“Father,” Diomedon called, “these men want to sell the temple a fine lion skin to drape over the god's shoulders.” “Do they?” Diogenes said, and then, “What makes it such a fine skin?” Hearing that, Menedemos knew he'd have a harder dicker with the older priest than he would have with his son. Polemaios came up through the naos in Diogenes' wake. “Ah, the Rhodians,” he rumbled. “I might have known.” “Hail,” Menedemos said politely. “You know these men, sir?” Diogenes asked Antigonos' nephew. “Oh, yes—a pair of whipworthy rascals, if ever there were any,” Polemaios replied, a nasty grin on his face. But then, relenting slightly, he went on, “They're the captain and toikharkhos who brought me here from Khalkis. On the sea, they know their business.” “Why were you sacrificing here, best one?” Sostratos asked. Polemaios' grin turned into a scowl. “On the land, they want to know everybody else's business,” he growled, and strode out of the temple. “A bad-tempered man,” Diogenes remarked, which would do for an understatement till a bigger one came along. The priest gathered himself. “I'm Diogenes, as my son will likely have told you.” He waited for Menedemos and Sostratos to give him their names, then said, “So you've got a lion skin, do you? Let's have a look.” As they'd done for the younger priest, Menedemos and Sostratos displayed the hide. “Isn't it splendid, Father?” Diomedon said. “Right now, I don't know whether it is or not,” Diogenes answered. “What I do know is, you probably just tacked an extra twenty drakhmai on to the asking price.” His gaze, half annoyed, half amused, swung to Menedemos. “Didn't he?” “Sir, I don't know what you're talking about,” Menedemos said, as innocently as he could. Diogenes snorted. “Oh, no, not much you don't.” He bent toward the hide, then tossed his head. “If I'm going to see how splendid it is, I want a proper light. Bring it out by the god's altar.” Fat-wrapped thighbones smoked on that altar. The hot, metallic smell of blood still filled the air. Flies buzzed as a couple of temple attendants butchered Polemaios' sacrificial offering. It was a bullock: the Macedonian could afford the finest. Menedemos said, “Didn't he take any of the meat for himself?” “No,” Diogenes said. “He gave the whole beast. Would you and your cousin care for a couple of gobbets? We wouldn't want it to go to waste.” “Thanks. That's most generous of you.” Like most Hellenes, Menedemos seldom ate meat, though he liked it very much. Smiling, he said, “You'll make me feel like one of the beef-munching heroes in the Iliad.” He cast about for some appropriate lines, and found them: “This is Agamemnon talking, remember?—
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