“Splendid bird,” Sostratos murmured.
“The gull didn’t think so,” Menedemos said.
“Yes, the gull hared out of there,” Sostratos replied, and his cousin made a face at the pun on laros and lagos. Sostratos smiled. As far as he was concerned, that pun welcomed him to Cyprus.
4
Menedemos looked ahead to the port approaching on his right hand. Thanks to favorable winds, they’d reached it on the second afternoon after coming to Cyprus. He pointed toward the narrow mouth of the harbor. “There’s a place with a famous name.”
“Salamis?” Sostratos answered. “Yes, my dear, I should hope so. It’s a name that means liberty for all Hellenes, a name that means Xerxes the Persian king watching from the shore as his ships were beaten.” He laughed. “The only trouble is, it’s the wrong Salamis for that.”
“Yes, I know,” Menedemos said, wondering if his cousin thought him so ignorant as not to know. “I wonder how a town in Cyprus got the same name as an island off the coast of Attica.” Then he snapped his fingers. “No, I don’t wonder. I know.”
“Tell me,” Sostratos said.
“Teukros founded this Salamis, didn’t he?” Menedemos said.
“So they say,” Sostratos answered.
“Well, then, Teukros was Telamon’s bastard, right?” Menedemos waited for his cousin to dip his head, then continued, “And who’s Telamon’s legitimate son?”
“You’re the one who knows the Iliad backwards and forwards,” Sostratos said.
“Oh, come on!” Menedemos said. “Everybody knows this one. Telamon’s son is—”
“Aias.” Sostratos supplied the right answer. Menedemos clapped his hands. Sostratos went on, “I see. I have it now. Because there are two Hellenic heroes named Aias in the Iliad, there must be two places named Salamis by the sea.”
“No, no, no!” Menedemos exclaimed. Only then did he notice the wicked gleam in his cousin’s eye. “You—you cacodaemon!” he burst out. Sostratos laughed out loud, Menedemos glared at him. “Now you’re going to hear the right answer, curse it, you scoffer, you.” Sostratos bowed, as if at a compliment. Menedemos doggedly plowed ahead: “Teukros founded this Salamis—and Alas, his half brother, was lord of the Salamis in Attica.” He quoted the Iliad:
“ ‘And Aias from Salamis led two--and--ten ships
And, having led them, placed them where the Athenians’ formations stood.’
So you see, this Salamis is named for the other one—in spite of your dreadful jokes.”
“Some people say the Athenians put those two lines into the Catalogue of Ships themselves, to justify their claim to the island of Salamis,” Sostratos said. That rocked Menedemos. To him, Homer’s poems were perfect and unchanging as they passed from one generation to the next. Adding lines for political reasons seemed as vile as adulterating barley for the sake of profit. But if people did the latter—and they did—why not the former, too? His cousin added, “Can’t fault your argument, though. If Aias was lord of Salamis and if Teukros founded this Salamis, this one is named after the other. You can think logically when you want to. If only you’d want to more often.”
Menedemos hardly noticed the gibe. He was thinking about the rest of the Iliad. Aias wasn’t associated with Menestheus of Athens anywhere but in the Catalogue of Ships, as best he could remember. His ships were sometimes mentioned as lying alongside those Protesilaos—first to land at Troy, and first to die there—had brought from Phylake, up in Thessalia. He sometimes fought in the company of the other, smaller, Aias. Except in that one passage, he had nothing to do with the Athenians.
“Filthy,” Menedemos muttered.
“What’s that?” Sostratos asked.
“Perverting the Iliad for the sake of politics.”
Sostratos’ smile looked anything but pleasant. “Shall I really disgust you?”
“How?” Menedemos asked. “Do I want to know?”
“I don’t know. Do you?” Sostratos returned. “Here’s how: there are a couple of lines in place of the ones you quoted, lines that tie Salamis to Megara, which also claimed it in the old days. But those lines don’t say how many ships Aias led to Troy, the way the Catalogue of Ships does for all the other places and heroes, so they probably aren’t genuine, either.”
