“Madness,” Menedemos muttered.
“Aye, belike,” Apollodoros agreed. “But then, could we look for civilized behavior ‘mongst the barbarians, they’d be barbarians no more, but rather Hellenes.”
“I suppose so.” By then, Menedemos had drunk enough to make his wits a little fuzzy, or maybe more than a little. “When my cousin gets back from Ioudaia, I won’t be sorry to say farewell to this place.”
“And you’ll hie you homeward?” the Paphian said. Menedemos dipped his head. Apollodoros waved to the Phoenician tavernkeeper for a refill. The fellow nodded and waved back to show he’d understood, then came over with a jar of wine. The mercenary turned back to Menedemos: “Have you thought of staying here instead?”
“Only in my nightmares,” Menedemos answered. Most of those, these days, revolved around Emashtart. He feared the innkeeper’s wife would haunt his nights for years to come, screeching, Binein! Binein! He’d never known a woman with whom the prospect of physical congress seemed less appealing.
“I meant not as a trader, O best one, not as a merchant,” Apollodoros said, “but as a soldier, a warrior, a fighting man.”
“For Antigonos?”
“Certes, for Antigonos,” the mercenary answered. “A great man, the greatest of this sorry age. For whom would you liefer swing a sword?”
“I’d gladly fight for Rhodes, as any man with ballocks under his prong would fight for his polis,” Menedemos said. “But I never thought to hire myself out.” That would do till a bigger understatement came along.
“Ah, my dear, there’s no life like unto it,” Apollodoros said. “Food and shelter when not on campaign-and pay, too, mind-and all those chances for loot when the drum beats and you fare forth to war.”
“No, thanks,” Menedemos said. “I’m a peaceable sort. I don’t want any trouble with anybody, and I don’t get into fights for the fun of it.”
“By my troth, the more fool you!” Apollodoros exclaimed. “How better to show the world you make a better man than your foe?”
“By taking home silver he should have kept,” Menedemos replied. “By knowing you’ve made him into a fool.”
“A fool?” The mercenary gestured scornfully. “Make him into a slave, or a corpse. An you seek silver, take it by selling the wretch you’ve beaten.”
“This life suits you,” Menedemos said. “That’s plain. I couldn’t live as you do, though. It’s not what I want to do.”
“A pity. You could make a soldier. I see you’re strong and quick. Those count for more than size, nor never let any wight say otherwise.”
“Whether they do or not, I don’t want to carry a spear and a sword and a shield,” Menedemos said.
“Here, drink you more wine,” Apollodoros said, and waved to the taverner to fill Menedemos’ cup again, even though it was still a quarter full.
Menedemos had already drunk enough to grow a little muzzy, yes, but his wits still worked. He’s trying to get me very drunk, very drunk indeed, he thought. Why is he trying to do that? The grinning tapman came up with the winejar. “Wait,” Menedemos said, and put a hand over the mouth of his cup. He turned to the mercenary. “Do you think you can get me blind drunk and turn me into a soldier before I come to and figure out what’s happened to me?”
Apollodoros affected shock and dismay. In the course of many, many dickers, Menedemos had often seen it better done. “Wherefore should I essay so wicked a deed as that, most noble one?” the fellow asked, voice dripping innocence.
“I don’t know why, but I can make some guesses,” Menedemos answered. “How big a bonus do you get for each new recruit you bring in?”
He kept a close eye on the soldier from Paphos. Sure enough, Apollodoros flinched, though he said, “I know not what you mean, my friend, for in sooth I thought but to make symposiasts of us both, that we might revel the whole day through. I’d not bethought me to come upon so fine a boon companion in such a low dive as this.”
“That sounds very pretty,” Menedemos said, “but I don’t believe a word of it.” He drained his cup, then set it back on the table. “I don’t want any more wine,” he told the taverner in Greek. Then, for good measure, he trotted out two words of Aramaic: “Wine? No!” Sostratos would be proud of me, he thought as he got up to go.
“Wait, friend.” Apollodoros set a hand on his arm. “By my troth, you do mistake me, and in the mistaking do me wrong.”
“I don’t want to wait for anything,” Menedemos said. “Farewell.”
But when Menedemos started to leave, Apollodoros hung on tight. “Stay,” the mercenary urged. “Stay and drink.” He didn’t sound so friendly any more,
“Let go of me,” Menedemos said. The soldier still clung to him. He used a wrestling move to try to twist free. Apollodoros made the most obvious counter. Menedemos had thought he would-Apollodoros had little in the way of subtlety in him. Another twist, a sudden jerk, a grab…
“Oк!” Apollodoros yowled as his wrist bent back and back. Menedemos needed only a very little more pressure to break it, and they both knew as much. Apollodoros spoke very fast: “You do but misperceive my intentions, friend, and-”
“I think I perceive them just fine, thanks.” Menedemos bent the mercenary’s wrist a tiny bit more. Something in there gave under his grip- not a bone but a tendon or something of the sort. Apollodoros gasped and went fishbelly pale. Menedemos said, “I can use a knife, too. If you come after me, you’ll be very, very sorry. Do you believe me? Eh?” Yet more pressure.
“Yes!” Apollodoros whispered. “Furies take you, yes!”
“Good.” Menedemos let go. He didn’t turn his back on the soldier, but Apollodoros only sank down onto a stool, cradling the injured wrist. “Farewell,” Menedemos said again, and left the tavern.
This place didn’t explode in a brawl behind him. He looked back over his shoulder after he walked out, to make sure Apollodoros hadn’t changed his mind and decided to come after him, and that the Paphian didn’t have any friends in the place who might want to do the job for him. No one emerged from the wineshop. Menedemos grinned. My bet is, Apollodoros hasn’t got any friends, he thought.
Around the corner from the tavern, he passed a wineshop of a different sort, one that sold wine by the amphora rather than by the cup. Remembering the fine wine Zakerbaal the cloth merchant had served him, he stuck his head into the place and called, “Does anybody here speak Greek?”
The proprietor was a man of about his father’s age, with a bushy white beard, even bushier black eyebrows, and an enormous hooked nose. “Speak little bit,” he said, and held his thumb and forefinger close together to show how little that was.
For what Menedemos had in mind, the man didn’t need to know much of his language. He asked, “Have you got wine from Byblosa here? Good wine from Byblos?”
“From Byblos? Wine?” The Phoenician seemed to want to make sure he’d heard correctly. Menedemos dipped his head. Then, remembering he was in foreign parts, he nodded instead. The Phoenician smiled at him. “Wine from Byblos. Yes. I having. You-?” He didn’t seem able to remember how to say taste or try. Instead, he mimed drinking from a cup.
“Yes. Thank you.” Menedemos nodded again.
“Good. I give. I Mattan son of Mago,” the wine merchant said. Menedemos gave his name and that of his father. He watched as Mattan opened an amphora, and noted its shape: each city had its own distinctive style of jar, some round, others elongated. When the Phoenician handed him the cup, he sniffed. Sure enough, the wine had the rich floral bouquet that had struck him at Zakerbaal’s home.
He drank. As before, the wine’s flavor wasn’t quite so fine as its aroma, but it wasn’t bad, either. He asked, “How much for an amphora?”
When Mattan said, “Six shekels-sigloi, you say,” Menedemos had to fight to keep his jaw from dropping. Twelve Rhodian drakhmai the jar for a wine of that quality was a bargain even without haggling.