'My thought exactly,' Sostratos agreed. Xenophanes ran a hand through his beard. 'I'd be just about of an age with One-Eye,' he said. 'Still a few old mulberry trees the wind hasn't blown down.' 'Mulberry trees?' Sostratos said; he hadn't heard that figure of speech before. 'Mulberry trees,' Xenophanes repeated, and dipped his head for emphasis. 'Call it a silk-seller's joke if you care to, sir.' He took another pull from his cup and declined to explain further. After a while - a little sooner than Sostratos would have - Menedemos said, 'I've got some fine perfumes with me, made from the best Rhodian roses.' Xenophanes' smile showed teeth worn down nearly to the gums. 'My friend, no matter how fine your perfumes are - and I'm sure they're very fine; your father and I have been doing business longer than you've lived, and I know he handles the best - I doubt the maidens would beat a path to my door if I wore them.' 'But they might beat a path to your door if you sold them,' Menedemos said. 'For that matter, the pretty boys across the street might, too.' That made the silk merchant laugh, but he tossed his head even so. 'Making silk, selling silk - those I know. Selling perfumes? I reckon I'm too old to start picking up things I didn't learn when I was younger.' Pixodaros leaned forward on his stool. 'Master, perhaps I could - ' 'No,' Xenophanes broke in. 'I said it once, and I'll say it twice. You don't know a single thing more about perfume than I do. As long as I'm breathing, we'll do it my way.' Being a slave, the Karian had no choice but to accept that. Sostratos thought of the character types Theophrastos had discussed at the Lykeion in Athens. One of them was the later learner: the old man who was always trying something new and making a botch of it. Xenophanes was not an old man of that sort; he clung like a limpet to what he understood. Then Sostratos had another thought. He snapped his fingers and said, 'We've also got crimson dye from Byblos. If you like, we can trade you that for silk. Dye, sir, I'm sure you do know.' He and Menedemos would have got more for the dye in Italy, far from Phoenicia, than they could hope to here. But they would get still more for silk. He was sure of that. Menedemos murmured, 'See? It comes in handy even if you didn't know about it till the last moment.' Sostratos only half heard him; his attention was aimed at Xenophanes. The old man's good eye lit up. 'Dye? I should hope I know dye,' he said. 'Tyre, now, Tyre made the best crimson, back in the days before Alexander sacked it. It hasn't been the same since; the men who knew the most got killed or sold for slaves. Arados, I reckon, turns out the best nowadays, with Byblos down a notch.' 'I wouldn't say that.' Sostratos knew a negotiating ploy when he heard one. 'Arados makes more dye than Byblos, true. But better? I don't think so, and I don't think you'll find many who do.'
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