“Nor to me,” Sostratos said. “If he trusted Polemaios”—he named Antigonos' nephew carefully, too—”that would be one thing. But Polemaios turned on Antigonos, and then he turned on Kassandros, too. Ptolemaios would have to be feebleminded to think the man won't also turn on him the moment he sees a chance.”
“Ptolemaios isn't feebleminded,” Menedemos said. “He's one very sharp fellow.”
“He certainly is.” Now Sostratos dipped his head, “That's why I'm assuming he's got somebody keeping an eye on Polemaios and his soldiers. Remember how Polemaios tried to see if we knew which of Ptolemaios' officers would take a bribe?”
“That I do,” Menedemos answered. “I thought we'd be out of Kos and across the Aegean before it could possibly matter. But the stinking collision put paid to that, the collision and the fight across the channel. That cistern-arsed scow—I hope it did sink in the storm.”
“Maybe it did,” Sostratos said. “No sign of it here, anyhow.”
“Gods only know how long we'll be stuck here, though.” Menedemos drummed his fingers on the outside of his thigh.
His cousin's voice was tart: “Believe me, my dear, I like it no better than you do. I want to be in Athens. I burn to be in Athens. As a matter of fact, I burn to be anywhere but here. We ought to start going to the agora and selling what we can. We'll make something that way.”
“Not much,” Menedemos said in dismay. “Ships from put in here ail the time. We won't get much of a price for perfume or ink—and how can we hope to sell the silk we just bought, except at a loss? Koans can buy direct from the folk who make it; they don't need to deal with middlemen.”
“I understand that, believe me,” his cousin replied. “But we have to pay the sailors no matter where we are or what we're doing, and that talent we got from Ptolemaios is melting away like the fat in a fire at a sacrifice to the gods.”
Instead of drumming his fingers, Menedemos suddenly snapped them. “I know what would bring us some money—-we've got those two lion skins. No lions on Kos. Somewhere in town, there'll be a temple to . Can't go wrong with a real lion-skin mantle for the god's image.”
“True.” Sostratos smiled, “And you're right—we ought to get a good price for at least one of the hides. Good idea.”
“Thanks,” Menedemos said. “Now if only I could come up with eight or ten more, we'd be fine.”
“Pity that fellow back in Kaunos didn't have a leopard skin to go with the others,” Sostratos said. “I know where the temple to Dionysos is.”
“Yes, I remember going by it, too, on the way from Ptolemaios' residence down here to the harbor.” Menedemos shrugged. “All we can do, though, is make the best of what we've got.”
As often happened in a town of Hellenes, finding out where ' temple was cost Menedemos an obolos. Knowledge was a commodity like any other, and seldom given away for nothing. After he'd paid out the little silver coin, he was annoyed to discover that the temple lay only a couple of blocks beyond the market square. It was a small building, but elegant, in the modern Corinthian style, with columns whose capitals looked like inverted bells and were ornamented with acanthus leaves.
“Pretty,” said Sostratos, who was fond of modern architecture.
“If you like that sort of thing,” Menedemos said. “It looks busy to me. I like the good old Doric order better—no bases to the columns, and plain capitals that just go on about the business of holding up the architrave and the frieze. These fancy Corinthian columns”— he made a face—”they look like a garden that wants pruning.”
“There's a difference between plain and too plain, if you ask me,” Sostratos said. “And Doric columns are squat. These Corinthian ones can be taller for the same thickness. They make the building more graceful.”
“More likely to fall down in an earthquake, you mean,” Menedemos said. Then he and Sostratos both spat into the bosom of their tunics to avert the evil omen. In the lands around the Inner Sea, temblors came too often even without invitation,
A young priest greeted them as they came up the steps and walked into the shrine. “Good day,” he said. “Have you come to offer a sacrifice to the god?”
“No.” Menedemos tossed his head, then pointed toward the life-sized marble cult image of the king of the gods. “As a matter of fact, we've come to adorn your statue there. Show him, Sostratos.”
“I will.” His cousin undid the lashing that closed the leather sack he carried. He drew out the lion skin. Menedemos helped him spread it on the floor.
