The Gryphon's Skull

Sostratos almost burst out laughing, Menedemos will be sorry he's off talking to jewelers, he thought. If he were here, he'd do anything this side of bashing me with a rock to go himself. “Yes, I'll come,” he told the slave. “Let me find some bolts that might best suit her,” As he gathered them up, he told the couple of sailors with him, “If anyone comes looking to buy, let him know I'll be back before too long.”

“Right you are,” one of them said. With a grin, he added, “Tough bit of work you've got ahead of you, sounds like.”

“Doesn't it, though?” Sostratos answered, deadpan. He turned to the slave. “I'm ready. Take me to your mistress.”

As in most poleis, the houses of the rich and poor lay side by side, and it wasn't easy to tell which was which from the outside: the rich hid their wealth behind their walls. When the slave stopped and said, “ 'Ere we are,” Sostratos saw that the house was whitewashed and had a very solid-looking door. Both suggested money; neither proved it.

Another slave opened the door when the fellow with Sostratos knocked. “Come with me, sir,” he told Sostratos, and led him to the andron. Again, Sostratos held in amusement, thinking, In a hetaira's house, is this still the men's chamber? And if it is, what exactly does that mean?

The chairs and tables in the andron were well made. The courtyard at which Sostratos looked out also suggested quiet prosperity, with a colonnade around its outer edge, a neat flower garden surrounding a fountain, and a nearly life-sized statue of a goddess likelier to be Artemis than Aphrodite. Sostratos would have expected something gaudier and bawdier.

One of the slaves brought him wine and olives. The first taste of the wine made his eyebrows shoot up. He knew Ariousian, the finest vintage from Khios; the Aphrodite had carried it to Great Hellas the year before. If Metrikhe could afford it, she was more than prosper­ous. The tangy green olives were also very fine, plainly from the first picking.

Metrikhe gave Sostratos just long enough to refresh himself before coming to the andron. Maybe she had a slave keeping an eye on him; maybe she simply knew how long a man would need. At any rate, he'd just set down his empty cup when she paused in the doorway and said, “ 'Ail. You are the silk-seller?”

“Hail. Yes, that's right.” As Sostratos gave his name, he eyed Me­trikhe. No one could have proved her a hetaira by the way she dressed. Indeed, she seemed the height of respectability. Over her long chiton, she wore a wrap of fine, soft wool; Miletos was famous for the quality of its khlaneis. She even veiled herself against his eyes. How disappointing, he thought.

What was in his mind must have shown on his face, for she chuck­led. “Were you expecting to see me in something where you could see all of me?” she asked as she walked in and sat down. She moved with a dancer's grace.

Sostratos' ears heated. “I did . . . wonder,” he mumbled, that seem­ing a safer word than hope.

“I can't say I'm surprised.” Metrikhe tossed her head, a startlingly emphatic gesture. “But no. I don't show myself unless it's time to show myself. That makes it mean more when I do.”

“Ah.” Sostratos took the point at once, “I see. Each craft has its own mysteries. Plainly, you know yours.”

“I 'ad better,” she answered, and cocked his head to one side, studying him for a few heartbeats. “You're not a fool, are you?”

“I do try not to be.” Sostratos smiled. “Of course, I understand that you want men to be fools around you, and I'm sure you know how to get just what you want.” His cousin was far fonder of quoting Homer than he was, but a few lines from the Odyssey seemed to fit:

“ 'They stood in the bright-tressed goddess' doorwayAnd listened to Kirke inside singing with her beautiful voice

While working at a great loom fit for a divinity, such as goddesses haveAnd turning out delicately woven work, pleasing and fine.' “

Metrikhe studied him again, this time, he thought, more sharply. An edge in her voice, she said, “I don't turn men into swine.”

He didn't want to antagonize her. That might cost him a sale even before they started haggling. He picked his words with care; “I wouldn't think you'd need to. Isn't it true that a lot of men are swine before they stand in your doorway?”

“You are a man. 'Ow do you know these things?” She sounded half astonished, half suspicious.