The Gryphon's Skull

“That's true.” Ptolemaios chuckled again. “The two of you wouldn't even have had hair on your balls yet when Alexander led us there.” Sostratos had a sense of great deeds undone, a sense that the men of his own generation would always lag behind those of Ptolemaios' in glory. Before he could say anything—before he could even fully formulate the idea in his mind—the ruler of Egypt went on, “Would you boys sell that tiger skin to me instead of to a temple?”

Sostratos leaned forward in his chair. So this isn't Just a social call, he thought. Menedemos sounded alert, too, as he answered, “We might, sir, as long as the price is right.”

“Oh, yes. I understand that.” Ptolemaios still looked more like a peasant than a general, but he looked like a very shrewd peasant indeed. “Well, what sort of price did you have in mind?”

“You said it yourself; it's a one-of-a-kind item,” Menedemos said.

“Which means you're going to gouge me.” Those shaggy eyebrows of Ptolemaios' came down and together in a frown. “The thing you need to remember is, this is something I'd like to have, not something I've got to have. You stick me too hard, I'll say, 'Nice meeting you,' and send you on your way. Now, let's try it again—what do you want for the skin?”

Sostratos did some rapid mental calculating. Menedemos had got the tiger hide along with the two lion skins and the gryphon's skull. Had he bought it by itself, it would have cost about. . . and that meant. . . “Eight minai, sir.”

Ptolemaios tossed his head. “Nice meeting you,” he said. “Have some more bread, have some more wine, and my man will take you back to your proxenos' house.” He dipped another piece of bread in olive oil, then slowly and deliberately ate it. Only after he'd swallowed did he grudgingly add, “I might give you half that.”

“Very nice meeting you, sir,” Menedemos said. “We have to make a profit ourselves, you know.”

One of the guards growled something in Macedonian that didn't sound pleasant. His hand slid toward the hilt of his sword. “Relax, Lysanias,” Ptolemaios said in his clear Greek. “It's only a haggle, not a fight.”

“Another question: whose minai are we talking about?” Sostratos asked.

Now Ptolemaios jabbed a thumb at his own chest. “Why, mine, of course.”

“Fair enough.” Sostratos dipped his head. “It does help to be clear in advance,” It took five of Ptolemaios' drakhmai—or, multiplying a hundredfold, five of his minai—to make four of their Attic equivalent, the most commonly used weights among Hellenes. But, since the Rhodian drakhma was slightly lighter even than Ptolemaios', Sostratos couldn't complain.

And the ruler of Egypt didn't seem displeased at the question. “You're one of those fellows who likes to have everything just so, alpha-beta-gamma, aren't you? That's not a bad thing, especially in a young man. I suppose I could give you four minai, fifty drakhmai.”

“I'm certain we'd do better somewhere else,” Sostratos got to his feet. So did Menedemos. Sostratos turned to Alypetos. “If you'd be so kind as to guide us back to Kleiteles'?”

They'd taken a couple of steps out of the andron before Ptolemaios called after them: “Wait.” He was smiling when they came back, “You like to play on the edge of the roof, too, don't you?”

Sostratos didn't. Menedemos, he knew, did. But his cousin said, “Sostratos is right. We'll do better than that in Athens, say.” He sounded very sure of himself.

Ptolemaios' smile disappeared. “All right, then. You say you want eight minai, and you don't think four and a half are enough. Somewhere in between there is a number that will make you happy. Let's find out what it is.”

He proceeded to do just that. Looking back on it later, Sostratos realized it was funny. Here he sat, facing what had to be the richest man in the world—and Ptolemaios haggled like a poor housewife trying to knock a couple of khalkoi off the price of a sack of barley.

He gestured extravagantly. He shouted and stamped his feet. His eyebrows twitched. He cursed in Greek and then, when he was really angry—or trying to pretend he was really angry—in Macedonian. He came up in the dicker as if every extra drakhma were pulled out of his belly.

Sostratos did his best to bargain the same way. Menedemos backed him magnificently. Of course, as Ptolemaios had seen, Menedemos really did like taking chances, and didn't seem to worry that infuriating the ruler of Egypt might prove more dangerous than outraging a husband with a young, pretty wife.

The dicker stretched through the whole morning. At last, Sostratos said, “Well, best one, shall we split the difference?”

Ptolemaios counted on his fingers. He was good with numbers— almost as good as I am, Sostratos thought, without false modesty. “That would make what?—six minai, thirty-five drakhmai, right?”

“Yes, sir.” Sostratos dipped his head.