“Oh, yes. I know. Demetrios has bought them now and again.” Kleokritos licked his finger clean, tidy as an Egyptian cat. He sighed. “Suppose you tell me what you have in mind. Let’s see how loud I scream.”
“A mina a jar.” Sostratos never would have had the nerve to ask such an outrageous price if he hadn’t seen Demetrios’ production of Aiskhylos’ plays. Just being able to present a trilogy and a satyr play bespoke extraordinary wealth. Putting them on so sumptuously bespoke not only wealth but a certain willingness to spend it freely.
“A pound of silver, you say?” Kleokritos took Sostratos and Menedemos by the elbow. “Come, gentlemen.” He led them out of the Parthenon, into the sunshine once more. Then he screamed, loud enough to make a couple of passersby whip their heads around in alarm. “There,” he said. “I didn’t want to profane the shrine with that. You’re robbers, not Rhodians.”
“Sorry you think so,” Menedemos replied. “I’m sure Kassandros’ top officers wouldn’t-Macedonians are made of money, near enough. We wanted to give Demetrios the first chance at our oil, but…” He shrugged regretfully.
Kleokritos flinched. Sostratos smiled to himself. So there was friction between Demetrios of Phaleron and the Macedonians for whom he ruled Athens. That didn’t surprise Sostratos. He probably could have sold the news to Antigonos or Lysimakhos. On the other hand, maybe not. Who was to say they didn’t already know?
“Best ones, surely you see your price is beyond the moderate, beyond what is reasonable.” Kleokritos not only sounded like an Athenian, he sounded like one who’d studied at the Academy or the Lykeion.
As smoothly as if they were performing in a play at the theater, Sostratos and Menedemos tossed their heads together. “I’m sorry, most noble one, but that isn’t how things look to us,” Sostratos replied. “When you think about what we paid for the ingredients, and the risks we took bringing them to Athens-”
“Oh, come now!” Kleokritos said. “This polis is safe and strong under the leadership of Demetrios and the protection of Kassandros.”
So that’s the formula they use, is it? When I write my history, I’ll have to remember it, Sostratos thought. Aloud, he said, “I have no quarrel”- no public quarrel-”with what you say about the polis. But sailing on the Aegean is a risk, and no small one. My cousin and I were attacked by pirates less than two years ago between Andros and Euboia. We were lucky enough to fight them off, but they stole some of our most valuable cargo.”
Menedemos stirred at that. It might not have been strictly true of the gryphon’s skull, not in monetary terms. Sostratos didn’t care. Who could set a true price on knowledge?
Kleokritos sighed. “My principal will want this lovely oil. I have no doubt of that. But he does not care to be held for ransom. I’ll give you sixty drakhmai the lekythos. What do you say?”
“We say it’s time to talk to Kassandros’ officers,” Menedemos replied, and Sostratos dipped his head. With a nasty smile, Menedemos added, “Perhaps they’ll invite Demetrios to supper and let him have a taste.”
“You are a nasty, wicked wretch,” Kleokritos said. Menedemos bowed, as at a compliment. Demetrios of Phaleron’s man muttered under his breath. At last, he said, “Exactly how many lekythoi of truffle-flavored oil have you got?”
Menedemos looked to Sostratos. Sostratos had known his cousin would. “Seventy-one,” he said: as usual, he had the number on the tip of his tongue.
After some muttering and counting on his fingers, Kleokritos said, “I’ll give you a talent for the lot of them.”
“Sixty minai of silver, eh? You are talking of Athenian weight?” Sostratos asked, and Kleokritos impatiently dipped his head. Now Sostratos murmured as he flicked beads on a mental counting-board. In a low voice, he told Menedemos, “Eighty-four drakhmai, three oboloi the lekythos, more or less. What do you think?”
“It should do,” Menedemos answered, also softly. “Unless you think we can squeeze him-or maybe the Macedonians-for more?”
“No, let’s make the deal. It gives us a better chance to work on selling other things to other people.” Sostratos waited to see if Menedemos would argue. When Menedemos didn’t, he turned to Kleokritos. “We accept.”
“Good. That’s settled, then,” Kleokritos said. Sostratos thought so, too. That talent-less what the new ingredients had cost-would pay the crew for three months. No, longer than that, he realized: he paid the sailors in Rhodian coinage, which was lighter than what the Athenians minted. Kleokritos asked, “Do you have all the oil at Protomakhos’ house?”
“No, not all,” Sostratos answered. “We didn’t know we would sell it all to the same man. We can bring the rest up from Peiraieus tomorrow, and you can pick it up tomorrow afternoon or the next day. Does that seem good to you?”
“Yes. I expect I will come day after tomorrow,” Kleokritos replied.
Menedemos said, “At Protomakhos’ house we also have wine from Lesbos and wine from far-off Byblos. The Lesbian I expect you will know. Of the Byblian I will say only this: its bouquet is a match for Ariousian’s. Ask among people you know if you don’t believe me. They’ll tell you I speak the truth.”
They might also tell him the wine’s flavor didn’t match its aroma- but Menedemos hadn’t said anything about that. Kleokritos said, “I will ask. And, of course, I will ask my principal if he wants to add to his cellars. If he declines”-Demetrios of Phaleron’s man shrugged- “then I wish you good fortune selling your wine to someone else.” He let out a dry chuckle. “I doubt you will have too much trouble disposing of it.”
“Good wine generally does find a home,” Sostratos agreed.
Kleokritos chuckled. “In any town with a Macedonian garrison, good wine-or even bad wine-has to work hard not to find a home.” He started back toward the ramp that led down into the main part of Athens. Over his shoulder, he added, “I’ll see you day after tomorrow, best ones. Hail.”
“Hail,” Sostratos and Menedemos said together. Once Kleokritos was out of earshot, Menedemos went on, “He’ll buy wine, too. I don’t know about day after tomorrow, but he will.” He sounded confident as could be.
“Yes, I think so,” Sostratos replied. “He’s plainly eager for fancy food and drink-he may want some truffles, too. If his cook can do a kandaulos like Myrsos’, think how fine it would be with truffles flavoring the broth.”
“Makes my mouth water,” Menedemos said. “Part of me hopes we don’t sell them all. If we bring some home to Sikon and your cook, we can enjoy them ourselves.”
Sostratos thought about teasing him over putting personal pleasure before profit. He couldn’t, not in good conscience, not when he felt the same way himself. He said, “I wish I could see Demetrios having a use for beeswax.”
“Are you worrying about that already?” Menedemos asked. A little sheepishly, Sostratos dipped his head. His cousin made a face at him. “Don’t be foolish. You haven’t even started talking to sculptors yet. There’s bound to be some vain Athenian or swaggering Macedonian who thinks this polis can’t live without a bronze statue of him, and that’s what beeswax is for.”
“I know, but I can’t help fretting,” Sostratos said.
Menedemos laughed. “Really, my dear? I never would have guessed. You’re probably fussing about the balm from Engedi, too, even though the next physician you talk to will be your first.”
With such dignity as he could muster, Sostratos replied, “I don’t have to admit that, and I don’t intend to, either.”
“You just did, I think,” Menedemos said, and laughed harder than ever. He went on, “You haven’t seen any scribes, either, but I’d bet you’re worrying about our papyrus and ink.”
“No. That not,” Sostratos said. “I can always sell papyrus in Athens. This polis uses more of it than any other three in Hellas, and that includes Rhodes and Alexandria. I am a little worried about the price I’ll have to charge because Himilkon gouged me-outsmarted me, really, but gouged me, too. But I will be able to sell it, and the ink will naturally go with it.”