—” She broke off again. Now she grabbed Menedemos’ hands hard enough to hurt.

  “Don’t worry,” he told her. “Nothing will come of it right away, if anything comes of it at all.” He knew something would come of it in a couple of years, but that felt like forever to him.

  “What will we do? What can we do?” Baukis moaned.

  Before Menedemos could find any sort of answer, a noise in the courtyard sent the two of them flying apart. Baukis scurried down the stairs. Menedemos went up to the second story two steps at a time. That wasn’t why his heart thuttered as he walked down the hall to his room, though.

  What will we do? What can we do? He had no idea. He saw no good end ahead, either, no matter what happened. He couldn’t even escape from till spring, and spring seemed a hundred years away. And for Baukis there was no escape, no escape at all.

  Historical Note

  Owls to Athens is set in 307 B.C. Menedemos is a historical character, though little is known of him. The rest of his family is fictitious in all respects. Other historical characters who appear in the novel include Demetrios of Phaleron, Demetrios son of Antigonos, Dionysios the commander at Mounykhia, Dromokleides of Sphettos, Eu-xenides of Phaselis, Kratesipolis, Menandros the playwright, Stratokles, and Theophrastos. The Macedonian marshals mentioned from time to time—Antigonos (’ father), Lysimakhos, Ptolemaios, and Seleukos—are also historical, as is Demetrios son of Antigonos’ brother, Philippos. Though Philip of Macedon died in 336 B.C. and his son, the Great, in 323 B.C., their shadows dominate this period.

  The decrees honoring Antigonos and his son Demetrios voted by the Athenians after the ouster of Demetrios of Phaleron may seem extravagant, but they are attested to by inscriptions, by the history of Diodoros of Sicily, and by Plutarch’s biography of Demetrios son of Antigonos; the latter two are our principal literary sources for what Antigonos and Demetrios called the restoration of Athenian democracy. Some scholars believe Dromokleides of Sphettos’ decree came later than those of Stratokles, during ano
ther conquest of Athens by . This is certainly possible, but puts them all together under the events of 307 B.C., and a mere novelist may tread where a historian fears to go.

  It is not known in what year Menandros offered The Flatterer, which survives in fragments. Other plays and poets said to be at the Greater Dionysia are fictitious.

  As usual in this series, all translations from the Greek are my own. I claim no great poetic virtues for them, but do hope they accurately present what their originals say. Most names of persons and places are transliterated directly from Greek into English, with no detour through Latin: Demetrios, not Demetrius; Euboia, not Euboea. Where names are very well known in a particular form—Alexander, Athens—I have for the most part preserved that form. Transliteration is always a compromise, and compromises rarely make anyone perfectly happy.