“Oh, very good!” The priest clapped his hands. “I'd loved to see that draped over the god's shoulders. But I fear I'm not the one with whom you'll have to haggle. You'll need to talk with my father, . I'm Diomedon, by the way.”
“Pleased to meet you.” After giving his own name, Menedemos went on, “As I said, this is my cousin, Sostratos. Where is your father? Can you fetch him?”
“He's sacrificing at the altar behind the temple,” Diomedon replied. “As soon as he's finished, I'm sure he'd be pleased to talk with you. I hope you can make a bargain. Painting isn't enough to make the statue very impressive, I'm afraid.”
Smiling, Menedemos said, “I think I'd sooner dicker with you than with your father.”
“Of course.” Diomedon smiled, too. “You can tell I'm a soft touch. You won't have such an easy time with him as you would with me.”
“Why is your altar at the back of the sacred precinct, instead of in front or inside the temple?” Sostratos asked. “The other two arrangements are more common.”
Diomedon dipped his head. “I know they are. When this temple was going up—it's almost sixty years ago now, when this whole polis was being built—one of the priests went to Zeus' oracle at Dodona, and placing it there was part of the advice the god gave.”
“Can't argue with that,” Menedemos said. Sostratos looked as if he wouldn't have minded arguing about it, but a glance from Menedemos kept him quiet. They were here to sell the priests a lion skin, after all. Annoying or angering them wouldn't make that any easier.
“Here comes my father,” Diomedon said.
The man who walked into the temple through a doorway next to the cult image was a grizzled version of Diomedon himself. Not noticing his son or the two Rhodians inside, turned back to the man who had offered the sacrifice and said, “The god was glad to receive your offering.”
“I was glad to give it,” the man replied. He was so tall, he had to duck his head to get through that doorway. Menedemos nudged his cousin. Sostratos hadn't needed any nudging: he'd recognized Polemaios, too.
“Father,” Diomedon called, “these men want to sell the temple a fine lion skin to drape over the god's shoulders.”
“Do they?” said, and then, “What makes it such a fine skin?” Hearing that, Menedemos knew he'd have a harder dicker with the older priest than he would have with his son.
Polemaios came up through the naos in ' wake. “Ah, the Rhodians,” he rumbled. “I might have known.”
“Hail,” Menedemos said politely.
“You know these men, sir?” asked Antigonos' nephew.
“Oh, yes—a pair of whipworthy rascals, if ever there were any,” Polemaios replied, a nasty grin on his face. But then, relenting slightly, he went on, “They're the captain and toikharkhos who brought me here from Khalkis. On the sea, they know their business.”
“Why were you sacrificing here, best one?” Sostratos asked.
Polemaios' grin turned into a scowl. “On the land, they want to know everybody else's business,” he growled, and strode out of the temple.
“A bad-tempered man,” remarked, which would do for an understatement till a bigger one came along. The priest gathered himself. “I'm , as my son will likely have told you.” He waited for Menedemos and Sostratos to give him their names, then said, “So you've got a lion skin, do you? Let's have a look.”
As they'd done for the younger priest, Menedemos and Sostratos displayed the hide. “Isn't it splendid, Fath
er?” Diomedon said.
“Right now, I don't know whether it is or not,” answered. “What I do know is, you probably just tacked an extra twenty drakhmai on to the asking price.” His gaze, half annoyed, half amused, swung to Menedemos. “Didn't he?”
“Sir, I don't know what you're talking about,” Menedemos said, as innocently as he could.
snorted. “Oh, no, not much you don't.” He bent toward the hide, then tossed his head. “If I'm going to see how splendid it is, I want a proper light. Bring it out by the god's altar.”
Fat-wrapped thighbones smoked on that altar. The hot, metallic smell of blood still filled the air. Flies buzzed as a couple of temple attendants butchered Polemaios' sacrificial offering. It was a bullock: the Macedonian could afford the finest. Menedemos said, “Didn't he take any of the meat for himself?”
“No,” said. “He gave the whole beast. Would you and your cousin care for a couple of gobbets? We wouldn't want it to go to waste.”
