The Gryphon's Skull

It did look very good. It was filmier than the gauziest linen; Menedemos could see Pixodaros through it. Yet it also shone and sparkled, as linen never did. Brothel keepers paid high prices to deck their girls in the stuff. Hetairai bought it for themselves. And men eager for display or simply to have something few others in their polis did also set down their silver for silk—commonly in thicker grades. “What do you weave it from?” Sostratos murmured. He couldn't have expected an answer. It was only his curiosity talking. For a moment, though, Pixodaros' face went hard and hostile behind the transparent cloth. “That is the secret of Kos,” he said. “The most I will ever say is that I was so surprised when I learned it, you could guess from the fall of Troy till now and you would never once come close.” “As may be,” Sostratos said. “I don't need to know in order to want it.” He turned to Menedemos. “Shall we get a hundred bolts, as we did last year?” “That suits me well enough,” Menedemos said. “We won't be going into the west this trip, but there's always a strong market for silk in Athens.” He raised an eyebrow at Pixodaros. “You do have it?” “Certainly.” The Karian started to nod, then caught himself and dipped his head. “All right, then,” Sostratos said. “Shall we trade dye for half and perfume for the other half? Dye at the same rate we gave Xenophanes last year?” “I thought the old man could have done a little better,” Pixodaros replied, “but let it be as you say. Now, though, the perfume . . .” “Top grade, just like your silk,” Menedemos said. “An akatos can't afford to carry anything but the best. We make our money from quality. A round-ship captain with a load of olive oil in his hold can take along a little junk to peddle on the side, because it's not where most of his profit will come from. We don't dare sell junk. We always want the good and the beautiful.” Sostratos stirred at that—the words came right to the edge of philosophy—but didn't speak. “And how much do you want for one of your jars of perfume, as compared to the price for one of your jars of dye?” Pixodaros asked. Menedemos smiled. “That's where the dickering comes in, wouldn't you say?” Pixodaros smiled, too. Oil and wheat might have something close to a fixed price, except in times of dearth, but luxuries? Luxuries brought what the seller could get, what the buyer could afford. They drank. They ate. They haggled. Pixodaros flicked stones in the grooves of a counting-board. He didn't offer it to the Rhodians. Every so often, Sostratos would look up toward the ceiling, lips moving not quite silently, eyes far away. He was better than anyone else Menedemos had ever seen at working with numbers in his head. He was slower than Pixodaros with the advantage of the board, but he got right answers. At last, as evening neared, Pixodaros held out his hand to Menedemos and Sostratos. “A bargain,” he said, and Menedemos dipped his head. So did his cousin. Smiling, Pixodaros added, “Xenophanes used to complain about how hard a dicker the two of you gave him, I see he was right.” “It works both ways.” Menedemos returned flattery for flattery. Pixodaros beamed. “What would please you?” he asked. “Would you stay to supper here, or should I give you a guide to the Rhodian proxenos' house?”