Keos did look greener and more inviting than its southern neighbor, though the savage sun was baking it, too. As the Aphrodite came into the harbor at Koressia, one of the little island's four poleis, Sostratos remarked, “This was the place where, in the old days, they made people drink hemlock when they turned sixty—they didn't want any useless mouths to feed.”
Menedemos snapped his fingers. “I knew that was one of the Kyklades, but you could have given me to a Persian torturer and he wouldn't have squeezed which one out of me.”
Sostratos said, “I remember useless things—you know that. It's also where Simonides the poet came from.”
“ 'Go tell the Spartans, passerby, that here, obedient to their laws, we lie.' “ Menedemos quoted the epitaph for the men who'd died at Thermopylai.
“He wrote a lot of other verses besides that one,” Sostratos said.
“I know, but it's the one everybody recalls,” Menedemos said. “I'm not like you, my dear—I don't come up with the strange things at the drop of a hat.”
Sostratos took off his hat. Menedemos wondered if he would drop it, but he only fanned himself with it and put it back on. One of his eyebrows rose. He studied Menedemos the same way he'd examined the gryphon's skull—analyzing him, classifying him, finding a place for him in the bigger scheme of things. Menedemos didn't know that he cared for the place to which his cousin had assigned him. It would be higher on the scheme of things than the gryphon, surely, but how much higher?
Before Sostratos could give him the answer there—in greater detail than he would like, he guessed—Dionysios came back to the stern. “Considering the price I'm paying, I hoped to get closer to Kos my first day out than one miserable little hop,” the dapper man said.
“I hoped to get closer, too,” Menedemos answered, “but there was no wind, and I don't intend to kill my rowers. Maybe we'll do better tomorrow.”
“We'd better,” Dionysios said darkly.
With a smile even cooler and nastier than the one he'd just bestowed on Menedemos, Sostratos said, “Well, O marvelous one, if our pace doesn't suit you, I'll give you back all but five drakhmai of your fare, and you're welcome to find another eastbound ship here.”
The dull red Dionysios turned had nothing to do with the heat. The harbor at Koressia, into which the Elixos River ran, held no other ships besides the Aphrodite: only little fishing boats that never got out of sight of the island. How long would the traveler have to wait for another vessel bound for Kos? Menedemos had no idea, and neither, plainly, did Dionysios.
With twin splashes, the akatos' anchors went into the sea. Sailors wrestled water jars into the boat and went ashore with them. The men made for the Elixos to fill the jars. Menedemos said, “Shall we go into the market square with some perfume and a little silk and see if we can sell 'em?”
“Here?” Sostratos' glance was eloquent. “I don't think they've done anything here since they sent a couple of ships to fight the Persians at Salamis.”
Menedemos laughed. “You're probably right. Even so, though, they're bound to want their women to smell sweet and look pretty.”
“I suppose so,” his cousin admitted. “But can they pay for what they want?”
“Always a question,” Menedemos admitted. “I think it's worth finding out.”
Next to no one in Koressia was stirring as the two Rhodians made their way to the agora. Men stayed in wineshops or squatted like lizards in whatever shade the walls gave them. A couple of drunks lay snoring, empty cups or wine jars beside them. Sostratos raised an eyebrow. Menedemos only shrugged.
They nearly had the market square to themselves. A man hawked raisins, while a farm woman displayed eggs and cheeses. Neither had any customers or seemed to expect any—they were going through the motions of selling, no more. Menedemos had seen that before; it always made him scornful.
“Come on,” he told Sostratos. “Let's show these people not everybody sleeps all the time.”
His cousin yawned. “I'm sorry, best one. Did you say something?”
Snorting, Menedemos raised his voice till it filled the agora: “Perfume from Rhodes! Fine silk from Kos! Who wants to buy? We won't stay here long, so you'd better come quick. Who wants to buy?”
The man with the raisins and the woman from the farm both stared at them. Sostratos took up the call and joined with Menedemos. For a while, though, Menedemos wondered if anyone cared but a couple of doves grubbing whatever they could from the ground. Koressia wasn't just a sleepy town; it might have been a dead one.
