The Gryphon's Skull

“They really do,” Sostratos said solemnly, “and they're even more awesome to see than you would think from the tales about them.” Menedemos thought about that, then dipped his head in agreement.

“Well, well,” Pixodaros said, and then again: “Well, well.” He chuckled. “And I think I go traveling when I leave the city to check the fields and orchards that are mine now. You make me feel like a child in his cradle.”

With a shrug, Menedemos said, “Some people do one thing, some another. I'm glad Xenophanes left his business in such good hands.”

“Thank you.” Xenophanes' freedman looked from Menedemos to Sostratos and back again, “The two of you didn't come to Kos just to chat.”

“No,” Sostratos said. “We do have a certain interest in your silk. We did well with it last year. We'd like to do well with it again.”

“What are you carrying?” Pixodaros asked.

“We have more of the crimson dye of Byblos that Xenophanes always liked to use,” Menedemos answered.

As Pixodaros dipped his head—he did it self-consciously, as if reminding himself to behave like a Hellene—Sostratos added, “And we also have fine Rhodian perfume. I remember you were interested in it last year, even though Xenophanes wasn't.”

Menedemos hadn't remembered that. He'd kept Xenophanes' views in mind then, but not those of the man who'd been a slave then, Pixodaros dipped his head again. “Yes, I was. I still am—or I could be, if the price is right. We agree, more or less, on what silk is worth in terms of dye. But in terms of perfume?” He leaned forward on his stool, eager anticipation in his eyes. “We have a new dicker, my friends.”

He called to his slave, who brought in more wine, and olives and onions to go with it. A new dicker indeed, Menedemos thought. And this must be his first big one as a freedman. He wants to start things off the right way. He filled his cup from the mixing bowl and bit into an onion. “When you buy our perfume, you know just what you're getting,” he said. “Silk, now . . . I'd like to see what you want to sell us.”

“It shall be as you say.” Pixodaros clapped his hands. Looking a little harassed, the slave came back into the room. Pixodaros told him what he needed. The slave nodded and hurried away. He came back with a bolt of the rare fabric. Pixodaros held it up for his guests. “Top quality, O best ones, as you see. Xenophanes showed me everything he knew.”

It did look very good. It was filmier than the gauziest linen; Menedemos could see Pixodaros through it. Yet it also shone and sparkled, as linen never did. Brothel keepers paid high prices to deck their girls in the stuff. Hetairai bought it for themselves. And men eager for display or simply to have something few others in their polis did also set down their silver for silk—commonly in thicker grades.

“What do you weave it from?” Sostratos murmured.

He couldn't have expected an answer. It was only his curiosity talking. For a moment, though, Pixodaros' face went hard and hostile behind the transparent cloth. “That is the secret of Kos,” he said. “The most I will ever say is that I was so surprised when I learned it, you could guess from the fall of Troy till now and you would never once come close.”

“As may be,” Sostratos said. “I don't need to know in order to want it.” He turned to Menedemos. “Shall we get a hundred bolts, as we did last year?”

“That suits me well enough,” Menedemos said. “We won't be going into the west this trip, but there's always a strong market for silk in Athens.” He raised an eyebrow at Pixodaros. “You do have it?”

“Certainly.” The Karian started to nod, then caught himself and dipped his head.

“All right, then,” Sostratos said. “Shall we trade dye for half and perfume for the other half? Dye at the same rate we gave Xenophanes last year?”

“I thought the old man could have done a little better,” Pixodaros replied, “but let it be as you say. Now, though, the perfume . . .”

“Top grade, just like your silk,” Menedemos said. “An akatos can't afford to carry anything but the best. We make our money from quality. A round-ship captain with a load of olive oil in his hold can take along a little junk to peddle on the side, because it's not where most of his profit will come from. We don't dare sell junk. We always want the good and the beautiful.” Sostratos stirred at that—the words came right to the edge of philosophy—but didn't speak.

“And how much do you want for one of your jars of perfume, as compared to the price for one of your jars of dye?” Pixodaros asked.

Menedemos smiled. “That's where the dickering comes in, wouldn't you say?” Pixodaros smiled, too. Oil and wheat might have something close to a fixed price, except in times of dearth, but luxuries? Luxuries brought what the seller could get, what the buyer could afford.