“Of course there’s a risk,” Sostratos said. “They might attack. That’s what makes a. risk. If we knew they would attack, it wouldn’t be a risk any more. It would be a certainty.”
“Have it your way, then. I think we’re saying the same thing in different words. But I don’t know how to weigh the one risk against the other. Since it’s easier to gauge the risk of sailing across the open sea, that’s the one I want to cut out as far as I can.”
“All right,” Sostratos said. “I’m not sure I agree with you, but I’m not sure I don’t, either. You’re the captain.”
“Would k make you happier if I talk to Diokles before I finally make up my mind?” Menedemos asked.
Sostratos dipped his head. “I’m always happy when you talk to Diokles. He’s forgotten more in the way of seamanship than most people ever learn.”
“I’m not interested in what he’s forgotten, I’m interested in what he remembers.”
But the oarmaster proved less helpful than Menedemos had hoped. He scratched his chin as he thought it over. At last, he said, “I’ve seen skippers do both, matter of fact. Six oboloi to the drakhma either way.”
“Well, in that case, I’m going to keep sailing along the coast here, as I’d planned,” Menedemos said. “Even if a pirate does look us over, we aren’t likely to have to fight him. Most of them want easy pickings-a round ship with only a few sailors aboard that’s too slow to run away and too weak to fight back. They can see that we’d give ‘em a good battle even if they did manage to catch us.”
“Most of them can,” Diokles agreed. “Of course, there’s always the odd bastard you can’t count on, like that fellow in the strait between Andros and Euboia last season.”
Menedemos relayed most of Diokles’ opinion to Sostratos. He didn’t mention the pirate who’d attacked them the previous sailing season. He knew what his cousin would do on hearing about that pirate and his crew: he would start cursing them for stealing the gryphon’s skull. Menedemos had heard those curses too many times to want to listen to them again.
Sostratos said, “It’s your choice to make, I hope it turns out well,”
“You’re not going to make doleful comments like that till we get to Cyprus, are you?” Menedemos asked. “They don’t make the crew very happy, you know.”
“Oh, yes. I’ll keep my mouth shut. I do know the difference between what I can say to you and what I can say when the sailors are listening, believe me.”
“I hope so.” But Menedemos didn’t press it. His cousin had always been good about keeping his opinions to himself when they might damage morale. To change the subject, Menedemos asked, “Shall we find the market square here? You never can tell what they might have.”
“Yes, we might as well, because you never can.” By Sostratos’ expression, he hoped for another gryphon s skull. But he also remembered the practical side a merchant needed, for he went on, “And I’ll bring some perfume along. You never can tell what we might sell, either.”
“No, indeed,” Menedemos said. “If we sold a book in Phaselis, by the gods, we can sell anything anywhere.”
But Olbia’s agora, close by the harbor, proved a disappointment. It wasn’t that the market square had nothing for sale, only that it had nothing to warm the heart of an akatos’ captain. The Olbians bought and sold grain and olives and local wine and dried and fresh fish and plain pots- all useful stuff, but none of it worth Menedemos’ while. There was also a separate timber market next to the main agora, but that didn’t interest him, either.
“Round ships would do splendid business here,” he said. “As for us…” He put a hand in front of his mouth, as if hiding a yawn.
“I know.” Sostratos sounded gloomy, too, “You couldn’t imagine a more ordinary place if you tried for a year,” He raised his voice nevertheless: “Perfume! Fine perfume from Rhodian roses!”
People walked by without even looking. “I wonder if they have noses here,” Menedemos grumbled. “By the way some of them smell, I doubt it.”
“Fine Rhodian perfume!” Sostratos called again, before going on in a lower voice, “You never can tell. That hetaira in Miletos last summer-”
“Oh, you lucky dog!” Menedemos said. “That she wanted silk was one thing. That she wanted you, too…” Such things happened to him now and again. He hadn’t expected them to happen to his staid cousin.
Thinking along with him, Sostratos answered, “You can’t have all the luck all the time, you know. Some of it has to stick to other people, too.”
“Oh? Why?” Menedemos asked.
“That’s an argument for another day, my dear,” Sostratos said as he held out a jar of perfume to a passerby. “From Rhodes. The finest…”
The passerby kept walking. Sostratos’ shoulders slumped. “This is the hardest part of the business for me: telling strangers they ought to buy something from me, I mean.”
“Well, how will they know if you don’t tell them?” Menedemos asked reasonably.
“I keep telling myself the same thing,” Sostratos said. “It helps, but only so much. Then I remember how it annoys me when I’m walking through the agora at Rhodes to have some loudmouthed, quick-talking fellow from another polis stick something under my nose and tell me I can’t hope to live another day without it, whatever it is.”
“But you buy every once in a while, don’t you?” Menedemos said. “I know I do.”
“Yes, but I always feel like a fool afterwards,” Sostratos said.
“That’s not the point,” Menedemos said. “The point is, every so often somebody will part with his silver. And who cares how he feels afterwards?”
As if to prove the point, they did make some sales. The first was to a Hellene a few years older than they were, who said, “I just got married a couple of months ago. I think my wife would like this, don’t you?”
“Would you expect us to say no?” Sostratos asked.
“Pay no attention to him, best one,” Menedemos told the prospective customer. “He’s too honest for his own good.” He laughed.
So did the newly wed Hellene. After a moment, halfheartedly, so did Sostratos. The local himself smelled powerfully of fish. Fish scales glinted on his arms and legs and on his chiton. Probably in the dried-fish trade, Menedemos judged. Whatever trade he was in, he made good money at it, for he paid the Rhodians’ price with little haggling.
Menedemos didn’t doubt the trade of the next fellow who stopped before them. The sword on his belt and the scars on his face and right arm proclaimed him a soldier. So did his Macedonian accent, which was so thick as to be almost unintelligible. Little by little, Menedemos gathered that he wanted the perfume for a hetaira named Gnathaina.
“Ah, she calls herself after her jaw, eh?” Menedemos had to tap his own jaw-gnatbos in Greek-to get the Macedonian to understand what he meant.
“Aye, so she do,” the soldier said at last.
“Well, friend, is she good with that jaw of hers?” Menedemos asked with a wink. The Macedonian didn’t follow that at all. He did buy the perfume, though, which was what really mattered.
They made their biggest sale of the day as the sun sank in the direction of Lykia. The fellow who bought several jars was plump and prosperous, as smoothly shaven a man as Menedemos had ever seen. He couldn’t decide if the local was Hellene or Pamphylian; most of the people hereabouts spoke Greek with the same slightly nasal accent. Whatever he was, the Olbian already smelled sweet.
He also haggled with great enthusiasm and persistence, and he got a better price for his perfume than either the newlywed or the Macedonian. After he’d clasped hands on the bargain, he said, “My girls will be happy to daub this stuff on.”
“Your girls?” A lamp went on in Menedemos’ head. “You keep a brothel?”
“That’s right,” the sleek fellow answered. “I’ll do plenty of extra business on account of this, too. Men want their girls smelling good, not all sweaty and nasty.” He hesitated. A moment later, when he asked, “You and your friend here feel like one on the house?” Menedemos understood why: generosity warring with a brothelkeeper’s usual stinginess. For a wonder, generosity won.