At last, though, a middle-aged man strolled into the agora. “ 'Ail,” he said, dropping his rough breathings as did those who used the Ionic dialect. “What 'ave you got for sale?”
Why. I'm selling doors and roof tiles. Haven't you heard me crying them? Menedemos thought. But Sostratos was already displaying a bolt of filmy silk. Grudgingly, Menedemos admitted he and his cousin also sold perfume.
“ 'Ow about that?” The Kean gaped as if he'd never heard of either commodity. “ 'Ow much do you want for 'em?”
Menedemos named his prices, adding, “That's in Athenian drakhmai, of course.” Keos was part of Antigonos' Island League, but had more intimate connections with nearby Attica.
“All right,” the local said. “Let me 'ave a couple of jars of the perfume, and maybe two-three bolts of silk. Sounds like a pretty good deal.”
“You . . . have the money?” Menedemos tried to hide his astonishment.
“I'll be back directly,” the Kean replied. “Don't you go away, now.” Off he went, no faster than he had to. He did come back, and started piling Athenian owls in front of Sostratos. “That should do it,” he said when he was done.
“Why, so it does.” Maybe the local couldn't hear how amazed Sostratos was. Menedemos could. But, at his cousin's gesture, he gave the man the perfume and the silk.
“Thank you kindly,” the fellow said. “You got anything else?”
“Well...” Menedemos hesitated.
“Come on. Spit it out. I'm not going to buy it if you don't tell me what it is,” the local said. “If I want it, though, I will. I've got the money. You've seen I do.”
“So we have,” Menedemos said. “All right, then, most noble: the other thing I have is a single Egyptian emerald.”
“Now, that's something that doesn't come along every day.” The Kean held out his hand. “Let's see it.” Reluctantly, Menedemos produced the stone, half expecting the local to run off with it. But he didn't. He held it in the sunlight, murmuring, “Isn't that pretty?” When he returned it to Menedemos, he asked the right question: “How much?”
Without blinking, Menedemos said, “Ten minai.”
The Kean handed back the emerald and spoke in mild protest: “That's a lot of silver, friend.” But he didn't turn on his heel and walk away. Instead, he said, “I'll give you six.”
Menedemos felt like shouting. Beside him, Sostratos inhaled sharply, but he didn't think the local noticed. He tossed his head. “I'm sorry, but I can't sell it for that without costing myself money.” The money he was talking about was all profit, but the Kean didn't have to know that.
“Well, six minai, twenty drakhmai, then,” the fellow said.
In a quick, neat dicker, they settled on eight minai, fifteen drakhmai for the stone. That was even more than Nikodromos had paid on Aigina. The more I ask for emeralds, the more I seem to get, Menedemos thought dazedly, and kicked himself for letting others, earlier in the trading run, go so cheap.
“See you soon,” the Kean said, and strolled away. Menedemos hated to let the man out of his sight. Would he really come back? Some of the sweat pouring down the merchant's face had nothing to do with the beastly weather. In due course, the Kean did return, this time with a bigger leather sack, which he handed to Sostratos. “Count 'em out, friend. If I'm one or two light, I'll give 'em to you.”
Count them Sostratos did. “As a matter of fact, best one, you're one drakhma over,” he said, and handed the Kean an owl.
>
“I thank you.” The man popped it into his mouth. It was heavy enough to make his cheek sag slightly. “A pleasure to know I'm dealing with 'onest men.”
He put that extra coin in on purpose, to see what we'd do, Menedemos realized as he passed the Kean the emerald. The fellow might move slowly and talk like a rustic, but he was no fool. Nikodromos had played the same game, but only after he'd been caught cheating himself. This felt different—not nearly so annoying.
“A pleasure to know our goods please you,” Sostratos said.
“You might say so.” The local dipped his head. “Yes, you just might say so. 'Ail, the two of you.” Without any fuss, he turned and ambled out of the market square.
I never even found out his name, Menedemos thought. He called out to the fellow selling raisins: “Ea, friend, who's that man we were doing business with?”
