The Gryphon's Skull

4

Sostratos enjoyed watching Kos rise up out of the sea as the Aphrodite drew near; it was one of the most beautiful islands of all. It was famous for fruit of all kinds, and especially for its wines. A good many mulberry orchards, now springtime-bright with new leaves, grew within easy walking distance of the city of Kos. A little farther inland, on higher ground, stood the marble majesty of the Asklepeion.

As the akatos sailed past the healing god's shrine—easily visible from the south—Menedemos remarked, “All sorts of offerings in there from people the god cured.”

“And I know just which one in particular you're thinking of, too,” Sostratos said.

“Do you?” Menedemos sounded particularly innocent, which convinced Sostratos he was right.

“I certainly do,” he said: “the Aphrodite rising from the sea that Apelles painted.”

His cousin grinned, unabashed. “A painting of a beautiful girl—a beautiful goddess—with no clothes on is a lot more interesting than all those terracottas of knees or feet that people cured of sore joints or bunions give the god.”

“It does make you wonder what Apelles was cured of, though,” Sostratos said. “The clap, maybe?”

“Scoffer,” Menedemos said. “His portrait of Antigonos is in the Asklepeion, too.”

“So it is,” Sostratos agreed. “Now if the whole Hellenic world could just be cured of not only old One-Eye but all the marching generals.”

Menedemos laughed and clapped his hands. “Now there's a wish, my dear. Too much to hope for, though, I'm afraid.” Sostratos dipped his head in agreement; he thought it was too much to hope for, too. And one thing a love for history had taught him was that poleis didn't need competing marshals to give them excuses to fight among themselves. The wars nowadays, however, were on a larger scale. Thoukydides, who'd reckoned the Peloponnesian War the greatest the Hellenes had ever waged, would have been horrified and amazed at the sheer scale of the fighting among Alexander's successors.

Several of Ptolemaios' fives patrolled the waters outside the harbor of the city of Kos. Sostratos would have been astonished had Ptolemaios not had ships ready to fight on the sea at all times. Kos looked northeast, toward Halikarnassos on the mainland only a little more than a hundred stadia—two or three hours' journey—away. Antigonos surely kept a fleet of his own there, and as surely had ships on patrol in front of his own harbor. Neither general would risk a surprise from the other.

One of those prowling galleys spotted the Aphrodite and came centipede-walking across the sea toward her, three banks of big oars rising and falling in the smooth unison that bespoke a well beaten-in crew. The five was fully decked, her oar-box also encased in timber to protect the rowers from missiles. She mounted a catapult near the bow. Its crew stood by to send darts farther than any archer could. Armored marines, the plumes on their helmets waving in the breeze, strode here and there across the planking.

“You couldn't pay me enough to wear a corselet aboard ship,” Menedemos said. “One slip and splash!—right down to the bottom of the sea.”

“A swimmer sometimes has a chance,” Sostratos agreed.

Before his cousin could answer, an officer aboard the war galley cupped his hands in front of his mouth and bellowed, “You, there! Heave to!”

Diokles looked a question to Menedemos, who dipped his head. “Oöp!” the keleustes called, and the rowers rested at their oars. The Aphrodite slid to a halt, bobbing in the light chop. Sostratos' stomach tried to complain. He ignored it.

Up came the five, a wooden cliff rising from the sea. She had twice the freeboard of the Aphrodite; her deck stood six or seven cubits above the sea. The officer peered down from the deck at the merchant galley. So did her marines, some armed with bows, some with javelins, some with thrusting-spears. “Who are you and where are you from?” the officer demanded.

“We're the Aphrodite, out of Rhodes,” Sostratos answered.

That impressed Ptolemaios' officer less than he'd hoped it would. “All the stinking spies and pirates say they're Rhodians,” the fellow said. “Whose ship is this?”

“My cousin's father's and my father's,” Sostratos said. “Philodemos and Lysistratos.”

By his accent, the officer wasn't a Rhodian. He turned and spoke in a low voice to some of the marines. One of them dipped his head. Asking if they've ever heard of our fathers, Sostratos thought. The answer the officer got must have satisfied him, for his next question was less hostile: “What are you carrying?”

“Crimson dye. Papyrus. Ink. Fine Rhodian perfume,” Sostratos replied.

“Balsam from Engedi. A couple of lion skins. A tiger skin from far-off India,” Menedemos added. He said not a word about the thirteen emeralds in the pouch on his belt. Sostratos would have been astonished if he had. Since they'd been smuggled out of Egypt, these servants of the master of Egypt were all too likely to confiscate them.

Sostratos hadn't said anything about the gryphon's skull, either. His reasons were different from the ones Menedemos likely had. He simply couldn't imagine a naval officer caring about old bones or being able to see that the skull might be valuable.

“A tiger skin?” the officer said. “You show me a tiger skin and I'll send you right on in to the harbor.”

“Just as you say, O marvelous one,” Menedemos replied. Sostratos wouldn't have used that sarcastic formula to a fellow aboard a war galley that could have crushed the Aphrodite like a man stamping on a mouse, but his cousin always liked to push things. Menedemos waved to him. “Show the gentleman the skin, Sostratos,”

“Certainly,” Sostratos said. Menedemos assumed he knew exactly where it was stowed, and Menedemos was right. He got out the large oiled-leather sack that protected the tiger skin from seawater and undid the rawhide lashing holding the sack closed. The rank odor of a not quite perfectly cured hide and, he supposed, of tiger itself wafted out.

A couple of sailors helped him spread out the great striped skin. The officer leaned forward, staring so hard he almost fell into the sea. The marines aboard the galley gaped, too. Finally, the officer blinked a couple of times and seemed to come back to himself. “I'm a man of my word,” he said, and waved toward the harbor of Kos city a few stadia away. “Pass on.”

“Rhyppapai! Rhyppapai!” Diokles called, beating out the stroke with his mallet and bronze square. As the rowers began to work, the oarmaster aboard the war galley also began his endless chant. Those three banks of sweeps bit into the Aegean. Ptolemaios' galley resumed its patrol, and the Aphrodite glided into the harbor.

Finding a place to tie up took a deal of time and a deal of shouting. The harbor was much smaller than that of Rhodes. It didn't have nearly enough shipsheds to accommodate all the triremes and bigger galleys from Ptolemaios' fleet; close to half of them had to moor at the quays like so many merchantmen. Because of that, space for real merchantmen was at a premium.

Menedemos almost rammed a round ship in his haste to seize a spot near the end of a pier. The round ship's sailors, who stood on deck ready to fend off the Aphrodite with poles, screamed curses at him. The akatos' rowers screamed back, louder and more foully. Since the Aphrodite had five or six times as many crewmen aboard, they shouted down the sailors on the other ship.

As had happened at Knidos, an officer came hurrying up to the end of the quay to question the men of the Aphrodite on where she was from, where she'd been, whither she was bound, and what she was carrying. Sostratos' patience frayed. “No one hounded us like this when we came here a year ago,” he complained.

Ptolemaios' officer shrugged. “The war hadn't come to these parts a year ago, either.”

That held some truth, but only some. As he had at Knidos, Sostratos said, “It's not our war. We Rhodians are free and autonomous and neutral.”

“Kos is free and autonomous, too,” the officer said. Sostratos almost laughed in his face. Free to obey Ptolemdios, he thought. Autonomous as long as it does what he wants. The fellow said nothing whatever about Koan neutrality,

Menedemos had been drumming his fingers on the mismatched steering-oar tillers for a while, too. Now he inquired, “Do we pass muster?”

