“Hail!” Sostratos’ father echoed. When Komanos had gone, he scratched his head. “Isn’t that interesting? I’d have guessed he’d already talked with Philodemos. I’m just the younger brother, after all. Maybe he thought we’d be easier to persuade. I’m not sure I like that.”
“Maybe he thought we’d be the ones with the sense to see what the polis needs.” Sostratos had been thinking about actors’ masks a moment before. Now he thought about the men who wore them. “Sometimes Menedemos can be as proud and vain as anyone who goes on the stage.”
He said nothing about Philodemos. It was not his place to criticize a man a generation older. By the way Lysistratos chuckled, he didn’t need to say anything. No one was more likely to know his uncle’s flaws than his father.
Lysistratos asked, “Do you think you and Menedemos have enough diplomacy in you to serve the polis this way?”
“I hope so.” Sostratos took the question seriously. He took most questions that way. Sometimes it annoyed Menedemos. He went on, “Dickering for Rhodes shouldn’t be much different from dickering for the firm. And we know as much about what’s going on as anyone is likely to.”
“However much that is, or however little,” his father said. “Do you know where the Demetrios went after he sailed back to the mainland?”
“No, Father.” Sostratos tossed his head. “But fishing boats are going out farther from the harbor as the weather gets better, and our patrols against pirates will start putting to sea before long. We’ll hear as soon as anyone else does.”
“I hope we hear before you put to sea yourself,” Lysistratos said. “That would be something else important you could pass on to the Ptolemaios.”
“It would, yes.” Sostratos hesitated. “Antigonos and Demetrios may not like it if Rhodians go telling tales to Ptolemaios. They may decide we like him better than we like them.” He paused again, then finished, “Which we do, but we don’t want to throw it in their faces.”
“True enough,” his father said. “Ptolemaios is less dangerous to our freedom and independence than Antigonos and Demetrios are. We’d make them a nice snack—at least they think so. And most of what Egypt ships to Hellas and Anatolia comes through Rhodes. We make a lot of silver from the lands the Ptolemaios holds.”
“Antigonos will know that,” Sostratos said. “I’m not sure how smart Demetrios is. He’s not stupid, but I don’t know if he’s that smart. Antigonos, though … Antigonos has only the one eye, but I think he sees everything anyway.”
“True again, however much I wish it weren’t.” Lysistratos set a hand on Sostratos’ shoulder. “All we can do is all we can do. Gods grant it be enough.”
Sostratos had his doubts about the gods, as many young men who’d studied a bit did. When his father’s father was young, talking about doubts like that might have led to hemlock. It had for Sokrates. Things were looser now, but he didn’t want to risk upsetting his father. And …. “The way things are, I’ll take any help Rhodes can get.”
“So will I, son,” Lysistratos said. “The way things are, we’ll need it.” His father walked out of the dining room.
Sostratos stayed there a little longer, scratching at the edge of his mustache as he worried. Most young men these days shaved their whiskers, imitating Alexander’s style, but he’d let his grow out in hopes of being taken for a philosopher. Maybe he’d let them grow in hopes of persuading himself he was a philosopher, not someone who worried more about the price of papyrus than the nature of the good.
He was harder to persuade than he had been when he first came home from Athens. Then he’d hated to return to a life he scorned. Now? Now I make a pretty god merchant, maybe a better merchant than I would a historian.
Should I cut off the beard, then? he wondered. But he tossed his head, rejecting the idea. Stylish or not, shaving every day was a cursed nuisance.
He walked into the courtyard. A lizard skittered away from him. That it was out and moving was another sign spring was on the way. Someone down the street shouted “Exito!”—Here it comes!—and dumped a slop jar out a second-story window. The splash was followed by curses from passersby who hadn’t got out of the way fast enough. Sostratos laughed and sympathized at the same time. It wasn’t as if he’d never got splattered.
Damonax came down the stairs and hurried up to him. “What did Komanos want with you?” he asked eagerly.
“Oh, this and that,” Sostratos answered. He could have made a better liar, but he knew blabbing about the polis’ business wasn’t the smartest thing he could do.
His brother-in-law exhaled in annoyance. “Do you think I’ll go spreading the news from Karia to Carthage?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Sostratos answered, more or less honestly. “But if … whatever it was should get about and Komanos asks me, ‘You didn’t tell anyone, did you?’, I don’t want to have to say, ‘Well, only my brother-in-law.’ Do you see what I’m saying?”
Damonax waved his hand, a gesture full of impatience and contempt. “You just tell him, ‘No, of course I didn’t,’ and go on about your business.”
Sostratos stared at him. They both used Greek, but they were speaking two different languages. “I don’t think that would be a good idea, O marvelous one.” He freighted the overblown honorific with as much scorn of his own as he could.
“Well, to the crows with you, then!” Damonax turned on his heel and stamped away. Had there been a small dog in the courtyard, he would have kicked it as he went.
Sostratos wanted to kick something—or someone—himself. He hoped his brother-in-law wouldn’t take out his anger on Erinna. His sister would have understood that some things needed to be kept quiet; she had the same kind of good sense as Sostratos himself. But Damonax? No wonder he’d got into trouble over debt if he had no more self-control than he was showing.
Once the Aphrodite put to sea, it would be tempting to dump the olive oil overboard and claim the amphorai had somehow broken. Reluctantly, Sostratos tossed his head. The sailors would gossip, and it would cost the firm money. But it was tempting.
Sikon the cook tipped Menedemos a wink. “They’ve been selling fine squid the past few days. The agora is full of fishermen with wicker baskets. So many of ’em out now, I bet they’re nice and cheap,” he said.
“They’d better be,” Menedemos answered. “If they aren’t, my father’s wife won’t be happy with you.”
Sikon shrugged. “She hasn’t been so bad lately, young master. You and your father, the two of you managed to talk some sense into her. And she hasn’t cared about food so much, anyway, since she started carrying the baby.”
He took the kind of casual liberties a trusted slave with an important job could. He was about Menedemos’ father’s age, and had been with the family longer than Menedemos had been alive. Born in Karia or Lykia or some other barbarous place, he’d got a Greek-sounding name when he was sold. Some sort of accent still flavored his speech, but he’d used the dual you to talk about Menedemos and Philodemos, something even native Hellenes were doing less and less often these days.
“Don’t give her trouble, especially while she’s pregnant,” Menedemos said. Baukis tried to make Sikon spend less on food for the household than he wanted to. That was the mistress’ prerogative, as trying to get around it was the slave’s.
“If she had her way, we’d eat barley mush all the time, with salted olives for opson,” Sikon said.
“Don’t give her trouble, I told you.” Menedemos spoke less sharply than he wanted to. He couldn’t show half of what he felt about Baukis, not without landing in more trouble than anyone would want. If only I knew whether the baby she’s carrying is Father’s or mine, he thought.