Menedemos was beginning to feel at home in and around the barracks that housed Antigonos’ garrison in Sidon. He preferred working the barracks to going into the market square. Not enough people in Sidon spoke Greek to make selling in the agora worthwhile for him. Around the barracks, he was dealing with his own kind. He was even starting to understand bits of Macedonian. It wasn’t so big an accomplishment as Sostratos’ learning Aramaic, but it made Menedemos proud.
When he came up to the barracks one morning, a guard who’d seen him before said, “Haven’t you sold all your books yet?”
“I’ve still got a couple left,” Menedemos answered. “Want to buy one?”
The soldier tossed his head. “Not me. Only use I’d have for papyrus is wiping my arse, on account of I can’t read.”
“You wouldn’t want it for that. It’s scratchy,” Menedemos said, and the sentry laughed. Carefully keeping his voice casual, Menedemos asked, “What’s the name of your quartermaster here, eh?”
“What do you want to talk with Andronikos for?” the soldier replied. “With his shriveled-up little turd of a soul, he won’t want to buy your books.”
“Well, maybe you’re right and maybe you’re not,” Menedemos said easily. “I’d still like to find out for myself.”
“All right, Rhodian.” The sentry stood aside to let him into the building. “He’s got an office on the second floor. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Menedemos had to be content with that less than ringing endorsement. He paused inside the barracks to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. Someone on the first floor was reading aloud the story of Akhilleus’ fight with Hektor. Menedemos dared hope it was from a copy of the relevant book of the Iliad he’d sold. He didn’t stop to find out, though. He made his way to the stairs and went up them.
“I’m looking for Andronikos’ office,” he told the first Hellene he saw when he came out onto the second floor. The man jerked his thumb to the right. “Thanks,” Menedemos said, and went down the hallway leading in that direction.
Four or five people were in front of him. He waited for perhaps half an hour as the quartermaster dealt with them one by one. They didn’t emerge from Andronikos’ office looking happy, though Andronikos seldom if ever bothered raising his voice.
In due course, it was Menedemos’ turn. By then, a couple of more Hellenes had joined the line behind him. When Andronikos called, “Next,” he hurried into the office, a broad, friendly smile on his face.
That smile survived his first glimpse of the quartermaster, but barely. Andronikos was in his late forties, with a permanent fussy frown on his pinched features. “Who are you?” he asked. “Haven’t seen you before. What do you want? Whatever it is, make it snappy. I haven’t got time to waste.”
“Hail, O best one. I’m Menedemos son of Philodemos, of Rhodes,” Menedemos said. “My bet is, you’re having more trouble keeping this garrison fed than you wish you did. Am I right or am I wrong?”
“You’re the Rhodian, eh? Hail.” Andronikos rewarded him with a dry grimace doubtless intended for a smile. “What do you care what the soldiers eat? You can’t sell them papyrus.”
“No, indeed, most noble, though I can sell you papyrus and first-quality Rhodian ink for record-keeping, if you’re so inclined.” Menedemos kept trying his best to be charming. Andronikos’ unwaveringly sour expression told him he was wasting his time. He continued, “The reason I’m asking is that I also have some top-notch olive oil aboard my akatos, oil fit for the highest-ranking officers in the garrison here. And I’ve got fine Pataran hams and a few smoked eels from Phaselis, too.”
“If the officers want fancy grub, they buy most of it themselves. As for you-you sailed an akatos here from Rhodes, and you’re carrying oil?” Surprise made the quartermaster sound amazingly lifelike. “You believe in taking chances, don’t you?”
Menedemos winced. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been telling himself the same thing-he had. But having someone he’d just met throw it in his face rankled. I’m going to hit Damonax over the head with a brick when we get home, he thought. Aloud, all he could say was, “It’s prime-quality oil, believe you me it is.”
“I can get plenty of ordinary oil for not very much,” Andronikos pointed out. “Why should I spend silver when I don’t have to? Tell me that, and quick, or else go away.”
“Because this isn’t ordinary oil,” Menedemos answered. “It’s the best oil from Rhodes, some of the best oil anywhere. You can give common soldiers ordinary oil to eat with their bread, and they’ll thank you for it. But what about your officers? Don’t they deserve better? Don’t they ask you for better?”
He hoped Antigonos’ officers asked the quartermaster for better. If they didn’t, he hadn’t the faintest idea what he’d do with all that oil. Andronikos muttered something under his breath. Menedemos couldn’t make out all of it; what he could hear was distinctly uncomplimentary to the officers in Antigonos’ service, mostly because they made him spend too much money.
At last, with the air of a man whose stomach pained him, Andronikos said, “Bring me an amphora of this wonderful oil. We’ll let a dozen soldiers dip bread in what they’re using now and in what you bring. If they can tell the difference, we’ll talk some more. If they can’t”-he jerked a thumb toward the doorway through which Menedemos had come- “many goodbyes to you.”
“What about the hams and the eels?”
“I already told you, I’m not interested. Maybe some of the officers will be-with their own silver, of course.”
“All right, most noble one. Fair enough. A chance to show how good my oil is is all I ask.” As usual, Menedemos spoke boldly. He did his best to hide the alarm he felt inside. Just how good was the oil Sostratos’ new brother-in-law had foisted on the Aphrodite ’? Good enough to let men tell the difference at a single taste? He didn’t know. He was about to find out. He did say, “Since you’ll be buying the oil mostly for officers, some of the men who try it should be officers, too.”
Andronikos considered, then dipped his head. “Agreed,” he said. “Go fetch your oil. I’ll get the men together, and some bread, and some of our local oil. And then, Rhodian, we shall see what we shall see.”
“So we shall,” Menedemos said, in what he hoped wasn’t too hollow a voice. He hurried back to the harbor and freed a jar of olive oil from the rope harness and dunnage of twigs and branches that kept it from fetching up against other amphorai and smashing.
“What’s going on, skipper?” Diokles asked. Menedemos explained. The keleustes whistled and said, “That’s a roll of the dice, isn’t it? Any which way, though, you can’t lug that jar back to the barracks yourself. How would it look, a captain doing stevedore’s work? Lapheides!”
“What is it?” said the sailor, who’d been paying no attention to the conversation between oarmaster and captain.
“Come get this amphora and carry it for the skipper,” Diokles answered.
Lapheides looked no more delighted at that prospect than anyone else would have, but he came up and grabbed the jar by its handles. “Where to?” he asked Menedemos.
“Barracks,” Menedemos told him. “Just follow me. You’ll do fine.” He hoped Lapheides would do fine. The sailor was a scrawny little man, and the full amphora probably weighed half as much as he did.
By the time they got back to the barracks, Lapheides was bathed in sweat, but he’d done a good game job of carrying the amphora. Menedemos gave him three oboloi as a reward for his hard work. “Thanks, skipper,” he said, and stuck the coins in his mouth.
One of the sentries, plainly forewarned, escorted Menedemos and Lapheides up to Andronikos’ office. In the next room, the quartermaster had set up a table that held a loaf of bread and half a dozen shallow bowls. He-or, more likely, a slave-had poured yellow oil into three of the bowls. The other three waited, empty.
Menedemos used his belt knife to chip away at the pitch around the clay stopped to the amphora he’d had Lapheides bring. Once the stopper was out, he poured Damonax’s oil into the empty bowls. It was greener than the oil Andronikos had got locally; Menedemos’ nostrils quivered at its odor-fresh, fruity, almost spicy. The Rhodian breathed a silent sigh of relief. By all the signs, this was good oil.