“I suppose so,” Ptolemaios' officer said grudgingly. Then, as the fellow aboard the war galley had done, he asked, “Have you really got a tiger skin aboard?”

“By the dog of Egypt, we do,” Menedemos answered. “Do you want to show him, Sostratos?”

“Why not?” Sostratos said, thinking he shouldn't have bothered rolling up the skin and stuffing it back into its sack after displaying it to the naval officer. As he had out on the Aegean, he called on a couple of sailors to give him a hand. They soon had the skin stretched out.

Not only the officer but his retinue and the usual gaggle of portside loungers crowded up to the edge of the quay for a good look. We ought to charge a khalkos or two for a peek, the way we did with the peafowl last year. Sostratos thought. The officer stared and stared. “It's a ... very big beast, isn't it?” he said at last.

Seeing the hide shown that way made it seem even bigger than it was. Sostratos gravely dipped his head even so. “Bigger and fiercer than a lion,” he said. He had no idea whether a tiger really was fiercer than a lion. He did know this hide was bigger than either lion skin aboard the Aphrodite.

When he started to stow the skin in its sack once more, the officer sighed as if sorry to have to come back to the mundane world, “All right, Rhodians,” he said. “Good trading here in Kos.” He turned and walked back down the quay, his hangers-on following. Some of the loungers drifted away, too. Others crowded forward, hoping for something else new that might make interesting gossip.

They were disappointed. Perfume and balsam and papyrus and dye were much less interesting than tiger skins. Again, no one had said a word about emeralds—Sostratos hoped nobody would, not here—and the gryphon's skull remained in its wrappings. This wasn't the place to take it out.

“At least they're still willing to let us trade,” Sostratos said.

“Once we talk them into it, yes,” Menedemos said. “I wonder how much longer they will be, though. I don't know which is worse for people like us; pirates prowling as they please or war among the marshals.”

Sostratos eyed his cousin in some surprise. Menedemos didn't usually think in such terms. Sostratos said, “They go together. If the marshals weren't warring, someone would put down the pirates. As things are, the marshals use them, and so they flourish.”

“You're probably right.” Menedemos waved around the crowded harbor. “Ptolemaios could put them down if he had a mind to. He's got the fleet for it right here. So could Antigonos, though his ships are more scattered. But who does the pirate-hunting around these parts? Our little Rhodes, that's who.”

“If one of the marshals won, he might care more about proper rule for the lands he held.” Sostratos sighed. “But they've been fighting among themselves ever since Alexander died, and even the truces they've made haven't been much more than breathing spells.”

“No end in sight, either,” Menedemos said. Sostratos wished he could have argued with his cousin, but he clipped his head in agreement instead.

Whitewash AND marble and bright tile roofs against the lush green of springtime made Kos one of the prettier cities around the Aegean—indeed, around the whole of the Inner Sea. Menedemos hurried down the quay from the Aphrodite, Sostratos close behind. “I even remember how to find old Xenophanes' place,” Menedemos said. “Two streets in, turn right, three streets over, and it's right across from the boy brothel.”

Like Rhodes, Kos city was built on a sensible grid. It was an even newer town than Rhodes. The earlier polis on the island, Meropis, had lain in the far southwest, but an earthquake and a Spartan sack during the Peloponnesian War had put paid to it. The new polis looked forward to Anatolia, not back toward Hellas.

Going two streets up and three streets over produced no sign of the silk merchant's establishment—or of the boy brothel, either. Menedemos dug his toes into the dirt of the narrow street. “I'm sure that's how we got here,” he muttered. “Remember? Last year we had to pay somebody an obolos to tell us the way.”

“I remember,” Sostratos said. “In fact, I remember the fellow saying three streets up and two streets over. If we go up one more street and back to our left...”

“I'm sure it was two up and three over.” Menedemos looked around, then shrugged. “But it couldn't have been, could it?” He gave his cousin a glance half respectful, half rueful. “AH right, my dear, we'll try it your way. I know you've got the same nose for details as a fox does for chickens.”

One block farther up, one block back to the left, and there was the boy brothel, with the slaves lounging about in an anteroom open to the street, waiting for whoever might want them. Sostratos didn't say, I told you so. Menedemos wished he would have; he would have preferred it to the smug expression Sostratos wore.

The house across from the brothel was also familiar. Menedemos knocked on the door there. Before long, a plump Karian opened it. He smiled at them. “Well, if it isn't the gentlemen from Rhodes! Hail, both of you. Welcome. Come in.” He spoke almost perfect Greek.

“Hail,” Menedemos said, stepping forward as the Karian slave stood aside to let him and Sostratos into the house.

“How are you, Pixodaros?” Sostratos asked, Menedemos smiled. His cousin did have the nose for details. He'd come up with the slave's name the year before, too. Menedemos had heard it and promptly forgotten it again. Sostratos went on, “And how's Xenophanes these days?”

Pixodaros' expressive black eyebrows leaped toward his hairline. “Haven't you heard—?” he began. But then he shook his head, proving he remained a barbarian no matter how long he'd lived among Hellenes. “No, of course you wouldn't have, for it happened a couple of months after the end of the sailing season. Xenophanes took sick with an inflammation of the lungs and died. He had no living children of his own, you know. In his will, he was kind enough to manumit me and leave me his business.”

“I... see,” Menedemos said slowly. Such things happened all the time. If his father, or Sostratos', had been childless ... He didn't want to think about that. What he did think was, / won't forget Pixodaros' name now.

“Here we are.” The slave—-no, the freedman—led them to the parlor where they'd dickered with Xenophanes the year before. He waved them to stools. “Sit down, best ones.” He called for a slave to bring wine. The year before, he'd done it himself. When the wine came, he splashed out a small libation. “My master had more than seventy years when he died. We'll be lucky if we match him.”

“That's so.” Menedemos poured a little wine onto the floor in Xenophanes' memory. So did Sostratos. Menedemos glanced over to his cousin. Both our fathers are past fifty. How long will they live? How long will we live? He shivered, as if he'd heard an owl hoot in daylight, and took a long pull at the wine. Again, Sostratos did the same thing. Maybe he was thinking along similar lines. Menedemos wouldn't have been surprised. Such thoughts fit his cousin better than him. I'm not made for looking deep, he thought, and drank again.

Presently, Pixodaros said, “And what is the news from the wider world?”

Menedemos laughed. “Living here on Kos, you'll know more of it than we will, for Ptolemaios has been making most of it.”

“So he has.” Pixodaros didn't look delighted. A moment later, he explained why: “Even more drunken sailors than usual making a racket in the street at all hours of the day and night.” He shrugged. “What can a peaceable man do?” Pointing to Menedemos, he went on, “You were heading far into the west last year. How did your journey fare? What is the news from those places?”

It was still early in the sailing season. No ship from Great Hellas was likely to have come into these waters yet. Menedemos told of the Romans' war against the Samnites, and the larger and more important war Syracuse was waging against Carthage. He spoke of the Aphrodite's journey into besieged Syracuse with the grain fleet, and of Agathokles' escape from Syracuse and invasion of Africa.

“And there was the eclipse of the sun after we got into Syracuse,” Sostratos added.

Pixodaros' eyes widened. “I have heard of them, but I have never seen one. They really do happen, then?”

“They really do,” Sostratos said solemnly, “and they're even more awesome to see than you would think from the tales about them.” Menedemos thought about that, then dipped his head in agreement.

“Well, well,” Pixodaros said, and then again: “Well, well.” He chuckled. “And I think I go traveling when I leave the city to check the fields and orchards that are mine now. You make me feel like a child in his cradle.”

