Protomakhos was also conspicuously quiet as he and the Rhodians made their way back to his house. Once inside, he led them to the andron and called for wine. Then, making sure none of his slaves was in earshot, he spoke in low, intense, furious tones: “You young fellows, you come from a polis with a democracy that really works, isn’t that so?”
“Yes,” Sostratos said. Menedemos dipped his head.
The Rhodian proxenos took a long pull at his winecup. Then he went on, “Me, I’m not a youth any more. I’m old enough to remember how democracy is supposed to go. I recall the days before Philip of Macedon won at Khaironeia and put all of Hellas under his boot. People then cared about the way things went. They cared about doing what was right, doing what was best. They cared about something besides bending over and showing Demetrios how wide their arseholes were.” A disgusted look on his face, he drained the cup and dipped it full again.
Sostratos said the only thing he could think of that might make the Athenian feel a little better; “You haven’t had a real democracy here for quite a while, most noble one. Maybe, now that this is done, your people will get the hang of it again.”
“Do you think so?” Protomakhos asked morosely. “I don’t, Stratokles got to play the sycophant today, but plenty of others haven’t had the chance yet. They’ll take it. And they’ll take revenge on everybody who backed Demetrios of Phaleron, too. You wait and see. If Kleokritos didn’t go over the border with his master, I wouldn’t lay an obolos on his chances of living to grow old. Would you?”
“Well, no,” Sostratos admitted. The proxenos was all too likely to be right. Whenever one faction ousted another, the first thing it usually did was get its own back against its rivals. Sostratos could have gone into detail about that; he’d read Herodotos and Thoukydides and Xenophon. But few Hellenes needed to read the historians to understand what their folk were capable of. Protomakhos almost certainly hadn’t. Hellenes who knew themselves, knew their own kind, could see what was coming.
Menedemos said, “As long as the city doesn’t break out in civil war”-he might have been talking about a pestilence-”we’ll do all right. And so should you, best one,” he added, pointing to Protomakhos. “They’ll probably want to buy lots of slabs of marble to inscribe the decrees they passed today”
“Yes, I suppose they will.” Protomakhos seemed less than delighted at the prospect. But then he brightened, a little. “If they are going to buy them, they may as well buy them from me.”
“That’s the spirit!” Menedemos dipped his head. He seemed perfectly friendly toward the dealer in stone. Knowing how… friendly Menedemos had been with Protomakhos’ wife, Sostratos found that bemusing. He knew Menedemos shouldn’t jeer at the man he’d cuckolded, but his cousin was proving an even better actor than he’d expected.
With an effort, Sostratos wrenched his thoughts away from adultery. Commerce, he told himself. Think of commerce. Turning to Protomakhos, he asked, “Do you know who’s likely to do the statues of Antigonos and Demetrios in their chariot? I’d like to see him as soon as I can-that will be my best chance to sell all the beeswax I got in Ioudaia.”
“Euge, my dear!” Menedemos exclaimed. He beamed at Sostratos. To Protomakhos, he said, “Isn’t my cousin the cleverest fellow?”
Oh, yes, Sostratos thought. You like my wits well enough when I turn them toward ways of making us money. But when I use the same logic to point out how you might want to choose a different road for your own life, you don’t want to hear me. But what’s more important in the end, silver or satisfaction? He clicked his tongue between his teeth. Menedemos, no doubt, would define satisfaction differently.
Protomakhos played the diplomat: “Both you Rhodians are doing well for yourselves. As for sculptors, my guess would be they’ll choose Hermippos son of Lakritos. He trained under the great Lysippos, and he’s the best in the polis nowadays.”
“Lysippos was a fine sculptor, sure enough,” Sostratos said. “There’s that Herakles of his back in Rhodes-people admire it.”
“Oh, that one,” Menedemos said. “I know the one you mean. Yes, he could make bronze and marble breathe, sure enough.”
“I’ve seen some of his work, too,” Protomakhos said. “Hermippos isn’t quite in the same class, but he does well enough.”
Sostratos almost remarked on that, but held his peace. People would admire Lysippos’ work for generations; his name would live on. For every Lysippos, though, how many men did well enough to make a living, perhaps even well enough to gain some reputation while they were alive, but would be utterly forgotten five years after earth covered them? Others besides Thoukydides had written about the Pelopon-nesian War. What scribe copied their works these days? Before long- if it hadn’t happened already-mice would nibble the last papyrus roll that held their histories, and then they would be gone. Other bards besides Homer must have sung. Who remembered them?
Are you sure you want to write a history? Sostratos wondered. If you don’t write it, you’ll surely be forgotten, he answered himself. If you do, you have a chance of living on. Any chance is better than none.
He dragged his mind back to the business at hand. “Where does this Hermippos have his shop?” he asked Protomakhos.
“Just north and west of the agora,” Protomakhos replied. “The Street of the Panathenaia divides, one road going to the Sacred Gate, the other to the Dipylon Gate. Hermippos’ shop is on the road to the Dipylon Gate, a couple of plethra past the boundary stone that marks the quarter of the Kerameikos.”
The next morning, Sostratos got his lump of beeswax out of the prox-enos’ storeroom and made his way up the street leading to the Dipylon Gate. To his relief-and more than a little to his surprise-he found Hermippos’ shop without much trouble. The sculptor was an excitable litde man in his thirties, with broad shoulders and big hands. “No, you thumb-fingered idiot, this way! How many times do I have to tell you?” he shouted at a harried-looking apprentice as Sostratos came up. He glowered at the Rhodian. “And what do you want?”
“Hail, Hermippos,” Sostratos said, eyeing the work in progress: an armored Athena in marble, a competent piece but with nothing about it to draw the eye back for a second look. Protomakhos had gauged the man well. “Are you going to be making the gilded statues of Antigonos and Demetrios? “
“Why do you want to know?” the sculptor asked suspiciously. “I don’t need any new ‘prentices; the one I’ve got gives me enough headaches. And if you think you can wangle some kind of kickback from me for the commission, to the crows with you. I’ve got it straight from Stratokles.”
“You misunderstand, O best one,” Sostratos said, instantly glad he didn’t have to deal with Hermippos every day. “I have fine beeswax to sell you.”
That got Hermippos’ notice. “You do, eh? Let’s see it. Some people would try to sell me cow turds and call ‘em wax.”
“No cow turds,” Sostratos said. “Here.” He took the lump out of the sack. “See for yourself.”
“Hmm. Hmm,” Hermippos looked pleased in spite of himself. He reached out to feel of the beeswax as Sostratos set it on the counter. Sostratos watched his hands in fascination. He had long, elegant fingers, but they bore the scars of countless burns and cuts. His palms were nearly as callused as those of a rower. The pale blotches of burn scars went most of the way up his forearms. Hermippos nipped off a tiny piece of wax with the nails of his thumb and forefinger so he could taste it as well. After smacking his lips, he dipped his head. “Yes, that’s the genuine article. I’ve had people try to sell me tallow, too, the abandoned temple-robbers.”