The Gryphon's Skull

“Why is your altar at the back of the sacred precinct, instead of in front or inside the temple?” Sostratos asked. “The other two arrangements are more common.”

Diomedon dipped his head. “I know they are. When this temple was going up—it's almost sixty years ago now, when this whole polis was being built—one of the priests went to Zeus' oracle at Dodona, and placing it there was part of the advice the god gave.”

“Can't argue with that,” Menedemos said. Sostratos looked as if he wouldn't have minded arguing about it, but a glance from Menedemos kept him quiet. They were here to sell the priests a lion skin, after all. Annoying or angering them wouldn't make that any easier.

“Here comes my father,” Diomedon said.

The man who walked into the temple through a doorway next to the cult image was a grizzled version of Diomedon himself. Not noticing his son or the two Rhodians inside, Diogenes turned back to the man who had offered the sacrifice and said, “The god was glad to receive your offering.”

“I was glad to give it,” the man replied. He was so tall, he had to duck his head to get through that doorway. Menedemos nudged his cousin. Sostratos hadn't needed any nudging: he'd recognized Polemaios, too.

“Father,” Diomedon called, “these men want to sell the temple a fine lion skin to drape over the god's shoulders.”

“Do they?” Diogenes said, and then, “What makes it such a fine skin?” Hearing that, Menedemos knew he'd have a harder dicker with the older priest than he would have with his son.

Polemaios came up through the naos in Diogenes' wake. “Ah, the Rhodians,” he rumbled. “I might have known.”

“Hail,” Menedemos said politely.

“You know these men, sir?” Diogenes asked Antigonos' nephew.

“Oh, yes—a pair of whipworthy rascals, if ever there were any,” Polemaios replied, a nasty grin on his face. But then, relenting slightly, he went on, “They're the captain and toikharkhos who brought me here from Khalkis. On the sea, they know their business.”

“Why were you sacrificing here, best one?” Sostratos asked.

Polemaios' grin turned into a scowl. “On the land, they want to know everybody else's business,” he growled, and strode out of the temple.

“A bad-tempered man,” Diogenes remarked, which would do for an understatement till a bigger one came along. The priest gathered himself. “I'm Diogenes, as my son will likely have told you.” He waited for Menedemos and Sostratos to give him their names, then said, “So you've got a lion skin, do you? Let's have a look.”

As they'd done for the younger priest, Menedemos and Sostratos displayed the hide. “Isn't it splendid, Father?” Diomedon said.

“Right now, I don't know whether it is or not,” Diogenes answered. “What I do know is, you probably just tacked an extra twenty drakhmai on to the asking price.” His gaze, half annoyed, half amused, swung to Menedemos. “Didn't he?”

“Sir, I don't know what you're talking about,” Menedemos said, as innocently as he could.

Diogenes snorted. “Oh, no, not much you don't.” He bent toward the hide, then tossed his head. “If I'm going to see how splendid it is, I want a proper light. Bring it out by the god's altar.”

Fat-wrapped thighbones smoked on that altar. The hot, metallic smell of blood still filled the air. Flies buzzed as a couple of temple attendants butchered Polemaios' sacrificial offering. It was a bullock: the Macedonian could afford the finest. Menedemos said, “Didn't he take any of the meat for himself?”

“No,” Diogenes said. “He gave the whole beast. Would you and your cousin care for a couple of gobbets? We wouldn't want it to go to waste.”

“Thanks. That's most generous of you.” Like most Hellenes, Menedemos seldom ate meat, though he liked it very much. Smiling, he said, “You'll make me feel like one of the beef-munching heroes in the Iliad.” He cast about for some appropriate lines, and found them: “This is Agamemnon talking, remember?—

" 'For you are first when hearing of my feastWhen we Akhaioi prepare a feast for the elders.Then you are happy to eat roast meat or drinkA cup of wine sweet as honey for as long as you like.

But now you would happily see ten lines of AkhaioiGet ahead of you and fight with pitiless bronze.' “

Diogenes smiled. “You know the poet well.”

“I should hope so,” Menedemos said. “My cousin here can give you practically anything new and fancy”—Sostratos stirred at that, but kept quiet—”but Homer's good enough for me.” He didn't mention how fond he was of the bawdy Aristophanes; Diogenes didn't strike him as a man who would laugh at jokes about shitting oneself.

The priest asked, “What do you want for your lion skin?”

“Four minai,” Menedemos answered.