“Thanks. That's most generous of you.” Like most Hellenes, Menedemos seldom ate meat, though he liked it very much. Smiling, he said, “You'll make me feel like one of the beef-munching heroes in the Iliad.” He cast about for some appropriate lines, and found them: “This is Agamemnon talking, remember?—
'For you are first when hearing of my feast
When we Akhaioi prepare a feast for the elders.
Then you are happy to eat roast meat or drink
A cup of wine sweet as honey for as long as you like.
But now you would happily see ten lines of Akhaioi
Get ahead of you and fight with pitiless bronze.' “
smiled. “You know the poet well.”
“I should hope so,” Menedemos said. “My cousin here can give you practically anything new and fancy”—Sostratos stirred at that, but kept quiet—”but 's good enough for me.” He didn't mention how fond he was of the bawdy ; didn't strike him as a man who would laugh at jokes about shitting oneself.
The priest asked, “What do you want for your lion skin?”
“Four minai,” Menedemos answered.
“I'll give you three,” said briskly. They settled at three minai, fifty drakhmai almost at once. wagged a finger at the bemused Menedemos. “You were expecting a long, noisy haggle, weren't you?”
“Well... yes, best one, since you ask,” Menedemos admitted.
“I don't like them,” said. “Nothing but a waste of time. We would have come to the same place in half an hour, so why not use that half hour for something else?”
“I agree,” Sostratos said. “But only a few men do, and so we spend a lot of time dickering. Some people make a game of it, as if it were dice or knucklebones.”
“Foolishness,” die priest of declared. Menedemos dipped his head, but he didn't really think was right. Had the priest made an opening offer of two minai and bargained hard, he might have got his hide for three minai instead of three and a half. He'd saved time and cost himself money. Which was more important? Menedemos knew his own opinion.
Diomedon went off to get the payment from the temple's treasury. When he came back with it, Sostratos quickly counted out the drakhmai. said, “You're a careful man. This is a fine trait in one so young.”
“Thank you, sir,” Sostratos said. “Can I have that sack to carry the coins in?”
“Of course,” replied. “I’ll wrap up the meat in some cloth, too, so you won't get blood on your chiton.”
“You're very kind,” Sostratos said.
Having done what they'd set out to do, Menedemos and Sostratos left the temple. A tavern stood only a few doors away. “Shall we get our meat roasted there?” Menedemos asked. He leered at his cousin. “If the barmaids are pretty, maybe they can roast our meat, too.”
“I knew you were going to say that,” Sostratos told him. “You read the poet all the time, do you? Where does use a line like that?”
“I didn't say was the only thing I read,” Menedemos answered. “If wanted to take it that way, though”—he shrugged—”I wouldn't argue with him.”
“He's not so careful as he thinks he is,” Sostratos said in a low voice. “Plenty of Athenian owls and turtles from Aigina and other coins a lot heavier than Ptolemaios' standard in among the ones his son gave us. By weight, we made more than we did by price alone.”
“Good,” Menedemos said. “I was hoping that would happen. To some people, especially people who don't travel, one drakhma's the same as another. You can do pretty well for yourself if you know better.” He strode into the tavern. Sostratos followed.
“How d'you do, friends?” the tavern-keeper said, his Doric drawl so strong that even Menedemos, who used a similar dialect himself, had to smile. The fellow pointed to the cloth in which Sostratos carried the meat. “If you boys ain't been sacrificin', I'm downright crazy. Want me to cook that there stuff up for you?”
“If you please,” Menedemos answered. He looked around. The barmaids were plain. He sighed to himself.
“I'd be right glad to,” the taverner said, and then, with hardly any drawl at all, he added, “Two oboloi.”
Sostratos set the meat on the counter. He spat a couple of small coins into the palm of his hand and put them beside the cloth-covered gobbets. “Here you are.”
“Thank you kindly.” The taverner dropped the money into a cash-box. He unwrapped the meat and dipped his head. “That'll roast just as nice as you please. You don't want to eat it all by its lonesome, now do you? You'll want to wash it down with some wine, eh? You boys look like you fancy the best. I've got some fine Khian—can't get better this side of the gods' ambrosia, and that's a fact.”
