The Gryphon's Skull

house talked (two more guards stood stolidly in the andron). “Hail, both of you. Have something to eat.” “Hail, sir,” Menedemos said. “Hail,” Sostratos added. As he sat and reached for some bread, he studied the ruler of Egypt out of the corner of his eye. Ptolemaios was somewhere in his mid- to late fifties, but strong and vigorous for his years. Though his hair was gray, he had all of it; he wore it rather long, with locks falling over his ears. He had an engagingly ugly face, with a big nose and a jutting chin; a scar on one cheek; a wide, fleshy mouth; and alert, dark eyes under shaggy eyebrows. To Sostratos' way of thinking, he looked more like a peasant then a general. A slave poured the Rhodians wine from the mixing bowl. Sounding apologetic, Ptolemaios said, “It's not very strong, I'm afraid. I don't care to start getting drunk first thing in the morning.” Macedonians had, and often lived up to, a reputation for drunkenness. But, sure enough, when Sostratos sipped, he discovered Ptolemaios didn't live up to it: the wine was cut three or four to one with water, a thin mix indeed. It was very good wine, though, and he said so. “Thank you kindly.” Ptolemaios' smile was engagingly ugly, too, for it showed a couple of broken teeth. He's no youth, Sostratos thought, but he fought his way across Persia and into India with Alexander the Great. More scars, old and white and puckered, seamed his arms. The bread was good, too: of wheat flour, soft and fine. And the oil had a sharp green tang that said it was squeezed from the first olives picked in the fall. None of that surprised Sostratos. If the lord of Egypt couldn't afford the best, who could? Ptolemaios let him and Menedemos eat and drink for a while. Then, after sipping from his own cup and setting it down, he said, “You boys are probably wondering why f sent for you this morning.” Sostratos dipped his head. His cousin said, “Yes, sir, we were.” “Well, I'd better tell you, then, hadn't I?” Ptolemaios chuckled. “You looked a little green around the gills when you came in here, but don't worry. You're not in trouble, leastways not with me. I was talking with an officer from the Nike last night, and he said you showed him a tiger skin. Is that right?” “Yes, sir,” Sostratos and Menedemos said together. Menedemos sounded enormously relieved; Sostratos supposed he did, too. Now they knew this had nothing to do with emeralds smuggled out of Egypt. “Where on earth did you find one?” Ptolemaios asked. “In the market square in Kaunos, sir,” Sostratos answered. “We got there a little sooner than you did,” Menedemos added, risking a smile. “Yes, the place is mine now,” Ptolemaios agreed. “One of the fortresses above it surrendered to me; I had to storm the other one. But a tiger skin there? Really? Isn't that something?” He scratched his nose, then asked, “What did you have in mind doing with it?” “Dionysos is supposed to have come from India, sir,” Menedemos said. “We thought we might sell it to a shrine of his, for the cult statue to wear.”