With a shrug, Menedemos said, “Some people do one thing, some another. I'm glad Xenophanes left his business in such good hands.”

“Thank you.” Xenophanes' freedman looked from Menedemos to Sostratos and back again, “The two of you didn't come to Kos just to chat.”

“No,” Sostratos said. “We do have a certain interest in your silk. We did well with it last year. We'd like to do well with it again.”

“What are you carrying?” Pixodaros asked.

“We have more of the crimson dye of Byblos that Xenophanes always liked to use,” Menedemos answered.

As Pixodaros dipped his head—he did it self-consciously, as if reminding himself to behave like a Hellene—Sostratos added, “And we also have fine Rhodian perfume. I remember you were interested in it last year, even though Xenophanes wasn't.”

Menedemos hadn't remembered that. He'd kept Xenophanes' views in mind then, but not those of the man who'd been a slave then, Pixodaros dipped his head again. “Yes, I was. I still am—or I could be, if the price is right. We agree, more or less, on what silk is worth in terms of dye. But in terms of perfume?” He leaned forward on his stool, eager anticipation in his eyes. “We have a new dicker, my friends.”

He called to his slave, who brought in more wine, and olives and onions to go with it. A new dicker indeed, Menedemos thought. And this must be his first big one as a freedman. He wants to start things off the right way. He filled his cup from the mixing bowl and bit into an onion. “When you buy our perfume, you know just what you're getting,” he said. “Silk, now . . . I'd like to see what you want to sell us.”

“It shall be as you say.” Pixodaros clapped his hands. Looking a little harassed, the slave came back into the room. Pixodaros told him what he needed. The slave nodded and hurried away. He came back with a bolt of the rare fabric. Pixodaros held it up for his guests. “Top quality, O best ones, as you see. Xenophanes showed me everything he knew.”

It did look very good. It was filmier than the gauziest linen; Menedemos could see Pixodaros through it. Yet it also shone and sparkled, as linen never did. Brothel keepers paid high prices to deck their girls in the stuff. Hetairai bought it for themselves. And men eager for display or simply to have something few others in their polis did also set down their silver for silk—commonly in thicker grades.

“What do you weave it from?” Sostratos murmured.

He couldn't have expected an answer. It was only his curiosity talking. For a moment, though, Pixodaros' face went hard and hostile behind the transparent cloth. “That is the secret of Kos,” he said. “The most I will ever say is that I was so surprised when I learned it, you could guess from the fall of Troy till now and you would never once come close.”

“As may be,” Sostratos said. “I don't need to know in order to want it.” He turned to Menedemos. “Shall we get a hundred bolts, as we did last year?”

“That suits me well enough,” Menedemos said. “We won't be going into the west this trip, but there's always a strong market for silk in Athens.” He raised an eyebrow at Pixodaros. “You do have it?”

“Certainly.” The Karian started to nod, then caught himself and dipped his head.

“All right, then,” Sostratos said. “Shall we trade dye for half and perfume for the other half? Dye at the same rate we gave Xenophanes last year?”

“I thought the old man could have done a little better,” Pixodaros replied, “but let it be as you say. Now, though, the perfume . . .”

“Top grade, just like your silk,” Menedemos said. “An akatos can't afford to carry anything but the best. We make our money from quality. A round-ship captain with a load of olive oil in his hold can take along a little junk to peddle on the side, because it's not where most of his profit will come from. We don't dare sell junk. We always want the good and the beautiful.” Sostratos stirred at that—the words came right to the edge of philosophy—but didn't speak.

“And how much do you want for one of your jars of perfume, as compared to the price for one of your jars of dye?” Pixodaros asked.

Menedemos smiled. “That's where the dickering comes in, wouldn't you say?” Pixodaros smiled, too. Oil and wheat might have something close to a fixed price, except in times of dearth, but luxuries? Luxuries brought what the seller could get, what the buyer could afford.

They drank. They ate. They haggled. Pixodaros flicked stones in the grooves of a counting-board. He didn't offer it to the Rhodians. Every so often, Sostratos would look up toward the ceiling, lips moving not quite silently, eyes far away. He was better than anyone else Menedemos had ever seen at working with numbers in his head. He was slower than Pixodaros with the advantage of the board, but he got right answers.

At last, as evening neared, Pixodaros held out his hand to Menedemos and Sostratos. “A bargain,” he said, and Menedemos dipped his head. So did his cousin. Smiling, Pixodaros added, “Xenophanes used to complain about how hard a dicker the two of you gave him, I see he was right.”

“It works both ways.” Menedemos returned flattery for flattery.

Pixodaros beamed. “What would please you?” he asked. “Would you stay to supper here, or should I give you a guide to the Rhodian proxenos' house?”

“Perhaps we'd better see the proxenos,” Sostratos answered. “He'll wonder if he's done something to offend unless we call on him. But would you be kind enough to send someone to the Aphrodite to let our men know where we'll be?” Menedemos might have been tempted to stay and see how the freedman's kitchen did, but Sostratos was formally correct, and he knew it.

So did Pixodaros, who dipped his head, playing the Hellene again. “As you wish, of course.” He called for a couple of slaves. A year before, they would have been his fellows; now he owned them. Menedemos wondered what they thought of that. Did one of them hope to inherit the business, as Pixodaros had?

Whatever they thought, they obeyed. One headed down to the harbor. The other took Menedemos and Sostratos to the house of Kleiteles son of Ekdikos, the wineseller who looked out for Rhodian interests on Kos. Menedemos gave the slave an obolos and sent him back to his master. Kleiteles was a plump, happy man of about forty, who looked to enjoy having guests. “Pleased to see you, my friends,” he said. “I heard you were in port, and told the cook to make sure we had plenty.”

“Thank you very much,” Menedemos and Sostratos said together.

“My pleasure, believe me,” Kleiteles answered. “Don't just stand there in the front hall—come along to the andron with me. Come, come.” He shooed them along as if they were children. He had practice at such things; in the courtyard, a boy of about eight and another perhaps five were playing in the fading light. “Run upstairs,” Kleiteles told them. “You'll eat in the women's quarters tonight. I have company.”

“Your sons?” Menedemos asked—they had the look of the Koan, Kleiteles dipped his head. “Promising lads,” Menedemos remarked.

“You're too kind, best one.” Kleiteles waved toward the andron. “Go on in, both of you. Use my home as your own.”

A slave was lighting lamps and torches in the andron. In one corner of the room stood a wickerwork cage with a jackdaw inside. The gray and black bird hopped up and down a little ladder with a tiny bronze shield in its beak. Kleiteles laughed and tossed it some seeds. It dropped the shield with a clink and started pecking them up.

Such things always fascinated Sostratos. Sure enough, he asked, “How long did it take you to train the bird?”

“Less time than you'd think: only a couple of months,” Kleiteles answered. “They're surprisingly clever—and, of course, the toy shield is shiny, and jackdaws like such things.”

“How interesting,” Sostratos said. Menedemos wondered if he would try to buy a jackdaw for himself when he got back to Rhodes.

They ate reclining on couches. With only three men in the andron, each had one to himself. The sitos was barley porridge flavored with onions and mushrooms and fennel. For opson, the cook brought in a casserole of shrimp and cheese and olives. If nothing was spectacular, everything was tasty.

And the wine, which came out after the supper dishes were cleared away, was very good indeed. Menedemos and Sostratos traded news with Kleiteles, who said, “Ah, so you saw Ptolemaios' fleet go by, did you? I don't know how long he'll stay here, but business will surely be fine for as long as that is. I've heard his wife is with him, and that she's with child.”

