The Gryphon's Skull

Sostratos sat there putting the coins back in their sack and doing his best not to laugh out loud. Nikodromos thought Menedemos was interested in helping him make up with his wife after their fight, and in making some money doing that. Sostratos knew better. Oh, his cousin wouldn't mind making money off Nikodromos. But what Menedemos really wanted was Asine. If he sold Nikodromos perfume or jewels or silk, he would use his visits here to make himself known to her—even if she stayed in the women's quarters while he was around—and to scout out the ground and see what his chances were. “Maybe you should bring some of these things by, give me a chance to look at them,” Nikodromos said. “Not today: I should take the hide up to the temple now, and I'll be sacrificing through the afternoon. Tomorrow morning, not too early?” “Tomorrow morning,” Nikodromos agreed. “I'll see you then.” Nikodromos had hardly closed the door behind them when Sostratos wagged a forefinger under his cousin's nose. “I know what you've got in mind,” he said. “My dear, I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about.” But Menedemos' eyes danced. He couldn't make that sound convincing no matter how hard he tried. “Why aren't you swelling up like a toad and telling me what a bad character I am?” Sostratos had been wondering about that himself. He gave the most honest answer he could: “If anyone ever had it coming, that petty thief of a Nikodromos does.” “Well, well,” Menedemos said, and then again, “Well, well.” He walked on for a few paces before adding, “There's no guarantee, you know.” “Don't put yourself in danger,” Sostratos said. “Nikodromos isn't worth it.” His cousin chuckled. “Of course he isn't. Asine, now, Asine just may be. I'll have to see how it goes, that's all.” He tapped Sostratos on the chest with his finger. “One thing, though.” “What's that?” Sostratos asked with sinking heart. “However the other turns out, I expect I'll make a profit from that polluted priest,” Menedemos said. “Huzzah,” Sostratos said in hollow tones. Menedemos laughed out loud. Menedemos rubbed his chin. He'd taken care to shave before coming up from the harbor to Nikodromos' house. He'd done a good job; his skin felt almost as smooth as it had when he was a beardless boy. He had on the cleaner of his tunics, too. Nikodromos would interpret all that as being no less than his own due—he had plenty of self-importance. How Asine would interpret it, if she would interpret it at all... “I'll find out,” Menedemos murmured, and rapped on the priest's door. Nikodromos opened it himself. With what he'd spent on the lion skin, he'd shown he had plenty of money, but he was too mean to buy a slave to make life easier for himself and his wife. “Hail,” he said now. “Where's your cousin?” “In the market square, selling to whoever will buy,” Menedemos answered easily. “You, though, best one, you're a special customer, so I'm here to show you these goods with no one else's eyes on them.”