“Well, what did Homer truly say, then?” Menedemos asked. “He can’t have left Aias out of the picture altogether—Aias is too great a warrior. He’s the only one among the strong--greaved Akhaioi who keeps fighting back when Hektor goes on his rampage. The poet wouldn’t—couldn’t— have just forgotten him in the Catalogue of Ships.”
His cousin shrugged. “I agree with you. That doesn’t seem likely, and both the Athenian lines and the ones from Megara are suspect. I don’t think there’s any way now to find out what Homer first sang.”
That bothered Menedemos, too. He wanted to think Homer’s words had passed inviolate from generation to generation. So much of what being a Hellene meant was contained in the Iliad and Odyssey. Of course, one of the things being a Hellene meant was carefully examining the world in which you lived. Homer’s poems were part of the world in which all Hellenes lived, and so. ... Menedemos still wished people had kept their hands and minds off them.
Musing thus, he almost took the Aphrodite right past the opening to Salamis’ harbor. It was even narrower than that leading into the Great Harbor at Rhodes, with room for no more than ten or twelve ships abreast. If he’d daydreamed any longer, he would have had to double back to go in. In the akatos, that would have drawn jeers from Sostratos and silent scorn—which might have hurt more—from Diokles. In a round ship that had to beat back against the wind, it would have been worse than merely embarrassing.
When the Aphrodite did enter the harbor, it was full of ships: big war galleys displaying Ptolemaios’ eagle, a few on lowered sails, all on banners at stern and bow; little fishing boats, some of them no more than one--man rowboats; and everything in between. “Same sort of jumble as we saw at Kos last year,” Diokles remarked.
“Even worse, I do believe,” Sostratos said. “About one merchantman in three looks like a Phoenician. I’ve never seen so many foreign--looking ships all in one place.”
“I think you’re right,” Menedemos said. Telling Phoenician ships from those sailed by Hellenes wasn’t usually a matter of lines; both folk built their vessels in much the same way. But a thousand things, from the choice of paints to the shape of the eyes the ships carried at their prows to the way the lines were coiled to the fact that Phoenician sailors stayed fully clothed even in warm weather, shouted that those vessels belonged to barbarians.
“I wonder if we seem as strange to them as they do to us,” Sostratos said.
“If we do, too bad, by the gods,” Menedemos said. “They fought for the Great King against Alexander and they lost, and they’d better get used to it.”
Diokles pointed. “There’s a mooring space, skipper.”
Menedemos wished a Phoenician ship were making for it, too. He could get there first and score his own triumph over the barbarians. As things were, he had no competition. The Aphrodite slid into the space. The rowers backed oars for a few strokes to stop her in the water, then rested on the oars and shipped them, bringing them inboard.
Sailors tossed lines to longshoremen, who made the merchant galley fast to the quay. One of the Salaminians asked, “What ship have we here? Whence come ye?”
Smiling a little at the old--fashioned Cypriot dialect, Menedemos answered, “We’re the Aphrodite, out of Rhodes.” He named himself and Sostratos.
“Gods give ye good day, O best ones,” the local said. “And what cargo bring ye hither?”
Sostratos spoke up: “We have ink and papyrus, Koan silk, Rhodian perfume, the finest olive oil from our native land, books to make the time pass by, Lykian hams, and smoked eels from Phaselis—they melt in your mouth.”
“And melt silver from you, too, I doubt not,” the Salaminian said with a longing sigh. He glanced d
own toward the base of the quay. “And now, meseems, you shall answer these same questions over again, and more besides.”
Sure enough, a soldier strode importantly toward the Aphrodite. At almost every port the past couple of years, Menedemos thought sourly, soldiers had had questions for him and Sostratos. Sometimes they belonged to Antigonos; sometimes, as now, to Ptolemaios. Who paid them didn’t matter (with so many of them mercenaries, it often didn’t matter even to them). Their attitude was always the same: that a mere merchant skipper ought to go to the closest temple to offer sacrifice in thanks that they didn’t take everything he had.
This one was an exceptionally big man, with fair skin weathered bronze and with piercing gray eyes. When he barked, “Who are you?” he proved to have his own accent, very different from that of the longshoreman. If he wasn’t a Macedonian, Menedemos had never heard one.
“We’re the Aphrodite, out of Rhodes,” Menedemos answered, as he had before. Then, because he couldn’t resist, he added, “And who are you?”
