Sure enough, Exakestos threw back his head and howled like a wolf. He did it so well, a little stray dog trotting down the street yipped in alarm. Then he dug a finger into his ear. “I’m sorry, but I seem to be going deaf,” he said. “I imagined I heard you telling me you wanted fifty drakhmai for the jar. I must be getting old.”
“I’ll go up if you like.” Menedemos sounded as helpful as he could.
That made the wineseller cough like a man choking on an olive pit. He waved Menedemos away when the Rhodian started around the counter to pound him on the back. “I’m lucky you didn’t give me an apoplexy there,” he said, glowering.
“Well, tell me what you aim to pay, then,” Menedemos said. “After I’m done laughing, we can get down to the real dicker.”
“It is better stuff than regular Khian,” Exakestos said, with the air of a man making a great concession. “Regular Khian would go for fourteen, maybe fifteen, drakhmai the amphora. So, because I’m a generous bloke, I’ll give you twenty. A stater’s weight of frankincense or myrrh for a jar.”
Menedemos did laugh then, raucously. “You must want my father to kill me when I get home,” he said, and then bit down hard on the inside of his lower lip. If Baukis screamed out something while she was in labor with the baby, Philodemos might have a reason much more urgent than business to want to kill him.
It wasn’t funny, but Menedemos laughed at himself anyhow. He wouldn’t mind so much if his father murdered him on account of a botched business deal. But if his father killed him because he had, or might have, got his stepmother pregnant ….
That wouldn’t just leave him in disgrace, worse luck. It would cast a black shadow of shame over the whole family. It wasn’t quite what Sophokles wrote about in Oidipous Tyrannos, but it came too close for comfort.
Oidipous, of course, had killed his father and married his mother without knowing who they were. Fate struck him down regardless. Baukis wasn’t Menedemos’ mother by blood, but she was his father’s wife. And he’d sported with her knowing exactly what he was doing. If the gods still looked down from Olympos, what did they think of that?
Exakestos had said something. Menedemos realized he had no idea what it was. “I’m sorry, best one. Try that again, please,” he said. “The ridiculous price you offered left me struck all in a heap.”
Exakestos snorted in annoyance. “I said, old chap, that I don’t want you slain, by your father or anyone else. So I’ll go up to twenty-four drakhmai the amphora without even being asked. So what a generous fellow I am?”
“If you aren’t serious about the deal, tell me now. You don’t seem serious, not when you haven’t come close yet to what my family paid for the wine. Why are you playing dogs and robbers with me? You know what Ariousian is, and what it’s worth. Maybe I should just go to another dealer.”
“You won’t get the precious incenses from another wineseller.”
“Yes? And so? I’ll get silver from him. Then, if I still want myrrh or frankincense, I’ll go to a proper dealer, not someone who sells the stuff for a hobby,” Menedemos said. “Do you want to trade, or just to waste my time?”
“I do want to trade. I don’t much fancy beggaring myself to do it, though,” Exakestos said.
Menedemos exhaled through his nose: to anyone who knew him, a sure sign of how irked he was. “You wouldn’t. You know you wouldn’t, too. You are wasting my time.”
“If you think so, old man, you know what you can do about it.”
“I’ll do it. Hail!” Menedemos turned on his heel and stalked out of Exakestos’ shop. As he went, he loosed a shot over his shoulder: “If you come to your senses, ask after me at the Ptolemaios’ palace. That’s where I’m staying.”
“At … the Ptolemaios’ palace?” Exakestos lost some of his hauteur. “How do you rate that?” His voice wobbled a little. How much trouble can you land me in if you push it? he had to be wondering.
“Since we aren’t trading, that’s none of your business.” Out into the street Menedemos went.
He wondered if Exakestos would come chasing after him, but the wine dealer didn’t. He had more pride or more spine than that. Menedemos shrugged and started back to the palace. If he spotted another wineseller’s place, he’d stop in and see what he could unload. If not, maybe he’d curl up and nap during the noontime heat. A lot of Hellenes and Egyptians seemed to do that.
Two cats almost clawed his feet as they ran past, one chasing the other. Were they playing, or did they mean it? He didn’t know cats well enough to guess. There were a few in Rhodes, but only a few. Most were the pampered pets of rich women; the fish they ate would have made a poor man, or maybe one not so poor, a nice opson to go with his bread at supper.
Then he wondered what he could get for cats if he brought some back in the Aphrodite. How much would people pay? Could he start a fad? The sales talk spun itself inside his head, like a spider’s web taking shape in the early morning. Yes, they’re pets. They’re friendly and smart. But they’re more than pets, too. They catch mice and lizards and centipedes and other vermin. Get one now, before your friends buy them for their wives.
That might not be so bad. He might even talk his way into some unwary fellow’s women’s quarters to show off a cat to the lady of the house. Something enjoyable might come of that. No guarantee, of course, but when did anything ever come with a guarantee?
His father would be angry at him for playing that game again, but it would be a relatively innocuous kind of anger, as opposed to the kind of anger caused by a relative. As far as Menedemos could tell, his father was always looking for reasons to be angry at him. If Philodemos couldn’t find any, he’d invent one.
At the palace, Menedemos ducked into a refectory to cadge some barley bread and dates. He chatted with the cook or slave or whatever she was who kept an eye on things. She was an Egyptian but, like Seseset, she knew enough Greek to get by. Her smile said something might be arranged if he pushed it a little.
He thought about it. Then a yawn made him decide not to. Even with a hat, sallying forth in Alexandria’s hot sun took it out of you. He went back to the chamber Ptolemaios had let him and Sostratos use, lay down on his bed, and dozed off.
A knock on the door brought him out of a dream where his father was accusing him of impregnating a swan—Leda’s story turned upside down and inside out. Muttering, he went to see who it was. He hadn’t slept as long as he’d wanted to.
When he found Demodamas standing in the hallway, he ran a quick hand through his rumpled hair. Ptolemaios’ stone-faced steward let him finish the gesture, then asked, “What did you do to yank Exakestos’ tail?”
“I told him I wouldn’t sell him Ariousian at a price that would make me lose money.” Menedemos’ blurred wits suddenly started working faster. “And I told him I was staying here at the palace. So he’s checking up on me, is he?”
“You might say so,” Demodamas answered.
“What business of his is it where I’m—?” Menedemos broke off. Yes, his wits still needed a bit to get going. He scowled at the sturdy Macedonian. “So he’s one of the people who tell the palace things, eh?”
“Don’t be foolish. Palaces have no ears,” Demodamas said. Menedemos snorted; that came closer to a joke than he’d expected from the steward. After a moment, the man went on, “You said that, remember. I didn’t.”
“Which means it’s true but you don’t want to admit it,” Menedemos said. Demodamas just stood there. Menedemos waited to see if he would say anything. When he didn’t, the Rhodian continued. “All right, fine. Along with selling wine, he spies for the Ptolemaios. Do you want to tell me who some of your other snoops are, so I can try not to have them bothering you, too?”