The Gryphon's Skull

“He gets cagey about that,” Menedemos answered. “I think one of his kinsmen works in the mine, somewhere out in the desert east of the Nile.”

“So these may be ... unofficial emeralds, then?”

“That thought did cross my mind, yes.”

Sostratos' eyes narrowed craftily, “Lots of Hellenes from Egypt who can get Ptolemaios' ear come through Rhodes. If you have to, you might want to point that out to the marvelous Thrasyllos.”

“You're a demon, aren't you?” Menedemos' voice rose in admiration. “I should have thought of that myself.”

They left the house and headed down toward the harbor, a route Menedemos had taken ever since he was old enough to toddle along after his father. He didn't care to think about that now; he didn't like to think about anything having to do with Philodemos. But the journey was as familiar to him as any in the polis could be.

There stood Mnesipolis the smith, banging away at something while his fire sent smoke up into the sky. There was the usual crowd of gabbers and loungers outside the shop of Pythion the cobbler. Sostratos made the remark he usually made, too; “Sokrates taught outside a cobbler's shop just like this one. In Athens, they still show you the place that used to be Simon's.”

“Pythion can teach you everything you want to know about shoes,” Menedemos said.

“Can he teach me what's true and what's good and what's beautiful and why?”

“Certainly—about shoes.”

“You're no help, and neither is Pythion.”

“Yes he is, if the sole of my sandal is ripped—not that I wear sandals very often.”

“What about your own soul?”

Instead of playing word games with his cousin, Menedemos picked a stone up out of the street and chucked it at a couple of scrawny dogs that were squabbling over some garbage by a wall. The stone hit the wall with a sharp crack. One of the dogs ran off. The other gulped down whatever they'd been fighting about. Then it, too, trotted away.

Agathippos' bakery was as smoky as Mnesipolis' smithy, but the sweet smell of baking bread made Menedemos forgive the smoke. A goggle-eyed gecko clung to the wall at Agathippos'. A crow tried to grab it, but it scurried into a crack in the mud brick and the bird flew away unhappy.

Down by the great harbor, every other building seemed to house a tavern. A man stood pissing against a wall by one of them; a drunk lay asleep in the street outside another. Sostratos clucked disapprovingly and said, “There is a man with no self-control.”

“Can't argue with you,” Menedemos said, “Getting a bellyful of wine is one thing. Getting blind-drunk in the morning?” He tossed his head. “No thanks.”

Gulls and terns wheeled overhead, mewling and skrawking. A pelican, its wingspan as wide as a man was tall, flapped majestically by. Shorebirds skittered here and there with nervous little steps, now and then pausing to peck at bugs or small crabs.

Menedemos pointed ahead. “There's Thrasyllos' ship: the Aura,”

“ 'Fair Wind,' eh?” Sostratos' lip curled. “He ought to call her the 'Breaks Wind.'“ Menedemos let out a yip of startled laughter. Sostratos went on, “How can the skipper of a ship that looks like that have any real jewels? He's probably trying to sell you green glass.”

The ship wasn't much to look at. The eyes at the bow needed repainting, which gave her a sad, half blind appearance. The goose-head ornament on the round ship's sternpost hadn't been touched up any time lately, either. Her unpainted timber was gray with age. Even so, Menedemos said, “You'll see.” He raised his voice: “Oë, Thrasyllos! You there?”

“Where else would I be?” The Auras

captain came up on deck. He was a lean little man with a sailor's sun-darkened skin and a narrow, worried face. “Hail, Menedemos. Who's your friend?”

“My cousin,” Menedemos answered, and introduced Sostratos. “He wanted to see your stones, too,” That seemed better than saying, He thinks you're a fraud.

“Hail,” Sostratos said politely, but his voice held no warmth at all.

“Well, come aboard, both of you.” Thrasyllos didn't sound especially happy, either. He wasn't shy about explaining why, either: “The fewer people who know about this business, the better. Come on, come on. My crew's off getting drunk and getting laid. We can talk.”

The Aura could probably carry ten times as much as the Aphrodite. Even so, Menedemos wouldn't have traded his akatos for the merchantman for anything in the world. The round ship lived up to her description, with a beam close to a third of her length. Even with a fair wind behind her, she would waddle along like a fat old man, and she'd be slower yet struggling to make headway against contrary breezes. “An amphora with a sail,” Menedemos muttered as he strode down the gangplank.

“Amphorai have better lines than this floating hip-bath ever dreamt of,” Sostratos answered, also in a low voice.