The Gryphon's Skull

by H. N. Turteltaub

  “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 an
d 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 . . .”

  7 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:

  “ 'Who's off to a rest from evils and affairs? Who's off to the Plain of Oblivion, or to take the fleece

  from a donkey, Or to Kerberos' crew, or to the crows, or to Tainaron?' “

  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.