Harry Turtledove - The Gryphon's Skull

“Well, obviously, as long as we're in the country, we'll look to buy some of the crimson dye they make in the Phoenician towns,” Menedemos said.

Himilkon nodded. He'd lived in Rhodes a long time, but still didn't usually show agreement as a Hellene would. “Yes, of course,” he said. “You already know something of the qualities to look for there, for it comes west often enough. What else?”

“Balsam,” Sostratos answered. “We bought some in Knidos from a couple of Phoenician traders, and we did well with it—better than I thought we would. If we could get it straight from the source, we'd make even more.”

Before Himilkon could reply, his slave came out with wine and cups and some barley rolls and a bowl of olive oil on a wooden tray.

“Just set it down and go away,” Himilkon told him. “I don't want you snooping around.”

“Wait,” Sostratos said. “Could we have some water first, to mix with the wine?”

“Go on. Fetch it,” Himilkon told Hyssaldomos. But the Phoenician also let out a mournful cluck. “Why you Hellenes water your wine, I've never understood. It takes away half the pleasure. Would you wrap a rag around your prong before you go into a woman?”

“One of the Seven Sages said, 'Nothing too much,' “ Sostratos told him. “To us, unwatered wine seems too much, too likely to bring on drunkenness and madness.”

Himilkon's broad shoulders went up and down in a shrug. “To me, this is silly, but never mind.” He drank his wine neat, and with every sign of enjoyment. Smacking his lips, he went on, “You spoke of balsam, my master.”

Sostratos had been chewing on a roll, and answered with his mouth full: “Yes. Certainly.”

“You want the best, the balsam of Engedi?” Himilkon asked. Sostratos and Menedemos both dipped their heads. Himilkon said, “You won't get it straight from the source, not in Phoenicia you won't. Engedi lies inland, perhaps twelve or fifteen parasangs inland—you would say, let me see, about, oh, three hundred stadia.”

“Isn't that Phoenicia, too?” Menedemos asked.

“No, no, no.” Himilkon shook his head. “The Phoenician cities are along the coast. Inland, down there, is the country of the Ioudaioi. And the Ioudaioi, my friends, are very peculiar people.”

Menedemos sent Sostratos a quick glance, as if to say anyone not a Hellene was of course a peculiar person. Sostratos would not have disagreed, but didn't care to say any such thing where Himilkon could hear. What he did say was, “I don't know much about these Ioudaioi, O best one. Tell me more.”

“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?”