Salamis, p.12
Salamis, page 12
“Osiris,” the barge skipper answered.
“Ah.” Sostratos dipped his head. It wasn’t just a name to him. He remembered from Herodotos that Osiris was for the Egyptians what Zeus was for Hellenes: the chief god, the most powerful one. Were they two names for the same deity, or were two different gods doing the same job in different parts of the world? He had no idea how to answer that. He also wondered whether the question meant enough to matter.
What did matter was getting the amphorai of oil out of the barge and onto the riverbank. Sostratos joined the rowers in taking them out of the barge. Menedemos probably would have let them do the work, and from him they probably would have accepted that. Sostratos had less of the air of the kalos kagathos about him; he couldn’t play the nobleman the way his cousin did.
Egyptians and Hellenes gathered to watch the show. Nothing gave men so much pleasure as watching other men work. Sostratos took a couple of oboloi from his belt pouch. He pointed at a skinny little Hellene who looked like a tout. “Do you know the way to Psosneus’ warehouse?” He’d got the name from Pasos.
“Malista, my master!” the man said.
“An obolos for you now, and another when you’ve taken me to him,” Sostratos said.
“Such generosity,” the Hellene said sourly. “Slow with your silver, aren’t ye?” By his accent, he sprang from Thessaly or somewhere else in the north.
“I can always give the job to someone else,” Sostratos said. Sure enough, two other Hellenes and an Egyptian who followed Greek were waving their hands.
“I’ll take it,” the skinny man said. “Gi’ me the one, and then follow.”
Follow Sostratos did. The warehouse lay only a couple of streets from the river, and three blocks north of the barge. Psosneus stood outside: a brown, bulky man chewing on roasted squash seeds. Husks under his feet said he’d already eaten quite a few. He spoke fair Greek. Sostratos used Pasos’ name to make sure the skipper got whatever rakeoff he could from the warehouse owner. He paid the tout, who left.
“He good fellow. He send you, I give special price,” Psosneus said.
“Special high or special low?” Sostratos asked, his voice dry. Psosneus laughed, for all the world as if he were joking. They haggled a little, then settled. Psosneus recommended an innkeeper, so he’d get himself a rakeoff, too.
Sostratos hoped to hire carts when he went back to the docks, but none was in sight. He and the rest of the Hellenes had to move the olive oil the hard way. Sostratos cursed Damonax as he lugged each jar. One way or another, he’d pay his brother-in-law back. So he vowed, swearing by his aching back.
“Oh, my dear fellow, I say, but you have some fine vintages there!” a wine merchant named Exakestos told Menedemos in an Attic accent so strong, the Rhodian guessed he was putting it on. “I’d dearly love to get some for the shop. Dearly! What are you asking?”
Menedemos told him. He flinched. “Sorry,” the Rhodian trader said. “I have to turn a profit, too, you know.”
“Yes, yes.” The Hellene gnawed at his thumbnail. “Suppose I offer you a trade instead of sacks of tetradrakhms?”
“What kind of a trade?” Menedemos asked. If he sounded suspicious, that was only because he was.
“Stay right there. Don’t move a muscle. Pretend the sight of Medusa’s head has turned you stone.” Exakestos disappeared into a back room behind the counter. Menedemos stood where he was, not petrified but not walking out, either.
Before too too very long, the wine merchant came forth again. He held both fists closed in front of him, like a conjuror about to make a drakhma appear from nowhere. Menedemos smiled at the drama. “All right, my friend, you’ve interested me. What have you got there?” he asked.
Exakestos opened his hands. One held some whitish globules, the other chunks of hard, resinous-looking stuff. “Go ahead and sniff,” he answered. “Then you tell me. Or I’ll tell you if you’ve not run across it before.”
“If they’re what I think they are ….” Menedemos leaned forward across the counter. Exakestos brought his hands forward. Sniff Menedemos did, first the globules, then the resin. “Frankincense and myrrh,” he said. “They’re worth a good bit—no doubt about that. But how much do you have, and how much will you give me for a jar of Ariousian?”
