He planted himself on a stool no different from the ones in the refectory. A couple of other Hellenes already sat in the room, waiting to be summoned. They didn’t speak to Sostratos or Menedemos, but chatted with each other in low voices so the Rhodians couldn’t overhear.
Before Sostratos could decide whether he was insulted, someone new strode into the antechamber. The man was as tall as he was, or even a digit or two taller. There the resemblance ceased. The newcomer, who wore only an Egyptian-style linen skirt, was broad in the shoulders and thick through the chest, as Sostratos wished he were.
And he was far darker than the Egyptians, his skin a brown so dark it was nearly black. He had full lips, a rather low nose, and hair so curly it was almost crispy. He carried himself like a man of consequence; since he’d come to this more or less royal waiting room, no doubt he was.
Beside Sostratos, Menedemos was also doing his best not to stare. Out of the side of his mouth, he whispered, “I’ve heard some people were that color, but I never saw anybody who was before.”
“Neither have I,” Sostratos whispered back. The way the dark brown man’s eyes swung toward them made the Rhodian wonder if the fellow understood Greek. “Excuse me, best one, but do you speak my language?” he asked, almost before realizing he’d done it. The idea of asking directions on the street could paralyze him with anxiety. This, though, this was pure intellectual curiosity. And intellectual curiosity was important.
“Enough to manage,” the dark man said, his accent softer than the one with which Egyptians flavored their Greek. He bowed to the Rhodians. “I am Harsioteph son of Nasakhma, envoy of King Gatisen to the Ptolemaios. And you gentlemen are …?”
Sostratos and Menedemos rose from their stools to introduce themselves. Harsioteph gravely clasped hands with each of them in turn. His hand was large and strong and hard; the skin on his palm was paler than the rest of his hide. Sostratos asked, “Is, uh, Gatisen king of Ethiopia?”
“Hellenes use this name sometimes,” Harsioteph said. “We call our land Kus.” The last sound was a hissed or sneezed consonant like the ones in Seseset’s name, a sound for which the Greek alphabet had no letter. The dark brown man added, “King Gatisen’s capital is Meroë.”
“Meroë!” Sostratos felt himself caught up in history. “Herodotos wrote of it a century and a half ago!” To Harsioteph, he explained, “Herodotos was a man who wrote about the long-ago wars between the Hellenes and the Persians.”
“We of Kus fought the Persians, too. We also fight Hellenes if we have to.” Harsioteph sent him a measuring stare.
Ignoring it, Sostratos exclaimed, “Your wars were in the days of the Persian King Kambyses, weren’t they? Herodotos talks about them.”
Harsioteph shrugged. “Old Persian king a long time ago. Don’t know if anyone in Kus remember—ah, remembers—his name.”
Before he could say anything more, an attendant came out of the audience chamber and spoke to him: “The Ptolemaios will see you now. He asks me to ask you to give his respects to King Gatisen.”
“I do that,” Harsioteph replied, and followed the man inside. The Hellenes who’d got there before Sostratos and Menedemos scowled at his back.
In other circumstances, Sostratos might have done the same. He was too excited now. “An Ethiopian, straight out of Herodotos!” he said. “The old gossip knew what he was talking about after all—he mostly did. Pity Harsioteph didn’t daub himself half with ash, half with vermilion, the way the historian says Ethiopians do when they go to war.”
“He’s not going to war. He’s talking peacefully, which is more than you can say for Demetrios,” Menedemos remarked. “If Alexandria thrives the way it looks like it’s thriving, there’ll be a colony of black people here before long, if there isn’t one already. Money draws men the way honey draws flies.”
“I hadn’t thought of that, but you’re likely right,” Sostratos said.
“Those people are only good for the mines,” one of the other Hellenes said. “If their dark hides don’t mark them as the slaves by nature Aristoteles talks about, what ever could?”
“I don’t think I’d care to try making a slave of that Harsioteph,” Sostratos said. “He may be a barbarian, but he’s a man.”
“Chains and the lash would soften him up soon enough,” the other man said.
“Or make him murder you as soon as you turn your back,” Menedemos put in, which matched Sostratos’ view of things.
The other Hellene and his friend argued with the Rhodians, more or less good-naturedly, till the attendant came out again and said, “The Ptolemaios will see Menedemos and Sostratos now.” In they went. Sostratos didn’t look over his shoulder, lest he see the other Hellenes glaring daggers at him.
He and Menedemos bowed before Ptolemaios. The general who ruled Egypt as a king in all but name frowned from his massive chair—no stool for him. “Well, men of Rhodes, I kept hoping you were wrong with your word of what old Cyclops’ brat is up to, but you had the straight word,” Ptolemaios said. “Between his army and his cursed fleet, he’s been gobbling up the poleis in eastern Cyprus one by one, and he’s laying siege to Salamis.”
“Has he, sir? Is he? That’s not good news. We heard that he was starting the campaign, but we left Rhodes before we got word of how it was going,” Sostratos said.
“We wanted to make sure we got the news to you as soon as we could,” Menedemos added. Sostratos had to work to keep from grimacing; he should have thought to put that in himself. Greasing the powerful never hurt.
“Not good news at all,” Ptolemaios said heavily. “Who would have guessed the gods-cursed brat had a gift for laying siege to cities? But he does, pestilence take him. His old man is a good general, too—don’t get me wrong. The brat will have it in the blood and in the training. But Antigonos is about as charming as a viper. Demetrios can talk anybody into anything, or so it seems.”
“He didn’t talk the Rhodian people into allying with him and his father against you,” Menedemos said.
“Yes, the free and independent Rhodian people.” To Sostratos’ ear, Ptolemaios sounded sardonic, as Demetrios had in the agora. But Rhodes was more useful to the ruler of Egypt than to Demetrios and Antigonos—and Ptolemaios’ power lay a long way from the island.
Sostratos said, “The Athenians certainly fell all over themselves voting honors to Demetrios and Antigonos after the polis fell to Demetrios and his men.”
“I heard about that. It embarrassed me. Not the kind of thing you expect from free and independent people, even if the Athenians still claim that’s what they are.” Ptolemaios made as if to spit in disgust. Had he been with his fellow Macedonians, he likely would have. But he’d learned proper Greek manners, even if he sometimes wore them awkwardly.
“Rhodes isn’t like that,” Menedemos said.
“I hope Rhodes isn’t like that,” Sostratos said.
Ptolemaios eyed him. “You’re made like an asparagus shoot, but not much gets past you, does it?” He was shaped more like a brick himself: these days, a brick with a potbelly.
“I try not to let it, sir,” Sostratos said. “What do you plan to do about Cyprus, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I’m going to rescue it, that’s what. I need it. And I’ll get Menelaos out of whatever pickle he’s in up there,” Ptolemaios answered. Like Menedemos, Sostratos had no brothers. He’d seen how his father and Menedemos’ could make a sport of tearing strips off each other, though. Evidently even the great and prominent weren’t immune to that.
When Sostratos glanced over at Menedemos, he found his cousin looking back at him. They’d watched Demetrios swoop down on Athens. Could this aging warlord keep up with the rising generation?