The fellow's eyes got big. “You don't know Kallimedes son of Kallias?” By the way he said it, everybody on Keos knew him. Sure enough, the raisin seller went on, “ 'E's got bigger wheatfields and more olive trees than anybody else on this island, maybe more than everybody else on this island put together—I wouldn't be surprised.”
“No wonder he could afford what we were selling,” Sostratos murmured.
“No wonder at all,” Menedemos whispered back. He asked the man with the basket of raisins, “Was he buying our dainties for his wife or for a favorite hetaira?”
“Kallimedes?” The raisin seller stared again. “You must not know him. Those are bound to be for a pretty boy. 'E's mad for boys, Kallimedes is.”
“Oh,” Menedemos said in slightly crestfallen tones.
“Ha,” Sostratos said. Menedemos tried to step on his foot, but missed. His cousin laughed. Menedemos muttered under his breath. He hadn't really intended doing anything with Kallimedes' wife, if the Kean had one. He'd just asked out of curiosity. And he'd got his answer.
“I think we're done here,” he told Sostratos, who dipped his head in agreement. As they headed back toward the Aphrodite. Menedemos wished he were wearing his sword. He hadn't expected to be carrying so much silver. But he and Sostratos had no trouble. Not even the panting scavenger dogs found a couple of strangers worth barking at.
On board ship, Dionysios son of Herakleitos remained in a foul mood. “You've certainly gone and wasted the best part of the day.”
“Wasted? I should say not, O marvelous one.” Menedemos held up the two sacks of coins he'd got from Kallimedes son of Kallias. “Do you see these? Which do you suppose is more important to me, the business I did here or your paltry fare?”
“Paltry?” Dionysios said. “You've got your nerve, calling it that.”
“Next to this, it is,” Menedemos said. “You'll get to Kos soon enough, but you're out of your mind if you think I won't do business along the way.”
“And you're out of your mind if you think we didn't need fresh water,” Sostratos added. “We're not going to have our rowers fall over dead from working the oars too hard in this heat.”
Dionysios looked back toward Cape Sounion, whose headland was still plainly visible in the west. “I could have swum this far,” he grumbled.
“If you keep complaining, you will swim from here on out,” Menedemos said, no trace of smile on his face. That got through to the passenger, who fell silent.
The following day dawned as hot and bright as the one before. The breeze that came up from the south might have blown from a smithy's furnace. But it was a breeze; Menedemos ordered the akatos' sail lowered from the yard. By the time the sun came up over the eastern horizon, the Aphrodite had left Keos behind.
“Are you going to make Syros tonight?” Sostratos asked.
“I'm going to try,” Menedemos answered. “If the wind holds, we shouldn't have any trouble.”
“And if we don't run into pirates,” his cousin added. Menedemos spat into the bosom of his tunic. After a moment, Sostratos did the same. He went on, “Shall I pass out the weapons again, just in case?”
“Maybe you'd better,” Menedemos said with a sigh.
They saw no pirate galleys on the Aegean, only fishing boats and one round ship that took the Aphrodite for a pirate and sped away, running before the wind. Syros rose from the sea ahead of them: a sun-baked island much longer from north to south than from east to west. The only polis on the island, also called Syros, lay by a bay on the eastern coast; Menedemos brought the Aphrodite down from the north into the harbor.
He quoted from the Odyssey as the akatos' anchors splashed into the Aegean:
“ 'There is an island called Syrie, if perhaps you have heard of it,
Above Ortygie, where the turning points of the sun are.
It is not very populous, but it is good—
With fine cattle, fine sheep, full of wine, rich in wheat.
Famine never enters that folk, nor does any other
Dire plague come upon wretched mortals.
But when the race of men grows old in the city,
Apollo of the silver bow comes with Artemis.
He assails them with his painless shafts and kills them.
There are two cities there, and everything is divided in two between them.
My father was king over both:
Ktesios son of Ormenos, a man like the immortals.' “
“That's Eumaios the swineherd talking to Odysseus, isn't it?” Sostratos asked.
“Yes, that's right,” Menedemos said.