“I have plenty, my dear. For one thing, I use them in the trade—myrrh especially helps keep wine from going to vinegar. And for another, Alexandria is practically swimming in them these days. The Arabs bring them up the coast…. You do know where Fortunate Arabia lies?”
“I’ve heard of it,” Menedemos said cautiously. “South and east of here, isn’t it?”
“Very good!” Exakestos beamed at him. “There’s another sea, a narrow one, that splits Egypt from Fortunate Arabia. The Red Sea, they call it, though I don’t think it really is red. Anyhow, the Arabs who bring the incenses up their coasts talk about the winged snakes that protect the myrrh and all, and how they have to drive them away to get any.”
“Sounds like a story to keep the price high,” Menedemos remarked.
“It could be, but when they have the stuff and you don’t, what are you going to do?” Exakestos said. “They bring it up the coast till the coast stops, if you know what I mean. That’s not very far from the Inner Sea. If someone could dig a canal ….” He shrugged. “Some goes into Syria from there, and some comes here. Since the Alexander built Alexandria, more comes here.”
“I can see how that would happen, yes,” Menedemos said. Before Alexandria’s creation, the coast of the Delta had been a sleepy backwater, with villages and small towns that lived off fishing and smuggling. Now the Delta had the greatest port on the Inner Sea. The Rhodian scratched his chin. Whiskers rasped under his fingers; he needed a shave. “So how much myrrh have you got, and how much frankincense? How much do you aim to give me for each amphora of Ariousian?”
“The incenses usually sell here for their weight in gold,” Exakestos said.
“That incenses me!” Menedemos barely managed to turn his alarm into a joke. Silver was the usual monetary metal through the Greek world; gold staters were rare, and Persian darics seldom seen. But Egypt had been in Persian hands till a generation before. Thinking in terms of gold might remain common here.
“Let’s do it like this, old chap,” Exakestos said. “We’ll work out the price of a jar in drakhmai. Then we’ll turn that into staters or darics.”
“Twenty drakhmai to the goldpiece?” Menedemos wanted to pin that down before he went any further. The usual rate of exchange between silver and gold was ten to one. Both the Greek stater and the daric weighed twice as much as the drakhma.
“Yes, twenty.” Exakestos dipped his head. “There’s been talk that the Ptolemaios will coin lighter drakhmai for the lands he rules, but it hasn’t happened yet, and gods willing it won’t.”
“Why would he do that?” Menedemos answered his own question before the wine merchant could: “So he can make money changing money—why else? The Ptolemaios is a marvelous man, but he does like his silver.”
“I won’t try to tell you you’re wrong,” Exakestos answered. “It will set Egypt apart from other lands, too. Ptolemaios cares more about hanging on here than grabbing all of Alexander’s empire like Antigonos or Seleukos.”
That thought had crossed Menedemos’ mind, too. It wasn’t his worry, though, as it was the wineseller’s. He said, “Remember, we’re not just talking about Khian here. We’re talking about Ariousian, the best wine Dionysos knows.”
“There are those who would say wine from Thasos is just as good, or maybe even better. Don’t know but what I lean that way myself,” Exakestos said.
Menedemos bared his teeth at him in a predatory grin. “Of course you do. That lets you talk down the price of my wine. I’d sell you Thasian, but I’ve already disposed of most of what I brought.”
“I’m not going to ask you what you got for it and say I’ll pay the same for your Ariousian,” Exakestos said. “That would give you an excuse to invent a price and ruin me.”
“I’d never do such a thing!” Menedemos assumed a look of injured innocence.
“My prokton!” Just for a moment, Exakestos’ actor’s mask of Attic elegance slipped, Then he pulled it at least partly back in place. “I bloody well would, in your sandals.”
“Not wearing sandals.” Like other sailors, Menedemos went barefoot on land as well as at sea. In Alexandria’s warm climate, doing without shoes just meant watching where you stepped. But he did it in winter at home in Rhodes, too. He also seldom threw a himation over his chlamys. Cloaks, as far as he was concerned, were for Thracians and Skythians, who needed them to keep from turning into blocks of ice during barbarous northern winters. That was one more nautical prejudice brought to land.
