“She does speak her mind,” Sostratos said, not without a certain pride. And she was probably up there in the women's quarters listening to every word said here in the courtyard. Women of good family might not get out much, but that didn't mean they had no way to find out—and to influence—what went on around them. “Let's give her a chance to talk behind our backs, then,” Menedemos said. “Till you've seen these stones, you have no idea why I'm in such an uproar about them. Thrasyllos has no idea I'm in such an uproar, you understand, and I'll thank you kindly not to give the game away.” “You know me better than that, I hope.” Sostratos sounded affronted. “Thrasyllos is the man who has these emeralds?” “That's right. He's just in to Rhodes from Alexandria with a round ship full of Egyptian wheat.” “Why has he got them, then?” Sostratos asked. “He gets cagey about that,” Menedemos answered. “I think one of his kinsmen works in the mine, somewhere out in the desert east of the Nile.” “So these may be ... unofficial emeralds, then?” “That thought did cross my mind, yes.” Sostratos' eyes narrowed craftily, “Lots of Hellenes from Egypt who can get Ptolemaios' ear come through Rhodes. If you have to, you might want to point that out to the marvelous Thrasyllos.” “You're a demon, aren't you?” Menedemos' voice rose in admiration. “I should have thought of that myself.” They left the house and headed down toward the harbor, a route Menedemos had taken ever since he was old enough to toddle along after his father. He didn't care to think about that now; he didn't like to think about anything having to do with Philodemos. But the journey was as familiar to him as any in the polis could be. There stood Mnesipolis the smith, banging away at something while his fire sent smoke up into the sky. There was the usual crowd of gabbers and loungers outside the shop of Pythion the cobbler. Sostratos made the remark he usually made, too; “Sokrates taught outside a cobbler's shop just like this one. In Athens, they still show you the place that used to be Simon's.” “Pythion can teach you everything you want to know about shoes,” Menedemos said. “Can he teach me what's true and what's good and what's beautiful and why?” “Certainly—about shoes.” “You're no help, and neither is Pythion.” “Yes he is, if the sole of my sandal is ripped—not that I wear sandals very often.” “What about your own soul?”
Вы читаете The Gryphon's Skull
