“Help you gents?” the potter asked. He was a man of about fifty, balding, with what was left of his hair and his beard quite gray. Except for the beard, he looked like an older version of Aristeidas.
To be sure, Menedemos asked, “Are you Aristaion son of Aristeas?”
“That’s me,” the man replied. “I’m afraid you’ve got the edge on me, though, best one, for I don’t know you or your friend.” Menedemos and Sostratos introduced themselves. Aristaion’s work-worn face lit up. “Oh, of course! Aristeidas’ captain and toikharkhos! By the gods, my boy tells me more stories about the two of you and your doings! I didn’t know the Aphrodite’d got home this year, for you’ve beaten him back here.”
Menedemos winced. This was going to be even harder than he’d feared. He said, “I’m afraid that’s why we’ve come now, most noble one.” Sostratos dipped his head.
“I don’t understand,” Aristaion said. But then, suddenly, his eyes filled with fear. He flinched, as if Menedemos had threatened him with a weapon. “Or are you going to tell me something’s happened to Aristeidas?”
“I’m sorry,” Menedemos said miserably. “He was killed by robbers in Ioudaia. My cousin was with him when it happened. He’ll tell you more.”
Sostratos told the story of the fight with the Ioudaian bandits. For the benefit of Aristeidas’ father, he changed it a little, saying the sailor had taken a spear in the chest, not the belly, and died at once: “I’m sure he felt no pain.” He said not a word about cutting Aristeidas’ throat, but finished, “We all miss him very much, both for his keen eyes—he was the man who spotted the bandits coming after us—and for the fine man he was. I wish with all my heart it could have been otherwise. He fought bravely, and his wound was at the front.” That was undoubtedly true.
Aristaion listened without a word. He blinked a couple of times. He heard what Sostratos said, but as yet it meant nothing. Menedemos set a leather sack on the counter. “Here is his pay, sir, for the whole journey he took with us. I know it can never replace Aristeidas, but it is what we can do.”
Like a man still half in a dream, Aristaion tossed his head. “No, that’s not right,” he said. “You must take out whatever silver he’d already drawn—otherwise you unjustly deprive yourselves.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Menedemos said. “For one thing, he drew very little—as you’ll know, he saved his silver. And, for another, this is the least we can do to show what we thought of your son.”
“When he died, everyone on the Aphrodite was heartbroken,” Sostratos added, and that was nothing but the truth, too.
When he died. Aristaion finally seemed not only to hear but to believe. He let out a low-voiced moan, then reached under the counter and brought out a knife. Grunting with effort and with pain, he used it to haggle off a mourning lock. The gray hair lay on the counter. Menedemos took the knife and added a lock of his own hair. So did Sostratos; the lock he’d cut off in loudaia was beginning to grow out again. He sacrificed another without hesitation.
“He was my only boy that lived,” Aristaion said in a faraway voice. “I had two others, but they both died young. I hoped he’d take this place after me. Maybe he would have in the end, but he always wanted to go to sea. What am I going to do now? By the gods, O best ones, what am I going to do now?”
Menedemos had no answer for that. He looked to Sostratos. His cousin stood there biting his lip, not far from tears. Plainly, he had no answer, either. For some things, there were no answers.
“I mourned my father,” Aristaion said. “That was hard, but it’s part of the natural order of things when a son mourns a father. When a father has to mourn a son, though ... I would rather have died myself, you know.” The sun glinted off the tears sliding down his cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” Menedemos whispered, and Sostratos dipped his head. No, for some things there were no answers at all.
“Thank you, gentlemen, for bringing me the news,” Aristaion said with haggard dignity. “Will you drink wine with me?”
“Of course,” said Menedemos, who wanted nothing more than to get away. Again, Sostratos dipped his head without speaking. If anything, he probably wanted to escape even more than Menedemos did. But this was part of what needed doing.
“Wait, then,” Aristaion said, and ducked back into the part of the building where he lived. He came out a moment later with a tray with water, wine, a mixing bowl, and three cups. He must have made the bowl and the cups himself, for they looked very much like the pots he was selling. After mixing the wine, he poured for Menedemos and Sostratos, then poured a small libation onto the ground at his feet. The two cousins imitated him. Aristaion lifted his cup. “For Aristeidas,” he said.