“You know what I mean, my dear fellow.” Now the wine merchant might have just stepped out of the Parthenon after sacrificing. “Tell me what you do want for a jar of your fancy vintage, and we’ll see how loudly I scream.”
“Half a mina,” Menedemos said easily. That was more than three times the price of an amphora of ordinary Khian, and something like ten times the price of the common stuff a cobbler or a potter might buy in a tavern.
Sure enough, Exakestos threw back his head and howled like a wolf. He did it so well, a little stray dog trotting down the street yipped in alarm. Then he dug a finger into his ear. “I’m sorry, but I seem to be going deaf,” he said. “I imagined I heard you telling me you wanted fifty drakhmai for the jar. I must be getting old.”
“I’ll go up if you like.” Menedemos sounded as helpful as he could.
That made the wineseller cough like a man choking on an olive pit. He waved Menedemos away when the Rhodian started around the counter to pound him on the back. “I’m lucky you didn’t give me an apoplexy there,” he said, glowering.
“Well, tell me what you aim to pay, then,” Menedemos said. “After I’m done laughing, we can get down to the real dicker.”
“It is better stuff than regular Khian,” Exakestos said, with the air of a man making a great concession. “Regular Khian would go for fourteen, maybe fifteen, drakhmai the amphora. So, because I’m a generous bloke, I’ll give you twenty. A stater’s weight of frankincense or myrrh for a jar.”
Menedemos did laugh then, raucously. “You must want my father to kill me when I get home,” he said, and then bit down hard on the inside of his lower lip. If Baukis screamed out something while she was in labor with the baby, Philodemos might have a reason much more urgent than business to want to kill him.
It wasn’t funny, but Menedemos laughed at himself anyhow. He wouldn’t mind so much if his father murdered him on account of a botched business deal. But if his father killed him because he had, or might have, got his stepmother pregnant ….
That wouldn’t just leave him in disgrace, worse luck. It would cast a black shadow of shame over the whole family. It wasn’t quite what Sophokles wrote about in Oidipous Tyrannos, but it came too close for comfort.
Oidipous, of course, had killed his father and married his mother without knowing who they were. Fate struck him down regardless. Baukis wasn’t Menedemos’ mother by blood, but she was his father’s wife. And he’d sported with her knowing exactly what he was doing. If the gods still looked down from Olympos, what did they think of that?
Exakestos had said something. Menedemos realized he had no idea what it was. “I’m sorry, best one. Try that again, please,” he said. “The ridiculous price you offered left me struck all in a heap.”
Exakestos snorted in annoyance. “I said, old chap, that I don’t want you slain, by your father or anyone else. So I’ll go up to twenty-four drakhmai the amphora without even being asked. So what a generous fellow I am?”
“If you aren’t serious about the deal, tell me now. You don’t seem serious, not when you haven’t come close yet to what my family paid for the wine. Why are you playing dogs and robbers with me? You know what Ariousian is, and what it’s worth. Maybe I should just go to another dealer.”
“You won’t get the precious incenses from another wineseller.”
“Yes? And so? I’ll get silver from him. Then, if I still want myrrh or frankincense, I’ll go to a proper dealer, not someone who sells the stuff for a hobby,” Menedemos said. “Do you want to trade, or just to waste my time?”
“I do want to trade. I don’t much fancy beggaring myself to do it, though,” Exakestos said.
Menedemos exhaled through his nose: to anyone who knew him, a sure sign of how irked he was. “You wouldn’t. You know you wouldn’t, too. You are wasting my time.”
“If you think so, old man, you know what you can do about it.”
“I’ll do it. Hail!” Menedemos turned on his heel and stalked out of Exakestos’ shop. As he went, he loosed a shot over his shoulder: “If you come to your senses, ask after me at the Ptolemaios’ palace. That’s where I’m staying.”
“At … the Ptolemaios’ palace?” Exakestos lost some of his hauteur. “How do you rate that?” His voice wobbled a little. How much trouble can you land me in if you push it? he had to be wondering.
“Since we aren’t trading, that’s none of your business.” Out into the street Menedemos went.
