Harry Turtledove - Owls to Athens

“Well, best one, when we were here two years ago, we worked out a bargain for silk and dye and perfume,” Menedemos said. “That suited us well enough. How did your side of it work out?”

“Not bad,” Pixodaros said. “Will you expect the same rates again?”

“Certainly,” Sostratos said.

“Why shouldn’t we?” Menedemos added.

“Because, if you went to Phoenicia, you got the crimson dye yourselves,” Pixodaros answered. “You paid less for it than you would have if you’d bought it in Rhodes.”

“But we had the cost of bringing it back ourselves,” Menedemos countered. “That isn’t cheap, not with the Aphrodite .”

“And we got attacked by pirates off the Lykian coast,” Sostratos said. “The dye almost didn’t get here. We almost didn’t get here.”

“Oimoi!” Pixodaros exclaimed. “Tell me your story.”

Menedemos and Sostratos told it together. As usual, Menedemos did most of the talking. He couldn’t be quite so dramatic as he would have liked, for he knew his cousin would add a dry correction or two if he strayed too far from the facts. Even without embellishment, the story was a good one.

When the Rhodians finished, Pixodaros clapped his hands and said, “Euge! I am glad to see both of you here and safe.”

“Believe me, we’re glad to be here and safe,” Sostratos said. “But now you see why we charge what we charge for the crimson dye.”

Although Menedemos dipped his head in agreement, he sent Sostratos an annoyed look. This wasn’t the time to start banging away at business again. Sostratos should have smiled and told another story, or a joke, or something of the sort. Menedemos reached for the oinokhoe and poured his winecup and his cousin’s full again. Dickers had a rhythm to them, no less than tunes on the kithara. Make one go too fast and it would come out wrong, just as a tune would. Sostratos didn’t always have a feel for that.

To make sure this bargain went as it should, Menedemos asked, “Has any news from Athens reached Kos this sailing season?”

Pixodaros hesitated for a fraction of a heartbeat before tossing his head. Menedemos had seen that response before from barbarians who wanted to seem as Hellenic as they could. Their first impulse was to shake the head, as most foreign folk did, and they needed that tiny moment to catch themselves and remember Hellenes did things differently. The Karian answered, “No, not yet. Ships are only beginning to put to sea this spring, and none from Athens has come here yet.”

Sostratos asked, “Has any ship bound for Athens been here to buy silk?”

That was a legitimate question. Menedemos would have asked it if Sostratos hadn’t beaten him to it. This time, Pixodaros tossed his head without hesitation. “No, you are the first,” he replied, and smiled a sly smile. “Maybe I should charge you more, because I know you’ll make more there.”

Sostratos jumped as if stung by a wasp. “That’s not just!” he exclaimed.

“He’s joking, my dear,” Menedemos said. “He wanted to startle you, and he did.”

Pixodaros’ smile got wider, showing strong, white teeth-he didn’t look as if he were one who’d suffer miseries on that account as he got older. “I know it is not just, my friends, and I would not do it. But startling a friend every now and again-you should have seen the look on your face.” He laughed out loud.

“Oh.” Sostratos looked foolish. But then he managed a small, self-deprecating laugh. He didn’t get angry, or at least didn’t show anger, for which Menedemos was glad. In his own way, Sostratos was a good bargainer, but he could forget himself. Not here, though.

“Shall we see some silk now?” Menedemos asked, his voice casual. “If it’s up to your usual standard-and I’m sure it will be-shall we forge the same sort of bargain as we did two years ago?”

“I think so,” the Karian freedman replied. “I made money on it, and I gather you gentlemen did, too.” He raised his voice. “Ibanollis! The Rhodians are ready to look at the silk now. Bring the best we have.”

“I do,” Ibanollis said. “You wait one little bit.”

The silk was very good, some of the finest and most transparent Koan weavers made. But it could not match the eastern cloth Menedemos had got from Zakerbaal the Sidonian. Merchants always looked disappointed at the quality of goods they were offered: that was part of the role they played. Here, though, Menedemos and Sostratos had no trouble seeming unimpressed, and Menedemos knew they would have had a hard time acting blase about this silk if they hadn’t seen the other.

Pixodaros sensed they weren’t putting on their indifference, too. He said, “You remind me of men going home to ugly wives from the house of a beautiful hetaira. Is this eastern silk really that splendid?”

“I’m afraid it is, O best one,” Menedemos said soberly. “For its kind, though, what you have here is excellent.” He felt like a man praising an ugly wife for the way she managed a home.

With a sigh, Pixodaros said, “Well, I can hope the eastern silk stays in the east for the rest of my life.” He suddenly looked anxious. “You do still want to make this bargain, don’t you?”

“We wouldn’t have come here if we didn’t,” Sostratos reassured him. “For now, Koan silk is the finest cloth we can get, and it will have a ready market in Athens.”

“For now,” the Karian muttered under his breath. Menedemos wished his cousin hadn’t tacked that on, even if it was true-perhaps especially because it was true. Pixodaros made himself straighten his shoulders, as a Hellene might have done. “I do still have the finest silk made around the Inner Sea.” He spoke as if reminding himself as well as the Rhodians.

“Of course you do,” Menedemos said soothingly. “We’re always pleased to do business with you. Sostratos said it-that’s why we’re here.” Pixodaros smiled. Even so, he had to be wondering how long he and his could stay prosperous. Through his son’s lifetime? Through his own? Or only another year or two? Menedemos thought it would be longer than that, but he didn’t know. He wouldn’t have wanted to do business with that kind of risk hanging over him. By all the signs, neither did Pixodaros. But he didn’t have that worry, and the freedman did.

When they left Pixodaros’ house, maybe that sense of relief was part of what made Menedemos look across the street. “You know what I’m going to do?” he said. “I’m going to have a go at the boy brothel there. Want to come along?”

“No, thanks,” Sostratos said. “I don’t much fancy boys.”

“Neither do I, usually,” Menedemos said. “I feel like it today, though.”

“Have fun. I’ll see you back at the inn, then,” Sostratos said.

The brothelkeeper was a fat Phoenician with a curled beard. His Greek held a guttural accent. “At your service, my master,” he said. “Take your pick.” He waved at the youths in the main room. Had they been women, they would have been spinning to earn him extra money. Some of them wore silk tunics, as women might have (Menedemos wondered if it was Pixodaros’ silk). Others were naked.

Menedemos pointed to a youth of about fifteen with less paint on his face than most of the boys wore. “Him, I think.”

“Hearkening and obedience,” the whoremaster said with a bow. “Sadyattes, go with the man.”

A Lydian, Menedemos thought as the slave got to his feet. “Come with me,” the boy said, sounding more resigned than alluring. The room to which he led the Rhodian was small and gloomy, with no furniture but a bed, a stool with a small jar on it, and a chamber pot. It smelled of sweat. Sadyattes pulled his chiton off over his head. He was a little pudgier and a little hairier than Menedemos had expected. Perfection is for the gods, Menedemos thought. He’ll do. Still sounding resigned, Sadyattes asked, “What do you want?”