Sostratos took a long look at Syros, then clicked his tongue between his teeth. “Well, if Eumaios was telling as much truth about his ancestors as he was about the island, he must have been a pig-keeper from a long line of pigkeepers.”
“Scoffer!” Menedemos said, deliciously scandalized. But, the more he eyed the dry, barren landscape beyond the steeply rising streets of the polis of Syros, the more he realized Sostratos had a point: he saw not a tree, hardly even a bush. Still, he went on, “It must grow something, or no one would live here.”
“I suppose so,” Sostratos said grudgingly. “All the same, this is one of those places that prove Homer was a blind poet.” He pointed ahead. “Even the polis is a miserable little dump. Herodotos never says a word about it, and neither does Thoukydides. I see why not, too.”
“Why should they?” Menedemos said. “Nothing much happens here.”
“That's what I mean,” Sostratos said. “You could live out your life in this polis. You could be as big a man here as that Kallimedes son of Kallias was back on Keos, and nobody who's not from Syros would ever hear of you, any more than we'd heard of Kallimedes. In Rhodes or Athens or Taras or Syracuse or Alexandria, at least you have a chance to be remembered. Here?” He tossed his head.
Menedemos wondered if bright young men, ambitious young men, left Syros and crossed the sea to some other polis where they could seek their heart's desire. He supposed some had to. But most, surely, lived out their lives within a few stadia of where they were born. All through the civilized world, most people did.
The heat wave broke that night. The northerly breeze that blew the next morning had a distinct nip to it, a warning that autumn, even if it hadn't got here yet, would come. Menedemos enjoyed that, but he enjoyed its steadiness even more. “Now we'll show that son of a whore what the Aphrodite can do,” he muttered, dipping a chunk of bread into olive oil and taking a big bite.
“If the wind holds, we'll make Naxos easy as you please,” Diokles agreed, “and that's a pretty fair day's run.”
Wind thrummed in the rigging and quickly filled the sail when Menedemos ordered it lowered. The merchant galley seemed to lean forward, letting that wind pull her along. Naxos lay at the heart of Antigonos' Island League. With malice aforethought, Menedemos asked Dionysios son of Herakleitos, “When we get there, shall we tell the Naxians how eager you are to go on to Kos?”
The passenger's eyes were cool as marble. “Tell them anything you please, O best one. It's all the same to me.” He was probably lying about that, but he'd ma
de his point, and Menedemos stopped twitting him.
From Naxos to Amorgos the next day was an even better run. Menedemos steered past several little islands that housed a few shepherds and fishermen. He'd almost gone aground on one of them in the rain on his last trip through the Kyklades, with Polemaios aboard. No danger of that here; not with the weather fine and sunny, but he did have to do several usual days' worth of steering before he left them astern. Sostratos said, “Any one of those horrid little rocks makes Syros look like Athens.”
“And if that's not a frightening thought, Furies take me if I know what would be,” Menedemos replied.
He took the Aphrodite south and west again the following day, to Astypalaia, where they spoke Doric Greek like his own rather than Ionic. A great many fishing boats bobbed in the offshore waters; a fertile valley stretched behind the polis, which lay in the southeastern part of the island.
“One more place where nobody ever made a name for himself,” Menedemos said.
To his surprise, Sostratos tossed his head. “Don't you know the story of Kleomedes of Astypalaia?” he asked.
“Can't say that I do,” Menedemos admitted. “Who was he?”
“A pankratiast, back around the time of the Persian Wars,” Sostratos answered. “He would have won at the Olympic Games, but he killed his foe in the all-out fight and got disqualified. He must have gone mad with grief after that. He came back to Astypalaia and pulled down a pillar that held up the roof for a boys' school—fifty or sixty people died. He fled to Athena's temple and hid in a wooden chest there, but when the Astypalaians broke it open he wasn't inside, either: not alive, not dead, just. . . gone.”
Menedemos felt the hair at the back of his neck try to prickle up in awe and dread. “What happened then?” he asked.
“They sent to Delphi to find out what they should do, and the verse they got back was,
'Last of the heroes—Kleomedes the Astypalaian. Honor him with sacrifices, he being mortal no more.' “
The Gryphon's Skull Page 38
