“I don’t play those games,” Sostratos said. “I’ll get the best price I can, but I sell top-quality goods.”
“I’ve never heard anybody who doesn’t say that.” Hermippos turned to his apprentice. “Do something useful for a change-give me a chisel.”
Muttering, the young man obeyed. Sostratos wouldn’t have wanted to work for Hermippos. He also wouldn’t have wanted to be Hermippos in a sculptor’s studio, working side by side with someone he constantly abused. Too many lethal implements were too handy. What was to keep that apprentice from driving that chisel into his back or picking up a hammer and smashing in his skull? Only the fellow’s own self-restraint, and Hermippos seemed to enjoy flaying that every time he opened his mouth.
The sculptor thrust the chisel into the beeswax again and again, grunting with effort. He finally grunted one last time and, without a word of warning, tossed the chisel back to the apprentice. Taken by surprise, the fellow dropped it on his foot-fortunately, not point-down. He yelped anyhow. “Just be more careful next time,” Hermippos snapped. He gave Sostratos another grudging dip of the head. “You didn’t hide any rocks in there to make it seem heavier than it is.”
“No,” Sostratos said. “I made the same check when I bought it from a Phoenician.”
“You weren’t born a fool, then.” Hermippos raked his apprentice with a glance. “Unlike some people I could name.” He took a deep breath. “All right, Rhodian. You’ve got it. I want it. How much are you going to try to gouge me for?”
“Four minai,” Sostratos answered.
“What?” Hermippos howled. “Why, you cistern-arsed, dung-eating catamite! Furies take you! I could buy a slave for that. Maybe T should. I’d get more use from him than I do from this two-legged donkey here.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the apprentice.
Sostratos sent the harried youngster a sympathetic glance. The apprentice’s lips moved silently. Squeeze him, he mouthed. He needs the wax. Nothing on Sostratos’ face showed that he’d seen. Inside, though, he smiled. Hermippos’ bad temper was going to cost him money.
“I’ll give you a mina and a half, and you ought to be glad to get that much,” the sculptor growled.
“No. Good day.” Sostratos picked up the lump of beeswax and made as if to go.
He didn’t miss the look of alarm that flitted across Hermippos’ face. “Well, two minai,” Hermippos said. Sostratos didn’t put down the beeswax. He started to walk away. “Two and a half!” Hermippos called. Sostratos kept walking. “All right, three, then!” the sculptor cried.
That was enough to make Sostratos stop. He ended up selling the wax for three minai, seventy-five drakhmai. When Hermippos went to get the silver, Sostratos told the apprentice, “I’ll gladly give you five drakhmai for the tip. Come to the house of Protomakhos, near the theater. “
“I wish I could say I didn’t need it, but Hermippos doesn’t pay me well enough to make that anything but a lie,” the young man said. “I’ll be there. I-” He broke off, for Hermippos came back with the silver just then. Sostratos carefully counted it, but the sculptor hadn’t tried to cheat him. He headed back to Protomakhos1 house well pleased with himself, even if he was paying a small commission.
“Perfume from Rhodes!” Menedemos held up a jar in the agora. “What man could resist a woman who wears perfume from Rhodes, the island of roses? Fine perfume from Rhodes!”
Plenty of people seemed able to resist his sales pitch. They walked past as if he didn’t exist. He’d seen that only in the very largest and most sophisticated poleis: Rhodes, Taras, Syracuse, and now here in Athens. Most places, people stopped and listened to the pitch even if they didn’t intend to buy. What else did they have in the way of entertainment? Things were different here, though. Athenians had more choices available than people in most towns did. They’d seen too many men trying to sell too many different kinds of things. Unless they felt like buying-which no one at the moment seemed to-one more didn’t much interest them.
Several of Demetrios’ soldiers strolled through the agora, looking now here, now there. They spoke a wide variety of Greek dialects; Menedemos wondered how they understood one another. One of them, a handsome, well-built man in the early years of middle age, broke away from his friends and came over to Menedemos, saying, “Hail, Rhodian. We’ve met before.”
Menedemos hated people who introduced themselves like that. This fellow did look familiar, but… He snapped his fingers. “Euxenides of Phaselis!” he exclaimed, recognizing the man-he’d taken Euxenides from Rhodes to Miletos a couple of years before. “By the dog, O best one, so we have. You’re one of the best carpenters I’ve ever seen. That steering oar you made… What are you doing in Athens?”
“Making catapults. That’s what I do best,” Euxenides answered. I’ll tell you, the Athenians have junk, too. They won’t, though, not when I’m through.” His Greek, though basically a Doric dialect like Menedemos’, held overtones of hissing and sneezing; Phaselis, on the southern coast of Anatolia, was a town inhabited by both Hellenes and Lykians.
“Isn’t a catapult a catapult?” Menedemos asked.
All of Demetrios’ soldiers laughed. “Hear the civilian!” Euxenides exclaimed, a smile on his face. “No, indeed, my friend. There are two main types-flexion machines, which are bent like overgrown bows, and torsion engines, which use twisted skeins of hair or sinew for their hurling force. Torsion engines throw harder and throw farther, but most of what they’ve got here are the old-fashioned flexion type, I’ll fix that, by Hephaistos… if I can lay my hands on enough sinew.” That made him look worried. Then, suddenly, he pointed at Menedemos. “You’re a merchant. You wouldn’t happen to know who might have a supply, would you?”
“Sorry, but no,” the Rhodian answered. “If I wanted sinew, though, I’d go to a butcher, or maybe to a priest after sacrifice.”
“About what I aim to do,” Euxenides said.
“Did you stop just to say hail, or can I really sell you some perfume?” Menedemos asked, “If you’ve got a sweetheart or a hetaira you want to impress, there’s nothing better.”
“Haven’t been in town long enough to latch on to a woman,” Demetrios’ officer replied. “I like it here, though. I wouldn’t mind settling down if I have the chance,”
“They’ll never let you become a citizen. They’re even fussier about that here than they are in most poleis,” Menedemos warned.
Euxenides of Phaselis only shrugged. “I don’t mind. From what I’ve seen, they treat resident aliens well here. They’d better-they’ve got a lot of them, I don’t care if I can marry an Athenian girl or not, and I really don’t care if I get to vote in the Assembly.” His chuckle had a nasty edge, “Besides, who knows how long the Assembly will stay in business this time around, anyhow?”
He could see that. Menedemos could see it, too. He wondered why the Athenians couldn’t see it for themselves. They’d gone without democracy for only about fifteen years all told. Was that long enough to turn them into blind men and fools? Evidently.
Euxenides said, “I owe you and your cousin a good turn. You could have turned me over to Ptolemaios’ men when you stopped in Kos. You likely would have picked up a nice little reward, but you didn’t do it. So what can I do for you?”
“Can you put our names in Demetrios’ ear?” Menedemos asked. “We still have some luxury goods he might fancy-truffles from Mytilene, Lesbian and Byblian wine, things of that sort. If he gets any truffle-flavored olive oil from Demetrios of Phaleron’s house, the other Demetrios bought that from us.”
“I’ll do it,” Euxenides said at once. “My pleasure. Where are you staying?”
“At the house of Protomakhos, the Rhodian proxenos, a little south of the theater. It’s not hard to find-at least not by the standards of this place.”