“That's right, best one,” Menedemos answered. “What can we do for you?”
“Papyrus,” the fellow answered. That surprised Menedemos. The man went on, “Aristarkhos said you had papyrus.”
That surprised Menedemos even more. This fellow looked about as much like a soldier as a black Ethiopian looked like a fair-haired Kelt. “That's right,” Menedemos repeated cautiously. “Who are you?”
“I'm Diodoros son of Diophantos,” the nearsighted man said, leaning closer to Menedemos for a better look at him. Then he explained himself: “I'm Antigonos' paymaster hereabouts.”
“Ah.” Menedemos dipped his head. That made Diodoros a customer, all right. “Yes, best one, we do have papyrus. Quite a bit of it, as a matter of fact.”
“Gods be praised!” Diodoros exclaimed. “My dear fellow, do you have any idea how difficult it is to keep proper records when your commander is at war with Egypt? I've been writing on leather; on boards; even on potsherds, the way they did in the old days when they decided whom to ostracize.” He spoke Attic Greek; Athens was the home of ostracism.
“We can probably help you,” Menedemos said. Diodoros might be the paymaster, but he was too excited to make much of a bargainer. Menedemos asked Sostratos, “How much papyrus have we got left? I know you sold some in Kaunos.”
“Oh, dear!” Diodoros sounded horrified at the thought of any of the stuff slipping through his fingers.
“We still have seventy-one rolls left,” Sostratos answered; Menederaos had been sure he'd have the number at his fingertips. His cousin added, “We have some excellent ink, too.” He pointed to one of the little round pots that held it.
Diodoros dipped his head. “Ink is all very well, but I can make my own at a pinch. I wish I could make my own papyrus. How much do you want per roll?”
How hard can I bit him? Menedemos wondered. It was a nice calculation. True, Diodoros was a paymaster, and knew how much things cost. But he'd also made it plain he badly needed what Menedemos had for sale. Still, if Menedemos asked too high a price, Antigonos' officer was liable to set soldiers on him and simply take what he wanted. Yes, a nice calculation indeed.
Menedemos made it between one breath and the next. “Six drakhmai,” he replied. “You said it yourself, sir: there's a war on. Once I sell what we've got, who knows when I'll see more?”
“You're a Rhodian, Dealing with Egypt, that gives you an advantage,” Diodoros said. He could remember business, at least to some degree. Sostratos chose that moment to take a roll of papyrus out of a sack and examine the smooth, creamy writing surface. Without saying a word, he smiled and put it back, Diodoros' eyes followed it as if it were a beautiful hetaira closing a door behind her. He sighed. “Necessity is the master of us all. I'll give you four drakhmai a roll for fifty rolls.”
Even that was above the going rate. The dicker that followed didn't last long. They settled on five drakhmai, two oboloi per roll. After some thought, Diodoros decided to buy sixty rolls, not fifty, Menedemos felt like jumping for joy. As the paymaster went off to get the silver and a sailor hurried back to the ship for the requisite rolls of papyrus, he turned to Sostratos and said, “We made a profit here! Who would have believed it?”
“They were wild for papyrus in Syracuse last year, too, after the Carthaginian siege cut them off from it,” Sostratos answered. “If you're going to keep records, you really can't do without it. More people are reading and writing these days, too. It's a good thing for us to carry.”
“I can't tell you you're wrong,” Menedemos said. “And Diodoros was right—we do have the inside track on bringing it out of Egypt. A round ship hauling grain could carry plenty for us to resell without even noticing the burden.”
His cousin dipped his head. “True enough. And now, shall we see what those barbarians want for their balsam?”
“Certainly,” Menedemos said. He and Sostratos walked over to the Phoenicians, one of whom was tall—almost as tall as Sostratos— and thin, the other short and even thinner. Menedemos bowed. “Hail.” He named himself and his cousin.
“Hail,” the shorter Phoenician replied. As he bowed, he touched his forehead, lips, and heart in turn. “I am Abibaalos son of Gisgon. Here with me, you see my brother, Abimilkios.” He spoke good if guttural Greek, and even gave the foreign names endings a Hellene might have used. “How may we serve you, my masters?”
No free Hellene would have called another man master. As far as Menedemos was concerned, the Phoenicians carried flowery politeness too far. He said, “You have balsam, do you?”
“Ah, balsam! Indeed we do.” Abibaalos bowed again. “We have the finest fragrant balsam from the garden of Engedi, clear and yellow as fine honey from Hymettos”—he really did know Hellenes well, to come up with that comparison—”burning with a sweet smoke, and also useful in medicines of all kinds, for epilepsy, for pain, as an antidote against deadly poisons, to warm the stomach and the liver, to heal inflamed eyes, to keep wounds from going bad, and to cure pleurisy and make a man's prong rise. It is effective, if the gods will.”
That was a longer catalogue of virtues than Menedemos had bargained for, almost longer than the Catalogue of Ships in the Iliad. He said, “We might be interested in some, if the price is right.”
Abimilkios spoke for the first time, in a hollow, rumbling bass: “The price is two of silver for one of balsam, by weight.” His Greek was less fluent than his brother's, but he sounded more determined. And that was indeed the going rate for balsam.
“We are traders, too,” Menedemos said.
Abibaalos and Abimilkios both smiled. Menedemos had seen that smile on Phoenicians before; it said Hellenes couldn't be traders, or at least not good ones. He leaned forward, responding to the silent challenge. He'd won some dickers from the men of the east. If he'd lost some, too, he chose not to dwell on those. Abibaalos said, “We heard you calling out your wares. You have perfume and dye and papyrus and ink, Is it not so?”
“Only a little papyrus now,” Sostratos answered. “We just sold most of it to an officer here.”
“You would have got a good price for it, too, with Ptolemaios and Antigonos at war,” Abibaalos remarked. He was no fool. He went on, “Crimson dye I can lay my hands on straight from the source. Perfume, now . . . These are the roses of Rhodes?”
Menedemos dipped his head. “Just so, best one. Even more fragrant than balsam.”
“But less rare,” Abimilkios put in,
“More people want perfume than balsam,” Sostratos said.
“More people can afford it,” Abibaalos replied. “In what size jars is the perfume?”
“Each one holds two kyathoi,” Menedemos answered. The jars weren't very big.
“The standard size,” Abibaalos said, nodding as barbarians often did. “One of those jars for each drakhma's weight of balsam, then.”
“Outrageous!” Menedemos cried, though he wasn't particularly outraged. “We ought to get three drakhmai by weight, at least.” After half an hour of insults and howls, he and his adversary settled on two drakhmai and one obolos' weight of balsam per jar of perfume.
“For a Hellene, you are not a bad bargainer,” Abibaalos remarked as they clasped hands.
“From a Phoenician, that is high praise,” Menedemos said. He and Abibaalos both smiled the same sort of smile, which meant they both thought they'd won the dicker.
4
Sostratos enjoyed watching Kos rise up out of the sea as the Aphrodite drew near; it was one of the most beautiful islands of all. It was famous for fruit of all kinds, and especially for its wines. A good many mulberry orchards, now springtime-bright with new leaves, grew within easy walking distance of the city of Kos. A little farther inland, on higher ground, stood the marble majesty of the Asklepeion.