Menedemos chuckled. “I might have known you’d want to split things like that. Don’t spend so much time asking Onetor questions about truffles that you forget to buy any.”
Phainias was already eating breakfast in the men’s chamber when Sostratos and Menedemos walked in. “Hail, best ones,” the proxenos said. “Good day to you both.” He used the dual number in talking about the two Rhodians. It seemed natural in his speech, but would have been hopelessly old-fashioned on Rhodes. “I hope you passed pleasant nights.”
“I bent Kleis like a lioness on a cheese grater,” Menedemos said.
Phainias laughed. Sostratos wondered where his cousin had come up with that figure of speech, then realized it probably came from Aristophanes. He said, “I enjoyed myself with Gongyla, too. Do you name all your slave women after people from Sappho ’s poems?”
“You’re clever for spotting that,” Phainias said. “Not everyone does.”
“I didn’t,” Menedemos said. “But you’re right, most noble one-he is a clever fellow.”
The Rhodian proxenos went on, “As a matter of fact, I do. Makes it easier for me to remember what to call them. I don’t think I’m the only one on Mytilene who does the same thing, either.”
“It’s efficient,” Sostratos said, borrowing Menedemos’ word. “Makes perfectly good sense to me.” A male slave came in with porridge for him and Menedemos. Salt fish and bits of chopped olive livened up what would otherwise have been a bland bowl of barley mush. Sostratos dug in with a horn spoon. Between bites, he asked, “You said Onetor’s house was around the block from you?”
“That’s right,” Phainias answered. “Go one street north, then turn left, Onetor lives in the third house on the left-hand side of the street.”
“One street north, left, third house on the left.” Sostratos dipped his head. “Thanks. I’ll remember that.”
“He will, too,” Menedemos said. “And if we come back here next year, he’ll still remember it then.” He sounded half proud, half wary about Sostratos’ memory.
“I’m not a trained monkey,” Sostratos said. “You don’t need to show me off.”
“Nothing wrong with keeping track of things in your head,” Phainias said. “I only wish I were better at it.”
Once Sostratos had finished breakfast, he said, “I’m going to head over to Onetor’s. We’re up and the sun’s up, so he ought to be up, too.”
When he went north from Phainias’ house, the breeze blew straight down the street and straight into his face. He was glad he had to walk only one block before turning. Then the houses on the north side of the east-west street shielded him from the worst of the wind. He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to look as neat as he could.
At the third house on the left, he knocked on the door. “Who’s there?” someone called from within.
“Is this the house of Onetor son of Diothemis?”
“That’s right. Who are you?”
“I’m Sostratos son of Lysistratos, one of the Rhodians Onetor dined with last night. I’d like to talk business with him.”
“Wait a minute.” The door soon opened. A redheaded Thracian slave-a man-stood aside to let Sostratos in. “My master is finishing breakfast in the andron. He asks if you’ve eaten.”
“Yes, thanks,” Sostratos replied. The Thracian led him through the entry hall and into the courtyard. Onetor put down a winecup to wave to him. He waved back, saying, “Hail, most noble one.”
“Hail.” Onetor raised the cup to his lips once more. “I’ve got a headache from last night,” he said. “A little more wine will take the edge off it. Are you hungry? We have plenty.”
“I ate with Phainias,” Sostratos said. “I hope I’m not too early for you.”
“Oh, no. Don’t be silly, best one.” Onetor tossed his head. “The sun’s in the sky, so anybody who’s not ready for business has only himself to blame. I’m no pampered Persian slugabed, to crawl out from under my blanket at noon. My wife was working in the garden sill you knocked. I’m sure she’s finding something to do upstairs now.”
“Good. That’s all right, then… Oh, thank you.” A slave came into the andron with a cup of watered wine for Sostratos. He took a sip, then went on, “Tell me about truffles, if you’d be so kind.”
“What do you want to know? Grades, prices, that sort of thing?”
“Not yet. I was hoping you’d just tell me about them. They don’t grow on Rhodes, and I’d like to know as much as I can, both so I can tell my customers more and because I’m a curious sort myself.”
“Yes, I nosiced that at Phainias’ last night,” Onetor said. “You’ve got that Attic way of talking. Did you study at the Academy? “
“No, at the Lykeion, under Theophrastos,” Sostratos answered. “That’s another reason I’m interested: Theophrastos makes a specialty of plants, so I always like it when I get the chance to add to what he taught me.”
“Well, all right,” Onetor answered. Sostratos would have been surprised if he’d refused; few people could resist talking about what they did for a living. The truffle-seller continued, “You may or may not have heard they grow underground.”
“Yes, I did know that,” Sostratos said. “I’ve also heard they grow best after rainy seasons where there’s plenty of thunder.”
“I’ve heard that, too, but I don’t believe it,” Onetor replied. “I’ve never seen it make one bit of difference. If there isn’t much rain in a rainy season, that’s another story. They don’t do so well then, but what crop does?”
“Fair enough,” Sostratos said. “That certainly stands to reason. What sort of soil do they prefer?”
“Sandy, usually-you often find them close by the seashore.”
“How do you find them?” Sostratos asked. “You can’t just dig at random on a beach.”
Onetor hesitated, then seemed to decide it was safe to answer. “If there were truffles on Rhodes, I don’t think I’d tell you,” he said. “You might turn into a compesitor. But I’ve never heard of them there, either, so I suppose I can say something about that, anyhow. For one thing, there’s a certain kind of grass-we call it truffleleaf-that grows above them. That gives me a clue where to look.”
“What does this grass look like?” Sostratos asked. Onetor smiled and didn’t say a thing. “All right, all right-forget I wanted to know,” Sostratos told him. “You said that was one thing. What’s another?”
“When I’m out hunsing truffles, I have help,” Onetor said.
“What kind of help?”
Again, Onetor didn’t answer. Sostratos realized he’d learned about as much as he was going to. A dog wandered into the andron: a flop-eared mutt with its tongue lolling out. Onetor scratched it under the chin and behind those floppy ears. Its tail wagged frantically.
“Friendly beast,” Sostratos remarked.
“Porpax? Yes, I’d say so.” Onetor scratched the dog again. It tried to jump up into his lap. “Careful, you silly thing,” he said, fending it off. “You’ll make me spill wine on myself.”
“You named him after the handle of a shield?” Sostratos said. It was a fairly common name for a dog. “Does he shield your house from burglars?”
“He makes a good enough watchdog, yes,” Onetor said. As if to prove it, Porpax barked, though he didn’t seem to want to go after Sostratos. The Rhodian, in fact, wondered if he was too friendly to make a proper watchdog, if he wouldn’t fawn on the thieves when he was supposed to bite. Onetor said, “He has other uses, too.”
“Such as?”
Sostratos didn’t mean anything by the question; he was just making conversation. But, once more, Onetor declined to answer. The smug way he didn’t answer made Sostratos wonder if Porpax was somehow connected to the truffle trade. That struck him as unlikely, though- why would a dog want anything to do with fungi? Porpax ran off, yapping.
The slave came back, this time with a bowl of barley porridge and a spoon. Sostratos tossed his head. “No, thanks,” he said. “As I told your master, I had breakfast before I came here.”