Harry Turtledove - The Gryphon's Skull

“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 and 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.