The Gryphon's Skull

Menedemos eyed Sostratos with amusement as they walked through the streets of Kos. “This is your own fault, my dear,” he said. “You've got no business twisting and moaning as if you were about to shit yourself, the way Dionysos does in the Frogs.” “Oh, to the crows with Aristophanes,” Sostratos snarled. “And to the crows with Di—” “You don't want to say that.” Menedemos broke in before his cousin could curse the god of wine. “You mean, you don't want me to say that.” Sostratos understood him well enough. “All right, I don't want you to say that. However you please. Just don't say it.” Menedemos was a conventionally pious young man. He believed in the gods as much because his father did as for any other reason. Sostratos, he knew, had other notions. Most of the time, his cousin was polite enough to keep from throwing those notions in his face. When Sostratos started to slip, Menedemos wasn't shy about letting him know he didn't care for such remarks. “Coming out!” a woman yelled from a second-story window, and emptied a chamber pot into the street below. The warning call let Menedemos and Sostratos skip to one side. A fellow leading a donkey wasn't so lucky; the stinking stuff splashed him. He shook his fist up at the window and shouted curses. “You see?” Menedemos said as he and Sostratos walked on. “Aristophanes was as true to life as Euripides any day.” His cousin didn't even rise to that, which showed what a truly evil mood he was in. “It's your own fault,” Menedemos repeated. “If you hadn't asked Ptolemaios' steward about the wine we were drinking . . .” “Oh, shut up,” Sostratos said. But then, relenting a little, he pointed to a door. “I think that's the right house.” “Let's find out.” Menedemos knocked. “Who is?” The question, in accented Greek, came from within. The door didn't open. “Is this the house of Nikomakhos son of Pleistarkhos, the wine merchant?” Menedemos asked. “Who you?” The door still didn't open, but the voice on the other side seemed a little less hostile. ''Two Rhodian traders.” Menedemos gave his name, and Sostratos'. “We'd like to talk to Nikomakhos about buying some wine.” “You wait.” After that, Menedemos heard nothing. He started drumming his fingers on the outside of his thigh, Sostratos looked longingly back toward the harbor. If the door didn't open pretty soon, Menedemos saw he would have trouble persuading his cousin to hang around. Just when Sostratos' grumbles were starting to turn into words, the door did open. The fellow standing there was a Hellene with a beard streaked with gray. He had a good-natured smile that showed a broken front tooth. “ 'Ail, my friends. I'm Nikomakhos. 'Ow are you today?” Most people on Kos used a Doric dialect not far from that of Rhodes, but he spoke an Ionian Greek, dropping his rough breathings. “Hail,” Menedemos said, a little sourly. He introduced himself and Sostratos, then added, “Your surly slave there almost cost you some business.”