Damonax tore a chunk from a loaf of barley bread and dipped it into a small bowl of olive oil. Then he held it out to Sostratos. “Here, O best one, try this.”
“Thanks.” Sostratos took the morsel from his brother-in-law with odd reluctance. He popped it into his mouth and chewed, smacking his lips once or twice as he judged the flavor.
“Tell me what you think. Be honest.” Damonax’s smile was crooked. “As if you could be any other way.”
He’s nervous of me, Sostratos realized with surprise. He was also nervous of Damonax. Any handsome, self-assured man could do that to him. Menedemos certainly did, and he and his cousin had known each other since before either could remember. He also resented Damonax for taking his sister Erinna, one of the few friends he’d had in the world, out of his house, and for caring more about himself than about the trading firm he’d married into.
But Sostratos was honest: relentlessly so, sometimes. He wouldn’t—he couldn’t—tell Damonax the oil was fit only for greasing capstans unless that were true. And it wasn’t. “Good oil,” he said after swallowing. “Nice and fruity—you can really taste the olive in it.”
“Is it good enough to take off the island?” Damonax sounded anxious. And well he might; he was still paying down debts he’d had before he married Erinna. Before Sostratos could answer, his brother-in-law held up a hand. “Your father and I went round and round last summer while you and Menedemos were in Athens. He made me see why none of you wanted to ship the oil there. I still don’t like it, but I understand it.”
“All right.” Sostratos left it at that. Lysistratos had told him he’d finally told Damonax he would sooner stick an amphora of his olive oil up his back passage than carry it to Athens. He’d also told Sostratos not to let on that he knew that, so he didn’t.
Damonax continued, “But Alexandria isn’t Athens. Olives don’t grow there, so they have to bring in all their oil. You could get a good price for mine in Egypt.”
“It is good oil.” Of his own accord, Sostratos dipped another chunk of bread into the bowl and ate it. “We can probably take some. Trouble is, an akatos like the Aphrodite doesn’t have the carrying space a sailing freighter does. We have to weigh value against bulk a lot more carefully than those ships do.”
“How much do you suppose you can get for each amphora?” his brother-in-law asked. Yes, Damonax was anxious about silver.
Sostratos had a figure in mind, but named one only half as high. Damonax’s face fell. “We’ll try to do better, O marvelous one,” Sostratos assured him. This way, if he did better than he said he could but not so well as he hoped, Damonax would stay happy. If he promised the high price but didn’t deliver, he’d never hear the end of it. Few merchants’ tricks were so basic, and few worked better.
“I shall have some jars ready to load before you sail away,” Damonax said. “Try not to leave without them this time, all right?”
“We’ll do our best.” Sostratos matched dry with dry. The year before, he and Menedemos had had to feign deafness to keep Damonax’s oil off the Aphrodite as she headed towards Athens.
Lysistratos walked into the dining room. He dipped his head to Damonax. “Will you excuse us, please? Someone is here with whom Sostratos and I need to consult in privacy.”
“However you please, of course, my father-in-law,” Damonax replied, though curiosity stuck out all over him like a hedgehog’s prickles. No, not just curiosity, Sostratos judged: annoyance, too. Damonax would be wondering, Why don’t I get consulted, too?
Because you aren’t important enough, that’s why, Sostratos thought, enjoying the other man’s discomfiture even though he had no idea who his father’s prominent guest might be. Damonax sulkily took his leave. When his sandals flapped on the stairs leading to his second-story room, Lysistratos also left the dining room. He returned a moment later with Komanos.
“Hail, best one!” Sostratos said in surprise. He clasped the Rhodian leader’s hand.
“Hail,” Komanos said. Threissa came in with wine, a mixing jar of water, and a tray of little cakes sweetened with honey and almond paste. He made small talk till the slave woman left the room. After pouring himself a little wine and watering it well, he resumed: “So you and Menedemos will be going across to Alexandria soon?”
“That’s right, sir. As soon as the weather gives us a decent chance to cross safely,” Sostratos said. “You’ll know this from my father?”
Komanos dipped his head. “So I will,” he agreed. “Do you think you might be able to get in to see the Ptolemaios and let him know what the Rhodian Assembly told Demetrios? He should hear as quickly as possible. Knowing what we’ve done will affect what he does.”
“And knowing we haven’t allied with Antigonos and Demetrios will make him better inclined towards us?” Sostratos asked.
Instead of answering, Komanos glanced at Lysistratos. “He knows things, he sees things, this one. And I see why you told me he talks about writing history. He should do it. He has the understanding.”
Sostratos was nearly thirty. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so flattered before. Hoping he wasn’t blushing like the embers of a fire, he said, “Right at the moment, sir, aren’t we just trying to live through history?”
“Everyone tries to live through history,” his father put in. “No one’s done it yet.”
“Too true.” Komanos gave his attention back to Sostratos. “Can you arrange an audience with Ptolemaios?”
“I … think so,” Sostratos said cautiously. “We met him when he was on Kos … let me think … three years ago now. He’s the kind of man who remembers names. And you’re right, sir—he will be curious about what Rhodes has been up to.”
“This gods-cursed war! Alexander died”—Lysistratos counted on his fingers, reckoning it up—“seventeen years ago now, if I have it right, and his generals keep clawing away at each other like a big bowlful of crabs. If they’d just be happy with what they have ….”
“Some people are, Father. Some always want more,” Sostratos said. “I don’t think you get to be a general unless you have that in you.”
“That sounds right to me,” Komanos said. His wealth argued that he wanted more, too, even if he was no warlord. “The gods brass you and protect you for doing the polis’ business along with your own.”
“About that, O best one …,” Sostratos coughed discreetly. “we may need to spread some silver around to get to see Ptolemaios. We may need to sit in waiting rooms for days, too, instead of trading. Ptolemaios isn’t officially a king any more than Antigonos is, but he lives in as much state as if he were.”
Komanos laughed. “By the dog, son of Lysistratos, you see all kinds of things! On my oath, your business won’t suffer because of what you do for Rhodes. There! Are you happy?”
“Malista! I should say so!” Sostratos did his best to sound grateful. He wished he had an actor’s smiling mask to clap on. Oaths like Komanos’ were all the better if written down. But to come out and say so would only offend the magnate.
A few years ago, I would have asked him to put it in writing, Sostratos thought. And he would have got angry. One step at a time, I’m learning how to be a human being.
Komanos turned back to Lysistratos. “I’ll go over and talk to your brother and nephew now, let them know you’re all right with the arrangements.” He started for the front door, and held up a hand when Lysistratos moved to accompany him. “Don’t bother, best one. I know the way. Hail!”