The Gryphon's Skull

by H. N. Turteltaub

  “Foolish people. Stubborn people. About what you'd expect from ignorant, back-country hillmen.” Himilkon sniffed and poured himself more wine, then shook his head. “And they're slightly daft— more than slightly daft—about their religion. You need to know that if you decide to go inland.”

  “Daft how?” Sostratos asked. “If I go into their country, will they want me to worship the way they do?”

  “No, no, no,” the Phoenician said again. He laughed. “But they may not want to have anything to do with you, because you don't worship the way they do. Dealing with you might cause them ritual pollution, you see. They're very prickly about that sort of thing.”

  “They sound as bad as Egyptians,” Menedemos said.

  “They're even worse,” Himilkon said. “They worship their own god, and they say nobody else's gods are real.”

  “What? Zeus isn't real?” Menedemos burst out laughing. “Oh, my dear fellow, that has to be a joke.”

  “Not to the Ioudaioi,” Himilkon said. “Not at all.”

  “That holds an obvious logical flaw,” Sostratos said. “If theirs is the only true god, why is he worshiped by one little tribe nobody ever heard of, and by nobody else in the whole wide world?”

  Himilkon shrugged once more. Menedemos said, “Well, my dear, if you deal with these strange people, I suggest you don't ask them that question. Otherwise, you won't be dealing with them long. If they're like Egyptians, they'll be touchy as all get-out about religion, and they won't care a fig for logic.”

  However much Sostratos might wish it didn't, that made good sense. “I'll remember,” he promised, and turned back to Himilkon. “What else can you tell me about these Ioudaioi?”

  “They are honest—I will say that for them,” the Phoenician answered. “This god of theirs may seem silly to everyone else, but they take him very seriously.”

  “What does he look like?” Sostratos asked. “Do they turn a crocodile or a baboon or a cat or a jackal into a god, the way the Egyptians do?”

  “No, my master—nothing of the sort, in fact.” Himilkon shook his head again. “If you can believe it, he doesn't look like anything at all. He just is—is everywhere at the same time, I suppose that means.” He laughed at the absurdity of it.

  So did Menedemos, whose ideas about religion had always been conventional. But Sostratos thoughtfully pursed his lips. Ever since Sokrates' day, philosophers had been dissatisfied with the gods as they appeared in the Iliad: lustful, quarrelsome, often foolish or cowardly—a pack of chieftains writ large. One cautious step at a time, thinkers had groped their way toward something that sounded a lot like what these Ioudaioi already had. Maybe they weren't so silly after all.

  How can I find out? he wondered, and asked Himilkon, “Do any of them speak Greek?”

  “A few may.” But Himilkon looked doubtful. “You'd do better to learn a little Aramaic, though. I could teach you myself, if you like. I wouldn't charge much.”

  Now Sostratos wore a dubious expression. His curiosity had never extended to learning foreign languages. “Maybe,” he said.

  “I know how it is with you Hellenes,” Himilkon said. “You always want everybody else to speak your tongue. You never care to pick up anybody else's. That's fine in Hellas, my friend, but there's more to the world than Hellas. Your other choice would be to hire a Greek-speaking interpreter in one of the Phoenician towns, but that would cost a lot more than learning yourself.”

  Mentioning expense was a good way to get Sostratos to think about acquiring some Aramaic on his own. “Maybe,” he said again, in a different tone of voice.

  Himilkon bowed once more. “You know I am at your service, my master.”

  After the Rhodians left the warehouse, Menedemos asked, “Do you really want to learn to go barbarbar?”

  Sostratos tossed his head. “No, not even a little bit. But I don't want to have to count on an interpreter, either.” He sighed. “We'll see.”

  Menedemos felt trapped in the andron. For once, that had nothing to do with Baukis. She was upstairs, in the women's quarters. But Philodemos' friend Xanthos shared with Medusa the ability to turn anyone close by to stone: he was petrifyingly boring. “My grandson is beginning to learn his alpha-beta,” he said now. “He's a likely little lad—looks like my wife's mother. My father-in-law liked string beans more than any man I've ever known, except maybe my great uncle. 'Give me a mess of beans and I'll be happy,' my great uncle would say. He lived to be almost eighty, though he was all blind and bent toward the end.”

