“Ah. Not a bad notion.” Ptolemaios dipped his head. When he looked up again, his eyes were far away. “I hunted tigers a time or two in India. Formidable beasts—they make most lions seem like the little cats Egypt is full of beside 'em. Never thought to see a tiger hide this far west, though, and that's the truth.” “We were surprised, too,” Sostratos said. “We might have been more surprised than you, in fact—we've never been to India, after all.” “That's true.” Ptolemaios chuckled again. “The two of you wouldn't even have had hair on your balls yet when Alexander led us there.” Sostratos had a sense of great deeds undone, a sense that the men of his own generation would always lag behind those of Ptolemaios' in glory. Before he could say anything—before he could even fully formulate the idea in his mind—the ruler of Egypt went on, “Would you boys sell that tiger skin to me instead of to a temple?” Sostratos leaned forward in his chair. So this isn't Just a social call, he thought. Menedemos sounded alert, too, as he answered, “We might, sir, as long as the price is right.” “Oh, yes. I understand that.” Ptolemaios still looked more like a peasant than a general, but he looked like a very shrewd peasant indeed. “Well, what sort of price did you have in mind?” “You said it yourself; it's a one-of-a-kind item,” Menedemos said. “Which means you're going to gouge me.” Those shaggy eyebrows of Ptolemaios' came down and together in a frown. “The thing you need to remember is, this is something I'd like to have, not something I've got to have. You stick me too hard, I'll say, 'Nice meeting you,' and send you on your way. Now, let's try it again—what do you want for the skin?” Sostratos did some rapid mental calculating. Menedemos had got the tiger hide along with the two lion skins and the gryphon's skull. Had he bought it by itself, it would have cost about. . . and that meant. . . “Eight minai, sir.” Ptolemaios tossed his head. “Nice meeting you,” he said. “Have some more bread, have some more wine, and my man will take you back to your proxenos' house.” He dipped another piece of bread in olive oil, then slowly and deliberately ate it. Only after he'd swallowed did he grudgingly add, “I might give you half that.” “Very nice meeting you, sir,” Menedemos said. “We have to make a profit ourselves, you know.” One of the guards growled something in Macedonian that didn't sound pleasant. His hand slid toward the hilt of his sword. “Relax, Lysanias,” Ptolemaios said in his clear Greek. “It's only a haggle, not a fight.” “Another question: whose minai are we talking about?” Sostratos asked. Now Ptolemaios jabbed a thumb at his own chest. “Why, mine, of course.” “Fair enough.” Sostratos dipped his head. “It does help to be clear in advance,” It took five of Ptolemaios' drakhmai—or, multiplying a hundredfold, five of his minai—to make four of their Attic equivalent, the most commonly used weights among Hellenes. But, since the Rhodian drakhma was slightly lighter even than Ptolemaios', Sostratos couldn't complain. And the ruler of Egypt didn't seem displeased at the question. “You're one of those fellows who likes to have everything just so, alpha-beta-gamma, aren't you? That's not a bad thing, especially in a young man. I suppose I could give you four minai, fifty drakhmai.” “I'm certain we'd do better somewhere else,” Sostratos got to his feet. So did Menedemos. Sostratos turned to
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