“At least you have the bond of blood, the way I do with Menelaos,” Ptolemaios said. “I’m just stuck with Argaios and Kallikrates.”
“I thought you’d forgotten about me, the way you usually do.” Kallikrates proved he could talk after all, and to wicked effect, too.
Ptolemaios snorted laughter. “This kind of rubbish is what you’ve got to look forward to, Rhodian. I do thank you one more time for lending your akatos’ service to my fleet. Always glad to do business with a fellow who’s so eager to help.”
“Uh, yes, sir,” Menedemos said. “Since I am helping, will you be kind enough to haul the Aphrodite up into a shipshed and let her planking dry out? If you want her keeping up with your fleet, that’ll help.”
“I’ll give the order,” Ptolemaios said at once. “That’s fair enough. Anything else? No? Hail!” The dismissal couldn’t have been any shorter or sharper.
Ears burning, Menedemos all but fled the chamber. Behind him, Ptolemaios and his officers went back to slanging one another in Macedonian. Kallikrates had plenty to say in the tongue he’d grown up using, even if he didn’t in Greek. Menedemos understood not a word of it.
Sostratos eyed the shop before he went inside. It was in a good-sized building, and one that had been well kept up. It also lay only a couple of blocks from the nomarch’s sprawling residence, on a street as prominent as any in Memphis. All things considered, Rhodoios had probably done him a good turn by suggesting that he try to sell what was left of his olive oil here.
He turned to Thersandros, who was lugging an amphora of oil. “Shall we go in?”
“I’ll go anywhere that gets me out of the sun for a while,” Thersandros answered. Since Sostratos felt the same way, he ducked through the doorway (it was barely tall enough for someone of his height). His two-legged beast of burden came right behind him.
It was a little cooler and a lot dimmer inside. The smell of spices in the air tickled Sostratos’ nose. He recognized the fragrances of cinnamon and pepper. A man a few years younger than he was stood behind the counter. “Hail!” he said. “Are you Zoïlos?”
The young man tossed his head. “No, that’s my father. He’s in back. My name is Psaphon. Do you need him, or can I help you with something?”
“Well, I don’t know.” Sostratos nodded toward the amphora of oil, whose pointed end Thersandros had promptly stuck into the smooth earth of the floor. “I have some fine olive oil from Rhodes, and Rhodoios the cook told me your shop might want to buy it.”
“Oh, you’re that fellow!” Psaphon said. “Father told me Rhodoios told him you might be coming by.”
“Did he?” Sostratos said. He’d already given the cook a little silver for the tip. If Rhodoios wanted to earn a bit more from the shopkeeper … well, why not? You made money as you found the chance.
An older man who looked a lot like Psaphon except that he was going bald stuck his head out of the back room. “Hail,” he said, and he sounded like his son, too. “Thought I heard voices out here. I’m Zoïlos son of Psaphon. What can I do for you?”
Like many Hellenes, he’d named his son for his father. “Hail,” Sostratos said, and then summarized what he’d told Psaphon. “Would you like to try the oil, O best one? And your son, too, of course. If you care for it, we can talk about price. If not”—he shrugged—“I’ll say good day and leave you at peace.”
“If it’s any good, I’ll buy some,” Zoïlos said. “Rhodoios got some for the nomarch, so it can’t be too bad.” He turned to his son. “Why don’t you run get us some bread so we can see what we’ve got here?”
“All right, Father.” Psaphon went into and likely through the back room. Zoïlos came all the way out to talk with Sostratos. The first thing he said was, “What’s this I hear about Demetrios landing on Cyprus?”
“It’s true,” Sostratos replied, wondering how Zoïlos knew. He hadn’t even told the nomarch here in Memphis. Had news already come up the river from Alexandria? Or were the rowers gossiping in the wineshops and brothels? He hadn’t told them not to; that hadn’t crossed his mind. But it was an odd state of affairs when a merchant knew something a provincial governor might well not.
Psaphon came back then with half a loaf on an earthenware plate. “Mother just finished baking, so it’s fresh from the oven,” he said.
Sostratos’ nostrils twitched. “Nothing in all the world like the smell of new-baked bread,” he said.
“That’s the truth,” Zoïlos agreed. “Let’s see what we’ve got here, shall we?” He reached under the counter and pulled out a small bowl in the same style as the plate the bread lay on. “Pour in some of that oil and we’ll all have ourselves a taste.”
The weight of the full amphora made Sostratos grunt, but he got oil into the bowl without spilling it all over the counter, so he set the jar down well pleased with himself. Psaphon was the first to tear off a chunk of bread, dip it, and take a bite. He looked pleased “That is good oil!” he said with his mouth full.
His father let out a theatrical sigh. “Smooth going, boy! You just made the price go up.” Then he tasted the oil, too. His verdict was more judicious: “I’ve had worse, I will say that.”
Sostratos also ate some. It was Damonax’s oil, still good, still fresh. “The bread’s very fine,” he said. “The flour tastes like it’s half wheat, half barley.”
“That’s just what it is,” Psaphon said. “Mother puts it through the mill once more than most do, to make it extra fine.”
“I’ll buy your oil,” Zoïlos said to Sostratos. “Tell me what they gave you for it in the nomarch’s kitchens.” But when Sostratos did, he clapped a hand to his forehead in dismay. “Papai! You’re making that up!”
“By the gods, best one, I’m doing no such thing,” Sostratos answered. “Send your son to Rhodoios and ask him if you doubt me.”
“Never mind. I believe you,” Zoïlos said. “But you have to remember, the nomarch’s cooks have a whole nome’s worth of money to play with. I’m just a plain old merchant, so I don’t.”
Sostratos had thought the same thing when Rhodoios didn’t dicker as hard as he might have. Since he didn’t want to take any of his brother-in-law’s oil back to Alexandria, he asked, “Well, what can you afford, then?” The price Zoïlos proposed made him toss his head. “You can do better than that, O marvelous one. Plenty of Hellenes in Memphis these days, and when’s the next time anyone will bring oil this good this far up the river?”
“You must get laid a lot. If you sweet-talk the girls the way you’re sweet-talking me, how can they tell you no?” Zoïlos said.
“If only it were so!” Sostratos said with real regret. Both men laughed. Sostratos went on, “Seriously, my dear, you can do better. You know you’ll charge more than whatever you pay me.”
“Of course I will, but I’ll get it back a little at a time, and I’ll have to pay you for all the oil at once,” the Memphite merchant said.
“That’s the way trade works,” Sostratos said. “The time my cousin and I sailed to Italy and Sicily with a cargo that included peafowl …. Oimoi!” Even years later, that wasn’t a pleasant memory, even if they’d made money on the voyage.
“Peafowl! I’ve heard of them, but I’ve never seen one,” Zoïlos said. “Are the peacocks really as fancy as they say?”
“Fancier,” Sostratos answered. “But they’re also stupid and bad-tempered. Are they ever! Come up a bit and I’ll tell you some stories.”
Zoïlos did. Sostratos told a story. When he stopped, Zoïlos said, “That’s only one.”