bed. He went on. It didn't hurt him at all: on the contrary. After he finished, he patted her round bottom. “Here, dear, this is for you,” he said, and gave her a couple of oboloi. “You don't need to tell Kleiteles you got them from me.” “Thank you,” Eunoa said. “It wasn't so bad.” The little silver coins evidently made it a good deal better. Menedemos had thought they would. He lay down on the bed. “Sleep with me. We'll do it again in the morning, whichever way you like.” He didn't say he would give her more money then, but he didn't say he wouldn't, either. She lay down willingly enough. The bed was narrow for two, but not if they snuggled together. His arms around the slave girl, Menedemos fell asleep. Sostratos woke up when the woman Kleiteles had lent him for the night almost kicked him out of bed. He had to clutch at the frame to keep from landing on the floor. His sudden motion woke the slave up, too. They both needed a moment to remember what they were doing there lying side by side. Sostratos needed another moment to remember her name. “Good day, Thestylis,” he said when he did. “Good day, sir,” she answered, sitting up and yawning. Her breasts sagged a little; her nipples were wide and dark. He guessed she'd borne a child before. Maybe it hadn't lived. When he reached out and idly stroked her, she said, “Just a minute, sir. Let me use the pot first, if you don't mind.” He wasn't sure he wanted her again till she said that. Then he decided it would be a nice way to start the day. “Go ahead,” he told her. “And after you're done, I'll use it myself. And then . . .” But he'd just set down the pot when brisk footsteps resounded out in the courtyard. Someone knocked first on his door, then on the one beside it it, the door to Menedemos' room. Thestylis let out a startled squeak. She plainly hadn't expected anyone to disturb them so early; the light leaking out through the shutters was predawn gray. “Who's there?” Sostratos asked. His eye went to the little knife he carried, now lying on the floor. It was a tool much more than a weapon. He heard Menedemos asking the same question with the same undertone of worry. After Kaunos, who could be sure staying in a proxenos' house was safe? “It's me, Kleiteles,” came the answer. “You gentlemen need to get dressed right away and come out.” “Why?” Sostratos asked in some irritation. He looked back at Thestylis, who lay naked and waiting on the bed. Not getting the chance to dip his wick after he'd made up his mind that he was going to annoyed him. But Kleiteles answered, “Because one of Ptolemaios' servants is standing here beside me. Ptolemaios wants to speak to you as fast as you can get to him.” Ice ran through Sostratos. Zeus ! Has he found out about the emeralds? How could be have found out about the emeralds? But what else would he want to talk about? He had no idea. But he realized he was going to have to find out. Astonishment widened Thestylis' eyes. As Sostratos put on his chiton, Menedemos spoke from the other room: “Ptolemaios wants to talk to us?” His cousin sounded un-wontedly subdued. Nothing like being discovered, or worrying that you've been discovered, to put the fear of the gods in you, Sostratos thought. The fear, if not of the gods, then of a power greater than his own, was certainly in him. “That's right,” Kleiteles answered along with another man: presumably, Ptolemaios' servant. Sostratos touched the hilt of that little knife. Much good it would do him against one of the great marshals of the Hellenic world. “I'll see you again,” Sostratos told Thestylis, and hoped he meant it. He opened the door and stepped out into the courtyard. The fellow standing beside Kleiteles reminded him of Euxenides of Phaselis without looking like him: he was solidly made, erect, alert. He looks like a soldier —that's what it is, Sostratos thought.
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