The Gryphon's Skull

That wasn't what Menedemos had in mind. “The courtyard might be better, most noble one,” he said. It would certainly be better for him, because Asine would be able to see and hear him. But he had a plausible explanation, and trotted it out: “You'll want to examine the silk and the jewels by sunlight.”

“So I will,” Nikodromos said. “I don't aim to let anyone cheat me.”

“Nor should you,” Menedemos said, ignoring the threat in the other man's words. As he came out into the courtyard, he paused to admire the garden: “What splendid plants! How wonderfully green they are, even in the middle of the dry season. They're perfectly pruned, too.”

With a shrug, Nikodromos said, “I haven't the time to worry about such trifles. Mv wife tends them.”

“They're lovely.” Menedemos left it at that; he knew better than to give a woman direct praise in her husband's hearing. His eyes couldn't help slipping to the stairway, and to the rooms above it. What would Asine be doing in there? Spinning? Weaving? No, probably not—he would have heard the loom. Surely, though, she would be listening to—maybe even watching—what went on down below. He said, “Here is the perfume. Smell it. It's from the very best Rhodian roses.”

“Fripperies,” Nikodromos muttered. But he drew out the stopper and sniffed. In spite of himself, one eyebrow rose. “That's very sweet.” He rallied. “I'd bet the price is enough to sour anybody, though.”

“Not at all.” Instead of naming it, Menedemos went on, “Let me show you the Koan silk. Any woman who wore a silk tunic would be the envy of all her neighbors. Wool? Linen?” He tossed his head. “They don't compare.”

“In price, either.” Yes, the priest had a one-track mind.

“Wool and linen are fine for everyday wear,” Menedemos said. “But your wife will want something special, won't she, when she goes out into the streets on a festival day? After all, women don't get out of the house much, so they like to make the most of it when they do. And she can wear this Rhodian scent and these emeralds and be the envy of every other woman in Aigina.”

“Let's see these so-called emeralds,” Nikodromos said. “I wouldn't be surprised if you were trying to sell me a couple of lumps of glass.”

“By the dog of Egypt, I am not,” Menedemos said indignantly, fishing them from the pouch he wore on his belt. “They come from Ptolemaios' land, as I said. People in Miletos were happy enough to buy them; I made more than a talent on the dozen or so I sold there. My father and my uncle have been traders since before I was born. Their ships go all around the Inner Sea. If I cheat, I ruin the firm's reputation, and we can't afford that. Here, O marvelous one—see for yourself.”

The two emeralds he had left were the ones he'd intended to take to Athens, including the largest and finest stone he'd bought from the Egyptian round-ship captain. No one, not even Nikodromos, could claim they were glass after seeing their deep, rich color and waxy luster. The priest sighed as he handed them back. “You'll want too much,” he predicted, tacitly admitting they were genuine.

“I want what they're worth.” Pitching his voice to carry up to the women's quarters, Menedemos asked, “Doesn't your wife deserve the best?”

Nikodromos waved his hands and shook his head like a man trying to drive away bees. “Let me see this silk you were gabbling about,” he said.

“Nothing like it for making a lovely woman lovelier,” Menedemos said, again—he hoped—as much to Asine as to her husband. “This is a particularly fine bolt here. Look.” He unrolled it and held it up in the sunlight. “You can practically see through it.”

“That's indecent,” Nikodromos exclaimed.

“Only if the woman who's wearing it isn't worth looking at,” Menedemos said with a wink, as one man of the world to another. “My dear fellow, you simply wouldn't believe how much silk my cousin sold to the fanciest hetaira in Miletos.”

“I don't want my woman looking like a hetaira,” Nikodromos said, but his voice lost force with each succeeding word. Why wouldn't a man want his wife to look as desirable as she could?

“You need another sniff of the perfume.” Menedemos pulled the stopper from the little jar again. “Here. Sweeter than honey, isn't it?”

By the way the priest screwed up his face, he wanted to deny it, but he couldn't. “What. . . what will you want for all this?” he asked at last, sounding almost fearful.

“For the emeralds, nine minai apiece,” Menedemos answered. “Two minai for the silk, and twenty drakhmai for the perfume.” All the prices were outrageously high. He knew that. With a little luck, Nikodromos wouldn't. He'd certainly overpaid for the lion skin.

He bawled like a branded calf now. “Outrageous,” he spluttered. “Absurd. Downright criminal, if you want to know the truth.”