“Just as you say, sir,” Sostratos agreed. The sack he checked held a hundred drakhmai. By the scale, so did the others—except for the odd one, which he also counted. “Thank you for your patience, sir. Everything is fine.” “Glad you approve.” Ptolemaios' voice was dry. But he added, “If my men were as zealous in my service as you are in your own . . .” 7 haven't got so many men in my service, Sostratos thought. I have to do more for myself. Who will, if I don't? But he wouldn't say that, not even to so good-natured a ruler as Ptolemaios had proved to be. On the way back to the Aphrodite , Menedemos said, “I almost hit you when you wanted to start counting coins.” “I do like having things straight, and now I know they are,” Sostratos answered. “What did Ptolemaios talk about while I was getting the tiger skin?” “Oh, this and that,” Menedemos answered, whereupon Sostratos wanted to hit him. He did his best to amplify: “Some about hunting in India, and the funny smells in the air there.” “Ah,” Sostratos said. “That's interesting, but it doesn't seem too historical.” “Why should it?” his cousin asked. In a way, Menedemos' question made perfect sense. Ptolemaios could talk about anything that crossed his mind, and he'd been thinking about tigers and distant India. In another way . . . “Because men will probably remember Ptolemaios a hundred years from now, the way we remember Lysandros the Spartan nowadays.” “Who?” Menedemos said. At first, Sostratos thought he was joking, and laughed. Then he realized his cousin meant it. He was very quiet all the way back to the merchant galley. That evening, Menedemos was all smiles for Kleiteles. “No, no, my dear fellow,” he told the Rhodian proxenos at supper (it was barley bread, cheese, and fried sprats—good enough sitos, but not much of an opson). “He heard we had a tiger skin, and wanted to buy it from us. He did, too, and gave us a nice price.” “I'm glad to hear it,” Kleiteles replied. “His garrison could have done worse than it has; I don't deny that. But people have disappeared. When you two got summoned that way, I feared the worst, and I won't tell you any different. He might almost have caught you in bed with his mistress. . . Are you all right, best one?” “Just swallowed wrong,” answered Sostratos, who'd choked on a sprat and suffered a coughing fit. Menedemos sent his cousin a venomous look. Sostratos gave back an innocent smile—much too innocent for Menedemos' peace of mind. “And your dealings with Pixodaros went well?” Kleiteles asked. “Oh, yes.” Menedemos dipped his head. “Pity old Xenophanes finally got ferried across the Styx, but the business seems in good hands.” “Pixodaros is a sharp fellow,” Sostratos agreed.
Вы читаете The Gryphon's Skull