What that was, without a doubt, was a lie. In a tavern like this one, the proprietor would charge strangers and the naive three times as much for a local wine as he could hope to get if they knew what it really was. Menedemos tossed his head. “Just a cup of your ordinary, if you please,” he said.
“Same for me,” Sostratos said.
“Whatever you like, friends,” the taverner told them, and dipped out two cups of some of the nastiest wine Menedemos had ever drunk. It was, to begin with, shamelessly watered, but it would have tasted worse if it were stronger, as it was well on the way to becoming vinegar. He couldn't even throw it in the taverner's face and walk out, because the man had skewered the meat and set it over his fire. The savory smell helped make Menedemos forget the sour tang of the stuff in the cup.
“Don't leave it on the flames too long,” Sostratos told the taverner, “The gods may like their portion burned black, but I don't.”
“I reckon I know how to cook up a piece of meat, I do/ the fellow said.
“He's going to get it too done,” Sostratos grumbled. “I know he will.”
“Even if he does, you're still ahead of the game,” Menedemos answered. “It wasn't our sacrifice.”
The tavernkeeper took the meat off the fire and put the chunks on a couple of plates, which he set in front of the Rhodians. “There you go, friends. Enjoy it, now.”
Sostratos blew on his gobbet, then cut it with the knife he wore on his belt. “Gray clear through,” he complained. “I like it pink.”
Before Menedemos could answer, a skinny man tapped his elbow and said, “That's a big chunk of meat you've got there, O best one. Could you spare a bite for a hungry fellow?”
Meat from a sacrifice was supposed to be shared. Menedemos dipped his head. “Here you go, pal.” He cut off a strip and gave it to the man.
Another customer came over to Sostratos and said, “If you don't fancy the way your meat's cooked, sir, I'll help you get rid of it.”
That made Sostratos laugh. He said, “I'll bet you will,” But, as Menedemos had, he gave some to the man. They both ended up serving out about half the meat they'd brought into the tavern. At last, Menedemos got to eat some. He sighed at the luxurious taste and feel of hot fat in his mouth. If the warriors in front of Troy ate beef all the time, no wonder they were so strong, he thought.
“More wine?” the tavern-keeper asked.
“No, thanks,” Menedemos and Sostratos said together, in tones of such emphatic rejection that the tavern-keeper looked wounded. Menedemos only snorted. Either the fellow was playing for sympathy or he didn't know what slop he'd just served them. Neither possibility impressed the Rhodian, who turned to his cousin and pointed to the door. Sostratos dipped his head. They left.
As they headed toward the harbor, Sostratos said, “You weren't sharing out drakhmai the way we shared out the meat, were you?”
“No, by the gods.” Menedemos held up the leather sack Diome-don had given him. “Unopened, unslit, unplundered, still a maiden,”
“Very good,” Sostratos made as if to applaud, then gestured for Menedemos to get the money out of sight. As Menedemos lowered the sack to his side once more, Sostratos went on, “I do wonder why Polemaios was sacrificing there.”
“Of course you do, since he wouldn't say. It is an interesting question, isn't it?” Menedemos thought for a couple of paces, then suggested, “In thanks for getting here to Kos in one piece?”
“No. He would have said if it were something simple like that.” Sostratos' reply was quick and certain. “And you saw him on the ship. You saw him when he met Ptolemaios, too. He wouldn't waste a bullock on anything like running away. He had that done to him. He's a man who wants to do things himself.”
“Well. . . you're probably right,” Menedemos said. “Which leads to the next question: what does he want to do, and to whom?”
“Sure enough,” Sostratos agreed. “I'll tell you one thing, though.”
“Only one?” Menedemos said.
His cousin ignored that, continuing, “Ptolemaios is a lot more interested in the answer than we are.” Precise as usual, he checked himself: “Perhaps he's not more interested in it, but he's more concerned about it.”
“You're right,” Menedemos said. They went on down to the together.
The Gryphon's Skull Page 24