Over the Wine Dark Sea

'We have seven left, sir.' Sostratos flicked a glance toward Menedemos. His cousin's lips silently shaped a word. Sostratos fought back the urge to whistle in astonishment. Menedemos didn't do things by halves. But Sostratos had, in a way, asked, and the gamble struck him as good, too. In a calm voice, he went on, 'We want three minai apiece.'   The steward looked horrified. Privately, Sostratos didn't blame him a bit. 'I'll take all of them,' Antandros said. 'To the crows -  no, to the peafowl -  with the Tarentines. As soon as I get the chance, I'll send one on to my little brother in Africa.'   'Ahh!' With the pleasure of curiosity satisfied and a guess confirmed, Sostratos forgot about the dismayed steward. 'So that's what Agathokles was up to! He is sailing around the north side of Sicily, then?'   'That's right.' Antandros dipped his head. 'Up till now, all the fighting in this war has been here in Sicily. But my brother decided it was time for the Carthaginians to see how they like war among their wheatfields and olive trees. No one has ever invaded their homeland -  till now.'   'May he give them a good kick in the ballocks, then,' Menedemos said. Sostratos thought the same thing. The Macedonian marshals littering the landscape in the east of the Hellenic world were bad enough. Having barbarians overrunning poleis in Great Hellas struck him as even worse.   A moment later, he wondered why. What could the Carthaginians have visited on Syracuse that Hellenes hadn't already inflicted on other Hellenes? The question struck him as no great compliment to Carthage, but rather a judgment on what Hellenes had visited on one another.   Antandros spoke to the steward: 'Take them to the treasury. Pay them for the grain and for these birds.'   'Yes, sir,' the steward replied, though he looked as if he would have said something else had he dared. He turned to Sostratos and Menedemos. 'Come with me, O best ones.' He didn't sound as if he meant that, either.   Can it be this simple? Sostratos wondered as he followed the steward out of what would have been the throne room had Agathokles called himself a king. Will Antandros really just pay us for the grain and the peafowl and send us on our way? Nothing this whole voyage has been that simple.   Seeing the treasury did nothing to reassure him. Ortygia was a fortress. The rulers of Syracuse stored their silver and gold in a fortress within a fortress, behind massive stone walls, gates whose valves seemed to Sostratos as thick as his own body, and a veritable phalanx of soldiers: some Hellenes, others Italians and Kelts. Sostratos tried to imagine what those soldiers would have done had he and Menedemos approached them without the steward's protective company. He wasn't sorry to find himself failing.   But the steward, whatever he thought, did not dare disobey Antandros. The clerk to whom he spoke looked surprised, but asked no questions. How long would a man who asked questions last in Syracuse? Sostratos couldn't have gauged it by the water clock, but thought he knew the answer nonetheless: not long.   Instead of asking those dangerous questions, the clerk started bringing out leather sacks. When Sostratos hefted one, he asked the fellow, 'A mina?' The clerk dipped his head and went back for more silver. By the time he was done, what seemed like a small mountain of sacks stood on the broad stone counter that separated him from the two Rhodians.   Solemnly, Menedemos