“Hadn't heard that myself,” Menedemos said. Sostratos tossed his head to show he hadn't heard it, either.

“I don't know it's true, mind you,” Kleiteles said. “If Berenike is here, she doesn't do her own shopping in the agora.” He chuckled.

So did Menedemos. But Sostratos said, “Oh, Berenike. That's not Ptolemaios' wife; that's his concubine. He's married to Eurydike, old Antipatros' daughter.” He kept track of such things as carefully as he kept track of the relative values of silk and perfume.

“Is he?” Kleiteles said in a slightly crestfallen voice. He'd had his news . . oh, not quite turned false, but at least weakened. With a little thought, Menedemos might also have remembered to whom Ptolemaios was married. He didn't think he would have come out and said so, though. Relentless precision could make a man harder to get along with.

But the proxenos, fortunately, didn't seem much offended. After a few sips of wine, his smile came back like the sun returning from behind a small cloud. He called for a slave, spoke briefly to the man, and sent him away. The fellow returned a bit later, saying, “Everything is ready, master.”

“Good, good. Go on off to bed, then—we won't need you any more tonight,” Kleiteles said. The slave nodded and disappeared. Kleiteles turned to the Rhodians. “I know you've had a busy day. Your rooms are waiting for you.”

“Thank you for your kindness,” Menedemos said, and drained his cup. He wouldn't have minded drinking a bit longer, but he knew a hint when he heard one. Sostratos might not have, but did own wit enough to get to his feet when Menedemos did. He cast a last glance at the jackdaw as Kleiteles led them out of the andron and into the courtyard.

A couple of torches flickering there gave the wineseller enough light to lead the two cousins back to their rooms. “Have a pleasant evening,” he said, “and I'll see you in the morning.” Off he went, whistling a bawdy tune.

“Good night,” Sostratos said, and went into one of the chambers.

“Good night,” Menedemos replied, and went into the other.

The room held a stool, a small clay lamp perched on it, and a bed. The bed held a woman not far from Menedemos' age—one of Kleiteles' slaves, without a doubt. She smiled at him. “Hail,” she said.

“Hail,” Menedemos answered with a smile of his own. He wondered if Sostratos had company in his bedroom, too. Probably. Kleiteles was indeed a considerate host. “What's your name, sweetheart?”

“I'm called Eunoa,” the woman answered.

“Well, Eunoa, get out of your chiton, and we'll go on from there.” Menedemos pulled his own tunic off over his head. As soon as the woman was naked, too, he lay down on the bed beside her. He took her hand and set it on his manhood, while he kissed and caressed her breasts and rubbed Her between the legs. As most women did, she'd singed off the hair there; her flesh was soft and very smooth.

Presently, Menedemos stood her up and had her lean forward against the bed. He poised himself behind her. He was about to thrust home when she looked back over her shoulder and said, “I wish I didn't have to worry about making a baby.”

He could have ignored her. She was there to do as he wanted, not the other way around. But he shrugged and said, “Bend a little more, then,” and, after spitting on himself to ease the way a little, went in at the other door. “There. Is that better?”

“I... suppose so,” Eunoa answered. “It does hurt some, though.”

“It was your choice,” Menedemos said, not pausing to wonder whether she'd had a choice about coming to his bed. He went on. It didn't hurt him at all: on the contrary. After he finished, he patted her round bottom. “Here, dear, this is for you,” he said, and gave her a couple of oboloi. “You don't need to tell Kleiteles you got them from me.”

“Thank you,” Eunoa said. “It wasn't so bad.” The little silver coins evidently made it a good deal better.

Menedemos had thought they would. He lay down on the bed. “Sleep with me. We'll do it again in the morning, whichever way you like.” He didn't say he would give her more money then, but he didn't say he wouldn't, either. She lay down willingly enough. The bed was narrow for two, but not if they snuggled together. His arms around the slave girl, Menedemos fell asleep.

Sostratos woke up when the woman Kleiteles had lent him for the night almost kicked him out of bed. He had to clutch at the frame to keep from landing on the floor. His sudden motion woke the slave up, too. They both needed a moment to remember what they were doing there lying side by side. Sostratos needed another moment to remember her name. “Good day, Thestylis,” he said when he did.

“Good day, sir,” she answered, sitting up and yawning. Her breasts sagged a little; her nipples were wide and dark. He guessed she'd borne a child before. Maybe it hadn't lived. When he reached out and idly stroked her, she said, “Just a minute, sir. Let me use the pot first, if you don't mind.”

He wasn't sure he wanted her again till she said that. Then he decided it would be a nice way to start the day. “Go ahead,” he told her. “And after you're done, I'll use it myself. And then . . .”

But he'd just set down the pot when brisk footsteps resounded out in the courtyard. Someone knocked first on his door, then on the one beside it it, the door to Menedemos' room. Thestylis let out a startled squeak. She plainly hadn't expected anyone to disturb them so early; the light leaking out through the shutters was predawn gray.

“Who's there?” Sostratos asked. His eye went to the little knife he carried, now lying on the floor. It was a tool much more than a weapon. He heard Menedemos asking the same question with the same undertone of worry. After Kaunos, who could be sure staying in a proxenos' house was safe?

“It's me, Kleiteles,” came the answer. “You gentlemen need to get dressed right away and come out.”

“Why?” Sostratos asked in some irritation. He looked back at Thestylis, who lay naked and waiting on the bed. Not getting the chance to dip his wick after he'd made up his mind that he was going to annoyed him.

But Kleiteles answered, “Because one of Ptolemaios' servants is standing here beside me. Ptolemaios wants to speak to you as fast as you can get to him.”

Ice ran through Sostratos. Zeus! Has he found out about the emeralds? How could be have found out about the emeralds? But what else would he want to talk about? He had no idea. But he realized he was going to have to find out. Astonishment widened Thestylis' eyes.

As Sostratos put on his chiton, Menedemos spoke from the other room: “Ptolemaios wants to talk to us?” His cousin sounded un-wontedly subdued. Nothing like being discovered, or worrying that you've been discovered, to put the fear of the gods in you, Sostratos thought. The fear, if not of the gods, then of a power greater than his own, was certainly in him.

“That's right,” Kleiteles answered along with another man: presumably, Ptolemaios' servant. Sostratos touched the hilt of that little knife. Much good it would do him against one of the great marshals of the Hellenic world.

“I'll see you again,” Sostratos told Thestylis, and hoped he meant it. He opened the door and stepped out into the courtyard. The fellow standing beside Kleiteles reminded him of Euxenides of Phaselis without looking like him: he was solidly made, erect, alert. He looks like a soldier—that's what it is, Sostratos thought.

“Hail,” the stranger said. “I'm Alypetos son of Leon.” Sostratos gave his own name. Menedemos came out. Alypetos went through introductions again, then gestured toward Kleiteles' doorway. “Come with me, best ones.”

“Can you tell us why Ptolemaios wants to see us?” Sostratos asked as they went out onto the street.

“I can make some guesses,” Alypetos answered, “but I might be wrong, and it's not my place to gab, anyhow.”

Something else occurred to Sostratos: “We've just made a bargain with Pixodaros the silk merchant. He'll probably bring his cloth to the Aphrodite this morning, expecting to pick up dye and perfume in exchange for it. Can you send someone to his house, asking him to wait till we're back to look things over for ourselves?”

“I'll take care of it,” Alypetos promised. He didn't sound as if Ptolemaios intended to do anything dreadful to Sostratos and Menedemos. That left Sostratos slightly reassured, but only slightly. He wouldn't, would he? If he did, we might try to run away.

