Sostratos grinned. “Oh, I haven’t. But, by the way he laughed at the idea that anyone might want to buy a book, I guessed he probably didn’t have his letters. And that turned out to be right.”
“That’s sly, young sir,” Diokles said admiringly. “That’s mighty sly.”
“It seemed reasonable,” Sostratos answered, shrugging. “But I want to say euge to my cousin. When that Macedonian oaf reviled him, he didn’t lose his temper. He stayed calm, and the Macedonian ended up playing the fool.”
Menedemos wasn’t-emphatically wasn’t-used to praise from Sostratos. His cousin was more apt to call him things like a thick-skulled bonehead who thought with his prick. He was used to that. This, though… “Thank you very much, my dear,” he said. “Are you sure you’re well?”
“Quite sure, thanks,” Sostratos answered. “And I think-though I can’t be so sure-you may be starting to grow up at last.”
“Me?” Menedemos tossed his head. “It’s not likely, let me tell you.”
“I don’t know,” Sostratos said. “My guess is, a couple of years ago you would have called him something filthy you got out of Aristophanes, and that would have spilled the perfume into the soup.”
Menedemos thought it over. Much as he would have liked to, he couldn’t deny it. Now he shrugged. “I didn’t, and that’s all there is to it. Now maybe these cistern-arsed titty-gropers will leave us alone and let us get some business done.”
“Er-yes,” Sostratos said. “More Aristophanes?”
“Of course, my dear,” Menedemos answered. “Only the best.”
When Sostratos and Menedemos walked into Salamis’ market square the next morning, Sostratos stopped, stared in delight, and pointed. “Look!” he exclaimed. “Phoenicians! Lots of Phoenicians!” Sure enough, many of the men in the agora were swarthy and hook-nosed, and wore long robes despite what promised to be a warm day. The harsh gutturals of their language mixed with the rhythmic rise and fall of Greek.
Sostratos’ cousin laughed at him. “Well, of course there are lots of Phoenicians here, my dear,” Menedemos said. “We’re close to the Phoenician coast, there are Phoenician towns on Cyprus, and all those Phoenician ships in the harbor didn’t get here without sailors and merchants in ‘em.”
“No, of course not,” Sostratos said. “But now I get to find out if they understand my Aramaic-and I understand theirs. I thought we’d run into more of them in Lykia and Pamphylia and Kilikia, but”-he shrugged-”we didn’t.”
“It’s the war,” Menedemos said. “Antigonos rules Phoenicia, but Ptolemaios just took the southern coast of Anatolia away from him. The Phoenicians are probably nervous about going there.”
“Maybe-but maybe not, too,” Sostratos said. “Ptolemaios also holds Cyprus, so why don’t the Phoenicians stay away from Salamis?”
“For one thing, like I said, Kition and some other Phoenician cities are here on Cyprus, and Ptolemaios holds them, too,” Menedemos answered. “For another, he’s held Cyprus longer, so things here have settled down. And, for a third, if Phoenicians don’t come here, they don’t come anywhere. “
Since he was manifestly right, Sostratos didn’t argue with him. Instead, he went up to the closest Phoenician merchant, a fellow who’d set up a stand with jars of crimson dye. “Good day, my master,” Sostratos said in Aramaic, his heart thumping nervously. “Would you tell your servant what city you are from?” Speaking Greek, he wouldn’t have cared to sound so submissive even to a Macedonian marshal. But Aramaic, as he’d discovered to his frequent dismay, did things differently.
The Phoenician blinked, then showed white, white teeth in an enormous grin. “An Ionian who speaks my language!” he said; in Aramaic, all Hellenes were Ionians. “And may I go through the fire if you didn’t learn it from a man of Byblos. Am I right, my master, or am I wrong?”
“From a man of Byblos, yes.” Sostratos had all he could do not to dance with delight. This fellow had followed his Aramaic, and he’d understood the reply.
That grin got wider yet. “Your servant is from Sidon,” the Phoenician said, bowing. “I am called Abibaal son of Eshmunhillek. And how does my master call himself?”
Sostratos gave his own name, and that of his father. He also introduced Menedemos, adding, “He speaks no Aramaic.”
“That is only a small thing,” Abibaal replied. He bowed to Menedemos as he had to Sostratos and said, “Hail, my master,” in good Greek.
“Hail,” Menedemos replied. He chuckled and poked Sostratos in the ribs with an elbow. “See? He knows Greek.”
“Yes, he does,” Sostratos said patiently. “But before long we’ll be getting to places where people don’t.”
“Would you rather go on in Greek?” Abibaal asked in that language.
“No,” Sostratos said in Aramaic, and tossed his head. “I want to use your speech, please.”
Abibaal gave him another bow. “It shall be as you desire in all ways, of course. Would your heart be gladdened to think on the many fine qualities of the crimson dye I have here? “ He patted one of the jars on his little display.
“I do not know,” Sostratos answered: a useful phrase. He paused to think, then went on, “How much more charge you here than in Sidon?”
That made Abibaal blink and then laugh. “Eshmun smite me if my master is not a merchant himself.”
“Yes.” Sostratos dipped his head. Then he remembered to nod instead. It felt most unnatural. “Please answer your servant’s question, if you would be so generous.”
“Surely, sir, you know a man must make a profit to live, and-”
“Yes, yes,” Sostratos said impatiently. “You must make a profit, but I must make a profit, too.” He pointed first to the Sidonian, then to himself, to make sure he was understood.
Some of Abibaal’s patience began to wear thin. “ I charge only a twelfth part more here in Salamis than in my own city.”
Sostratos returned to Greek to speak to Menedemos: “Come on. Let’s go.”
“What’s the matter?” his cousin asked. “You sounded like you had something stuck in your throat and couldn’t get it out.”
As the two Rhodians started on their way, Abibaal called after them in Greek: “What is the trouble, best ones? Whatever it is, I can make it right.”
“No. You lied to me,” Sostratos told him, sticking to Greek himself now. “No man would take such a small extra charge after shipping his goods across the sea. How can I trust you when you will not tell me the truth?”
“You will find no finer dye anywhere in Phoenicia,” Abibaal said.
“That may be, or it may not. Because you lied to me before, I have a harder time believing you now,” Sostratos answered. “But whether it’s so or not, I’m sure I can find cheaper dye there, and I intend to.”
“You told him,” Menedemos said as the dye merchant from Sidon stared after them.
“I don’t like being taken for a fool.” Sostratos could, in fact, think of few things he liked less. After muttering darkly to himself, he went on, “Actually, my dear, you’ll be the one buying dye and such in the coastal cities. I aim to go to that Engedi place and buy balsam straight from the source.”
“I know what you aim to do.” Menedemos didn’t sound happy. “One Hellene wandering through a country full of barbarians where he barely speaks the language-”
“I did well enough with Abibaal.”
“And maybe you would again. But maybe you wouldn’t, too,” his cousin said. “Besides, a lone traveler is asking to be robbed and murdered. I would like to see you again,”
“Would you? I didn’t know you cared.” Sostratos batted his eyelashes. Menedemos laughed. But Sostratos wasn’t about to be deflected from his purpose. “We’ve been talking about this since the end of last summer. You knew I was going to do it.”