“We made money from them,” Menedemos said. “By the time we got rid of them, I'd sooner have served them up roasted at a symposion,” Sostratos said. Familiarity had bred contempt; he was, and would remain, a hater of peafowl. Before Menedemos could answer, Himilkon emerged from the warehouse, Hyssaldomos behind him. The Phoenician wore an ankle-length wool robe not badly suited to the raw autumn day. Gold hoops glittered in his ears; a black, bushy beard tumbled halfway down his chest. He bowed himself almost double. “Hail, my masters,” he said in gutturally accented but fluent Greek. “How may I serve you today?” Sostratos found the Phoenician's oily politeness excessive. As far as he was concerned, no free man should call another one master. “Hail,” he answered, doing his best to hide his distaste. “We'd like to talk with you about your homeland, if you don't mind.” Himilkon's bushy eyebrows leaped upward. “About Byblos?” he said. “Of course, my friend. To you I shall gladly reveal the secrets of my heart.” He bowed again. Sostratos didn't believe him for a moment. On the other hand, he didn't think Himilkon had expected to be believed. “Not just about Byblos,” Menedemos said. “About Phoenicia in general, and the countries thereabouts, and the kinds of goods we might expect to find in them.” “Ah.” Intelligence glittered in Himilkon's black, black eyes. “You think to sail east next spring?” “We've talked about it,” Sostratos said. “If we do, we'd like to learn as much as we can beforehand.” “Wise. Very wise.” Himilkon gave him yet another bow. “Most Hellenes, if you will forgive my saying so, charge ahead first and think of questions afterwards—if they ever do. I might have known you would be different.” One more bow. “Er—thank you.” Sostratos wondered if that was a real compliment aimed at him or just more Phoenician flattery. He couldn't tell. Himilkon rounded on his slave. “Don't stand there with your ears flapping in the breeze, you lazy, worthless, good-for-nothing rogue. Go inside and fetch us some wine and a bite to eat, and don't take all day doing it, either.” “Right, boss.” If his master's outburst frightened Hyssaldomos, the Karian hid it very well. He sauntered into the warehouse. “I ought to give him a good whipping—find out if he's really alive,” Himilkon grumbled. “What do you have in mind buying, my masters, and what will you take east to sell?” “Well, obviously, as long as we're in the country, we'll look to buy some of the crimson dye they make in the Phoenician towns,” Menedemos said. Himilkon nodded. He'd lived in Rhodes a long time, but still didn't usually show agreement as a Hellene would. “Yes, of course,” he said. “You already know something of the qualities to look for there, for it comes west often enough. What else?” “Balsam,” Sostratos answered. “We bought some in Knidos from a couple of Phoenician traders, and we did well with it—better than I thought we would. If we could get it straight from the source, we'd make even more.”
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