  “Isn't that interesting?” Menedemos lied.

  He glanced over toward his father, hoping the older man would rescue both of them from their predicament. Xanthos was his friend, after all. But Philodemos just pointed to the krater in which the watered wine waited and said, “Would you like some more, best one?”

  “I don't mind if I do.” Xanthos used the dipper to refill his cup. Oh, no, Menedemos thought. That will only make him talk more.

  Of course, by everything he'd ever seen, Xanthos needed no help in talking as much as any three ordinary men put together. After a couple of sips of wine, he turned to Philodemos and said, “Were you in the Assembly when I spoke on the need to keep good relations with Antigonos and Ptolemaios both—and with Lysimakhos and Kassandros, too, for that matter?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I was,” Philodemos said quickly. Menedemos' father, a man of stern rectitude, seldom told lies, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and he didn't hesitate here.

  That did him little good. “I believe your son was still at sea, though,” Xanthos said. “I'm sure he'd be interested in hearing my remarks.”

  Menedemos had no idea why he was sure of any such thing. Philodemos said, “My son's met Ptolemaios. You might be interested in hearing his views.”

  He might as well have saved his breath; Xanthos was interested in no one's views but his own. He took a deep breath, getting ready to launch into his speech. Menedemos tried a different tack: “What about Seleukos, O marvelous one? You say we should stay friendly toward all the other Macedonian marshals”—which struck him as much easier to advocate than to do—”but what about Seleukos, out in the east?”

  “A very good question, young man, and you may be sure I'll address it in great detail when next the Assembly convenes,” Xanthos said. “Meanwhile—”

  Out came the speech. Resistance was futile; it only delayed the inevitable. A man can close his eyes, Menedemos thought. Why can't he close his ears, too? Being unable to do so struck him as most unfair, and ever more so as time dragged on.

  The worst part was, Xanthos expected praise once he finished. He always did, and pouted when he didn't get it. “That was . . . quite something, sir,” Menedemos managed, which saved him the trouble of saying just what.

  “Yes, well, I have some rather urgent business to attend to,” Philodemos said. For a bad moment, Menedemos feared his father would go off and leave him alone with Xanthos. He'd known he annoyed his father, but hadn't thought Philodemos hated him that much. But then Philodemos added, “And I need my boy with me.”

  Xanthos had trouble taking a hint. After another quarter-hour of platitudes, though, he did make his farewells. “Oh, by the dog of Egypt!” Menedemos exclaimed. “Doesn't he ever shut up?”

  “When he goes to bed, perhaps,” his father said.

  “I'll bet he talks in his sleep,” Menedemos said savagely. “It'd be just like him.”

  Philodemos clucked in mild reproof: “That's not a kind thing to say.” He paused, then sighed. “I'm not saying you're wrong, mind you, but it's not kind.”

  “Too bad.” Menedemos stood up and stretched. Something in his back crackled. He sighed, too, with relief. “The saddest part is, he's got no idea how dull he is.”

  “No, and don't tell him,” his father said. “He has a good heart. He's just boring. He can't help that, any more than a man can help having a taste for cabbage stew. I don't want him insulted, do you hear me?”
>
  “I won't be the one to do it,” Menedemos said with another sigh.

  “You'd better not.” But Philodemos sighed again, too. “He's dreadfully dull, isn't he?”

  Baukis walked purposefully across the courtyard—now that Xanthos was gone, she could come forth from the women's quarters. Menedemos followed her with his eyes, but didn't turn his head. He wanted to give his father no reason for suspicion, especially when he was doing his best not to deserve any. But he couldn't help noting that she disappeared into the kitchen. Uh-oh, he thought.

  Sure enough, a moment later her voice and Sikon's rose in passionate argument. “There they go again,” Menedemos said—that seemed a safe enough remark.

  “So they do.” His father dipped out a fresh cup of watered wine, which seemed to express his view of the situation.

  “You really ought to do something about that,” Menedemos said.

