Harry Turtledove - The Gryphon's Skull

“Right you are,” one of them said. With a grin, he added, “Tough bit of work you've got ahead of you, sounds like.”

“Doesn't it, though?” Sostratos answered, deadpan. He turned to the slave. “I'm ready. Take me to your mistress.”

As in most poleis, the houses of the rich and poor lay side by side, and it wasn't easy to tell which was which from the outside: the rich hid their wealth behind their walls. When the slave stopped and said, “ 'Ere we are,” Sostratos saw that the house was whitewashed and had a very solid-looking door. Both suggested money; neither proved it.

Another slave opened the door when the fellow with Sostratos knocked. “Come with me, sir,” he told Sostratos, and led him to the andron. Again, Sostratos held in amusement, thinking, In a hetaira's house, is this still the men's chamber? And if it is, what exactly does that mean?

The chairs and tables in the andron were well made. The courtyard at which Sostratos looked out also suggested quiet prosperity, with a colonnade around its outer edge, a neat flower garden surrounding a fountain, and a nearly life-sized statue of a goddess likelier to be Artemis than Aphrodite. Sostratos would have expected something gaudier and bawdier.

One of the slaves brought him wine and olives. The first taste of the wine made his eyebrows shoot up. He knew Ariousian, the finest vintage from Khios; the Aphrodite had carried it to Great Hellas the year before. If Metrikhe could afford it, she was more than prosper­ous. The tangy green olives were also very fine, plainly from the first picking.

Metrikhe gave Sostratos just long enough to refresh himself before coming to the andron. Maybe she had a slave keeping an eye on him; maybe she simply knew how long a man would need. At any rate, he'd just set down his empty cup when she paused in the doorway and said, “ 'Ail. You are the silk-seller?”

“Hail. Yes, that's right.” As Sostratos gave his name, he eyed Me­trikhe. No one could have proved her a hetaira by the way she dressed. Indeed, she seemed the height of respectability. Over her long chiton, she wore a wrap of fine, soft wool; Miletos was famous for the quality of its khlaneis. She even veiled herself against his eyes. How disappointing, he thought.

What was in his mind must have shown on his face, for she chuck­led. “Were you expecting to see me in something where you could see all of me?” she asked as she walked in and sat down. She moved with a dancer's grace.

Sostratos' ears heated. “I did . . . wonder,” he mumbled, that seem­ing a safer word than hope.

“I can't say I'm surprised.” Metrikhe tossed her head, a startlingly emphatic gesture. “But no. I don't show myself unless it's time to show myself. That makes it mean more when I do.”

“Ah.” Sostratos took the point at once, “I see. Each craft has its own mysteries. Plainly, you know yours.”

“I 'ad better,” she answered, and cocked his head to one side, studying him for a few heartbeats. “You're not a fool, are you?”

“I do try not to be.” Sostratos smiled. “Of course, I understand that you want men to be fools around you, and I'm sure you know how to get just what you want.” His cousin was far fonder of quoting Homer than he was, but a few lines from the Odyssey seemed to fit:

“ 'They stood in the bright-tressed goddess' doorway

And listened to Kirke inside singing with her beautiful voice

While working at a great loom fit for a divinity, such as goddesses have

And turning out delicately woven work, pleasing and fine.' “

Metrikhe studied him again, this time, he thought, more sharply. An edge in her voice, she said, “I don't turn men into swine.”

He didn't want to antagonize her. That might cost him a sale even before they started haggling. He picked his words with care; “I wouldn't think you'd need to. Isn't it true that a lot of men are swine before they stand in your doorway?”

“You are a man. 'Ow do you know these things?” She sounded half astonished, half suspicious.

How do I know? Sostratos wondered. He knew what happened to women when cities fell. In his student days in Athens, he'd gone to the theater for several revivals of Euripides, including The Trojan Women. And he worried about Menedemos whenever the Aphrodite came into a new port. How much of that could he tell a stranger? None, he decided. And so he simply shrugged and said, “Am I wrong?”

“No, by Zeus,” the hetaira answered. “Be thankful you don't know 'ow right you are.” Perhaps still taken aback by what he'd said, she dipped up a cup of wine for herself. She had to push aside the veils to drink. Sostratos didn't know what he'd expected—hard, dazzling beauty, most likely. He didn't find that; she was pretty, but not ravishing, and younger than he would have guessed from her voice: about his own age. She knew he was looking, of course. She smiled as she let the veiling drop back into place, “What do you think?”

He chose another line from the Odyssey. “ 'Nausikaa, having loveliness from the gods . . .' “ and then finished with his own invention, improvising the end of a hexameter: “... chose to look at silk.”

Metrikhe clapped her hands. “Euge!”

“Not really,” Sostratos said. “It's an anachronism, for they didn't know of silk in the days of the Trojan War. Homer never mentions it. But if you choose to look at silk, I'll be happy to show you what I have here.”

“Please do,” she said, and then, “You're an unusual man.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Sostratos answered. He didn't particularly expect her to notice the quiet irony in his voice, but she did, and dipped her head. He started opening leather sacks and taking out bolts of cloth. “Your slave said you wanted the thinnest I have.”

“Yes,” Metrikhe said. “Mysteries of the craft again—not that that's much of a mystery.. . , Can we go out into the courtyard? Seeing these in the sunlight's the best way to judge 'ow thin they are.”

“Certainly,” Sostratos said. “I wish most of the men I do business with had as good an idea of what they wanted,”

“Thank you,” Metrikhe replied. “And I wish most of the men !oo come 'ere to do business—not that kind of business, but other sorts, the way you are—would do business with me, and not act as if all they care about is my little piggy.” She used the obscenity as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Out in the courtyard, Sostratos held up bolt after bolt of silk. Metrikhe waved for him to put some aside for later haggling; at others she simply tossed her head. After a while, he said, “That's the last one I have.”

“All right,” the hetaira answered. “What do you want for all the ones I can use?”

“For all those bolts together?” Sostratos looked up into the sky while numbers danced in his head. Before long, he named a price.

Metrikhe looked from the silk to him and back again. “I thought you would give me some round figure. You reckoned that to the very drakhma, didn't you?”

“Of course,” he answered, honestly surprised. “Isn't that what you wanted me to do?”

“What you want and what you get often 'ave nothing to do with each other,” she said, “If it weren't for what men want, I would have to be a washerwoman or a tavern-keeper or something of the sort. But what do they get from me they couldn't have from a three-obolos 'ore?” She snapped her fingers, “Illusion, that's all.”

Sostratos smiled, “Should you tell me such things?”

“I wouldn't tell them to most men, but I think you can see them for yourself,” Metrikhe said. “And I'll tell you something else: no matter 'ow carefully you figured your price, you're still a thief.” She named one of her own, less than half as high.