“He certainly is.” Now Sostratos dipped his head, “That's why I'm assuming he's got somebody keeping an eye on Polemaios and his soldiers. Remember how Polemaios tried to see if we knew which of Ptolemaios' officers would take a bribe?” “That I do,” Menedemos answered. “I thought we'd be out of Kos and across the Aegean before it could possibly matter. But the stinking collision put paid to that, the collision and the fight across the channel. That cistern-arsed scow—I hope it did sink in the storm.” “Maybe it did,” Sostratos said. “No sign of it here, anyhow.” “Gods only know how long we'll be stuck here, though.” Menedemos drummed his fingers on the outside of his thigh. His cousin's voice was tart: “Believe me, my dear, I like it no better than you do. I want to be in Athens. I burn to be in Athens. As a matter of fact, I burn to be anywhere but here. We ought to start going to the agora and selling what we can. We'll make something that way.” “Not much,” Menedemos said in dismay. “Ships from Rhodes put in here ail the time. We won't get much of a price for perfume or ink—and how can we hope to sell the silk we just bought, except at a loss? Koans can buy direct from the folk who make it; they don't need to deal with middlemen.” “I understand that, believe me,” his cousin replied. “But we have to pay the sailors no matter where we are or what we're doing, and that talent we got from Ptolemaios is melting away like the fat in a fire at a sacrifice to the gods.” Instead of drumming his fingers, Menedemos suddenly snapped them. “I know what would bring us some money—-we've got those two lion skins. No lions on Kos. Somewhere in town, there'll be a temple to Zeus. Can't go wrong with a real lion-skin mantle for the god's image.” “True.” Sostratos smiled, “And you're right—we ought to get a good price for at least one of the hides. Good idea.” “Thanks,” Menedemos said. “Now if only I could come up with eight or ten more, we'd be fine.” “Pity that fellow back in Kaunos didn't have a leopard skin to go with the others,” Sostratos said. “I know where the temple to Dionysos is.” “Yes, I remember going by it, too, on the way from Ptolemaios' residence down here to the harbor.” Menedemos shrugged. “All we can do, though, is make the best of what we've got.” As often happened in a town of Hellenes, finding out where Zeus' temple was cost Menedemos an obolos. Knowledge was a commodity like any other, and seldom given away for nothing. After he'd paid out the little silver coin, he was annoyed to discover that the temple lay only a couple of blocks beyond the market square. It was a small building, but elegant, in the modern Corinthian style, with columns whose capitals looked like inverted bells and were ornamented with acanthus leaves. “Pretty,” said Sostratos, who was fond of modern architecture. “If you like that sort of thing,” Menedemos said. “It looks busy to me. I like the good old Doric order better—no bases to the columns, and plain capitals that just go on about the business of holding up the architrave and the frieze. These fancy Corinthian columns”— he made a face—”they look like a garden that wants pruning.”
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