“I’m Kleob—” The Macedonian, probably Kleoboulos, caught himself. “I ask the questions!” he roared. “Have you got that? It’s none of your gods--detested business who I am. Have you got that}”
Sostratos clucked reproachfully, as Menedemos had been sure he would. He had a point, too. Getting smart with Macedonians wasn’t the wisest thing Menedemos might have done.
“Have you got that?” the officer shouted again.
“Yes, O marvelous one,” Menedemos said.
Sostratos clucked again. But the Macedonian, as Menedemos had hoped, took irony for frightened politeness. “That’s better,” he growled. “Now tell me your cargo, and no more back talk.” Menedemos let Sostratos do that. After his cousin had gone down the list, the officer ran a hand through his gray--streaked auburn hair. “Books? Who’s going to buy books?”
“People who like to read?” Sostratos suggested.
The Macedonian tossed his head. Plainly, the idea was alien to him. He shrugged and found another question: “Where are you bound?”
“Phoenicia,” Menedemos answered unwillingly. “We’re going to trade for scarlet dye and balsam and whatever else we can find.”
“Are you?” Those gray eyes went hard and predatory. “Or are you here spying for Antigonos the Cyclops?”
“By the gods!” Menedemos exclaimed. “Last year we did a service for Ptolemaios, and now his servant calls us spies. I like that!”
“A service? What sort of service? His laundry? Did you fetch him a clean chiton or two?” the officer jeered. “Or did you bend over and give him a different kind of service? You’re pretty enough; he might’ve enjoyed that. And so might you.”
Accusing a free adult male Hellene of playing the boy for another man was one of the nastier insults someone could hurl. Menedemos steamed. His hands balled into fists, “Easy,” Sostratos murmured.
“Easy? I’ll tell him to—” But Menedemos caught himself. In Rhodes, he could have told the Macedonian anything he pleased. Not here. Cyprian Salamis was Ptolemaios’ city. One of the lord of Egypt’s officers carried far more weight than a merchant skipper from a distant polis. Mastering himself wasn’t easy, but Menedemos did it. “No, sir,” he told the Macedonian in the iciest tones he could summon. “Last year, he brought Polemaios son of Polemaios from Khalkis on the island of Euboia to Ptolemaios, who was then staying at the city of Kos, on the island of the same name.”
The officer gaped. Whatever answer he’d expected, that wasn’t it. He tried to rally: “A likely story. What did he pay you for it?”
“One talent of silver, of his own weight,” Sostratos answered. “I have it listed in the accounts here. Would you care to examine them?”
“No,” the Macedonian growled. He spun on his heel and clumped back up the pier, scarlet cape billowing around him.
“Euge!” Menedemos said. “But tell me, why on earth have you brought last year’s accounts along?” His cousin was mad for keeping every little detail straight, but that seemed excessive even for him.
Sostratos grinned. “Oh, I haven’t. But, by the way he laughed at the idea that anyone might want to buy a book, I guessed he probably didn’t have his letters. And that turned out to be right.”
“That’s sly, young sir,” Diokles said admiringly. “That’s mighty sly.”
“It seemed reasonable,” Sostratos answered, shrugging. “But I want to say euge to my cousin. When that Macedonian oaf reviled him, he didn’t lose his temper. He stayed calm, and the Macedonian ended up playing the fool.”
Menedemos wasn’t—emphatically wasn’t—used to praise from Sostratos. His cousin was more apt to call him things like a thick--skulled bonehead who thought with his prick. He was used to that. This, though . . . “Thank you very much, my dear,” he said. “Are you sure you’re well?”
“Quite sure, thanks,” Sostratos answered. “And I think—though I can’t be so sure—you may be starting to grow up at last.”
“Me?” Menedemos tossed his head. “It’s not likely, let me tell you.”
“I don’t know,” Sostratos said. “My guess is, a couple of years ago you would have called him something filthy you got out of Aristophanes, and that would have spilled the perfume into the soup.”
Menedemos thought it over. Much as he would have liked to, he couldn’t deny it. Now he shrugged. “I didn’t, and that’s all there is to it. Now maybe these cistern--arsed titty--gropers will leave us alone and let us get some business done.”