  “And what do you suggest?” his father retorted. “A wife is supposed to manage the household, and a cook is supposed to come up with the best suppers he can, and to the crows with money. If I side with either one of them, the other will think I'm wrong, and that will just cause more trouble. No, I'll stay off to the side. Let them settle it between themselves.”

  That made good sense. Menedemos wasn't altogether happy about admitting as much to himself. He wondered why his father couldn't give him as long a leash as he let his wife and the cook have. Whenever he thinks I'm the least little bit out of line, he slaps me down hard, he thought resentfully.

  In the kitchen, the yelling got louder. “—think you're King Midas, with all the gold in the world around you!” Baukis said.

  Sikon's reply came to Menedemos' ears in impassioned fragments: “... cheapskate . . . barley mush . . . salted fish!” The cook slammed his fist down on a counter. Baukis let out a rage-filled, wordless squeal.

  “Oh, dear,” Menedemos said. Philodemos drained that cup of wine and got himself another. He was starting to look a little bleary, which he seldom did in the afternoon. First Xanthos and now this, Menedemos thought, not without sympathy.

  A moment later, Baukis stormed back across the courtyard, her back stiff with fury. She went up the stairs. The door to the women's quarters slammed. This time, Philodemos was the one who said, “Oh, dear.”

  And, a moment after that, Sikon rushed into the andron shouting, “I can't stand it any more! Tell that woman to keep her nose out of my kitchen from here on out, or I quit!”

  “That woman happens to be my wife,” Philodemos pointed out.

  “And you can't quit,” Menedemos added. “You're a slave, in case you've forgotten.”

  By Sikon's comically astonished expression, he had forgotten. With reason, too: in the kitchen, a good cook was king. And Sikon was more than a merely good cook. He said, “The way she goes on, you'd think we were trying to scrape by on five oboloi a day. How am I supposed to do anything interesting if I'm looking over my shoulder all the time for fear I spend a khalkos too much?”

  “You've managed so far,” Philodemos said. “I'm sure you can keep right on doing it. Naturally, my wife worries about expenses. That's what wives do. You'll find a way to go on making your delicious suppers, come what may. That's what cooks do.”

  No, he never took so soft a line with me, Menedemos thought. Maybe I should have been a cook, not a trader.

  But Sikon wasn't satisfied, either. “Cooks cook, that's what they do. How can I cook when she's driving me mad?” He threw his hands in the air and stomped out of the andron. When he got back to the kitchen, he showed what he thought of the whole business by slamming the door as hard as Baukis had upstairs.

  “Well, well,” Philodemos said, a phrase Menedemos had been known to use himself. Philodemos pointed to him. “You're closer to the krater than I am, son. Is there enough wine left for another cup?”

  “Let me look.” Menedemos did, and then reached for the dipper. “As a matter of fact, there's enough left for two.” He filled one for his father, one for himself.

  “That man is so difficult,” Baukis told him a couple of days later. “He simply will not see reason. Maybe we just ought to sell him and try someone else.”

  Menedemos tossed his head. “We can't do that. People would talk—he's been in the family his whole life. And he's a very good cook, you know. I wouldn't want to lose him, and neither would my father.”

  Baukis made a sour face. “Yes, I've seen as much. Otherwise, he would have laid down the law to Sikon.” She threw her hands in the air. “What am I supposed to do? I'm not going to give up, but how can I make a proper fight of it? Maybe you have the answer, Menedemos.” She looked toward him, her eyes wide and hopeful.

  Why did she appeal to him against his father, her husband? Because she was looking for a weapon to use against Philodemos and Sikon? Or simply because the two of them weren't so far apart in years, and Philodemos' beard was gray? Whatever the reason, Menedemos knew she was giving him his chance. He'd made the most of far less with plenty of other women. Why not here, with Baukis?

  It would be easy, he thought. He bit down on the inside of his lower lip till he tasted blood. “I don't know,” he said woodenly. “I just don't know.”

  And then, to his horrified dismay, his father's wife hung her head and quietly began to cry. In a small, broken voice, she said, “Maybe he's angry with me because I haven't got pregnant yet. I've done everything I know how to do—I've prayed, I've sacrificed—but I haven't caught. Maybe that's it.”