Kos was waking up. Women with water jars gathered at a fountain, some of them pausing to chat before they took the water back to their homes. A farmer in from the countryside with a big basket of onions trudged toward the market square. A stonecutter pounded away with mallet and chisel at a memorial stone. A little naked boy, pecker flapping as he ran, chased a mouse till it slipped into a crack in a wall and got away. The child burst into tears.

Like any house in a polis, the one where Ptolemaios was staying presented only a blank, whitewashed wall and a doorway to the world. Unlike any house Sostratos had seen, though, this one had a couple of hoplites in full panoply—crested helm, bronze corselet, greaves, shield, spear, sword on the hip—standing sentry in front of it.

“Hail,” Alypetos said to them. “These are the Rhodians Ptolemaios wants to see.”

“Hail,” the sentries said together. Then one of them added something that sounded as if it ought to be Greek but made next to no sense to Sostratos. They're Macedonians, he realized. Well, no surprise that Ptolemaios would use his countrymen for bodyguards. Unless you were used to it, the dialect Macedonians spoke among themselves might almost have been another language.

Alypetos had no trouble following it. “He says to bring you right on in,” he told Sostratos and Menedemos.

Inside, the house proved large and spacious, with a fountain and a bronze of Artemis with a bow in the courtyard. Alypetos ducked into the andron. Sostratos wondered whose home this was, and where he'd gone while Ptolemaios was using it. Not a question to which you're likely to find an answer, he thought.

Alypetos emerged. “He's eating breakfast,” he said. “Plenty of bread and oil and wine for the two of you as well. Go on in.”

“Thank you,” Menedemos said. Sostratos dipped his head. Now he knew real relief. Ptolemaios, by all accounts, was not the sort of tyrant who broke bread with a man one moment and ordered him tortured the next.

“Go on. Go on.” Alypetos shooed them toward the andron. Menedemos put a bold front on things and strode into it. Sostratos followed, content here to let his cousin take the lead.

Ptolemaios looked up from dipping a chunk of bread in a bowl of olive oil. “Ah, you must be the Rhodians,” he said, speaking Attic Greek with a slight accent that put Sostratos in mind of the way the bodyguards outside the house talked (two more guards stood stolidly in the andron). “Hail, both of you. Have something to eat.”

“Hail, sir,” Menedemos said.

“Hail,” Sostratos added. As he sat and reached for some bread, he studied the ruler of Egypt out of the corner of his eye. Ptolemaios was somewhere in his mid- to late fifties, but strong and vigorous for his years. Though his hair was gray, he had all of it; he wore it rather long, with locks falling over his ears. He had an engagingly ugly face, with a big nose and a jutting chin; a scar on one cheek; a wide, fleshy mouth; and alert, dark eyes under shaggy eyebrows. To Sostratos' way of thinking, he looked more like a peasant then a general.

A slave poured the Rhodians wine from the mixing bowl. Sounding apologetic, Ptolemaios said, “It's not very strong, I'm afraid. I don't care to start getting drunk first thing in the morning.”

Macedonians had, and often lived up to, a reputation for drunkenness. But, sure enough, when Sostratos sipped, he discovered Ptolemaios didn't live up to it: the wine was cut three or four to one with water, a thin mix indeed. It was very good wine, though, and he said so.

“Thank you kindly.” Ptolemaios' smile was engagingly ugly, too, for it showed a couple of broken teeth. He's no youth, Sostratos thought, but he fought his way across Persia and into India with Alexander the Great. More scars, old and white and puckered, seamed his arms.

The bread was good, too: of wheat flour, soft and fine. And the oil had a sharp green tang that said it was squeezed from the first olives picked in the fall. None of that surprised Sostratos. If the lord of Egypt couldn't afford the best, who could?

Ptolemaios let him and Menedemos eat and drink for a while. Then, after sipping from his own cup and setting it down, he said, “You boys are probably wondering why f sent for you this morning.”

Sostratos dipped his head. His cousin said, “Yes, sir, we were.”

“Well, I'd better tell you, then, hadn't I?” Ptolemaios chuckled. “You looked a little green around the gills when you came in here, but don't worry. You're not in trouble, leastways not with me. I was talking with an officer from the Nike last night, and he said you showed him a tiger skin. Is that right?”

“Yes, sir,” Sostratos and Menedemos said together. Menedemos sounded enormously relieved; Sostratos supposed he did, too. Now they knew this had nothing to do with emeralds smuggled out of Egypt.

“Where on earth did you find one?” Ptolemaios asked.

“In the market square in Kaunos, sir,” Sostratos answered.

“We got there a little sooner than you did,” Menedemos added, risking a smile.

“Yes, the place is mine now,” Ptolemaios agreed. “One of the fortresses above it surrendered to me; I had to storm the other one. But a tiger skin there? Really? Isn't that something?” He scratched his nose, then asked, “What did you have in mind doing with it?”

“Dionysos is supposed to have come from India, sir,” Menedemos said. “We thought we might sell it to a shrine of his, for the cult statue to wear.”

“Ah. Not a bad notion.” Ptolemaios dipped his head. When he looked up again, his eyes were far away. “I hunted tigers a time or two in India. Formidable beasts—they make most lions seem like the little cats Egypt is full of beside 'em. Never thought to see a tiger hide this far west, though, and that's the truth.”

“We were surprised, too,” Sostratos said. “We might have been more surprised than you, in fact—we've never been to India, after all.”

“That's true.” Ptolemaios chuckled again. “The two of you wouldn't even have had hair on your balls yet when Alexander led us there.” Sostratos had a sense of great deeds undone, a sense that the men of his own generation would always lag behind those of Ptolemaios' in glory. Before he could say anything—before he could even fully formulate the idea in his mind—the ruler of Egypt went on, “Would you boys sell that tiger skin to me instead of to a temple?”

Sostratos leaned forward in his chair. So this isn't Just a social call, he thought. Menedemos sounded alert, too, as he answered, “We might, sir, as long as the price is right.”

“Oh, yes. I understand that.” Ptolemaios still looked more like a peasant than a general, but he looked like a very shrewd peasant indeed. “Well, what sort of price did you have in mind?”

“You said it yourself; it's a one-of-a-kind item,” Menedemos said.

“Which means you're going to gouge me.” Those shaggy eyebrows of Ptolemaios' came down and together in a frown. “The thing you need to remember is, this is something I'd like to have, not something I've got to have. You stick me too hard, I'll say, 'Nice meeting you,' and send you on your way. Now, let's try it again—what do you want for the skin?”

Sostratos did some rapid mental calculating. Menedemos had got the tiger hide along with the two lion skins and the gryphon's skull. Had he bought it by itself, it would have cost about. . . and that meant. . . “Eight minai, sir.”

Ptolemaios tossed his head. “Nice meeting you,” he said. “Have some more bread, have some more wine, and my man will take you back to your proxenos' house.” He dipped another piece of bread in olive oil, then slowly and deliberately ate it. Only after he'd swallowed did he grudgingly add, “I might give you half that.”

“Very nice meeting you, sir,” Menedemos said. “We have to make a profit ourselves, you know.”

One of the guards growled something in Macedonian that didn't sound pleasant. His hand slid toward the hilt of his sword. “Relax, Lysanias,” Ptolemaios said in his clear Greek. “It's only a haggle, not a fight.”

“Another question: whose minai are we talking about?” Sostratos asked.

Now Ptolemaios jabbed a thumb at his own chest. “Why, mine, of course.”

