Presently, Pixodaros said, “And what is the news from the wider world?”
Menedemos laughed. “Living here on Kos, you'll know more of it than we will, for Ptolemaios has been making most of it.”
“So he has.” Pixodaros didn't look delighted. A moment later, he explained why: “Even more drunken sailors than usual making a racket in the street at all hours of the day and night.” He shrugged. “What can a peaceable man do?” Pointing to Menedemos, he went on, “You were heading far into the west last year. How did your journey fare? What is the news from those places?”
It was still early in the sailing season. No ship from Great Hellas was likely to have come into these waters yet. Menedemos told of the Romans' war against the Samnites, and the larger and more important war Syracuse was waging against Carthage. He spoke of the Aphrodite's journey into besieged Syracuse with the grain fleet, and of Agathokles' escape from Syracuse and invasion of Africa.
“And there was the eclipse of the sun after we got into Syracuse,” Sostratos added.
Pixodaros' eyes widened. “I have heard of them, but I have never seen one. They really do happen, then?”
“They really do,” Sostratos said solemnly, “and they're even more awesome to see than you would think from the tales about them.” Menedemos thought about that, then dipped his head in agreement.
“Well, well,” Pixodaros said, and then again: “Well, well.” He chuckled. “And I think I go traveling when I leave the city to check the fields and orchards that are mine now. You make me feel like a child in his cradle.”
With a shrug, Menedemos said, “Some people do one thing, some another. I'm glad Xenophanes left his business in such good hands.”
“Thank you.” Xenophanes' freedman looked from Menedemos to Sostratos and back again, “The two of you didn't come to Kos just to chat.”
“No,” Sostratos said. “We do have a certain interest in your silk. We did well with it last year. We'd like to do well with it again.”
“What are you carrying?” Pixodaros asked.
“We have more of the crimson dye of Byblos that Xenophanes always liked to use,” Menedemos answered.
As Pixodaros dipped his head—he did it self-consciously, as if reminding himself to behave like a Hellene—Sostratos added, “And we also have fine Rhodian perfume. I remember you were interested in it last year, even though Xenophanes wasn't.”
Menedemos hadn't remembered that. He'd kept Xenophanes' views in mind then, but not those of the man who'd been a slave then, Pixodaros dipped his head again. “Yes, I was. I still am—or I could be, if the price is right. We agree, more or less, on what silk is worth in terms of dye. But in terms of perfume?” He leaned forward on his stool, eager anticipation in his eyes. “We have a new dicker, my friends.”
He called to his slave, who brought in more wine, and olives and onions to go with it. A new dicker indeed, Menedemos thought. And this must be his first big one as a freedman. He wants to start things off the right way. He filled his cup from the mixing bowl and bit into an onion. “When you buy our perfume, you know just what you're getting,” he said. “Silk, now . . . I'd like to see what you want to sell us.”
“It shall be as you say.” Pixodaros clapped his hands. Looking a little harassed, the slave came back into the room. Pixodaros told him what he needed. The slave nodded and hurried away. He came back with a bolt of the rare fabric. Pixodaros held it up for his guests. “Top quality, O best ones, as you see. Xenophanes showed me everything he knew.”
It did look very good. It was filmier than the gauziest linen; Menedemos could see Pixodaros through it. Yet it also shone and sparkled, as linen never did. Brothel keepers paid high prices to deck their girls in the stuff. Hetairai bought it for themselves. And men eager for display or simply to have something few others in their polis did also set down their silver for silk—commonly in thicker grades.
“What do you weave it from?” Sostratos murmured.
He couldn't have expected an answer. It was only his curiosity talking. For a moment, though, Pixodaros' face went hard and hostile behind the transparent cloth. “That is the secret of Kos,” he said. “The most I will ever say is that I was so surprised when I learned it, you could guess from the fall of Troy till now and you would never once come close.”
“As may be,” Sostratos said. “I don't need to know in order to want it.” He turned to Menedemos. “Shall we get a hundred bolts, as we did last year?”
“That suits me well enough,” Menedemos said. “We won't be going into the west this trip, but there's always a strong market for silk in Athens.” He raised an eyebrow at Pixodaros. “You do have it?”
“Certainly.” The Karian started to nod, then caught himself and dipped his head.
“All right, then,” Sostratos said. “Shall we trade dye for half and perfume for the other half? Dye at the same rate we gave Xenophanes last year?”
“I thought the old man could have done a little better,” Pixodaros replied, “but let it be as you say. Now, though, the perfume . . .”
“Top grade, just like your silk,” Menedemos said. “An akatos can't afford to carry anything but the best. We make our money from quality. A round-ship captain with a load of olive oil in his hold can take along a little junk to peddle on the side, because it's not where most of his profit will come from. We don't dare sell junk. We always want the good and the beautiful.” Sostratos stirred at that—the words came right to the edge of philosophy—but didn't speak.
“And how much do you want for one of your jars of perfume, as compared to the price for one of your jars of dye?” Pixodaros asked.
Menedemos smiled. “That's where the dickering comes in, wouldn't you say?” Pixodaros smiled, too. Oil and wheat might have something close to a fixed price, except in times of dearth, but luxuries? Luxuries brought what the seller could get, what the buyer could afford.
They drank. They ate. They haggled. Pixodaros flicked stones in the grooves of a counting-board. He didn't offer it to the Rhodians. Every so often, Sostratos would look up toward the ceiling, lips moving not quite silently, eyes far away. He was better than anyone else Menedemos had ever seen at working with numbers in his head. He was slower than Pixodaros with the advantage of the board, but he got right answers.
At last, as evening neared, Pixodaros held out his hand to Menedemos and Sostratos. “A bargain,” he said, and Menedemos dipped his head. So did his cousin. Smiling, Pixodaros added, “Xenophanes used to complain about how hard a dicker the two of you gave him, I see he was right.”
“It works both ways.” Menedemos returned flattery for flattery.
Pixodaros beamed. “What would please you?” he asked. “Would you stay to supper here, or should I give you a guide to the Rhodian proxenos' house?”
“Perhaps we'd better see the proxenos,” Sostratos answered. “He'll wonder if he's done something to offend unless we call on him. But would you be kind enough to send someone to the Aphrodite to let our men know where we'll be?” Menedemos might have been tempted to stay and see how the freedman's kitchen did, but Sostratos was formally correct, and he knew it.
So did Pixodaros, who dipped his head, playing the Hellene again. “As you wish, of course.” He called for a couple of slaves. A year before, they would have been his fellows; now he owned them. Menedemos wondered what they thought of that. Did one of them hope to inherit the business, as Pixodaros had?
Whatever they thought, they obeyed. One headed down to the harbor. The other took Menedemos and Sostratos to the house of Kleiteles son of Ekdikos, the wineseller who looked out for Rhodian interests on Kos. Menedemos gave the slave an obolos and sent him back to his master. Kleiteles was a plump, happy man of about forty, who looked to enjoy having guests. “Pleased to see you, my friends,” he said. “I heard you were in port, and told the cook to make sure we had plenty.”