The innkeeper was munching on a barley roll when the two Rhodians walked into the main room. “No, I don’t sell breakfast,” he said when Sostratos asked. “You can buy some wine from me, though.”
Menedemos tossed his head. “Why do that now and then something to eat later on?” he said. “Come on, Sostratos-we’ll get ‘em both in the same place.” His cousin didn’t disagree. The innkeeper’s glare burned into their backs as they walked out onto the street.
Pixodaros’ house was only a few blocks away, across the street from a brothel full of pretty boys. The slave who opened the door at the silk dealer’s exclaimed in surprise: “The Rhodians!” He bowed very low, then went on in accented Greek, “You not come back last year, master think something bad happen.”
“No, we’re fine,” Menedemos answered. “We sailed east last year instead of west, that’s all. Not much point coming to Kos when you’re bound for Sidon, is there?”
The slave shook his head. “No, sir, none at all. You come in. You both come in. My master, he be glad to see you.” He stood aside to let them through the doorway, then hurried past them into the house, calling, “Master, master! The Rhodians is here!”
“Are they?” Menedemos heard Pixodaros say. He had an accent, too: just enough to make someone notice he hadn’t been born a Hellene. “Well, that’s very good news indeed. Fetch them some wine and something to go with it, Ibanollis.”
“Ibanollis,” Sostratos murmured, fixing the name in his memory. “Ibanollis. Ibanollis.” Menedemos knew his cousin had it now. He relied on Sostratos’ memory more than he cared to admit, even to himself.
Out came Pixodaros: a plump, prosperous-looking Karian with a luxuriant black beard just beginning to show streaks of gray. “Hail, Rhodians,” he said, bowing to Menedemos and Sostratos before stepping forward to clasp their hands. “Very good to see you again. I feared for your safety: going out on the wine-dark sea is a risky business.”
Menedemos smiled. Pixodaros surely used the Homeric epithet to show that, even though he came from barbarian stock, he’d been grafted on to the tree of Hellenic culture. “We’re well, as I told your slave,” he replied; he wouldn’t try to pronounce Ibanollis’ name. “We sailed east last year, that’s all. You seem to be doing splendidly for yourself.”
“I’m lucky,” Pixodaros said with un-Hellenic modesty. But it was true. He went on, “If my master had had children who lived…” He shrugged broad shoulders. Old Xenophanes had died childless and left his business to the slave-a freedman now-who’d been his right-hand man. Had the Hellene had a son-or even a daughter with a husband- Pixodaros would have stayed a slave himself instead of owning slaves. “Come.” He waved the Rhodians toward the andron. “Drink wine with me. Eat olives and cheese and bread. So you went east, did you?”
“Yes, to Sidon, and I went down into Ioudaia from there,” Sostratos said.
“Well, well. You Hellenes have always had itchy feet, haven’t you?” Pixodaros said. “Me, I’m here, and I like being here just fine.” Ibanollis came in with a wooden tray with wine and snacks on it. He poured wine for his master and for the Rhodians. Pixodaros spat an olive pit onto the ground, then asked, “Tell me, O most noble ones, did you see any… unusual silk while you were in Phoenicia?”
Menedemos and Sostratos looked at each other. “You know of the silk that comes out of the east, then?” Menedemos said.
“I have heard of it. I have not seen it,” the Karian answered. “I have heard it is finer than any we make on Kos. Is this true?”
“It is, I’m afraid,” Menedemos said. “It’s so fine and thin and smooth, it might almost be another fabric. Do you know Zakerbaal son of Tenes, the Sidonian cloth merchant?”
“I have heard his name, but I have never done business with him,” Pixodaros replied. “He is the man who had this eastern silk?”
“That’s right.” Menedemos dipped his head. “I bought twelve bolts from him, paying more than two and a half times their weight in Koan silk. And I sold all twelve bolts to Ptolemaios’ brother, Menelaos, at Cypriot Salamis, for a hundred and eight minai of silver.” Had Pixodaros been ignorant of Zakerbaal, he would have been tempted to say he’d given the Phoenician merchant even more. But the truth might get back here, and that truth was impressive enough by itself.
It certainly impressed Pixodaros. “By Zeus Labraundeus!” he muttered- Zeus of the double-headed axe, with his cult center at Labraunda, was a leading Karian god. The silk merchant gathered himself. “I find that hard to believe.”
“My cousin speaks the truth,” Sostratos said. “Give us any oath you please, and we will swear it. You know us well enough to know we don’t swear lightly, either.”
By Pixodaros’ expression, he did know that, and didn’t like it. His next question was one that had also occurred to Menedemos: “How much of this new eastern silk will come to the lands around the Inner Sea?”
“I don’t think anyone can say yet,” Menedemos answered. “Till I got to Sidon, I hadn’t even heard of it. I suppose that, since you sell silk yourself, word would have come to you sooner than to most people.”
“Yes, I would think so.” The Karian emptied his cup, then filled it again. A sigh made his wide shoulders sag. “All I can do is keep selling what I make. No matter how fine this other stuff may be, I know mine is good, too. Anyone who wants it will still have to pay the proper price.” He looked a challenge at the two Rhodians.
“Well, best one, when we were here two years ago, we worked out a bargain for silk and dye and perfume,” Menedemos said. “That suited us well enough. How did your side of it work out?”
“Not bad,” Pixodaros said. “Will you expect the same rates again?”
“Certainly,” Sostratos said.
“Why shouldn’t we?” Menedemos added.
“Because, if you went to Phoenicia, you got the crimson dye yourselves,” Pixodaros answered. “You paid less for it than you would have if you’d bought it in Rhodes.”
“But we had the cost of bringing it back ourselves,” Menedemos countered. “That isn’t cheap, not with the Aphrodite.”
“And we got attacked by pirates off the Lykian coast,” Sostratos said. “The dye almost didn’t get here. We almost didn’t get here.”
“Oimoi!” Pixodaros exclaimed. “Tell me your story.”
Menedemos and Sostratos told it together. As usual, Menedemos did most of the talking. He couldn’t be quite so dramatic as he would have liked, for he knew his cousin would add a dry correction or two if he strayed too far from the facts. Even without embellishment, the story was a good one.
When the Rhodians finished, Pixodaros clapped his hands and said, “Euge! I am glad to see both of you here and safe.”
“Believe me, we’re glad to be here and safe,” Sostratos said. “But now you see why we charge what we charge for the crimson dye.”
Although Menedemos dipped his head in agreement, he sent Sostratos an annoyed look. This wasn’t the time to start banging away at business again. Sostratos should have smiled and told another story, or a joke, or something of the sort. Menedemos reached for the oinokhoe and poured his winecup and his cousin’s full again. Dickers had a rhythm to them, no less than tunes on the kithara. Make one go too fast and it would come out wrong, just as a tune would. Sostratos didn’t always have a feel for that.
To make sure this bargain went as it should, Menedemos asked, “Has any news from Athens reached Kos this sailing season?”
Pixodaros hesitated for a fraction of a heartbeat before tossing his head. Menedemos had seen that response before from barbarians who wanted to seem as Hellenic as they could. Their first impulse was to shake the head, as most foreign folk did, and they needed that tiny moment to catch themselves and remember Hellenes did things differently. The Karian answered, “No, not yet. Ships are only beginning to put to sea this spring, and none from Athens has come here yet.”