“You bastard!” Rhodoios said, though he sounded no angrier than he had with Khamouas. “It’s good stuff, but you’re making me shell out for it. Ah, well, the nomarch won’t complain, not when he gets a taste of it.”
When Sostratos heard that, it was as if the sun rose in his mind. Rhodoios would have fought harder if he’d had to spend his own silver. But how rich was Alexandros? Not so rich as his illustrious overlord, no doubt, but rich enough not to worry much about what the kitchens spent. Sostratos hadn’t understood the kind of wealth Egypt yielded till he began to see it with his own eyes. He wasn’t sure he did even now, but he certainly had a better notion than he’d had before crossing the Inner Sea.
He promised Rhodoios that he and the rowers would deliver the oil the next day. That satisfied the cook, who promised to have the drakhmai to pay for it. Then something else occurred to Sostratos. He asked Rhodoios, “Is there any chance of my getting a guide to take me out to see the Pyramids? I got a glimpse of them from the river, but I’d kick myself for the rest of my days if I came so close without taking a closer look.”
Before Rhodoios could reply, Khamouas spoke up: “My brother-in-law’s cousin, him do that. Take you there, bring you back …. You gots to pay, you know.”
“The world runs on silver the way a fire runs on wood,” Sostratos said. The Egyptian nodded. Sostratos went on, “Will you introduce me to—what’s his name?”
“Him have name of Pakebkis,” Khamouas said. Sostratos repeated the name several times under his breath so it would stay in his memory. Khamouas added, “You ever ride a camel?”
“No,” Sostratos said.
“You ride camel with Pakebkis,” Khamouas said. “Him trader, too. Take this across desert to oasis, bring back that. Him good fellow, Pakebkis, long as you watch he.”
“I’ll watch him.” Sostratos would have even without the warning. If you didn’t watch strangers, who knew what might happen to you? Nothing good—everyone knew that.
One of the other Egyptians said something in his own language. Sostratos looked a question at Rhodoios. The other Hellene translated: “Antas says camel hump baked with turnips and dates is a good festival meal.” Sostratos wasn’t dickering now, so his face must have shown what he thought, for Rhodoios added, “It isn’t what I would’ve eaten back in Ialysos, either, but he’s right. It’s good. All that melting fat ….” He smacked his lips.
“I’ll take your word for it.” All Sostratos knew about camels was that they were ugly and bad-tempered, and that horses couldn’t stand their smell. If Pakebkis was going to put him on top of one, he had to hope the miserable creature wouldn’t try to eat him instead of the other way around.
Menedemos found himself watching his tongue much more closely than he was used to doing. He’d been a free and independent Hellene from a free and independent polis all his days, and he’d taken freedom for granted till he came to Alexandria. Even what he’d seen in Athens the year before, when Demetrios Antigonos’ son took the city from Demetrios of Phaleron and Kassandros, hadn’t made him rein in.
Here, though …. How many people in Alexandria were spies and informers? How much did Ptolemaios or his Myrmidons know about all the Hellenes and Egyptians and Ioudaioi who lived here or came here on business? How much did they know about all the myriads up and down the Nile?
More to the point for Menedemos was how much Ptolemaios knew about him, and what he thought of what he knew. Did someone in the refectory report what he ate at breakfast every morning and how much opson he had with his supper bread every evening? Did Seseset tell someone what he said while they were making love and even which posture they used?
Once you started seeing spies, you saw them everywhere and you couldn’t stop seeing them, whether they were really there or not. You had to act as if they were there, as if they were listening. He’d long since seen that Alexandria wasn’t any kind of polis, much less a free and independent one. It was part of the realm Ptolemaios ruled as king in all but name.
Macedonians had always had kings, of course, some good, more not. They were used to running things that way. Hellenes, though, served under Ptolemaios as eagerly as their cousins from the north. A full belly and a nice house mattered more to them than freedom and independence.
But pausing to consider before saying what he thought griped Menedemos worse than bad fish in a stew. It was different from business politeness. Of course you wouldn’t tell someone you were doing business with that he had bad breath or …. Or that you’ve seduced his wife, Menedemos thought, and chuckled to himself.
That was just common sense, though. Keeping your mouth shut about what you thought of a ruler because he might string you up by the thumbs if he heard about it? That was something else again. It made Menedemos wonder if the Macedonians and Hellenes, having overthrown the Persian Empire, had been conquered by Persian notions in their turn.
He wished Sostratos weren’t down in Memphis. His cousin understood how states worked, even if he didn’t always understand the people standing right in front of him. He’d quote Herodotos or Thoukydides or one of those brainy fellows, and everything would at least seem to make sense for a little while.
As things were, Menedemos acted like a happy fool when he walked down Alexandria’s wide, brawling streets. He still haggled sharply, but he stopped saying anything about Ptolemaios, about the way Egypt was ruled, or about the way the wars of Alexander’s generals were going.
An incense dealer—sure enough, there were such men—named Hermokrates, from whom he bought some frankincense, remarked, “You’re a better bargainer than I thought you’d be. By the gods, O best one, not everyone squeezes that kind of price out of me.”
“Isn’t that interesting?” Menedemos kept a stupid smile on his face. But he couldn’t resist a barb of his own: “You’re named after the god of thieves. Does it bother you when you can’t steal from someone?”
“To the crows with you!” Hermokrates said with a laugh. “I know what I have and I know what it’s worth. So do you, and I wouldn’t have looked for that from such a plain-seeming fellow.”
“How about that?” Menedemos trotted out another phrase without much real meaning. If he acted stupid all the time, could he surprise other people the way he had with Hermokrates? Finding out might prove worthwhile.
On his way back to the palace, he bought some honeyed dates and raisins from a skinny woman who sold them off a tray. He didn’t bargain hard with her; a glance told him she needed whatever she could get.
“Thank you,” she said. By her looks, she could have been a Hellene; her tunic and her guttural accent said she was one of the Ioudaioi. She sent Menedemos a thoughtful glance. “You want to find somewhere quiet, spend some more money?”
“I’d love to, my dear, but I have to meet a friend very soon.” Menedemos lied without compunction and hurried away. It wasn’t as if he’d never paid for a woman—what else was he doing with Seseset? But this one stirred sorrow in him, not lust. He got away as fast as he could.
The next morning, he inveigled the serving girl into his room. “You not want me for a while,” she said as she lay down beside him. “I think maybe you find somebody you like better or you pay less.”
“Nothing like that. I’ve just been working hard.” Menedemos did his best to persuade her without using any more words. He hoped he succeeded. He thought he did. But Seseset was here for silver, not—or not just—for pleasure. She might well act without wearing a mask.