“Fair enough.” Sostratos dipped his head. “It does help to be clear in advance,” It took five of Ptolemaios' drakhmai—or, multiplying a hundredfold, five of his minai—to make four of their Attic equivalent, the most commonly used weights among Hellenes. But, since the Rhodian drakhma was slightly lighter even than Ptolemaios', Sostratos couldn't complain.

And the ruler of Egypt didn't seem displeased at the question. “You're one of those fellows who likes to have everything just so, alpha-beta-gamma, aren't you? That's not a bad thing, especially in a young man. I suppose I could give you four minai, fifty drakhmai.”

“I'm certain we'd do better somewhere else,” Sostratos got to his feet. So did Menedemos. Sostratos turned to Alypetos. “If you'd be so kind as to guide us back to Kleiteles'?”

They'd taken a couple of steps out of the andron before Ptolemaios called after them: “Wait.” He was smiling when they came back, “You like to play on the edge of the roof, too, don't you?”

Sostratos didn't. Menedemos, he knew, did. But his cousin said, “Sostratos is right. We'll do better than that in Athens, say.” He sounded very sure of himself.

Ptolemaios' smile disappeared. “All right, then. You say you want eight minai, and you don't think four and a half are enough. Somewhere in between there is a number that will make you happy. Let's find out what it is.”

He proceeded to do just that. Looking back on it later, Sostratos realized it was funny. Here he sat, facing what had to be the richest man in the world—and Ptolemaios haggled like a poor housewife trying to knock a couple of khalkoi off the price of a sack of barley.

He gestured extravagantly. He shouted and stamped his feet. His eyebrows twitched. He cursed in Greek and then, when he was really angry—or trying to pretend he was really angry—in Macedonian. He came up in the dicker as if every extra drakhma were pulled out of his belly.

Sostratos did his best to bargain the same way. Menedemos backed him magnificently. Of course, as Ptolemaios had seen, Menedemos really did like taking chances, and didn't seem to worry that infuriating the ruler of Egypt might prove more dangerous than outraging a husband with a young, pretty wife.

The dicker stretched through the whole morning. At last, Sostratos said, “Well, best one, shall we split the difference?”

Ptolemaios counted on his fingers. He was good with numbers— almost as good as I am, Sostratos thought, without false modesty. “That would make what?—six minai, thirty-five drakhmai, right?”

“Yes, sir.” Sostratos dipped his head.

“I'll tell you what else it would make,” Ptolemaios grumbled, “It'd make you boys two of the biggest bandits left uncrucified.” He raised a hairy caterpillar of an eyebrow. “I could take care of that, you know.”

“So you could,” Sostratos said evenly. “If you want to make Rhodes lean toward Antigonos, I can't think of a better way to go about it.”

Ptolemaios grunted. “Just joking.” Maybe he had been, maybe he hadn't. He went on, “This would have been easier if only you were fools. All right: six minai, thirty-five drakhmai. A bargain!”

“A bargain!” Sostratos agreed. He stuck out his hand. So did Menedemos. Ptolemaios clasped each of theirs in turn. His grip was hard and firm, the grip of a man who'd spent a lot of time with weapons in his hand. Sostratos said, “I'm sure I can get back to the harbor by myself. If you'd be so kind as to give me a man to guide me back here with the tiger skin ...”

“Right.” Ptolemaios pointed a blunt, short-nailed finger at the man who'd gone to Kleiteles' house for Sostratos and Menedemos. “Alypetos, see to that yourself.”

“As you say, sir,” Alypetos replied. He got to his feet. “Ready when you are, best one,” he told Sostratos.

“Then let's go,” Sostratos said. He wished Menedemos were getting the hide; he would have liked sitting around and chatting with Ptolemaios better. It can't be helped, he told himself. And we've turned a nice profit, too. But he still knew regrets as he started off toward the harbor. Chances for buying and selling came every day, but when would he next be able to talk with a man like the ruler of Egypt? Ever again? He had his doubts.

When he got to the Aphrodite, Diokles gave him a curious look. “There's been a lot going on this morning, hasn't there, young sir?” the oarmaster said.

“Oh, you might say so.” Sostratos did his best to keep his tone casual.

By Diokles' expression, his best wasn't good enough. “First, Kleiteles' slave came, saying Ptolemaios had summoned your cousin and you. Then Pixodaros' slave showed up, saying he knew he'd have to wait with his silk on account of Ptolemaios. It was like Pixodaros wanted to get huffy about that but didn't have the nerve.”

“I should hope not,” Sostratos said; a Karian freedman wouldn't care to measure his privileges against those of Alexander's marshal. “Ptolemaios heard about our tiger skin from the officer who questioned us after the war galley made us heave to, and he's bought it.”

“Ah. Is that what's been going on?” Diokles slowly dipped his head. “I did wonder, and I'm not lying. But that's good news, then, real good news.”

“It certainly is. I'm going to take the skin now, and get our pay for it.” Sostratos boarded the Aphrodite, found the leather sack with the right hide, and brought it back onto the quay. Alypetos didn't say anything, but looked about to burst from curiosity. Taking pity on him—and also realizing he might make a useful connection— Sostratos undid the rawhide lashing that held the sack closed and gave him a look at the tiger skin.

“Isn't that something?” Ptolemaios' man said softly. He reached out and stroked the fur. “And the beast is as big as a lion?”

“We have two lion skins aboard, too, and this one's bigger than either,” Sostratos answered. “The tiger doesn't seem to have a mane, though, as lions do.”

“Isn't that something?” Alypetos repeated. He needed a moment to gather himself. “Well, let's get on back. I can see why Ptolemaios would pay for a hide like that, indeed I can,”

At the house the ruler of Egypt had taken for his own, more leather sacks, these fat with silver, lay waiting on a table in the andron. Ptolemaios had a couple of his men take the hide from the sack and spread it out so he could examine it. He sighed. “That's a tiger skin, sure enough. Been fifteen years since I last saw one of the beasts, but I'm not likely to forget.”

“Have you a scale, sir, so I can weigh the coins?” Sostratos asked. “That would go much faster than counting them.”

Menedemos looked horrified. Sostratos had almost got himself into trouble with a request like that the summer before in Syracuse, and Ptolemaios was vastly more powerful than Agathokles of Syracuse even dreamt of being. But the marshal's tone was mild as he asked, “Don't trust me, eh?”

“I didn't say that, sir,” Sostratos replied. “Anyone can make a mistake, or have servants who make a mistake—and I like to keep things straight.”

“Yes, I've noticed that,” Ptolemaios said. “Let's see what we can do.” His men found a balance in the kitchen, but the weights weren't of the proper standard. “Count the drakhmai in one sack,” he suggested, “and then weigh the others against it.”

“Just as you say, sir,” Sostratos agreed. The sack he checked held a hundred drakhmai. By the scale, so did the others—except for the odd one, which he also counted. “Thank you for your patience, sir. Everything is fine.”

“Glad you approve.” Ptolemaios' voice was dry. But he added, “If my men were as zealous in my service as you are in your own . . .”

I haven't got so many men in my service, Sostratos thought. I have to do more for myself. Who will, if I don't? But he wouldn't say that, not even to so good-natured a ruler as Ptolemaios had proved to be.

On the way back to the Aphrodite, Menedemos said, “I almost hit you when you wanted to start counting coins.”

“I do like having things straight, and now I know they are,” Sostratos answered. “What did Ptolemaios talk about while I was getting the tiger skin?”

“Oh, this and that,” Menedemos answered, whereupon Sostratos wanted to hit him. He did his best to amplify: “Some about hunting in India, and the funny smells in the air there.”

“Ah,” Sostratos said. “That's interesting, but it doesn't seem too historical.”

