The Gryphon's Skull

again and say, “Maybe she will, but when? And will she drive me daft before she does? She fusses over every obolos I spend.” “You've got to make her happy,” Menedemos said, and sternly told himself not to pursue that line of thought, either. “Make her happy?” Sikon howled, peeling another prawn. “How am I supposed to manage that, short of serving nothing but barley porridge for the next six months? I think her mother must have been frightened by a tunny while she was in the womb.” Menedemos pointed to the prawn shells and the tiny bits of flesh clinging to them. “Instead of throwing those in the street in front of the house, why don't you give them to her to bury in the garden? They'll make her flowers and herbs grow better, and she's bound to like that.” “Is she? If you want to know what I think, I think she's more likely to grill me about how much the polluted prawns cost,” the cook said. As Menedemos did when his temper began to rise, he drummed his fingers on the outside of his thigh. Sikon recognized the danger sign. “All right, all right. I'll give them to her, and I hope it does some good, that's all I've got to say.” It wasn't all he had to say, nor anywhere close to it. And he said still more when Menedemos reached out and hooked a fat prawn from the bowl into which he'd been tossing them. Mouth full, Menedemos retreated. A moment later, he wished he hadn't: Baukis had come down from the women's quarters and was picking up a hydria so she could water the garden. “Hail,” she called to him. “Hail,” he answered. His gaze flicked to the andron. Sure enough, his father still sat inside. He would have to be all the more careful about what he said, then. But before he had a chance to say anything, Sikon stormed out of the kitchen, both hands full of prawn shells. He all but threw them at Baukis' feet. “Here you are, my lady,” he said. “They'll make good manure for the plants, I hope.” She looked startled; plainly, Sikon had never done anything like that before. “Thank you,” she said. “You're right. They will.” But then she asked, “How much did you pay for the prawns?” The cook glared at Menedemos. I told you so, his eyes said. Then, reluctantly, he turned back to Baukis. “I got a good price for them.” “I'm sure they'll be very tasty,” Menedemos said. “In fact, I know they'll be very tasty, because I tasted one.” Since he'd suggested this course to Sikon, he had to back him now. Baukis said, “Tasty is one thing. Expensive is something else. What exactly did you pay for the prawns, Sikon?” Having no choice, the cook told her. She fixed him with a stony glance. “What would you call a bad price, if that's a good one?” Defiantly, Sikon answered, “I've paid plenty more in years gone by. And”—he folded his arms across his chest —”nobody complained, either.” The Macedonians and Persians lined up against each other at Gaugamela could not have glowered with greater ferocity. Menedemos, in the middle, feared he might be torn limb from limb. “Peace, both of you,” he said. “That isn't a dreadful price.” He found himself wishing his father would come out of the andron and help him. If that wasn't a measure of his alarm and desperation, he couldn't imagine what would be. Philodemos stayed where he was. He had too much sense, or too little courage, to jump into the middle of this