“Er—yes,” Sostratos said. “More Aristophanes?”
“Of course, my dear,” Menedemos answered. “Only the best.”
When Sostratos and Menedemos walked into Salamis’ market square the next morning, Sostratos stopped, stared in delight, and pointed. “Look!” he exclaimed. “Phoenicians! Lots of Phoenicians!” Sure enough, many of the men in the agora were swarthy and hook--nosed, and wore long robes despite what promised to be a warm day. The harsh gutturals of their language mixed with the rhythmic rise and fall of Greek.
Sostratos’ cousin laughed at him. “Well, of course there are lots of Phoenicians here, my dear,” Menedemos said. “We’re close to the Phoenician coast, there are Phoenician towns on Cyprus, and all those Phoenician ships in the harbor didn’t get here without sailors and merchants in ‘em.”
“No, of course not,” Sostratos said. “But now I get to find out if they understand my Aramaic—and I understand theirs. I thought we’d run into more of them in Lykia and Pamphylia and Kilikia, but”—he shrugged—”we didn’t.”
“It’s the war,” Menedemos said. “Antigonos rules Phoenicia, but Ptolemaios just took the southern coast of Anatolia away from him. The Phoenicians are probably nervous about going there.”
“Maybe—but maybe not, too,” Sostratos said. “Ptolemaios also holds Cyprus, so why don’t the Phoenicians stay away from Salamis?”
“For one thing, like I said, Kition and some other Phoenician cities are here on Cyprus, and Ptolemaios holds them, too,” Menedemos answered. “For another, he’s held Cyprus longer, so things here have settled down. And, for a third, if Phoenicians don’t come here, they don’t come anywhere. “
Since he was manifestly right, Sostratos didn’t argue with him. Instead, he went up to the closest Phoenician merchant, a fellow who’d set up a stand with jars of crimson dye. “Good day, my master,” Sostratos said in Aramaic, his heart thumping nervously. “Would you tell your servant what city you are from?” Speaking Greek, he wouldn’t have cared to sound so submissive even to a Macedonian marshal. But Aramaic, as he’d discovered to his frequent dismay, did things differently.
The Phoenician blinked, then showed white, white teeth in an enormous grin. “An Ionian who speaks my language!” he said; in Aramaic, all Hellenes were Ionians. “And may I go through the fire if you didn’t learn it from a man of Byblos. Am I right, my master, or am I wrong?”
“From a man of Byblos, yes.” Sostratos had all he could do not to dance with
delight. This fellow had followed his Aramaic, and he’d understood the reply.
That grin got wider yet. “Your servant is from Sidon,” the Phoenician said, bowing. “I am called Abibaal son of Eshmunhillek. And how does my master call himself?”
Sostratos gave his own name, and that of his father. He also introduced Menedemos, adding, “He speaks no Aramaic.”
“That is only a small thing,” Abibaal replied. He bowed to Menedemos as he had to Sostratos and said, “Hail, my master,” in good Greek.
“Hail,” Menedemos replied. He chuckled and poked Sostratos in the ribs with an elbow. “See? He knows Greek.”
“Yes, he does,” Sostratos said patiently. “But before long we’ll be getting to places where people don’t.”
“Would you rather go on in Greek?” Abibaal asked in that language.
“No,” Sostratos said in Aramaic, and tossed his head. “I want to use your speech, please.”
Abibaal gave him another bow. “It shall be as you desire in all ways, of course. Would your heart be gladdened to think on the many fine qualities of the crimson dye I have here? “ He patted one of the jars on his little display.
“I do not know,” Sostratos answered: a useful phrase. He paused to think, then went on, “How much more charge you here than in Sidon?”
That made Abibaal blink and then laugh. “Eshmun smite me if my master is not a merchant himself.”
“Yes.” Sostratos dipped his head. Then he remembered to nod instead. It felt most unnatural. “Please answer your servant’s question, if you would be so generous.”
“Surely, sir, you know a man must make a profit to live, and—”
“Yes, yes,” Sostratos said impatiently. “You must make a profit, but I must make a profit, too.” He pointed first to the Sidonian, then to himself, to make sure he was understood.
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