“Brekekekex koax koax,” Menedemos said softly—the noise of the chorus of frogs in Aristophanes' play. Sostratos ignored him, and Thrasyllos plainly had no idea what the nonsense words meant. The captain of the Aura said, “You wouldn't talk like that if you know what my nephew went through to sneak these out of the mines. He stuck 'em up his arse, is what he did, then dosed himself with poppy juice so he wouldn't have to take a shit for a couple of days, till he was well away from there.” Sostratos unobtrusively rubbed the palm of his hand on his chiton. Menedemos fought down laughter. His cousin had always been a little on the prissy side. But Menedemos was using Sostratos as a weapon against Thrasyllos here, and so he said, “They are interesting, but your price is way out of line.” “Somebody will pay it,” Thrasyllos said, but he sounded none too confident. “Somebody will give your name to Ptolemaios, is what will happen,” Menedemos said, and Thrasyllos flinched as if he'd hit him. Pressing his advantage, Menedemos went on, “He's not down in Alexandria—he's right over there in Lykia with a big fleet. You think you can outrun his war galleys in this wallowing scow? Good luck, best one.” “Menedemos and I now, we know how to keep quiet,” Sostratos added, his tone suggesting they were the only people in the whole world who did. Menedemos dipped his head in solemn agreement. Thrasyllos licked his lips again. His shoulders stiffened, though. Menedemos would have bet he was going to be stubborn. But one of the Rhodian dock loungers chose that moment to wave and call out, “Oe, Menedemos!” “What is it, Moiragenes?” Menedemos asked impatiently. The shabby, skinny man couldn't have played his part better had Menedemos paid him a mina of silver. “You hear the latest?” he said. “Ptolemaios just took Xanthos in Lykia away from old One-Eye, and they say he's going to move on Kaunos, too.” “No, as a matter of fact, I hadn't heard that,” Menedemos answered, watching Thrasyllos much more closely than he seemed to. The news hit the merchant skipper like a twenty-mina rock flung from a catapult. “How do you know it's true?” Sostratos asked Moiragenes. Menedemos wished his cousin hadn't chosen that moment to play the historian. “Fellow who brought the news is called Euxenides of Phaselis,” Moiragenes answered. “He got out of his home town two jumps ahead of Ptolemaios, got out of Xanthos one jump ahead of him, and he didn't want to try his luck at Kaunos, so he came here instead.” He waved and went on down the pier to pass the news to someone else. “Well, well,” Menedemos said to Thrasyllos. “Isn't that interesting?” “Ptolemaios won't come here,” Thrasyllos said. “Of course not,” Menedemos said in soothing tones. “Gods be praised, Rhodes really is a free and autonomous polis. But sooner or later, you're going to have to sail away. Do you want to deal with traders whose grandfathers were in the business of buying and selling things, or will you take a chance on getting a little more from somebody who might cut your throat or might just blab instead?” “To the crows with you,” Thrasyllos whispered. “You're not a man. You're an evil spirit.”