  My father is an old man. His seed is bound to be cold. If I sow my seed in the furrow he's plowed, it would almost be doing him a favor. Menedemos sprang to his feet from the bench in the courtyard, so abruptly that Baukis blinked in surprise. “I'm sorry,” he mumbled. “I've just remembered—I've got an appointment down by the harbor. I'm late. I'm very late.”

  The lie was clumsy. Baukis had to know it was a lie. Menedemos fled the house anyway, fled as if the Kindly Ones dogged his heels. And so they might, he thought as he looked around on the street, wondering where he would really go. If I stayed on the road I was traveling there, so they might.

  He squeezed his hands into fists till his nails bit into his callused palms. Did Baukis know, did she have any idea, of the turmoil she roused in him? She'd never given any sign of it—but then, if she was a good wife, she wouldn't. Not all the seductions Menedemos tried succeeded.

  He laughed, a harsh, bitter noise having nothing to do with mirth. This is a seduction I haven't tried, curse it. This is a seduction I'm not going to try. Baukis trusted him. By all the signs, she liked him. But she was his father's wife. “I can't,” he said, as if he were choking. “I can't. And I won't.”

  All at once, he knew where he would go to keep his “appointment.” The closest brothel was only a couple of blocks away. That wasn't what he wanted, but maybe it would keep him from thinking about what he did want and—he told himself yet again—what he couldn't have.

  Sostratos gaped at Himilkon. “What?” he said. “The conjugation of a verb in Aramaic changes, depending on whether the subject is masculine or feminine? That's crazy!”

  The Phoenician shook his head. “No, best one. It's only different.” “Everything's different,” Sostratos said. “None of the words is anything like Greek. You have all these choking noises in your language.”

  “I have learned Greek,” Himilkon said. “That was as hard for me as this is for you.”

  He was bound to be right. That made Sostratos feel no better. “And did you tell me your alpha-beta has no vowels, and you write it from right to left?” Himilkon nodded. Sostratos groaned. “That's . . . very strange, too,” he said.

  “We like our aleph-bet as well as you like yours,” Himilkon told him. The Phoenician scratched his head. “Interesting how some of the letters have names that are almost the same.”

  “It's no accident,” Sostratos answered. “We Hellenes learned the art of writing from the Phoenicians who came with King Kadmos. We changed the letters to sui
t our language better, but we learned them from your folk. That's what Herodotos says, anyhow.”

  “If you changed them, you should not blame us for leaving them the way they were,” Himilkon said. “Shall we go on with the lesson now? You are doing pretty well, you really are.”

  “You're only saying that to keep me coming back.” Sostratos didn't think he was doing well at all. Aramaic seemed harder than anything he'd tried to learn at the Lykeion.

  But Himilkon said, “No, you have a good memory—I already knew that—and your ear is not bad. Anyone who hears you speak will know you for a Hellene (or at least for a foreigner, for in some of these little places they will never have heard of Hellenes), but people will be able to understand you.”

  “Will I be able to understand them, though?” Sostratos said. “Following you is even harder than speaking, I think.”

  “Do the best you can. When spring comes and you sail east, you may decide you want an interpreter after all. But even if you do, you are better off knowing some of the language. That will help keep him from cheating you.”

  “True. Very sensible, too.” Sostratos thumped his forehead with the heel of his hand, as if trying to knock in some wisdom. “Yes, let's get on with it.”

  His brain felt distinctly overloaded as he walked back up toward the northern tip of the city and his home. He was going over feminine conjugations in his mind, and so engrossed in them that he didn't notice when someone called his name.

  “Sostratos!”

  The second—or was it the third?—time, that pierced his shield of concentration. He looked up. “Oh. Hail, Damonax. Where did you spring from?”

  Damonax laughed. “Spring from? What, do you think Kadmos sowed a dragon's tooth and reaped me? Not likely, my dear. I've been walking up the street beside you for half a plethron, but you never knew it.”

  Sostratos' cheeks heated. “Oh, dear. I'm afraid I didn't. I'm sorry. I was . . . thinking about something.”