“For Aristeidas,” Menedemos echoed.
“For Aristeidas,” Sostratos said. “If he hadn’t spotted the bandits coming, we all might have died there in Ioudaia—and other times before that, out on the sea. He was a good man to have on our ship, and I’ll miss him. Everyone who sailed with him will miss him.”
“Thank you kindly, young sir. You’re generous, to say such a thing.” Aristaion raised the cup to his lips and drank. Menedemos and Sostratos also drank to their shipmate’s memory. The wine was better than Menedemos would have expected it to be. Like the ware Aristaion made, it suggested the best taste not a great deal of money could buy.
“I wonder why these things happen,” Sostratos said, “why good men die young while those who are not so good live on and on.” Menedemos knew he was thinking about Teleutas. His cousin took another sip of wine, then continued, “Men who love wisdom have always wondered such things.”
“It was the will of the gods,” Aristaion said. “In front of Troy, Akhilleus had a short life, too, but people still sing about him even now.” He murmured the opening of the Iliad: “‘Rage!—Sing, goddess, of Akhilleus’... .’“
Sostratos had often wrangled with Menedemos about whether the Iliad and Odyssey deserved to hold their central place in Hellenic life. He wasn’t always the most tactful of men; there were times, especially in what he saw as pursuit of the truth, when he was among the least tactful. Menedemos got ready to kick him in the ankle if he wanted to argue philosophy today. But he only dipped his head once more and murmured, “Just so, most noble one. Nor will Aristeidas be forgotten, so long as any one of us who knew him still lives.”
Menedemos took a long pull at his own wine. He silently mouthed, “Euge,” at Sostratos. His cousin only shrugged a tiny shrug, as if to say he hadn’t done anything worth praise. He’d remembered the occasion. To Menedemos, that was plenty. Only later did he wonder whether that was unfair to Sostratos.
The two of them let Aristaion fill their cups again. Then they made their farewells. “Thank you both again, young sirs, for coming and telling me . . . telling me what had to be told,” Aristeidas’ father said.
“It was the least we could do,” Menedemos said. “We wish we didn’t have to do it, that’s all.”
“Yes,” Sostratos said softly. By the distant look in his eyes, he was back among those Ioudaian boulders again. “Oh, yes.”
They gave Aristaion their sympathies one last time and left the potter’s shop. They hadn’t gone far before a woman started to shriek behind them. Wincing, Menedemos said, “Aristaion must have told his wife.”
“Yes,” Sostratos agreed. They walked on for a few more paces before he went on, “Let’s go back to your house or mine and get drunk, shall we? There’s nothing more we really have to do today, is there?”
“Nothing that won’t keep.” Menedemos put an arm around Sostratos’ shoulder. “That’s a good idea—the best one you’ve had all day, I’m sure.”
“Will we think so in the morning?” Sostratos asked.
Menedemos shrugged. “That will be in the morning. We’ll worry about it then.”
Sostratos opened his eyes and wished he hadn’t. The early-morning sunlight leaking in through the shutters pained him. His head hurt. His bladder seemed about to
burst. He reached under the bed and found the chamber pot. After easing himself, he went to the window, opened the shutters, called, “Coming out!” to warn anyone walking by below, and flung the contents of the pot into the street.
Then, still moving slowly, he went downstairs and sat down in the cool, shadowed courtyard. A few minutes later, Threissa, the family’s redheaded Thracian slave girl, poked her snub nose into the courtyard. Sostratos waved to her. He saw her wondering if she could get away with pretending not to see and deciding she couldn’t. She came over to him. “What do you want, young master?” she asked in accented Greek.
Every so often, he took her to bed. She put up with that rather than enjoying it, one reason he didn’t do it more. It wasn’t what he had in mind now. He said, “Fetch me a cup of well-watered wine and a chunk of bread to go with it.”
