The Gryphon's Skull

“Do you read and write?” Eudemos asked Khremes.

“Some, sir. Nothing fancy,” the carpenter answered.

“This doesn't need to be fancy,” Eudemos said. “Write me up a list of what all would go into making a trihemiolia, as best you can figure. Base it on what goes into a trireme, of course.”

“I'll do it,” Khremes said.

“Good.” Eudemos clasped Menedemos' hand. “And good for you, too. You've earned the thanks of your polis.”

Menedemos bowed low. Those were words that struck home. “What Hellene could hope for more, most noble one?”

“A trihemiolia, eh?” Sostratos said as he and Menedemos made their way through the streets by the great harbor toward Himilkon the Phoenician's workhouse.

“That's right,” his cousin answered. “Like I was saying, the gods might have put the word on my tongue day before yesterday.”

“If the gods gave you the word, why didn't they give you one that was easier to pronounce?” Sostratos asked. “A 'three-one-and-a-halfer'? People will be trying to figure out what that is for years.”

“Admiral Eudemos didn't have any trouble,” Menedemos said.

“He's an admiral,” Sostratos retorted. “He worries about the thing itself, not about the word.”

“Do you know what you remind me of?” Menedemos said. “You remind me of Aiskhylos down in Hades' house in Aristophanes' Frogs, where he's criticizing Euripides' prologues. But I don't think the trihemiolia is going to 'lose its little bottle of oil,' the way the prologues kept doing.”

“Well, all right,” Sostratos said. “I'd be the first to admit Eudemos knows more about such things than I do.”

“Generous of you,” Menedemos remarked.

Sostratos wagged a finger at him. “You shouldn't be sarcastic, my dear. You don't do it well, and that's something I do know something about.” Menedemos made a face at him. Sostratos laughed.

Hyssaldomos, Himilkon's Karian slave, was puttering around by the ramshackle warehouse, looking busy while actually doing nothing in particular. Sostratos snorted. Every slave in the world learned that art. Seeing the two Rhodians approach gave Hyssaldomos a legitimate excuse for doing something that didn't involve much real work: he waved to them and called, “Hail, both of you! You looking for my boss?”

“That's right,” Sostratos answered. “Is he there?”

“You bet he is,” the slave said. “I'll go fetch him. I know he'll be glad to see you.” He ducked inside.

“Of course he will,” Sostratos muttered. “After we bought the peafowl from him, he's got to be sure he can sell us anything.”

“We made money from them,” Menedemos said.

“By the time we got rid of them, I'd sooner have served them up roasted at a symposion,” Sostratos said. Familiarity had bred contempt; he was, and would remain, a hater of peafowl.

Before Menedemos could answer, Himilkon emerged from the warehouse, Hyssaldomos behind him. The Phoenician wore an ankle-length wool robe not badly suited to the raw autumn day. Gold hoops glittered in his ears; a black, bushy beard tumbled halfway down his chest. He bowed himself almost double. “Hail, my masters,” he said in gutturally accented but fluent Greek. “How may I serve you today?”

Sostratos found the Phoenician's oily politeness excessive. As far as he was concerned, no free man should call another one master. “Hail,” he answered, doing his best to hide his distaste. “We'd like to talk with you about your homeland, if you don't mind.”

Himilkon's bushy eyebrows leaped upward. “About Byblos?” he said. “Of course, my friend. To you I shall gladly reveal the secrets of my heart.” He bowed again. Sostratos didn't believe him for a moment. On the other hand, he didn't think Himilkon had expected to be believed.

“Not just about Byblos,” Menedemos said. “About Phoenicia in general, and the countries thereabouts, and the kinds of goods we might expect to find in them.”

“Ah.” Intelligence glittered in Himilkon's black, black eyes. “You think to sail east next spring?”

“We've talked about it,” Sostratos said. “If we do, we'd like to learn as much as we can beforehand.”

“Wise. Very wise.” Himilkon gave him yet another bow. “Most Hellenes, if you will forgive my saying so, charge ahead first and think of questions afterwards—if they ever do. I might have known you would be different.” One more bow.

“Er—thank you.” Sostratos wondered if that was a real compliment aimed at him or just more Phoenician flattery. He couldn't tell.

Himilkon rounded on his slave. “Don't stand there with your ears flapping in the breeze, you lazy, worthless, good-for-nothing rogue. Go inside and fetch us some wine and a bite to eat, and don't take all day doing it, either.”

“Right, boss.” If his master's outburst frightened Hyssaldomos, the Karian hid it very well. He sauntered into the warehouse.

“I ought to give him a good whipping—find out if he's really alive,” Himilkon grumbled. “What do you have in mind buying, my masters, and what will you take east to sell?”