The Gryphon's Skull

“That's right,” Sostratos replied. “About the size of a big drinking cup of wine. But you can get your wine for a few oboloi. Crimson dye is dearer—shellfish aren't so easy to come by as grapes.”

“I know, I know.” The wool merchant sounded impatient. “Tell me what you want for a jar, I'll tell you what a gods-detested thief you are, and we'll go from there.”

Sostratos smiled. So did Menedemos; the Kaunian didn't believe in wasting time. “Just as you say, best one,” Sostratos told him. “Thirty drakhmai the jar seems a fair price.”

“Thirty?” the local howled. “You are a gods-detested thief! I expected you to say fifteen, and I'd've laughed at that. Ten would be too much, by Zeus Labraundeus.” He spoke Doric Greek not much different from Menedemos' or Sostratos', but the god by whom he swore was Karian.

“Nice of you to stop by,” Sostratos said pleasantly. The wool merchant made no motion to leave. The little crowd that had gathered leaned forward for the next move in the dicker. Sostratos merely waited. He was good at that, better than Menedemos, who was an impulsive plunger by temperament.

Looking like a man with a sour stomach, the Kaunian wool dealer said, “I suppose I might go up to twelve.” Sostratos hardly seemed to hear him. As if every word hurt, the local added, “Or even thirteen.”

“Well. . .” Sostratos plucked at his beard. Everyone waited. How much would he come down? Sometimes—often—Menedemos stuck his oar into the bargaining, too, but this didn't seem to be the moment. In tones of mild regret, Sostratos said, “I don't suppose my father would take a strap to me if I got twenty-eight drakhmai the jar.” He didn't sound sure about that, though.

He didn't drive the wool merchant away, either. The spectators smiled and nudged one another: this would be a loud, long, entertaining haggle. One man whispered to the fellow beside him, offering a bet on what price the dye would finally bring.

Plainly, the dicker would tie things up for a while. Menedemos walked away, judging he had time for a quick look around the agora. He ate a fig candied in honey. He had to work to keep from exclaiming at how good it was. “Maybe we should talk,” he told the man selling them. “I might try bringing a few of those to Rhodes, on the off chance some people would like them.”

“Don't wait too long, my friend,” the dealer answered. “They always go fast. I've already sold a lot.”

“Let me see what else I might be interested in,” Menedemos said. “This fellow next to you has . . . Are those really lion skins? And what's that one with the stripes?”

“That's from the Indian beast called a tiger,” the man at the next stall said. “If I were to stretch the skin out, you would see it's even bigger than the ones from the lions. They're local. They were killing sheep up in the hills till a whole mob of men took after 'em with spears.”

“Er—yes,” Menedemos said. No lions on Rhodes. There never had been, not so far as anyone's memory reached. Here on the Anatolian mainland, though, it was a different story. He recalled the verses he'd recited on the sea; Homer had known the beasts well. They didn't live in Hellas these days, though some were still supposed to lurk in the back woods of Macedonia.

Menedemos was about to ask a price for the hides. Hellenes didn't wear furs—that was the mark of Thracians and Skythians and other barbarians—but images of Zeus and Herakles could be decked in lion skins. . . and, he supposed, in a tiger skin as well. Or maybe that would do for Dionysos, who was also said to come from India.

Before he put the question to the merchant, though, he noticed another item by the man's sandaled foot. “What exactly is that, and where did it come from?” he asked.

“I can answer the second question easier than the first,” the fellow replied. “The fellow who sold it to me said he got it from a man who'd lived in Alexandria Eskhate.”

“The last Alexandria?” Menedemos echoed. “Alexander named towns for himself all over the east. Where's that one?”

“Way off near the edge of the world—in Sogdiana, on the Iaxartes River,” the merchant said. “The Hellene who lived there got it from the Sakai who roam the plains to the north and east. Where the nomads found it, the man who sold it to me couldn't say. I guess the fellow who sold it to him didn't know, either.”

“What is it?” Menedemos asked again. “What did it come from?” The merchant told him. His eyes widened. “You're joking.”

“Looks like one, doesn't it?” the Kaunian said.

“I don't know. I've never seen one before,” Menedemos answered. “I don't know anybody who has ... or maybe I do.” He glanced over toward Sostratos. His cousin looked to have just struck a bargain with the wool merchant. That meant he could come over and take a look. Menedemos whistled shrilly, then waved to draw his notice. “Oë, Sostratos!” he shouted. “Come here!”