He wondered if Exakestos would come chasing after him, but the wine dealer didn’t. He had more pride or more spine than that. Menedemos shrugged and started back to the palace. If he spotted another wineseller’s place, he’d stop in and see what he could unload. If not, maybe he’d curl up and nap during the noontime heat. A lot of Hellenes and Egyptians seemed to do that.
Two cats almost clawed his feet as they ran past, one chasing the other. Were they playing, or did they mean it? He didn’t know cats well enough to guess. There were a few in Rhodes, but only a few. Most were the pampered pets of rich women; the fish they ate would have made a poor man, or maybe one not so poor, a nice opson to go with his bread at supper.
Then he wondered what he could get for cats if he brought some back in the Aphrodite. How much would people pay? Could he start a fad? The sales talk spun itself inside his head, like a spider’s web taking shape in the early morning. Yes, they’re pets. They’re friendly and smart. But they’re more than pets, too. They catch mice and lizards and centipedes and other vermin. Get one now, before your friends buy them for their wives.
That might not be so bad. He might even talk his way into some unwary fellow’s women’s quarters to show off a cat to the lady of the house. Something enjoyable might come of that. No guarantee, of course, but when did anything ever come with a guarantee?
His father would be angry at him for playing that game again, but it would be a relatively innocuous kind of anger, as opposed to the kind of anger caused by a relative. As far as Menedemos could tell, his father was always looking for reasons to be angry at him. If Philodemos couldn’t find any, he’d invent one.
At the palace, Menedemos ducked into a refectory to cadge some barley bread and dates. He chatted with the cook or slave or whatever she was who kept an eye on things. She was an Egyptian but, like Seseset, she knew enough Greek to get by. Her smile said something might be arranged if he pushed it a little.
He thought about it. Then a yawn made him decide not to. Even with a hat, sallying forth in Alexandria’s hot sun took it out of you. He went back to the chamber Ptolemaios had let him and Sostratos use, lay down on his bed, and dozed off.
A knock on the door brought him out of a dream where his father was accusing him of impregnating a swan—Leda’s story turned upside down and inside out. Muttering, he went to see who it was. He hadn’t slept as long as he’d wanted to.
When he found Demodamas standing in the hallway, he ran a quick hand through his rumpled hair. Ptolemaios’ stone-faced steward let him finish the gesture, then asked, “What did you do to yank Exakestos’ tail?”
“I told him I wouldn’t sell him Ariousian at a price that would make me lose money.” Menedemos’ blurred wits suddenly started working faster. “And I told him I was staying here at the palace. So he’s checking up on me, is he?”
“You might say so,” Demodamas answered.
“What business of his is it where I’m—?” Menedemos broke off. Yes, his wits still needed a bit to get going. He scowled at the sturdy Macedonian. “So he’s one of the people who tell the palace things, eh?”
“Don’t be foolish. Palaces have no ears,” Demodamas said. Menedemos snorted; that came closer to a joke than he’d expected from the steward. After a moment, the man went on, “You said that, remember. I didn’t.”
“Which means it’s true but you don’t want to admit it,” Menedemos said. Demodamas just stood there. Menedemos waited to see if he would say anything. When he didn’t, the Rhodian continued. “All right, fine. Along with selling wine, he spies for the Ptolemaios. Do you want to tell me who some of your other snoops are, so I can try not to have them bothering you, too?”
The Macedonian took his sarcasm literally. “No, I don’t want to tell you that,” he said.
“But you have them.” Menedemos didn’t make that a question.
Demodamas answered as if it were: “I don’t want to tell you that, either.” He looked unhappy. Menedemos judged he would have lied if he’d had the faintest hope of being believed. He turned abruptly and stamped away.
Menedemos watched him roll along like Sisyphos’ boulder going downhill. Other people in the hall jumped out of his way. They saw he wouldn’t move aside for them. Only after Demodamas turned a corner did Menedemos go back inside and close the door.
So Ptolemaios used spies to keep an eye on people, did he? It surprised Menedemos less than he wished it would have, but it saddened him. Ptolemaios had always struck him as a decent man for a warlord. If he stooped to such things, no doubt Antigonos and Demetrios, Seleukos, and all the other Macedonian generals battling over Alexander’s empire did, too.
