“They were wild for papyrus in Syracuse last year, too, after the Carthaginian siege cut them off from it,” Sostratos answered. “If you're going to keep records, you really can't do without it. More people are reading and writing these days, too. It's a good thing for us to carry.” “I can't tell you you're wrong,” Menedemos said. “And Diodoros was right—we do have the inside track on bringing it out of Egypt. A round ship hauling grain could carry plenty for us to resell without even noticing the burden.” His cousin dipped his head. “True enough. And now, shall we see what those barbarians want for their balsam?” “Certainly,” Menedemos said. He and Sostratos walked over to the Phoenicians, one of whom was tall—almost as tall as Sostratos— and thin, the other short and even thinner. Menedemos bowed. “Hail.” He named himself and his cousin. “Hail,” the shorter Phoenician replied. As he bowed, he touched his forehead, lips, and heart in turn. “I am Abibaalos son of Gisgon. Here with me, you see my brother, Abimilkios.” He spoke good if guttural Greek, and even gave the foreign names endings a Hellene might have used. “How may we serve you, my masters?” No free Hellene would have called another man master. As far as Menedemos was concerned, the Phoenicians carried flowery politeness too far. He said, “You have balsam, do you?” “Ah, balsam! Indeed we do.” Abibaalos bowed again. “We have the finest fragrant balsam from the garden of Engedi, clear and yellow as fine honey from Hymettos”—he really did know Hellenes well, to come up with that comparison—”burning with a sweet smoke, and also useful in medicines of all kinds, for epilepsy, for pain, as an antidote against deadly poisons, to warm the stomach and the liver, to heal inflamed eyes, to keep wounds from going bad, and to cure pleurisy and make a man's prong rise. It is effective, if the gods will.” That was a longer catalogue of virtues than Menedemos had bargained for, almost longer than the Catalogue of Ships in the Iliad. He said, “We might be interested in some, if the price is right.” Abimilkios spoke for the first time, in a hollow, rumbling bass: “The price is two of silver for one of balsam, by weight.” His Greek was less fluent than his brother's, but he sounded more determined. And that was indeed the going rate for balsam. “We are traders, too,” Menedemos said. Abibaalos and Abimilkios both smiled. Menedemos had seen that smile on Phoenicians before; it said Hellenes couldn't be traders, or at least not good ones. He leaned forward, responding to the silent challenge. He'd won some dickers from the men of the east. If he'd lost some, too, he chose not to dwell on those. Abibaalos said, “We heard you calling out your wares. You have perfume and dye and papyrus and ink, Is it not so?” “Only a little papyrus now,” Sostratos answered. “We just sold most of it to an officer here.” “You would have got a good price for it, too, with Ptolemaios and Antigonos at war,” Abibaalos remarked. He was no fool. He went on, “Crimson dye I can lay my hands on straight from the source. Perfume, now . . . These are the roses of Rhodes?” Menedemos dipped his head. “Just so, best one. Even more fragrant than balsam.” “But less rare,” Abimilkios put in,
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