Relief flowered on her face. “I do that,” she said, and hurried away. Some requests she minded much less than others. Sostratos didn’t even eye her backside as she went off to the kitchen, proof he’d drunk too much the day before. She soon returned with the wine and a barley roll. “Here you is. Roll just baked.”
Sure enough, it was still warm from the oven. “Thanks,” Sostratos said. He made as if to push her away. “Go on. I’m sure you’ve got plenty to do.” She nodded and left him by himself. He took a bite from the roll. It was nice and bland, just what his stomach needed. He sipped the wine, a little at a time. Bit by bit, his headache eased.
He’d almost finished breakfast when his father came downstairs. “Hail,” Lysistratos called. “How are you?”
“Better now than when I first got up,” Sostratos answered. “The wine helped.”
“Pity it’s not springtime,” Lysistratos said. “Raw cabbage is good for a thick head, but this is the wrong season.” He walked over and sat down beside his son. “I understand why you and Menedemos did what you did. Losing a man is hard. Sometimes telling his family he’s gone is even harder.”
“Yes.” Sostratos dipped his head. “His father was such a gentleman— and then, as we were leaving, his mother began to wail. ...” He grabbed the winecup and gulped the last couple of swallows.
“A bad business. A very bad business.” Lysistratos hesitated, then went on, “I hear you made something of a hero of yourself in the same fight.”
With a shrug, Sostratos said, “My archery isn’t hopeless. I should have shot more of the bandits, though. If I had, we wouldn’t have had to pay a call on Aristaion yesterday.” He wished he had more wine. What he’d already drunk had taken the edge off his headache, but another cup might take the edge off his thoughts. He looked around for Threissa, then decided it was just as well he didn’t see her. A man who started pouring it down early in the morning wouldn’t be worth much as the day wore along.
Lysistratos said, “What do you plan on doing today?”
“I’ll go over to see Damonax and settle accounts with him,” Sostratos answered. “The olive oil worked out better than I expected, but I’m not going to fill the Aphrodite up with it if we go to Athens next spring. That would be like taking crimson dye to Phoenicia. If he can’t see as much for himself, I’ll make it as plain as I have to.”
“I understand.” His father smiled. “I don’t think you’ll have to beat him about the head and shoulders, or anything of the sort. Uncle Philodemos and I made it plain to him that he pushed his luck this past spring. We let him get away with it once because of his own family’s debts, but we’re not going to let him be a permanent anchor weighing down our family’s profits.”
“Euge!” Sostratos said. “How did he take that?”
“Pretty well,” Lysistratos replied. “He is a charming fellow, no two ways about it.”
“Yes, but especially when he’s getting his way,” Sostratos said, which made his father laugh. He went on, “I hope I see Erinna when I’m there. Is she happy with Damonax?”
“She seems to be,” Lysistratos said. “And did you hear last night? She’s going to have a baby in a few months.”
Sostratos tossed his head. “No, I didn’t. That’s wonderful news! I know how much she wants a family.” He hesitated, then asked, “If it happens to be a girl, will they keep it or expose it?”
“I don’t know,” his father said. “I hope they’d keep it, but that’s Damonax’s choice, not mine.” He looked troubled. “It would be hard, very hard, for your sister finally to give birth and then to lose the baby.”
“I know. That’s just what I was thinking,” Sostratos said. But his father was right. That wasn’t anything where the two of them had a say. He ate the last bit of barley roll, then got to his feet. “I’ll head over there now. I’ve got the figures written down on a scrap of papyrus. With a little luck, I’ll catch Damonax before he’s gone to the agora or the gymnasion. Farewell, Father.”
“Farewell.” Lysistratos got up, too, and clapped him on the back. “You did very well in Phoenicia—on the whole voyage, from all I’ve heard. Don’t be too hard on yourself because you weren’t perfect. Perfection is for the gods.”
Everyone told Sostratos the same thing. He’d told it to himself a good many times, too. That he had to keep telling it to himself showed he still didn’t believe it. He wondered if he ever would. Shrugging, he headed for the door.
