The merchant looked pained. “You have me where you want me, I know. I only ask you to remember this: if you hurt me badly now, we have years of dealing ahead where I can take my revenge.” He gave Sostratos half a bow. “I too have a long memory.”
“No doubt,” Sostratos said politely. “Well, what does fifteen drakhmai the jar sound like to you?”
“What does it sound like?” Pixodaros exclaimed. “Piracy. Robbery. Extortion. In your dreams, you sell it for half that much. Because you have me, because I need it, I will give you half that much.”
“You gave more than half that much in silk when we stopped here in the springtime,” Sostratos said.
“Silk is one thing. Silver is another,” Pixodaros replied. He haggled as fiercely as he could, but found himself at a disadvantage: the Rhodians knew how much he needed the dye. That meant they could bargain fiercely, while he couldn't. At the end, he threw his hands in the air. “All right, twelve drakhmai the jar it is. Bandits, both of you. How much silver is that altogether?”
“Let's see exactly how many jars we have.” Sostratos called orders to the sailors. They brought forty-nine jars of crimson dye up onto the quay. He muttered to himself. “That would be ... 588 drakhmai all told—not Ptolemaios' light drakhmai,” he added.
“I understand. I'll be back.” Pixodaros hurried off into Kos.
Menedemos snapped his fingers. “I promised to give a sheep at the Asklepeion here if the men healed well after the fight with the pirates. Now I won't be able to.”
Sostratos thought, then tossed his head. “No, you promised to give a sheep here if you could, or on Rhodes if you couldn't. As long as you offer the animal to the god, you're not forsworn.”
“Are you sure?” his cousin asked.
“Positive.”
“All right. Good. That's a relief,” Menedemos said. “We do want to leave as soon as we can. And then”—he sighed—”it's back to Rhodes.” Sostratos still had no idea what troubled him there. He wondered if he would ever learn.
12
Walking into the andron of the family house, Menedemos felt himself shrinking from a man to a youth, perhaps to a little boy. When he sailed the Aegean, he dealt with prominent merchants—some of them older and richer than his father—as equal to equal. They saw him as he was today. In Philodemos' eyes, he fell back into the past. He knew he always would, as long as his father lived.
“Not as good a run as you had last year,” Philodemos said.
“We made a solid profit, sir,” Menedemos said. “And we took fewer risks than we did last year.”
When he'd come home the previous fall, Philodemos had done nothing but complain about the chances he'd taken in Great Hellas. Now his father said, “Well, those risks paid off. Here, you might as well have stayed in Rhodes and done your trading at the harbor, the way Himilkon the Phoenician does.”
That wasn't fair. Even so, Menedemos didn't argue. In his father's eyes, he was almost certain to be wrong. Instead, he changed the subject: “I'll want to talk with Himilkon before we go out again next spring. Sostratos thought we might sail east to Phoenicia and get rid of one set of middlemen on goods from that part of the world.”
“Your cousin has good sense,” Philodemos said. That was true. Had he left it there, Menedemos wouldn't have minded. But he added, “Why don't you ever have good ideas like that?”
Menedemos could have claimed going east as his own notion; it had been as much his as Sostratos'. Had he done so, though, he knew his father would have found some reason not to like it. I can't win, he thought. But arguing with his father wouldn't get him anything, either. He gave up, saying, “It's good to see you well.”
“I could be better,” Philodemos said. “My joints pain me, as those of a man with my years will. Old age is a bitter business, no doubt about it.” After a sip of wine, though, he admitted, “It could be worse, too, I will say. My teeth are still mostly sound, and I thank the gods for that. I wouldn't want to have to live out my days on mush.”
“I don't blame you,” Menedemos said.
His father said, “You did well with those emeralds. How much were you getting for those last few?” When Menedemos told him, he whistled. “That's good. That's very good.”
“Thank you.” Are you well? Menedemos wondered. Are you sure you won't hurt yourself, saying I did something right?
“I feel I ought to pay my fair share of what you made for them, not what they cost you,” Philodemos said.
Oh, so that's it, Menedemos thought. Say what you will about him—and I can say plenty—my father's as stubbornly honest as Sostratos. Aloud, he said, “You can do that if you feel you must, sir, but if anyone's entitled to buy at wholesale, not retail, it's the founder of the firm.”
That won him a smile—no mean feat, seeing how spikily he and his father got along. Philodemos said, “You may be right. I'll talk with my brother and see what he thinks.”
“All right,” Menedemos said. That was where things would matter, sure enough. As far as this line of the family was concerned, it was just a matter of two accounts for the same silver. But, to Uncle Lysistratos, it would be a question of whether the money belonged in the firm's account or out of it. Menedemos went on, “I still think he'd do the same thing.”
“He might well,” his father replied. “But if he did, he would ask me, and so I'll ask him.”
“How does your wife like the stone?” The question put Menedemos on dangerous ground: not so dangerous as it might be, for his father had no inkling of what he felt for Baukis, but dangerous even so. He knew as much, and asked anyhow.
Philodemos smiled again, this time not at Menedemos but at the world at large. His lean, rather pinched features softened. For a moment, he seemed a different man, and one much easier to like. He said, “Timakrates the jeweler mounted it in a splendid ring, and she was glad to get it.”
How glad was she? How did she show it? Menedemos could picture the answers to those questions readily enough. He shook his head, trying to get the pictures out of his mind. To keep his father from thinking he was unhappy—and to keep him from jumping to more unfortunate, and more accurate, conclusions—he said, “I hope she gives you a son.”
“Seeing as another son would make your portion less, that's a generous thing for you to say.” Philodemos didn't sound suspicious, but did sound surprised. “Maybe you're growing up after all.”
“Maybe I am.” Menedemos was convinced he'd grown up some years before. He was also convinced his father would never believe it. He asked, “How are things between her and Sikon?” That was a safer question.
His father snorted. “You know cooks. He's convinced he rules the roost. If you try to tell him anything else, he starts screaming that nobody will be able to eat his food any more, and that we'll never manage another proper dinner party again. He spends money as though he stamped it himself.”
“He doesn't steal much,” Menedemos said. “Everything he makes is good. If we can afford good opson, why shouldn't we enjoy it?”
On the instant, Philodemos' features returned to the hard cast Menedemos knew so well. “Yes, if. If, on the other hand, mullet and squid and dogfish bankrupt us, then we should keep a closer eye on what he spends. You may not care about such things—”
“Who says I don't?” Menedemos broke in.
His father ignored him. “—but Baukis believes in watching where the drakhmai go. We still eat well, but we'll have some silver left for you to squander when you do come into your inheritance.”