As Sostratos obeyed, he said, “How likely am I to have an emerald glued to the bottom of my foot, especially when I had no idea coming here that I would be searched?”
“I don't know how likely you are to have one there, friend,” the bodyguard answered. “That's why I'm looking: to find out.”
Finally, for good measure, he used a very fine-toothed comb, one suitable for getting rid of lice and nits, on Sostratos' hair and beard. Since his hair was wavy and his beard curly, and since he hadn't combed them out too well himself, that hurt as much as anything else he'd been through.
“Are you satisfied now?” he asked when the guard tossed the comb aside.
“Pretty much so,” the man replied. “Either you haven't got any or you're a sneakier bastard than most.”
After that less than ringing endorsement, he and his comrades let Sostratos put his tunic on again. He'd just slid it down over his head when the other group of guards led Menedemos past the doorway and toward the andron. His cousin, he was not at all sorry to see, looked at least as put upon as he felt himself—but his hair was well combed now. The men who'd searched Sostratos took him back to the andron, too.
“Well?” Ptolemaios barked.
“No emeralds, sir,” chorused the men who'd searched Menedemos, and the ones who'd searched Sostratos dipped their heads. A guard asked Ptolemaios, “Shall we take their ship apart, too, the way this fellow told us we could?”
Ptolemaios thought that over, but not for long. Then he tossed his head. “No, no point to that. Too many places to hide such small things; you'd only find 'em by luck.” He glowered at the two Rhodians. “I'm not convinced you're telling me the truth, not by a long shot. But I can't prove you're not, so I'm going to let you go: you did serve me well before.”
“Thank you, sir,” Sostratos said before Menedemos could come out with anything that might land them in more trouble.
“I suppose you're welcome,” the ruler of Egypt replied. “I suppose.” He jerked a thumb toward the front door. “Meanwhile, why don't you go somewhere else and not give me any reason to call you here again?”
“Yes, sir,” Sostratos said. “Thank you again, sir.” He hurried out of the andron, Menedemos in his wake. Only after they were out in the street did he pause to let out a sigh of relief.
“Many goodbyes to that Dionysios,” Menedemos said.
“Yes, he tried to cover us in dung, didn't he?” Sostratos agreed. “I say we head for home first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Oh?” Menedemos asked. “Why's that?”
“Two reasons.” Sostratos looked around to make sure nobody was paying any special attention to them, then stuck his thumb in the air. “For one thing, Ptolemaios wouldn't find any precious stones hidden on the Aphrodite, but he would find the account books that talk about them. And, for another”—he stuck up his forefinger, too— “he might decide to hold us here till he sends to Keos or even to Aigina. Do you want to take the chance?”
“Now that you mention it, no,” his cousin said.
“Good. Neither do I.”
Menedemos said, “We bought the emeralds in Rhodes, not in any of the lands Ptolemaios rules. We didn't break any of his laws to get them. I don't see how he really could condemn us for that.”
“He's lord of Egypt, the richest man in the world, one of the four or five strongest men in the world,” Sostratos pointed out. “He doesn't need a reason. He can do as he pleases. That's what being one of the four or five strongest men in the world means. If he catches us lying ...” He shivered. “And we brought those stones through Kos before, and what do you want to bet he's made laws against that?”
His cousin pulled a sour face. “You're probably right. No, you're certainly right. Very well, best one—you've convinced me. We go out tomorrow morning.”
“Good,” Sostratos said.
Menedemos chuckled. “Besides, I'd want to spirit you away before Ptolemaios makes you shorter by a head for calling him a fool in front of his men. Did you see how far his eyes bugged out?”
“I'm a free Hellene, by the gods,” Sostratos said. “If he's not used to hearing people speak their minds, too bad for him.”
“He being who he is, though, it's liable to be bad for anyone who does speak his mind,” Menedemos said, and Sostratos could hardly argue.
He and Menedemos had almost reached the Aphrodite when someone called to them from behind. Alarm ran through Sostratos: had Ptolemaios decided to be difficult after all? But when he looked back over his shoulder, he recognized the fellow waving to them from up the street. “Hail, Pixodaros,” he said. “What can we do for you today? “
“Hail, both of you,” the silk dealer answered. “When I heard you'd come back to Kos, I thought it was a gift from the gods. Have you any more crimson dye?”
“Certainly,” Sostratos answered. “How much do you need?”
“How much do you have?” Pixodaros asked.
“Let me think.” Sostratos plucked at his beard. “I believe we have . . . fifty-three jars. That's based on what we sold. It might be fewer, though. We had to fight off pirates, and they might have stolen a few when they went back to their own ship.”
“By Zeus Labraundeus, I'm glad to see you well and safe,” Pixodaros said. “May they all go up on crosses!”
“May they indeed.” Normally, Sostratos was among the most mild-mannered of men. Now he sounded thoroughly grim. Whenever he thought of a pirate picking up the leather sack that held the gryphon's skull and leaping back into the hemiolia from the Aphrodite, his blood boiled.
“How do you keep such good track of what's sold and what isn't?” Menedemos asked him.
He shrugged. “I write up the accounts, and I remember them.” It didn't seem remarkable to him. He asked a question of his own: “How do you carry so much of the Iliad and Odyssey around in your head?”
“That's different. For one thing, the words don't change. For another, they're worth remembering.” Menedemos turned back to Pixodaros. “Please excuse us, best one. We do go back and forth at each other, I know.”
The Karian smiled. “Kinsmen will do that.”
“How much dye do you need?” Sostratos asked him.
“As much as you have. If you had more, I would buy it. I have a lot of silk to dye, and my, ah, client wants the cloth as soon as he can get it.”
“You can dye a lot of silk with fifty or so jars of crimson,” Sostratos said. Pixodaros nodded, then remembered himself and dipped his head. Sostratos plucked at his beard again. He lowered his voice to ask, “Does Antigonos want to give his officers silk tunics, or is this for the officers' women?”
Both Menedemos and Pixodaros started. “Not Antigonos—Demetrios, his son. But how can you know that?” the silk merchant demanded. “Are you a wizard?” The fingers of his left hand twisted in an apotropaic gesture Sostratos had seen other Karians use.
He tossed his head. “Not at all. Who but a Macedonian marshal could afford so much crimson-dyed silk? If it were Ptolemaios, you would have come out and said so. It might have been Lysimakhos or Kassandros, but they're on good terms with Ptolemaios now, and old One-Eye isn't. He's the one you have the best reason to be cagey about.”
“Ah. I see,” Pixodaros said. “True—it is all simple enough, once you explain it.”
Anything is simple, once someone else explains it, Sostratos thought sourly. But before he could say that out loud—and he might have— Menedemos contrived, almost by accident, to tread on his toe. After apologizing, his cousin asked Pixodaros, “And what will you give us for the dye?”