Harry Turtledove - The Gryphon's Skull

“That's right,” Menedemos answered. “We just fetched Antigonos' nephew here from Euboia.” Sostratos raised a finger to his lips as they followed Nikomakhos into the courtyard, but Menedemos shrugged and tossed his head. That Polemaios was here wouldn't stay secret, not when he'd tramped through the polis on his way to the ruler of Egypt's residence; Ptolemaios himself had known as much. Why not take credit for bringing him, then?

Nikomakhos whistled. “Old One-Eye over on the mainland won't like that a bit. Of course, 'e won't like anything Ptolemaios 'as done to him this campaigning season. The andron's over this way.” He turned left.

In the middle of the courtyard stood a bent, skinny old man with a bald head, a bushy white beard, and the angriest glare Menedemos had seen this side of an eagle—Ibanollis, without a doubt. The slave looked daggers at him and Sostratos. Menedemos wondered why he seemed so hateful. Did he think they would cheat his master? Or was he just angry because he'd had to answer the door? Probably-better not to know, Menedemos thought. Sostratos didn't ask any questions, either.

A clean-shaven young man—younger than the two Rhodians— joined Nikomakhos in the andron. “This is my son, Pleistarkhos,” the wine merchant said. “I'm teaching 'im the business, same as your fathers were doing with you not too long ago. Tell me what I can do for you, and I will if I can,”

“We drank some of your wine at Ptolemaios',” Menedemos replied. “We liked it enough that Sostratos got your name from his steward. If we can make a deal, we'd like to buy some to take aboard our akatos.”

“A merchant galley, eh? Then you'll want the best,” Nikomakhos said. Menedemos dipped his head. In an aside to his son, Nikomakhos went on, “Akatoi can't carry much. They make money selling top-of-the-line goods to the folk ‘oo can afford to buy them. There was one last year—remember?—came into the 'arbor with peacocks aboard, of all the crazy things. Bound for Italy, they were, to make the most they could.”

“That was our ship, as a matter of fact,” Sostratos said.

“Is that so?” Nikomakhos exclaimed. Both Rhodians dipped their heads. “And did you do well with 'em?” the wine merchant asked.

“We did splendidly.” Menedemos would have boasted even if he were lying. That was how the game was played. He would have sounded sincere, too, every bit as sincere as he did while telling the truth.

“Well, good for you,” the Koan said. “And now it's wine, is it?”

“Fine wine.” Menedemos turned to Pleistarkhos. “Your father's right. We carry the best. Last year, we had Ariousian from Khios. It cost us a lot, but we made a profit from it. Everybody around the Inner Sea makes wine, but most of it's pretty nasty stuff. When you've got something that isn't, people will pay for it.”

“Ariousian's first-rate,” Nikomakhos agreed. “I'd like to say that what I make is just as good, but you'd call me a liar to my face. Still and all, though, I'm not ashamed of it.” He eyed Menedemos. “You can't think it's too bad, either, or you wouldn't be 'ere.”

Menedemos grinned at him. “I told you, it was Sostratos' idea.”

“It's good wine,” Sostratos said. “I'd like to get some—if we can afford it.”

Nikomakhos' eyes glinted. “You're not poor men to begin with, or you wouldn't be in the trade you're in. And if you tell me Ptolemaios didn't pay you well to bring Antignnos' nephew 'ere, I'll be the one calling you a couple of liars.”

“What you say may be true, my friend, but that doesn't mean we can throw our money away, either,” Menedemos said. “We couldn't stay in business if we did. And even if I wanted to, my cousin would beat me.” He pointed to Sostratos. “He doesn't look it, but he's terribly fierce.”

Sostratos didn't look fierce. He did look annoyed. He didn't like being twitted. Menedemos didn't let that worry him, not when he was getting a dicker going. Pleistarkhos took Menedemos literally, and eyed Sostratos with a wary respect he hadn't shown before. Nikomakhos seemed more amused than anything else.

“Can't 'ave any beatings,” he said. “Well, what do you suppose a fair price would be?” Then he raised a hand. “No, don't answer that. Why don't you taste some first?” He called for a slave—not the bad-tempered Ibanollis—and told him to bring back samples, and some bread and oil to go with them.

The wine was as sweet and strong as it had been in Ptolemaios' andron. It wasn't the magnificent golden Anousian, but what was? After a few sips, Menedemos said, “I can see how you might get four or five drakhmai for an amphora.”

“Four or five?” Pleistarkhos turned red. “That's an insult!”

His father tossed his head. “No it isn't, son. It's just an opening offer. 'E knows it's worth three times that much, but 'e can't come out and say so.”

“It's a good wine,” Sostratos said. “It's not worth three times what my cousin offered. If you think it is—good luck finding buyers at that price.”

“We can do it,” Pleistarkhos said.

“Maybe so, but we won't be among them,” Menedemos said. “That's the kind of money we paid for the Ariousian last year. This is good, but it isn't that good.”

They haggled for most of the morning. Nikomakhos came down to ten drakhmai the amphora; Menedemos and Sostratos went up as high as eight. And there they stuck. “I'm sorry, my friends, but I don't see 'ow I can sell for any less,” Nikomakhos said.

Menedemos glanced at Sostratos. Unobtrusively, his cousin tossed his head. That fit in with Menedemos' view of things. “I'm sorry, too,” he told the Koan. “I don't think we could show a profit if I went higher. If we were heading off to Italy again, I might take the chance, but not for the towns round the Aegean. If ten's really as low as you'll go . . .”

Very often, a threat like that would make the other side see things your way. This time, Nikomakhos sighed and said, “I'm afraid it is.” He turned to his son. “Sometimes the best bargain is the one you don't make.”

“That's true.” Menedemos got to his feet. So did Sostratos. Menedemos dipped his head to Nikomakhos. “A pleasure to have met you, best one. We often come by Kos. Maybe we'll try again another time.”

Ibanollis the Karian slave was still standing in the courtyard when Menedemos and Sostratos headed for the door. With his dour expression and forward-thrusting posture, he reminded Menedemos oi a frowzy old stork perched on a rooftop. “Waste of time,” he croaked to the Rhodians as they left. Had he stood on one leg, the resemblance would have been perfect.

“Lovely fellow,” Menedemos remarked once they were out on the street.

“Isn't he just?” But Sostratos sounded embittered, not amused. He explained why a moment later: “However charming he is, he was right. We did waste our time, and we could have been—”

“Twiddling our thumbs aboard the Aphrodite ,” Menedemos broke in. “You were going to say 'heading for Athens,' weren't you? But you're wrong. We couldn't have sailed this morning anyhow, not unless we wanted to break our promise to the crew, remember? And that was your idea, too.”

“Oh,” Sostratos said in a small voice. “That's right.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. I don't feel so bad now about getting Nikomakhos' name from Ptolemaios' steward.”

They walked along toward the harbor. After a while, Menedemos said, “I've been thinking.”

“Euge,” Sostratos replied, his tone suggesting he was offering the praise because Menedemos didn't do it very often.

Refusing to rise to the bait, Menedemos went on, “I was thinking about the best way to get to Athens from here,”