“Why should it?” his cousin asked.

In a way, Menedemos' question made perfect sense. Ptolemaios could talk about anything that crossed his mind, and he'd been thinking about tigers and distant India. In another way . . . “Because men will probably remember Ptolemaios a hundred years from now, the way we remember Lysandros the Spartan nowadays.”

“Who?” Menedemos said. At first, Sostratos thought he was joking, and laughed. Then he realized his cousin meant it. He was very quiet all the way back to the merchant galley.

That evening, Menedemos was all smiles for Kleiteles. “No, no, my dear fellow,” he told the Rhodian proxenos at supper (it was barley bread, cheese, and fried sprats—good enough sitos, but not much of an opson). “He heard we had a tiger skin, and wanted to buy it from us. He did, too, and gave us a nice price.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” Kleiteles replied. “His garrison could have done worse than it has; I don't deny that. But people have disappeared. When you two got summoned that way, I feared the worst, and I won't tell you any different. He might almost have caught you in bed with his mistress. . . Are you all right, best one?”

“Just swallowed wrong,” answered Sostratos, who'd choked on a sprat and suffered a coughing fit. Menedemos sent his cousin a venomous look. Sostratos gave back an innocent smile—much too innocent for Menedemos' peace of mind.

“And your dealings with Pixodaros went well?” Kleiteles asked.

“Oh, yes.” Menedemos dipped his head. “Pity old Xenophanes finally got ferried across the Styx, but the business seems in good hands.”

“Pixodaros is a sharp fellow,” Sostratos agreed.

“No doubt, but he's a foreigner,” Kleiteles said. “Too many freed-men holding down businesses that used to belong to citizens. I'm glad I've got a couple of sons, and I burn incense to the gods every day to keep them safe.” He sighed. “So many things can happen to children when they're growing up, and that's in time of peace. With the war heating up again ...” He grimaced and sighed again.

“Incense can't hurt,” Sostratos said gravely. Menedemos knew his cousin meant it probably wouldn't help, either, but the proxenos didn't take it that way. Sostratos went on, “We just got some fine balsam from a couple of Phoenicians in Knidos. I'd be pleased to give you a drakhma's weight of it tomorrow, to help repay your kindness to us.”

“Thank you very much,” Kleiteles said with a broad smile. “I've been burning myrrh; I'm sure the gods would fancy a fresh scent in their nostrils.”

“Remind me in the morning, best one, before we go back to the Aphrodite, and I'll take care of it,” Sostratos said. “I'm a little absentminded, I'm afraid.” And so he was, but only in matters having to do with history or philosophy or birds or beasts—never in business. Menedemos dipped his bead in unreserved approval. The balsam was a nice touch. I should have thought of it myself.

The Rhodian proxenos' slave brought in the wine. Kleiteles ordered a stronger mix than he had the night before. After a couple of cups, he sang a bawdy song in a strong, true baritone. It wasn't a regular symposion, but it came close. Kleiteles looked expectantly toward Menedemos.

Thinking of Xenophanes crossing the Styx gave Menedemos his inspiration. He quoted Kharon, the ferryman of the dead, from Aristophanes' Frogs:

He'd been to Cape Tainaron himself the year before. These days, instead of being nowhere to speak of, it was a hiring center for mercenaries. Menedemos rolled on with the Frogs, going through Dionysos' preposterous confrontation with the chorus of croakers.

Kleiteles laughed out loud. “That's good stuff,” he said, raising his cup in salute to Menedemos—and perhaps to Dionysos, too. “Koax,koax” He chuckled again, then swung his gaze toward Sostratos. “And what have you got for us, best one?”

Menedemos wondered if his cousin would lecture, as he often liked to do—perhaps about Lysandros the Spartan, who'd evidently-been an important fellow a hundred years before. But Sostratos had something else in mind. “Me?” he said. “I'm going to talk about gryphons.”

And he did, at some length: about the gold-guarding gryphons of the north and the one-eyed Arimaspioi who were supposed to steal their hoarded gold from them; about the way the nomadic Skythians and the Hellenic artists in their pay portrayed gryphons (he's listened more to Teleutas than I thought, went through Menedemos' mind); and about the way gryphons, if there were such things, really looked—all without mentioning that the Aphrodite carried a gryphon's skull along with its other cargo. Menedemos had heard the pieces of the talk before, but never all together. He was impressed almost in spite of himself. When Sostratos talked about something that interested him, he interested those hearing him, too.

He certainly interested Kleiteles. “Euge!” the proxenos exclaimed. “How do you go on about beasts you say are mythical as if you'd seen one just the other day?”

“Do I?” To Menedemos' ear, Sostratos sounded a little too bland to be convincing. But Kleiteles, who'd been drinking hard, wasn't a critical audience. He just dipped his head to show he thought Sostratos did. Menedemos' cousin smiled a small, secretive smile. “Homer was blind, they say. He never saw the things he sang about, but he's made others see them ever since.”

“That's twice lately you've had praise for the poet,” Menedemos said. Sostratos stuck out his tongue as far as it would go, as if he were a hideous Gorgon painted on a hoplite's shield. He and Menedemos both laughed.

So did Kleiteles, even if he didn't understand all of the joke the cousins shared. He'd drunk himself thoughtful, as he proved when he told Sostratos, “You have a gift for explaining things. Do you know your letters? You must, a clever fellow like you.” When Sostratos didn't deny it, the Rhodian proxenos went on, “You ought to write down what you just said, so it doesn't get lost.”

“Maybe I will, one day,” Sostratos replied. “I've thought about it.”

“You should.” Kleiteles swigged from his cup. “Shall we have another round of songs and such?”

“If you've got the girls waiting in our bedrooms, I wouldn't mind going back there now,” Menedemos said.

“I do.” The proxenos laughed. “You two can screw yourselves silly with them. If I brought a house slave to bed, though, my wife would never let me hear the end of it. Come on.” He picked up a lamp from a table. “I'll take you back there.”

When Menedemos went into his chamber, he nodded to the slave on the bed. “Hail, Eunoa.”

“Hail,” she said. “We didn't get a chance to do it this morning.” By that, she doubtless meant, You didn't get the chance to give me anything this morning. Menedemos dipped his head, thinking, If she were a man, she'd be at Cape Tainaron now. She's mercenary enough. She asked, “Did Ptolemaios really want to see you?”

“Yes,” Menedemos said, and Eunoa looked impressed, and also proud, as if giving herself to someone who'd met the great man somehow made her more important. Slaves often basked in their masters' reflected glory; this seemed more of the same. Menedemos stripped off his tunic and lay down on the bed beside her.

As she had the night before, Eunoa fought shy of simply letting him take her. “I don't want to have a baby,” she repeated.

Menedemos frowned. She was supposed to be there for his pleasure, not the other way round. But he humored her, sitting at the edge of the bed with his legs splayed wide. Eunoa scowled; she liked that less than giving him her backside. She finally squatted between his legs, though, and bent her head over his manhood. His fingers tangled in her hair, guiding her and urging her on.

Before long, she pulled back, coughing and choking a little. She found the chamber pot under the bed and spat into it. Sated and lazy, Menedemos gave her half a drakhma. He would have had to pay a good deal more for the same pleasure in a brothel. They stretched out on the bed side by side. Menedemos ran a hand along the sweet bare curve of her flank, then blew out the lamp. The room plunged into blackness. He fell asleep almost at once.

When the sharp knock woke Sostratos, he thought for a moment he was dreaming of what had happened the morning before. As he had then, he lay tangled with Kleiteles' slave, Thestylis. He and the woman both looked around in bleary surprise. Dawn was trickling in through the shutters.

