Before Himilkon could reply, his slave came out with wine and cups and some barley rolls and a bowl of olive oil on a wooden tray. “Just set it down and go away,” Himilkon told him. “I don't want you snooping around.” “Wait,” Sostratos said. “Could we have some water first, to mix with the wine?” “Go on. Fetch it,” Himilkon told Hyssaldomos. But the Phoenician also let out a mournful cluck. “Why you Hellenes water your wine, I've never understood. It takes away half the pleasure. Would you wrap a rag around your prong before you go into a woman?” “One of the Seven Sages said, 'Nothing too much,' “ Sostratos told him. “To us, unwatered wine seems too much, too likely to bring on drunkenness and madness.” Himilkon's broad shoulders went up and down in a shrug. “To me, this is silly, but never mind.” He drank his wine neat, and with every sign of enjoyment. Smacking his lips, he went on, “You spoke of balsam, my master.” Sostratos had been chewing on a roll, and answered with his mouth full: “Yes. Certainly.” “You want the best, the balsam of Engedi?” Himilkon asked. Sostratos and Menedemos both dipped their heads. Himilkon said, “You won't get it straight from the source, not in Phoenicia you won't. Engedi lies inland, perhaps twelve or fifteen parasangs inland—you would say, let me see, about, oh, three hundred stadia.” “Isn't that Phoenicia, too?” Menedemos asked. “No, no, no.” Himilkon shook his head. “The Phoenician cities are along the coast. Inland, down there, is the country of the Ioudaioi. And the Ioudaioi, my friends, are very peculiar people.” Menedemos sent Sostratos a quick glance, as if to say anyone not a Hellene was of course a peculiar person. Sostratos would not have disagreed, but didn't care to say any such thing where Himilkon could hear. What he did say was, “I don't know much about these Ioudaioi, O best one. Tell me more.” “Foolish people. Stubborn people. About what you'd expect from ignorant, back-country hillmen.” Himilkon sniffed and poured himself more wine, then shook his head. “And they're slightly daft— more than slightly daft— about their religion. You need to know that if you decide to go inland.” “Daft how?” Sostratos asked. “If I go into their country, will they want me to worship the way they do?” “No, no, no,” the Phoenician said again. He laughed. “But they may not want to have anything to do with you, because you don't worship the way they do. Dealing with you might cause them ritual pollution, you see. They're very prickly about that sort of thing.” “They sound as bad as Egyptians,” Menedemos said. “They're even worse,” Himilkon said. “They worship their own god, and they say nobody else's gods are real.” “What? Zeus isn't real?” Menedemos burst out laughing. “Oh, my dear fellow, that has to be a joke.”
Вы читаете The Gryphon's Skull
