Harry Turtledove - The Gryphon's Skull

“Well, no, as a matter of fact,” Sostratos said.

“Oh, but my dear fellow, you must,” the tailor said. When Sos­tratos still looked blank, the fellow let out an exasperated sigh and condescended to explain: “If we go down to Kos or men from there come hither, what's likely to happen? Antigonos' officers will say we're spying for Ptolemaios, or else the other way round, that's what. Silk's all very fine, but it's not worth a visit to the torturer.”

“I... see,” Sostratos said in a small voice. And so he did, once the Milesian pointed it out to him. This is what I get for living in a free and autonomous polis that really is both, he thought. Such things don't occur to me. These lands are subject to the marshals who rule them and if the marshals become enemies, so do the lands, no matter what most of the people want. To someone from an independent democracy, the notion was absurd. But that made it no less real hereabouts.

Silver came clinking in from one customer after another. When Sostratos saw how eager the locals were to buy, he raised the price. That didn't keep him from running low on silk before noon. He sent a couple of sailors back to the Aphrodite to bring more to the market square.

Not long after they returned, Menedemos stopped by. He looked as happy and as sated as a fox in a henhouse. “You must have spent part of your morning in a brothel,” Sostratos said. When his cousin tossed his head, alarm shot through him. “Don't tell me you found a friendly wife so quick. Remember, friendly wives have unfriendly husbands.”

“No whores, no wives—no women at all,” Menedemos answered. Seeing Sostratos' dubious expression, he went on, “I'll take oath by any god you care to name. No, I've been meeting. . . jewelers.” He leaned forward and spoke the last word in a conspiratorial whisper.

“Jewelers?” Sostratos echoed. For a moment, he couldn't imagine why Menedemos might be interested in talking with them. Then he did, and felt foolish. “Oh. The emeralds.” He also dropped his voice for the last word.

“That's right, Menedemos said. “This isn't Kos. I can sell them here without worrying about Ptolemaios. As a matter of fact, people here are all the more eager to buy just for the sake of giving Ptolemaios a black eye.”

But if Ptolemaios ruled Miletos, they would — or some of them would — inform on you for smuggling, Sostratos thought—the other side of the coin to his earlier reflections. Thinking of coins made him ask, “How much are you getting?”

“My dear, they're fighting with one another for the chance to get their hands on my little green stones,” Menedemos said. “I sold two medium-good ones—not the finest, mind you—for ten minai.”

“By the dog of Egypt!” Sostratos exclaimed—the right oath for gems coming out of Ptolemaios' realm. “That's almost twice what we paid for the lot of them.”

“I know,” Menedemos said happily. “And once the fellows who didn't buy take a look at the stones and decide they have to have some, too .. . We really may clear more than a talent from them.”

“Who can buy from the jewelers at such prices, though?” Sostratos asked, “Are there that many rich Milesians?”

“I don't think so,” his cousin answered. “But Antigonos has plenty of rich officers.”

“Ah,” Sostratos said. “That's true. And they'll have wives for whom they'll want rings or pendants—or else hetairai to whom they'll have to give presents.”

Menedemos dipped his head. “You're beginning to understand.”

At another time, his sarcastic tone would have irked Sostratos. His thoughts were elsewhere now. He wished he had a counting board, but managed well enough without one; along with his fine memory, he'd always had a knack for mental arithmetic. When he came out of his study, he found Menedemos looking at him oddly. He'd seen that particular expression on his cousin's face once or twice before. A little sheepishly, he asked, “How long was I away?”

“Not very long,” Menedemos answered, “but I said something to you and you never heard me. What were you thinking about so hard?”

“Money,” Sostratos said, a word that was enough to seize Menedemos' attention by itself. “If you can bring in a talent or so for those emeralds, and. if I keep getting the prices I've been getting for the silk, we'll turn a profit on this run yet.”

“And you would have flung me into the sea for wanting to come here instead of making straight for Athens,” Menedemos said.

“We might have done just as well for ourselves there,” Sostratos said. “We probably would have with the emeralds; Athenian jewelers have Kassandros' officers to sell to, as the Milesians have Antigonos'. And there's the gryphon's skull,”

“So there is.” To Sostratos surprise, Menedemos chuckled and patted him on the back. “I'm all finished arguing about that with you. You want to take it over to a bunch of other men who'll stand around looking at it and thinking so hard, they can't even hear.”

Sostratos kissed him on the cheek. “You do understand!” he exclaimed. Only later did he realize that his cousin's description of the philosophers of the Lykeion might have been imperfectly flattering.

Menedemos said, “I can't stay, my dear. I'm going to the ship, and then back to talk to some more jewelers. And who knows? One of them may turn out to have a pretty wife.” He hurried off before Sostratos could even begin a gasp of horror.

Swallowing a sigh, Sostratos went back to calling out the virtues of the silk he was selling. He did that on purpose, he thought. He wanted to make me jump, and he did. But he also knew that, if one of the jewelers did turn out to be married to a women whose looks Menedemos liked, he might try to seduce her. And if he does, we may have to head for Athens sooner than he wants. Sostratos tossed his head. They were doing such good business here, they really needed to stay a while. And he wanted to be able to come back to Miletos next year or the year after.

A plump man wearing a chiton of snowy linen and sandals with gold buckles came up and waited to be noticed. “Hail,” Sostratos said: the fellow looked prosperous enough to make him hope he was a customer. “Would you be interested in buying some silk?”

“ 'Ail,” the man replied, his accent not just Ionian but something else, something that told Sostratos he wasn't a Hellene. “Not for myself, no. But I 'ave come to tell you that my mistress may well be, if you 'ave what she wants.”

“Your. . , mistress?” Sostratos hoped his startlement didn't show.

Few Milesians dressed as well as this fellow; Sostratos had assumed he had money of his own. If he was someone's slave, how much money did his owner have?

“Yes, sir,” the plump man said. “My mistress is Metrikhe, who is well known in Miletos. She might be interested in your silk, if you 'ave any fine enough. For . . . professional purposes, you understand.”

“Yes,” Sostratos said. A hetaira. She has to be, he thought. And one of the very rich ones, if she can afford a slave like this. “I'll be happy to show you what I've got here.”

“Thank you, sir, but not to me.” The plump man shook his head, again proving himself no Hellene. “If you would bring it to my mis­tress' house, though ...”

Sostratos almost burst out laughing, Menedemos will be sorry he's off talking to jewelers, he thought. If he were here, he'd do anything this side of bashing me with a rock to go himself. “Yes, I'll come,” he told the slave. “Let me find some bolts that might best suit her,” As he gathered them up, he told the couple of sailors with him, “If anyone comes looking to buy, let him know I'll be back before too long.”