Alypetos. “If you'd be so kind as to guide us back to Kleiteles'?” They'd taken a couple of steps out of the andron before Ptolemaios called after them: “Wait.” He was smiling when they came back, “You like to play on the edge of the roof, too, don't you?” Sostratos didn't. Menedemos, he knew, did. But his cousin said, “Sostratos is right. We'll do better than that in Athens, say.” He sounded very sure of himself. Ptolemaios' smile disappeared. “All right, then. You say you want eight minai, and you don't think four and a half are enough. Somewhere in between there is a number that will make you happy. Let's find out what it is.” He proceeded to do just that. Looking back on it later, Sostratos realized it was funny. Here he sat, facing what had to be the richest man in the world—and Ptolemaios haggled like a poor housewife trying to knock a couple of khalkoi off the price of a sack of barley. He gestured extravagantly. He shouted and stamped his feet. His eyebrows twitched. He cursed in Greek and then, when he was really angry—or trying to pretend he was really angry—in Macedonian. He came up in the dicker as if every extra drakhma were pulled out of his belly. Sostratos did his best to bargain the same way. Menedemos backed him magnificently. Of course, as Ptolemaios had seen, Menedemos really did like taking chances, and didn't seem to worry that infuriating the ruler of Egypt might prove more dangerous than outraging a husband with a young, pretty wife. The dicker stretched through the whole morning. At last, Sostratos said, “Well, best one, shall we split the difference?” Ptolemaios counted on his fingers. He was good with numbers— almost as good as I am, Sostratos thought, without false modesty. “That would make what?—six minai, thirty-five drakhmai, right?” “Yes, sir.” Sostratos dipped his head. “I'll tell you what else it would make,” Ptolemaios grumbled, “It'd make you boys two of the biggest bandits left uncrucified.” He raised a hairy caterpillar of an eyebrow. “I could take care of that, you know.” “So you could,” Sostratos said evenly. “If you want to make Rhodes lean toward Antigonos, I can't think of a better way to go about it.” Ptolemaios grunted. “Just joking.” Maybe he had been, maybe he hadn't. He went on, “This would have been easier if only you were fools. All right: six minai, thirty-five drakhmai. A bargain!” “A bargain!” Sostratos agreed. He stuck out his hand. So did Menedemos. Ptolemaios clasped each of theirs in turn. His grip was hard and firm, the grip of a man who'd spent a lot of time with weapons in his hand. Sostratos said, “I'm sure I can get back to the harbor by myself. If you'd be so kind as to give me a man to guide me back here with the tiger skin ...” “Right.” Ptolemaios pointed a blunt, short-nailed finger at the man who'd gone to Kleiteles' house for Sostratos and Menedemos. “Alypetos, see to that yourself.” “As you say, sir,” Alypetos replied. He got to his feet. “Ready when you are, best one,” he told Sostratos.
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