Harry Turtledove: The Gryphon's Skull

Unlike an eagle's, though, this beak held teeth. Sostratos tilted the skull for a better look. He would have expected fangs to put a lion's to shame, but these flat-topped, square teeth looked more like a cow's or a goat's. “Isn't that interesting?” Sostratos murmured. “No matter what we've heard, the gryphon may graze instead of killing,”

“What makes you say that?” Menedemos asked.

“Its teeth,” Sostratos answered, and explained his reasoning. Menedemos pursed his lips as he thought, then dipped his head in agreement.

“You're a clever fellow,” the Kaunian merchant said. “That never would have occurred to me.”

“A clever fellow, eh?” Sostratos tossed his head. “If I'm so clever, why did I never imagine . . . this?” He reached out and rested his palm on the skull's projecting, beaky snout. The feel of it surprised him anew; it was cooler and heavier, more solid, than he'd expected from old bone. “It might almost be stone under my ringers,” he said, and glanced toward Menedemos. “You don't suppose some sculptor—”

“No.” His cousin cut him off. “That's impossible, best one, and you know it as well as I do. Who could have imagined such a thing, let alone carved it? Those teeth are teeth. A man would break his heart and go blind trying to shape them. And the broken horn that sticks up and back from the skull? Don't be absurd.”

Sostratos sighed. He would have loved to tell Menedemos he was wrong, but couldn't. “You have me, I'm afraid.”

He straightened, picked up the skull—It weighed about a third of a talent, he guessed—and turned it all the way over, wondering if the underside would tell him anything the top hadn't. On closer inspection, he discovered the teeth weren't quite so much like a cow's as he'd first thought. But he still couldn't imagine the gryphon eating meat with them.

Menedemos pointed to some reddish dirt clinging to the bottom of the skull. “There. You see? It's not carved. It's been buried underground for a long time.”

“Well, maybe.” Sostratos tried to scrape off the dirt with his finger. It didn't want to be scraped. He broke a fingernail trying, in fact, and had to gnaw at it to get some sort of even edge. “It's not dirt. It's stone.” He tried scraping, more cautiously, with his other index ringer. A little of the stuff came away, but not much. “Soft, sandy stone, but stone, no doubt about it.”

After reaching out himself and scraping a bit, Menedemos dipped his head. “You're right. How long do you suppose a skull would have to stay underground to have bits of stone stuck to it?”

“I couldn't begin to guess,” Sostratos answered. “Herodotos says the Egyptians say their kings and priests go back 341 generations, which he makes out to be something over 11,000 years. Some good part of that time, anyway.”

“Probably.” Menedemos whistled softly. “Over 11,000 years? That's a long time. I don't suppose it's been even one thousand years since the Trojan War, has it? You know things like that.”

Before Sostratos could tell him it hadn't been a thousand years, or even quite nine hundred, since the Trojan War, the Kaunian merchant said, “So what will you give me for this gryphon's skull?”

And, before Sostratos could even ask him how much he wanted, Menedemos laughed and said, “Oh, my dear fellow, that old bone is interesting to look at, but I don't think we want to buy it. What in the name of the gods is it good for, except maybe as the strangest decoration for an andron anyone ever saw? Now the lion skins you've got, and the one from the—tiger, did you call it?—those I might be interested in talking about with you.”

“Menedemos,” Sostratos said.

His cousin ignored him. Menedemos was turning into a haggler right in front of him. Examining the skins with a critical eye, he clicked his tongue between his teeth in dismay. “I'd pay more if it weren't for this poorly repaired hole here. Where a spear went in, I suppose?”

“Menedemos,” Sostratos said again, rather louder. The next time, he would scream his cousin's name. He was sure of it.

But, for a wonder, Menedemos deigned to notice him. “Yes? What is it, best one? You wanted something?” He was the picture of slightly distracted good will.

Sostratos took him by the arm. “Walk with me for a moment, if you'd be so kind.” He led his cousin out of earshot of the local before speaking in a low voice: “I want that skull.”

“What?” As he'd thought it would, that got rid of Menedemos' distraction. “Why? What would you do with it?”

“Take it to Athens,” Sostratos replied at once. “I'd want Theo-phrastos and the other philosophers at the Lykeion—and the ones at the Academy, too—to see it and study it and learn from it. Most philosophers have always thought the gryphon a mythical beast, like a centaur or a Cyclops. But that” —he didn't point back toward the skull, for fear of showing the merchant how much he wanted it— “proves it's as real as a horse. Don't you see how important that is?”

“Maybe,” Menedemos said. “What I don't see is how we'll make any money from it,”

To the crows with money, Sostratos started to say. But he didn't let the words out. His cousin understood silver much better than he understood the relentless drive of curiosity. And so Sostratos chose a different tack: “We might get the Lykeion and the Academy bidding against each other to see who would own it.”

“Do you think so?” Menedemos quirked an interested eyebrow upward.

“Why not?” Sostratos said. “Do you suppose philosophers have any less desire for fame and any less desire to get a leg up on their rivals than ordinary men?”

“You would know better than I,” Menedemos answered.

“My dear, you have no idea,” Sostratos said. “Some of the things the men of the Academy did to us when I was in Athens—”

“And what did your side do to them?” his cousin asked shrewdly.

“Oh, this and that,” Sostratos said in innocent tones. “But if you buy those hides—and I think you can make money from them—by all means get that skull, too.”

“Well, I'll see what I can do,” Menedemos replied. “But if he asks a couple of talents for it, the philosophers will have to do without, because I don't believe they'll come up with that kind of money. Now you go on back and tend to what we brought to the agora: we don't want to lose customers of our own. I'll take care of this fellow. Go on, now.”

Reluctantly, Sostratos went. He wanted to stay and do the dickering himself. Menedemos, after all, didn't really care about the gryphon's skull. But, after a moment, Sostratos realized that gave his cousin an advantage. If he haggled himself, the merchant would see how much he wanted it, and would charge accordingly. What better shield against gouging than indifference?

To his surprise, the first Kaunian who came up to him was interested, not in dye or in perfume, but in papyrus and ink. In short order, Sostratos had sold him two round pots of ink and three twenty-sheet rolls of papyrus, and made fifteen drakhmai. “What will you do with it?” he asked the local.

“I aim to copy out all the city laws,” the man replied. “As things are now, they're either carved in stone or written out on wooden tablets, and they're scattered all over Kaunos. If we have them all in one place, we can refer to them whenever we need to, and the papyrus won't take up nearly so much space.”

“That sounds . . .” Sostratos cast about for a word, and found one that fit: “efficient. Very efficient indeed.”

“It's a new world,” the local said seriously. “If we don't change with the times, we'll go under.” Looking pleased with himself, he carried his purchases out of the market square.