The Gryphon's Skull

So did Menedemos, whose ideas about religion had always been conventional. But Sostratos thoughtfully pursed his lips. Ever since Sokrates' day, philosophers had been dissatisfied with the gods as they appeared in the Iliad: lustful, quarrelsome, often foolish or cowardly—a pack of chieftains writ large. One cautious step at a time, thinkers had groped their way toward something that sounded a lot like what these Ioudaioi already had. Maybe they weren't so silly after all.

How can I find out? he wondered, and asked Himilkon, “Do any of them speak Greek?”

“A few may.” But Himilkon looked doubtful. “You'd do better to learn a little Aramaic, though. I could teach you myself, if you like. I wouldn't charge much.”

Now Sostratos wore a dubious expression. His curiosity had never extended to learning foreign languages. “Maybe,” he said.

“I know how it is with you Hellenes,” Himilkon said. “You always want everybody else to speak your tongue. You never care to pick up anybody else's. That's fine in Hellas, my friend, but there's more to the world than Hellas. Your other choice would be to hire a Greek-speaking interpreter in one of the Phoenician towns, but that would cost a lot more than learning yourself.”

Mentioning expense was a good way to get Sostratos to think about acquiring some Aramaic on his own. “Maybe,” he said again, in a different tone of voice.

Himilkon bowed once more. “You know I am at your service, my master.”

After the Rhodians left the warehouse, Menedemos asked, “Do you really want to learn to go barbarbar?”

Sostratos tossed his head. “No, not even a little bit. But I don't want to have to count on an interpreter, either.” He sighed. “We'll see.”

Menedemos felt trapped in the andron. For once, that had nothing to do with Baukis. She was upstairs, in the women's quarters. But Philodemos' friend Xanthos shared with Medusa the ability to turn anyone close by to stone: he was petrifyingly boring. “My grandson is beginning to learn his alpha-beta,” he said now. “He's a likely little lad—looks like my wife's mother. My father-in-law liked string beans more than any man I've ever known, except maybe my great uncle. 'Give me a mess of beans and I'll be happy,' my great uncle would say. He lived to be almost eighty, though he was all blind and bent toward the end.”

“Isn't that interesting?” Menedemos lied.

He glanced over toward his father, hoping the older man would rescue both of them from their predicament. Xanthos was his friend, after all. But Philodemos just pointed to the krater in which the watered wine waited and said, “Would you like some more, best one?”

“I don't mind if I do.” Xanthos used the dipper to refill his cup. Oh, no, Menedemos thought. That will only make him talk more.

Of course, by everything he'd ever seen, Xanthos needed no help in talking as much as any three ordinary men put together. After a couple of sips of wine, he turned to Philodemos and said, “Were you in the Assembly when I spoke on the need to keep good relations with Antigonos and Ptolemaios both—and with Lysimakhos and Kassandros, too, for that matter?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I was,” Philodemos said quickly. Menedemos' father, a man of stern rectitude, seldom told lies, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and he didn't hesitate here.

That did him little good. “I believe your son was still at sea, though,” Xanthos said. “I'm sure he'd be interested in hearing my remarks.”

Menedemos had no idea why he was sure of any such thing. Philodemos said, “My son's met Ptolemaios. You might be interested in hearing his views.”

He might as well have saved his breath; Xanthos was interested in no one's views but his own. He took a deep breath, getting ready to launch into his speech. Menedemos tried a different tack: “What about Seleukos, O marvelous one? You say we should stay friendly toward all the other Macedonian marshals”—which struck him as much easier to advocate than to do—”but what about Seleukos, out in the east?”

“A very good question, young man, and you may be sure I'll address it in great detail when next the Assembly convenes,” Xanthos said. “Meanwhile—”

Out came the speech. Resistance was futile; it only delayed the inevitable. A man can close his eyes, Menedemos thought. Why can't he close his ears, too? Being unable to do so struck him as most unfair, and ever more so as time dragged on.

The worst part was, Xanthos expected praise once he finished. He always did, and pouted when he didn't get it. “That was . . . quite something, sir,” Menedemos managed, which saved him the trouble of saying just what.