“This doesn't need to be fancy,” Eudemos said. “Write me up a list of what all would go into making a trihemiolia, as best you can figure. Base it on what goes into a trireme, of course.” “I'll do it,” Khremes said. “Good.” Eudemos clasped Menedemos' hand. “And good for you, too. You've earned the thanks of your polis.” Menedemos bowed low. Those were words that struck home. “What Hellene could hope for more, most noble one?” “A trihemiolia, eh?” Sostratos said as he and Menedemos made their way through the streets by the great harbor toward Himilkon the Phoenician's workhouse. “That's right,” his cousin answered. “Like I was saying, the gods might have put the word on my tongue day before yesterday.” “If the gods gave you the word, why didn't they give you one that was easier to pronounce?” Sostratos asked. “A 'three-one-and-a-halfer'? People will be trying to figure out what that is for years.” “Admiral Eudemos didn't have any trouble,” Menedemos said. “He's an admiral,” Sostratos retorted. “He worries about the thing itself, not about the word.” “Do you know what you remind me of?” Menedemos said. “You remind me of Aiskhylos down in Hades' house in Aristophanes' Frogs, where he's criticizing Euripides' prologues. But I don't think the trihemiolia is going to 'lose its little bottle of oil,' the way the prologues kept doing.” “Well, all right,” Sostratos said. “I'd be the first to admit Eudemos knows more about such things than I do.” “Generous of you,” Menedemos remarked. Sostratos wagged a finger at him. “You shouldn't be sarcastic, my dear. You don't do it well, and that's something I do know something about.” Menedemos made a face at him. Sostratos laughed. Hyssaldomos, Himilkon's Karian slave, was puttering around by the ramshackle warehouse, looking busy while actually doing nothing in particular. Sostratos snorted. Every slave in the world learned that art. Seeing the two Rhodians approach gave Hyssaldomos a legitimate excuse for doing something that didn't involve much real work: he waved to them and called, “Hail, both of you! You looking for my boss?” “That's right,” Sostratos answered. “Is he there?” “You bet he is,” the slave said. “I'll go fetch him. I know he'll be glad to see you.” He ducked inside. “Of course he will,” Sostratos muttered. “After we bought the peafowl from him, he's got to be sure he can sell us anything.”
Вы читаете The Gryphon's Skull
