The Gryphon's Skull

“He certainly is.” Now Sostratos dipped his head, “That's why I'm assuming he's got somebody keeping an eye on Polemaios and his soldiers. Remember how Polemaios tried to see if we knew which of Ptolemaios' officers would take a bribe?”

“That I do,” Menedemos answered. “I thought we'd be out of Kos and across the Aegean before it could possibly matter. But the stinking collision put paid to that, the collision and the fight across the channel. That cistern-arsed scow—I hope it did sink in the storm.”

“Maybe it did,” Sostratos said. “No sign of it here, anyhow.”

“Gods only know how long we'll be stuck here, though.” Menedemos drummed his fingers on the outside of his thigh.

His cousin's voice was tart: “Believe me, my dear, I like it no better than you do. I want to be in Athens. I burn to be in Athens. As a matter of fact, I burn to be anywhere but here. We ought to start going to the agora and selling what we can. We'll make

something that way.”

“Not much,” Menedemos said in dismay. “Ships from Rhodes put in here ail the time. We won't get much of a price for perfume or ink—and how can we hope to sell the silk we just bought, except at a loss? Koans can buy direct from the folk who make it; they don't need to deal with middlemen.”

“I understand that, believe me,” his cousin replied. “But we have to pay the sailors no matter where we are or what we're doing, and that talent we got from Ptolemaios is melting away like the fat in a fire at a sacrifice to the gods.”

Instead of drumming his fingers, Menedemos suddenly snapped them. “I know what would bring us some money—-we've got those two lion skins. No lions on Kos. Somewhere in town, there'll be a temple to Zeus. Can't go wrong with a real lion-skin mantle for the god's image.”

“True.” Sostratos smiled, “And you're right—we ought to get a good price for at least one of the hides. Good idea.”

“Thanks,” Menedemos said. “Now if only I could come up with eight or ten more, we'd be fine.”

“Pity that fellow back in Kaunos didn't have a leopard skin to go with the others,” Sostratos said. “I know where the temple to Dionysos is.”

“Yes, I remember going by it, too, on the way from Ptolemaios' residence down here to the harbor.” Menedemos shrugged. “All we can do, though, is make the best of what we've got.”

As often happened in a town of Hellenes, finding out where Zeus' temple was cost Menedemos an obolos. Knowledge was a commodity like any other, and seldom given away for nothing. After he'd paid out the little silver coin, he was annoyed to discover that the temple lay only a couple of blocks beyond the market square. It was a small building, but elegant, in the modern Corinthian style, with columns whose capitals looked like inverted bells and were ornamented with acanthus leaves.

“Pretty,” said Sostratos, who was fond of modern architecture.

“If you like that sort of thing,” Menedemos said. “It looks busy to me. I like the good old Doric order better—no bases to the columns, and plain capitals that just go on about the business of holding up the architrave and the frieze. These fancy Corinthian columns”— he made a face—”they look like a garden that wants pruning.”

“There's a difference between plain and too plain, if you ask me,” Sostratos said. “And Doric columns are squat. These Corinthian ones can be taller for the same thickness. They make the building more graceful.”

“More likely to fall down in an earthquake, you mean,” Menedemos said. Then he and Sostratos both spat into the bosom of their tunics to avert the evil omen. In the lands around the Inner Sea, temblors came too often even without invitation,

A young priest greeted them as they came up the steps and walked into the shrine. “Good day,” he said. “Have you come to offer a sacrifice to the god?”

“No.” Menedemos tossed his head, then pointed toward the life-sized marble cult image of the king of the gods. “As a matter of fact, we've come to adorn your statue there. Show him, Sostratos.”

“I will.” His cousin undid the lashing that closed the leather sack he carried. He drew out the lion skin. Menedemos helped him spread it on the floor.

“Oh, very good!” The priest clapped his hands. “I'd loved to see that draped over the god's shoulders. But I fear I'm not the one with whom you'll have to haggle. You'll need to talk with my father, Diogenes. I'm Diomedon, by the way.”

“Pleased to meet you.” After giving his own name, Menedemos went on, “As I said, this is my cousin, Sostratos. Where is your father? Can you fetch him?”

“He's sacrificing at the altar behind the temple,” Diomedon replied. “As soon as he's finished, I'm sure he'd be pleased to talk with you. I hope you can make a bargain. Painting isn't enough to make the statue very impressive, I'm afraid.”

Smiling, Menedemos said, “I think I'd sooner dicker with you than with your father.”

“Of course.” Diomedon smiled, too. “You can tell I'm a soft touch. You won't have such an easy time with him as you would with me.”