Another knock sounded, this one next door. “Alypetos is here again,” KleiteJes said, which convinced Sostratos he really was awake. “Ptolemaios wants to see both of you gentlemen, at once.”

“But do I want to see Ptolemaios?” Sostratos muttered. He tossed his head in annoyance. That didn't matter. Even a free Hellene found limits to his freedom when he dealt with a Macedonian marshal. Sostratos patted Thestylis, saying, “Go back to sleep if you can. This has nothing to do with you.” He threw on his tunic and went out into Kleiteles' courtyard.

Menedemos came out of the adjacent room at the same time. He too looked unhappy. “What is it now?” he demanded of Alypetos.

Ptolemaios' henchman only shrugged. “Come with me,” he said.

Grumbling and yawning, Sostratos and Menedemos went. As they had the day before, they found Ptolemaios at breakfast. This morning, though, he offered them none, but fixed them with the sort of glare calculated to make them remember all their sins and fear punishment for everyone. Sostratos did his best to show no expression at all. Does he know about the emeralds? he wondered nervously. His eyes flicked to Menedemos. His cousin, fortunately, was not a man to show guilt even if he felt it.

Ptolemaios thrust out his boulder of a chin and growled, “Why didn't you two tell me you had one of that one-eyed bastard's officers aboard your ship when you sailed into Knidos?”

He doubtless meant to intimidate them. But, since it had nothing to do with the gems, his blunt question came more as a relief than anything else. “Why should we have?” Sostratos answered. “Rhodes is free and autonomous and neutral. We can carry whoever pays our fare.”

“He paid ten drakhmai, too,” Menedemos added.

“Ten drakhmai, for passage from Rhodes to Knidos? You cheated him right and proper,” Ptolemaios said. His anger seemed to evaporate; he might have donned it as a man dons a himation on a chilly morning and sheds it when the sun climbs higher. He eyed the two traders. “Free and neutral Rhodians, eh?”

“Yes, sir,” Sostratos said stoutly.

“All right, then,” Ptolemaios said. “If you did a service for Antigonos and made a profit, will you do one for me as well?”

“If we profit from it,” Menedemos answered.

“You will,” Ptolemaios said in a voice that brooked no contradiction. “Ill pay you a talent of silver—twenty minai in advance, to give you whatever money you'll need on the way, with the other forty waiting for you when you come back here to Kos.”

“A talent?” Sostratos and Menedemos both whispered the words. Sixty minai, six thousand drakhmai—that was a lot of money. Slowly, Sostratos said, “You wouldn't offer us so much silver for just anything, sir. What have you got in mind?”

“You're a clever fellow, aren't you? I thought so before, by the way you haggled,” Ptolemaios said. “Yes, you're right: I wouldn't pay so much for anything easy. You'll know that Antigonos' nephew Polemaios broke with his uncle last year and went over to Kassandros.”

Menedemos dipped his head at the same time as Sostratos said, “Yes, we did know chat.”

“All right, then,” Ptolemaios said briskly. “He's holed up in Khalkis these days, on the island of Euboia, and he's decided he doesn't like Kassandros any better than he liked his uncle. He was jealous of Antigonos' sons. I don't know what his quarrel with Kassandros is—I just know he has one. He'd make me a useful ally, I think.”

We'd make you a useful tool, is what you mean, Sostratos thought. He wondered how wise the ruler of Egypt was. If Polemaios had fallen out with both Antigonos and Kassandros in a year's time, he was liable to turn in the hand of anyone who tried to wield him. But that was Ptolemaios' worry, not his. He said, “And you want us to go up to Khalkis?”

“And get him, and bring him back down here to me. That's right,” Ptolemaios said. “He needs to slide out of the place without anyone's being the wiser—he hasn't got the fleet to just up and sail away.”

“No, he wouldn't have the ships for that,” Sostratos agreed. “He'd have to come past the coast of Attica on the way south. Athens isn't what it was in the days of Perikles, but it still has a decent navy, and Demetrios of Phaleron is Kassandros' creature.”

“Exactly. I have officers who wouldn't see it that fast,” Ptolemaios said. “Polemaios' soldiers can get out a few at a time in small craft once he's escaped. He'll lose some, but a lot of them will join him here. Polemaios himself is the man I really want. What do you say, Rhodians?”

Sostratos knew what he wanted to say. He wanted to say no to another delay in reaching Athens with the gryphon's skull. And this one would be all the more frustrating because the Aphrodite would go past the eastern coast of Attica on the way to and from Khalkis. But Ptolemaios had given him and Menedemos one big reason to say yes—or, looked at another way, six thousand little reasons.

That thought had hardly crossed his mind before Menedemos, who as captain of the akatos had the final word, gave it: “Sir, we say yes.

“Good. I thought you would, once I made sure you weren't really on Antigonos' side,” Ptolemaios said. He snapped his fingers and called for a house slave. The man hurried away, returning with bread and oil and wine for Sostratos and Menedemos. Aside from trying to put us in fear, as long as he was feeling us out about Euxenides, he didn't want to eat with us, Sostratos realized.

“Sir, can we get a steering oar made before we sail?” Menedemos asked. “We're carrying one that's a makeshift, of green timber. It got us here, but...”

“I'll send a carpenter to your ship right away,” Ptolemaios said. He ordered another slave off with the message. “Anything else I can do for you? I want Polemaios back here as soon as may be.”

“The money,” Sostratos said.

Ptolemaios smiled. “Ah, yes—the money. Don't you worry about that. It will reach your ship before the day is out,”

Sostratos believed him. A lot of men, even those who had a great deal, would have lied about such a sum. Others would have haggled endlessly. Ptolemaios himself had haggled endlessly over the tiger skin. The skin, though, had been something he wanted, but not something he felt he had to have. Getting Antigonos' nephew here to Kos was different.

Something else occurred to Sostratos: “How will Polemaios know we're working for you, sir? How do we convince him we're not in his uncle's pay, or Kassandros'?”

“I said you were a clever fellow, didn't I?” Ptolemaios beamed at him. “I'll give you a letter and seal it with my eagle.” He held out his right fist. On one thick finger he wore a gold signet ring whose design was an eagle like the ones on the reverse of his coins. “It'll come to your ship with the first installment of the money. Anything else?”

After glancing at Menedemos, Sostratos tossed his head. “No, sir. I think that's everything.”

“Good enough, then.” Ptolemaios was all business. “Would you care for anything else to eat or drink? No? Do you need Alypetos to take you back down to the harbor? No? Very good, very good. A pleasure talking to you.”

The two Rhodians found themselves on the street in front of Ptolemaios' residence in a matter of moments. “A talent of silver!” Menedemos said softly.

“We'll earn it,” Sostratos answered. “We're running the gauntlet for him.”

“We can do it.” Menedemos sounded confident—but then, he usually did. He went on, “What we need to do, though, is stop at Pixodaros' home on the way to the ship. We want to make sure we get the silk aboard before Ptolemaios' men finish their deliveries.”

“Right,” Sostratos said. “And we'd better hurry, too, because I don't think they'll waste much time.”

“I don't, either,” Menedemos said. As they headed toward the harbor, he went on, “Now, was it two streets up and three over from the seaside, or the other way round?”

“Three up and two over,” Sostratos answered. “Why can't you remember something like that?”

“I don't know, my dear,” Menedemos answered. “But I don't need to bother, not when I've got you around.” It was praise, of a sort— about as much as Sostratos ever got from his cousin. They went down toward the sea together.