The Sacred Land

“I wonder if we seem as strange to them as they do to us,” Sostratos said.

“If we do, too bad, by the gods,” Menedemos said. “They fought for the Great King against Alexander and they lost, and they’d better get used to it.”

Diokles pointed. “There’s a mooring space, skipper.”

Menedemos wished a Phoenician ship were making for it, too. He could get there first and score his own triumph over the barbarians. As things were, he had no competition. The Aphrodite slid into the space. The rowers backed oars for a few strokes to stop her in the water, then rested on the oars and shipped them, bringing them inboard.

Sailors tossed lines to longshoremen, who made the merchant galley fast to the quay. One of the Salaminians asked, “What ship have we here? Whence come ye?”

Smiling a little at the old-fashioned Cypriot dialect, Menedemos answered, “We’re the Aphrodite , out of Rhodes.” He named himself and Sostratos.

“Gods give ye good day, O best ones,” the local said. “And what cargo bring ye hither?”

Sostratos spoke up: “We have ink and papyrus, Koan silk, Rhodian perfume, the finest olive oil from our native land, books to make the time pass by, Lykian hams, and smoked eels from Phaselis-they melt in your mouth.”

“And melt silver from you, too, I doubt not,” the Salaminian said with a longing sigh. He glanced down toward the base of the quay. “And now, meseems, you shall answer these same questions over again, and more besides.”

Sure enough, a soldier strode importantly toward the Aphrodite . At almost every port the past couple of years, Menedemos thought sourly, soldiers had had questions for him and Sostratos. Sometimes they belonged to Antigonos; sometimes, as now, to Ptolemaios. Who paid them didn’t matter (with so many of them mercenaries, it often didn’t matter even to them). Their attitude was always the same: that a mere merchant skipper ought to go to the closest temple to offer sacrifice in thanks that they didn’t take everything he had.

This one was an exceptionally big man, with fair skin weathered bronze and with piercing gray eyes. When he barked, “Who are you?” he proved to have his own accent, very different from that of the longshoreman. If he wasn’t a Macedonian, Menedemos had never heard one.

“We’re the Aphrodite , out of Rhodes,” Menedemos answered, as he had before. Then, because he couldn’t resist, he added, “And who are you?”

“I’m Kleob-” The Macedonian, probably Kleoboulos, caught himself. “I ask the questions!” he roared. “Have you got that? It’s none of your gods-detested business who I am. Have you got that}”

Sostratos clucked reproachfully, as Menedemos had been sure he would. He had a point, too. Getting smart with Macedonians wasn’t the wisest thing Menedemos might have done.

“Have you got that?” the officer shouted again.

“Yes, O marvelous one,” Menedemos said.

Sostratos clucked again. But the Macedonian, as Menedemos had hoped, took irony for frightened politeness. “That’s better,” he growled. “Now tell me your cargo, and no more back talk.” Menedemos let Sostratos do that. After his cousin had gone down the list, the officer ran a hand through his gray-streaked auburn hair. “Books? Who’s going to buy books?”

“People who like to read?” Sostratos suggested.

The Macedonian tossed his head. Plainly, the idea was alien to him. He shrugged and found another question: “Where are you bound?”

“Phoenicia,” Menedemos answered unwillingly. “We’re going to trade for scarlet dye and balsam and whatever else we can find.”

“Are you?” Those gray eyes went hard and predatory. “Or are you here spying for Antigonos the Cyclops?”

“By the gods!” Menedemos exclaimed. “Last year we did a service for Ptolemaios, and now his servant calls us spies. I like that!”

“A service? What sort of service? His laundry? Did you fetch him a clean chiton or two?” the officer jeered. “Or did you bend over and give him a different kind of service? You’re pretty enough; he might’ve enjoyed that. And so might you.”

Accusing a free adult male Hellene of playing the boy for another man was one of the nastier insults someone could hurl. Menedemos steamed. His hands balled into fists, “Easy,” Sostratos murmured.

“Easy? I’ll tell him to-” But Menedemos caught himself. In Rhodes, he could have told the Macedonian anything he pleased. Not here. Cyprian Salamis was Ptolemaios’ city. One of the lord of Egypt’s officers carried far more weight than a merchant skipper from a distant polis. Mastering himself wasn’t easy, but Menedemos did it. “No, sir,” he told the Macedonian in the iciest tones he could summon. “Last year, he brought Polemaios son of Polemaios from Khalkis on the island of Euboia to Ptolemaios, who was then staying at the city of Kos, on the island of the same name.”

The officer gaped. Whatever answer he’d expected, that wasn’t it. He tried to rally: “A likely story. What did he pay you for it?”

“One talent of silver, of his own weight,” Sostratos answered. “I have it listed in the accounts here. Would you care to examine them?”

“No,” the Macedonian growled. He spun on his heel and clumped back up the pier, scarlet cape billowing around him.

“Euge!” Menedemos said. “But tell me, why on earth have you brought last year’s accounts along?” His cousin was mad for keeping every little detail straight, but that seemed excessive even for him.

Sostratos gri

“That’s sly, young sir,” Diokles said admiringly. “That’s mighty sly.”

“It seemed reasonable,” Sostratos answered, shrugging. “But I want to say euge to my cousin. When that Macedonian oaf reviled him, he didn’t lose his temper. He stayed calm, and the Macedonian ended up playing the fool.”

Menedemos wasn’t-emphatically wasn’t-used to praise from Sostratos. His cousin was more apt to call him things like a thick-skulled bonehead who thought with his prick. He was used to that. This, though… “Thank you very much, my dear,” he said. “Are you sure you’re well?”

“Quite sure, thanks,” Sostratos answered. “And I think-though I can’t be so sure-you may be starting to grow up at last.”

“Me?” Menedemos tossed his head. “It’s not likely, let me tell you.”

“I don’t know,” Sostratos said. “My guess is, a couple of years ago you would have called him something filthy you got out of Aristophanes, and that would have spilled the perfume into the soup.”

Menedemos thought it over. Much as he would have liked to, he couldn’t deny it. Now he shrugged. “I didn’t, and that’s all there is to it. Now maybe these cistern-arsed titty-gropers will leave us alone and let us get some business done.”

“Er-yes,” Sostratos said. “More Aristophanes?”

“Of course, my dear,” Menedemos answered. “Only the best.”

When Sostratos and Menedemos walked into Salamis’ market square the next morning, Sostratos stopped, stared in delight, and pointed. “Look!” he exclaimed. “Phoenicians! Lots of Phoenicians!” Sure enough, many of the men in the agora were swarthy and hook-nosed, and wore long robes despite what promised to be a warm day. The harsh gutturals of their language mixed with the rhythmic rise and fall of Greek.

Sostratos’ cousin laughed at him. “Well, of course there are lots of Phoenicians here, my dear,” Menedemos said. “We’re close to the Phoenician coast, there are Phoenician towns on Cyprus, and all those Phoenician ships in the harbor didn’t get here without sailors and merchants in ‘em.”

“No, of course not,” Sostratos said. “But now I get to find out if they understand my Aramaic-and I understand theirs. I thought we’d run into more of them in Lykia and Pamphylia and Kilikia, but”-he shrugged-”we didn’t.”