The Gryphon's Skull

“For your sake, I hope your cousin is right.” The proxenos didn't sound convinced, but he didn't sound as if he wanted an argument, either: “And I hope the rest of your business went well.”

“Pretty well,” Menedemos said. “We don't get the prices for perfume that we would if we were farther away from Rhodes, but we can't do anything about that. People here who want it badly can sail down to the polis and get it in the agora for the same price a Rhodian would pay.”

“Pity we can't let the Lykeion and the Academy bid up the price of that tiger hide, too,” Sostratos said wistfully.

“Well, we can't.” Menedemos wanted to make sure his cousin had no doubts about that, “I'm sure we can get more for it somewhere else.” Sostratos dipped his head, but didn't look happy. Menedemos went on, “Gods only know if we'll ever see another gryphon's skull, my dear, but you can be sure more tiger skins will make their way towards Hellas. They're beautiful, and they're bound to make money for the fellow selling them. You can't say either of those things about the skull.”

“That's true.” Sostratos sounded a little more cheerful.

One of the lamps in the andron burned out, making shadows swell and swoop and filling the room with the scent of hot olive oil. Menedemos expected Kissidas to call for a slave to refill it and light it again. Instead, the Rhodian proxenos put a hand in front of his mouth to hide a yawn. Voice still blurry, he said, “Your pardon, best ones, but I'm going to bed. It's been a busy day, and I have another one in front of me tomorrow.” He picked up another clay lamp and handed it to Menedemos. “I'm sure you two can find your way to your own room tonight. Good night.” Out he went, thriftily dousing torches on the way.

“Not the most subtle hint I've ever seen,” Sostratos remarked, anger and amusement warring in his tone.

Anger triumphed in Menedemos, as it had in Akhilleus in the Iliad. Menedemos reckoned he had better reason for it than the hero of old. “He didn't much want us here in the first place,” he growled. “Now he's treating us shabbily on purpose. Some proxenos he is.”

“I don't know,” Sostratos said. “He would have given us salt fish for opson were that so, not that lovely little shark. You can't blame him for being nervous about Antigonos' garrison in the fortress above the town,”

“Who says I can't?” Menedemos returned. “We might as well go to bed now, though, unless you'd sooner sit in a dark andron here when this lamp goes out.” He got to his feet. So did Sostratos.

They'd just left the andron when someone knocked on Kissidas' front door. “Who's that?” Sostratos said softly. “Whoever it is, I'll bet Kissidas wishes he'd go away. Good news doesn't come by night.”

“It isn't our worry, and I'm not sorry it isn't.” Menedemos headed back toward the cramped guest room they shared. They'd just undressed and lain down when a cry of anguish and alarm rent the nighttime stillness. Gladder than ever that it wasn't his worry, Menedemos blew out the lamp. Black night enfolded the room.

It didn't last long. Someone came rushing back toward the little chamber.

Torchlight sneaked under the bottom of the door. Kissidas knocked and called, “Open up, in the name of the gods!”

Menedemos got out of bed without bothering to put his chiton back on. He spoke to Sostratos: “Maybe it's our worry after all.” Opening the door, he addressed the Rhodian proxenos in more normal tones: “Good heavens, what's happened?”

“I'll tell you what.” Kissidas was practically hopping in agitation; the torch trembled in his hand. “Ptolemaios has brought an army and a fleet up to Phaselis, in eastern Lykia. The town fell to him a few days ago, and he's heading west—heading this way.”

“Oimoi!” Menedemos whistled. Lykia, like most of Anatolia, was held by Antigonos. The summer before, Ptolemaios' general Leonides had struck at Alexander's one-eyed general in Kilikia, farther east along the southern Anatolian coast. Antigonos' son Demetrios promptly drove him away. But Ptolemaios, who ruled Cyprus as well as Egypt, didn't seem ready to give up the fight.

Kissidas wasn't worrying about the larger shape of the war between the marshals. His concern was more immediate, more personal. “When Hipparkhos hears about this, he's going to nail me to a cross,” he moaned. “I give thanks to Zeus that the first man here with the news was a fellow who's bought my oil and olives for years.”

From behind Menedemos, Sostratos said, “If Antigonos' captain here in Kaunos suspects the Rhodian proxenos of favoring Ptolemaios, he'll suspect a couple of real Rhodians even more.”

“Just my thought.” Kissidas eagerly dipped his head. “You have to get away—this very moment, if you can. And take me and mine with you.” Awkwardly, he went to his knees and embraced Menedemos around the legs in supplication.