The Gryphon's Skull

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.

“If I'm a thief, you're a joker,” Sostratos replied. “I can't possibly make a profit on that, or anything close to it. You say you don't want to wash clothes or sell wine? That cuts both ways. I don't want to tan hides or make pots.”

She stepped forward and set a hand on his arm. Till then, she'd acted like a well-bred woman and spoken like a well-educated man. Now, suddenly, she chose to remind him of what she really was, what she really did. Her flesh was warm and soft. Her voice was warm and soft, too: “Suppose I give you that very same price, and the rest of the afternoon in my bed? If you want illusion, I can give you the best.”

“If my cousin were here, he might take you up on that,” Sostratos said. “Please believe me, it's not that I'm not interested.” That was true; her touch had startled him and stirred him at the same time. Even so, he went on, “You're lucky: you can make a living from illusion. I can't; I have to have silver.”

“It's not always luck, believe me. Some of the men who visit here have illusions of their own,” Metrikhe said. She went from wanton back to businesslike in the space of a sentence. “All right, then— silver and nothing but silver.” She came up a little.

“You're speaking of Milesian drakhmai?” Sostratos asked.

Metrikhe dipped her head. “They're a little heavier than your Rhodian coins.”