Harry Turtledove - Salamis

“I think that’s sensible, sir,” Sostratos said.

“Thank you so much. I’m glad you approve,” Ptolemaios rumbled. Sostratos blushed scarlet as the coals under a charcoal brazier. The audience ended a moment later.

Sostratos and Menedemos bought balls of mashed chickpeas fried in some oil that wasn’t olive and rounds of flatbread to wrap them in. They’d got out of Ptolemaios’ palace as soon as they could after the lord of Egypt dismissed them. Sostratos didn’t want to talk about the audience where he might be overheard. When Menedemos started to, Sostratos contrived to step on his toe. His cousin, luckily, got the message and kept quiet till they were out in the bustling crowds of the city.

“By the gods!” Sostratos said when he bit into his snack. “This is better than I thought it would be.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Menedemos replied with his mouth full. “Not like what we eat back home, but good.”

“Frying improves anything,” Sostratos said wisely, licking his fingers.

“That’s true enough! Think how Demetrios would sizzle if you dropped him into a big tub of hot oil,” Menedemos said.

“Heh!” Sostratos dipped his head in agreement. “Maybe Menelaos can take care of that for us.”

“It would be nice. Then all we’d have to worry about would be Antigonos and his ordinary generals,” his cousin said. “Oh, and Ptolemaios, too.”

“Yes, and Ptolemaios, too.” Sostratos dipped his head again. “He’s no one’s fool. And he said it himself: the only thing that makes him less dangerous to us than old One-eye is that he’s farther away.”

“He and Antigonos will have known each other longer than we’ve been alive—almost as long as our fathers have,” Menedemos said slowly. “The other Macedonian warlords, too. It’s not just a war with them. It’s quarrels left over from the days when Philip was still king.”

“Macedonian feuds are like that, I’ve heard. Only now they aren’t squabbling with the clan a valley over. These wars stretch from Hellas all the way to India,” Sostratos said. “Remember how Ptolemaios talked about hunting tigers when we sold him that skin?”

“I hope he’ll remember that Rhodians gave him the news about Demetrios,” Menedemos said.

“He’ll remember. He remembers a lot. He remembered us, even if he didn’t know which of us was which,” Sostratos said. “Whether he’ll care …. That will depend on whether he thinks caring will bring him any advantage.”

“He has an eye for the main chance, all right,” Menedemos replied.

“I thought I just said that,” Sostratos remarked. His cousin stuck out his tongue at him. Ignoring it, he went on, “Look at how he grabbed Egypt after Alexander died. It’s small compared to what Antigonos and Seleukos hold, but it’s rich. The wealth here is concentrated, the way bees concentrate nectar to make it into honey.”

“The difference is, Antigonos and Seleukos want to grab everything and be Alexander,” Menedemos said. “Ptolemaios doesn’t care about that. He’s happy with a chunk, as long as it’s a good chunk.”

Sostratos stopped in the street and sent him a speculative stare. “You’d better watch yourself, my dear. If you aren’t careful, more people will realize you aren’t always the fool you seem.”

Menedemos stopped, too, to blow him a kiss. They both laughed—until a man behind them who was leading a donkey overloaded with sacks of barley or beans shouted in bad Greek for them to get out of his way. They did. The man—a sweating, sun-darkened Egyptian wearing only a linen skirt—and the poor, tired donkey plodded on.

Seeing the Egyptian’s shaved head glisten like that made Sostratos rub the back of his arm across his forehead. He was sweating, too. “It can be warm in spring back on Rhodes, but not like this, and not this early,” he said. “I wonder how bad it is here when full summer comes. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s worse than Palestine.”

“Neither would I,” Menedemos said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if some of those golden-haired, pink-skinned Macedonians fall over dead when it stays that hot for a couple of months, either. The Egyptians turn brown. We’d turn pretty brown if you left us under this sun for a year, too. But if you burn instead to baking ….” He tossed his head to show he wouldn’t want to do that.

“Ptolemaios is colored about the way we are,” Sostratos said thoughtfully—no, Menedemos was no fool, even if he sometimes enjoyed playing one. “But Alexander, they say, was very fair.”

“His mother was a Molossian,” Menedemos said. “They’re as pale as Illyrians or Thracians, never mind Macedonians.”

“I wonder if being so pink and going into all those hot places sped his end,” Sostratos said. “It couldn’t have helped.”

“I can’t begin to tell you. You’re the one who fancies himself a physician,” Menedemos replied. Sostratos’ hot cheeks had nothing to do with the weather. He did what he could for sailors on the Aphrodite who hurt themselves or fell sick. Like any real physician from Hippokrates on down, the most he could hope for was doing more good than harm.

He changed the subject: “I wonder where we can find a jeweler who’ll give us a proper price for our amber. I haven’t wanted to ask in the palace—”

“I should hope not!” Menedemos broke in. “Whoever you talked to would blab to the customs inspectors, and we’d have to pay them a cut on the amber’s value. The Ptolemaios doesn’t miss any chances when it comes to raking in silver.”

“Too right, he doesn’t,” Sostratos agreed ruefully. “We had to pay his duty on the wine and the oil. We couldn’t very well sneak those in.” He muttered to himself. “I ought to stick Damonax for all of the duty on the oil. That would teach him a thing or two.”

“Why don’t you? He deserves it,” Menedemos said.

“Don’t tempt me, my dear,” Sostratos said with real regret. “The trouble is, if he ever finds out, he won’t just make life miserable for me. He’ll take it out on my sister. Things that bring in your family always get complicated in a hurry.”

To his surprise, Menedemos winced as if someone had stuck a knife in his flank. Just for a moment, he looked as if he were about to weep. If Sostratos was any judge at all, his cousin needed a real effort of will to pull his face straight. “Well, O best one, you aren’t wrong,” he said at last.

When he didn’t go on from there, “Sostratos asked, “Is there anything you want to tell me? Is there anything you need to tell me?”

Menedemos tossed his head. “Not a thing,” he answered in a voice that sounded like a bright parody of his usual way of speaking. “Everyone has troubles. Everyone has worries. Everyone has family.”

“Your father was that bad before we set out?” Sostratos guessed.

“You have no idea!” Menedemos said. But the way he seized on the question made Sostratos guess he was using it to cover whatever really ate at him rather than to show it.

“You know I don’t spread gossip from Karia to Carthage,” Sostratos said.

“Yes, I do know that. You wouldn’t tell me your own name if I didn’t already know it. But let it go anyway,” Menedemos said in tones that brooked no argument.

Sostratos didn’t care for getting pushed away like that. But he could see that charging straight ahead like a ram trying to knock down a wall with its horns would only infuriate his cousin. A few years ago , he thought, I wouldn’t have noticed that. I would have plowed on, and Menedemos would have started screaming at me, and I would have had no idea why .

He wondered if he was growing up at last. Most people seemed to do it by the time they turned eighteen. He was more than ten years past that. Better late than never , he said to himself, and hoped it was true.