The Gryphon's Skull

“Here?” Sostratos' glance was eloquent. “I don't think they've done anything here since they sent a couple of ships to fight the Persians at Salamis.”

Menedemos laughed. “You're probably right. Even so, though, they're bound to want their women to smell sweet and look pretty.”

“I suppose so,” his cousin admitted. “But can they pay for what they want?”

“Always a question,” Menedemos admitted. “I think it's worth finding out.”

Next to no one in Koressia was stirring as the two Rhodians made their way to the agora. Men stayed in wineshops or squatted like lizards in whatever shade the walls gave them. A couple of drunks lay snoring, empty cups or wine jars beside them. Sostratos raised an eyebrow. Menedemos only shrugged.

They nearly had the market square to themselves. A man hawked raisins, while a farm woman displayed eggs and cheeses. Neither had any customers or seemed to expect any—they were going through the motions of selling, no more. Menedemos had seen that before; it always made him scornful.

“Come on,” he told Sostratos. “Let's show these people not everybody sleeps all the time.”

His cousin yawned. “I'm sorry, best one. Did you say something?”

Snorting, Menedemos raised his voice till it filled the agora: “Perfume from Rhodes! Fine silk from Kos! Who wants to buy? We won't stay here long, so you'd better come quick. Who wants to buy?”

The man with the raisins and the woman from the farm both stared at them. Sostratos took up the call and joined with Menedemos. For a while, though, Menedemos wondered if anyone cared but a couple of doves grubbing whatever they could from the ground. Koressia wasn't just a sleepy town; it might have been a dead one.

At last, though, a middle-aged man strolled into the agora. “ 'Ail,” he said, dropping his rough breathings as did those who used the Ionic dialect. “What 'ave you got for sale?”

Why. I'm selling doors and roof tiles. Haven't you heard me crying them? Menedemos thought. But Sostratos was already displaying a bolt of filmy silk. Grudgingly, Menedemos admitted he and his cousin also sold perfume.

“ 'Ow about that?” The Kean gaped as if he'd never heard of either commodity. “ 'Ow much do you want for 'em?”

Menedemos named his prices, adding, “That's in Athenian drakhmai, of course.” Keos was part of Antigonos' Island League, but had more intimate connections with nearby Attica.

“All right,” the local said. “Let me 'ave a couple of jars of the perfume, and maybe two-three bolts of silk. Sounds like a pretty good deal.”

“You . . . have the money?” Menedemos tried to hide his astonishment.

“I'll be back directly,” the Kean replied. “Don't you go away, now.” Off he went, no faster than he had to. He did come back, and started piling Athenian owls in front of Sostratos. “That should do it,” he said when he was done.

“Why, so it does.” Maybe the local couldn't hear how amazed Sostratos was. Menedemos could. But, at his cousin's gesture, he gave the man the perfume and the silk.

“Thank you kindly,” the fellow said. “You got anything else?”

“Well...” Menedemos hesitated.

“Come on. Spit it out. I'm not going to buy it if you don't tell me what it is,” the local said. “If I want it, though, I will. I've got the money. You've seen I do.”

“So we have,” Menedemos said. “All right, then, most noble: the other thing I have is a single Egyptian emerald.”

“Now, that's something that doesn't come along every day.” The Kean held out his hand. “Let's see it.” Reluctantly, Menedemos produced the stone, half expecting the local to run off with it. But he didn't. He held it in the sunlight, murmuring, “Isn't that pretty?” When he returned it to Menedemos, he asked the right question: “How much?”

Without blinking, Menedemos said, “Ten minai.”

The Kean handed back the emerald and spoke in mild protest: “That's a lot of silver, friend.” But he didn't turn on his heel and walk away. Instead, he said, “I'll give you six.”

Menedemos felt like shouting. Beside him, Sostratos inhaled sharply, but he didn't think the local noticed. He tossed his head. “I'm sorry, but I can't sell it for that without costing myself money.” The money he was talking about was all profit, but the Kean didn't have to know that.

“Well, six minai, twenty drakhmai, then,” the fellow said.

In a quick, neat dicker, they settled on eight minai, fifteen drakhmai for the stone. That was even more than Nikodromos had paid on Aigina. The more I ask for emeralds, the more I seem to get, Menedemos thought dazedly, and kicked himself for letting others, earlier in the trading run, go so cheap.