Damonax’s house lay in the western part of Rhodes, not far from the gymnasion. It was far larger and finer than Aristaion’s, and presented only a whitewashed wall and doorway to the outside world. Damonax, who made his money from lands outside the polis, didn’t need a shop at the front.
Munching on some raisins he’d bought from a street peddler, Sostratos knocked on the door. He remembered coming here during Erinna’s wedding celebration and, before that, when he’d shown Damonax the gryphon’s skull. He sighed. If he’d taken six minai of silver from the man who would become his brother-in-law, the pirates in the strait between Euboia and Andros wouldn’t have had the chance to steal the skull.
He knocked again. “I’m coming!” a slave shouted in good Greek. A moment later, the fellow opened a little barred shutter set into the door at eye level and peered out. “Oh, hail, Master Sostratos,” he said, and opened the door itself. “Come in, sir. The master will be glad to see you.”
“Thank you,” Sostratos said. “I hope Damonax is well? And my sister, too? I hear from my father she’s expecting a baby?”
“Yes, that’s right,” the slave answered. “They’re both as well as anyone could hope. Here, sir, it’s a nice day. Why don’t you sit down on this bench in the courtyard? I’ll let Damonax know you’re here.” He raised his voice to a shout: “Master! Erinna’s brother is back from overseas!”
Erinna’s brother, Sostratos thought with wry amusement. That was probably how he’d be known here for the rest of his life. Well, fair enough. He perched on the bench the slave had suggested and looked around. The first things his eye lit upon were the flowerbed and herb garden in the courtyard. He smiled. They looked much more like those back at his family’s house than they had the last time he was here. Erinna was an enthusiastic gardener and was making her mark felt.
The slave came back to him. “He’ll be here in just a bit. Would you like some wine, sir, and some almonds or olives?”
“Almonds, please,” Sostratos answered. “Thanks very much.”
Damonax and the slave returning with the snack came into the courtyard at the same time. Sostratos rose and clasped his brother-in-law’s hand. “Hail,” Damonax said with a smile that showed off his white teeth. He was as handsome and well groomed as ever; he’d rubbed a scented oil into his skin so that he smelled sweet. Had it been a little stronger, it would have been annoying. As things were, it just marked him as a man who enjoyed fine things.
“Hail,” Sostratos echoed. “And congratulations.”
“I thank you very much.” Damonax’s smile got broader. He sounded pleased and reasonably contented with life and with his marriage. Sostratos hoped he was. That would be likely to mean Er
inna was contented, too. “Do sit down again, best one. Make yourself at home.”
“Kind of you,” Sostratos said. The slave served the two of them and withdrew. Sostratos ate an almond. He inclined his head to Damonax. “Roasted with garlic. Tasty.”
“I’m fond of them that way. Glad you like them, too,” his brother-in-law replied. He made polite small talk; his manners had always been almost too perfect. Only after a quarter hour of chitchat and gossip about what had gone on in Rhodes while Sostratos was away did Damonax begin to come to the point: “I hope your voyage was successful and profitable?”
“We’ll end up doing quite well for ourselves, I think,” Sostratos said, “though much of what we bought—balsam and crimson dye and the Byblian, especially—we’ll have to resell before we can realize the profit I’m sure we’ll make.”
“I understand,” Damonax said. “I trust my oil was well received?” He was tense but trying hard not to show it. Here was the meat of the business, sure enough.
“The quality was good,” Sostratos answered. “We sold most of it in Sidon. Here is what we made for it.” He took out the scrap of papyrus on which he’d worked out just how much silver the olive oil had earned.
When Damonax saw the number at the bottom, his face lit up. “But this is wonderful!” he exclaimed. “It’s quite a bit more than I expected. I’ll be able to pay off a good many debts.”
“I’m glad to hear it, best one,” Sostratos said. “Even so, though, as I hear my father and uncle told you, I don’t expect we’ll want another cargo of olive oil when we go out next spring. I’m letting you know now, so you can’t say we’re pulling a surprise on you then.”
“But why not, when you did so well?” his brother-in-law said. “You made money with it.”
Sacred Land Page 42