The Sacred Land

“Pheu!” Menedemos said. “That’s a nasty way to go. Did the philosopher die well?”

“Anaxarkhos? I should say so,” Sostratos said. “He told the Salaminian, ‘Go ahead and pound my body, for you can’t pound my soul.’ That made Nikokreon so furious, he ordered Anaxarkhos’ tongue torn out, but Anaxarkhos bit it off before the torturer could get to him, and he spat it in Nikokreon’s face. And so you see, my dear, Nikokreon might have got off better than he deserved when Ptolemaios told him to slay himself. If I’d been the one giving the orders…”

“You sound as bloodthirsty as any of the Macedonians,” Menedemos said, eyeing Sostratos with unwonted wariness. “More often than not, you’re as gentle as any man I’ve ever known. Every once in a while, though…” He tossed his head.

“Someone who tries to kill knowledge, to kill wisdom, deserves whatever happens to him,” Sostratos said. “That polluted whoreson pirate who stole the gryphon’s skull, for instance. If I got my hands on him, I’d send for a torturer from Persia and another one from Carthage, and let them see who could do worse to him. I’d pay them both, and gladly.”

Menedemos started to laugh, but stopped before the sound escaped. When he looked at Sostratos, his cousin’s expression said he hadn’t been joking. That pirate was lucky he’d managed to get off the Aphrodite . And he’d stay lucky if he never complained in a tavern about the old bones he’d taken in lieu of other loot more worth having. If word of such grumbling ever got back to Sostratos, that pirate would have to look to his life.

When they returned to the merchant galley, Diokles proved to have done some scouting of his own. The oarmaster said, “They’ve got a fine kitharist from Corinth playing at one of the i

“Oh, by Zeus!” Menedemos exclaimed. “Another one Nikokreon put to death?”

“Another one?” Diokles asked.

“But you have to remember, too, it wasn’t a king who killed Sokrates.”

“Democracy isn’t perfect, either-the gods know that’s so,” Sostratos said. “If we didn’t live in a democracy, we wouldn’t have to listen to Xanthos blather on and on whenever the Assembly meets, for instance.”

“You’re right,” Menedemos said. “One more reason to be glad we can get out of Rhodes half the year on trading runs.”

“Pity we can’t hear Stratonikos, though,” Sostratos said. “Who’s the kitharist who is in town, Diokles?”

“Areios, his name is,” the keleustes answered.

Menedemos nudged Sostratos. “What did old Stratonikos have to say about him, eh, best one?”

“He told him to go to the crows once,” Sostratos answered. “That’s all I know.”

“Sounds like Stratonikos told everybody to go to the crows,” Menedemos said. “That doesn’t make this Areios out to be anybody special. I wonder if we should bother seeing him.”

“What else is there to do in Salamis of nights?” Sostratos asked.

“Get drunk. Get laid.” Menedemos named the two obvious choices in any harbor town. They were, when he thought about it, the two obvious choices in towns that didn’t lie by the coast, too.

“We can drink and listen to Areios at the same time,” his cousin said. “And if you decide you want a woman or a boy, you can probably find one not far away.”

“He’s right, skipper,” Diokles said.

“Well, so he is,” Menedemos agreed. “He’s right a lot of the time.” He nudged Sostratos in the ribs. “If you’re so smart, why aren’t you rich?”

“Because I sail with you?” Sostratos asked i

“Good for him. I don’t suppose there’s any law that says philosophers can’t enjoy silver just like anybody else,” Menedemos said. “And I don’t suppose he got rich by trying to sell his oil to all the neighboring poleis that already had plenty of their own.”

Sostratos grimaced. “No, I don’t suppose so, either. We just have to do the best we can with it, that’s all.”

Together, Menedemos and Sostratos told him about Anaxarkhos. Then Menedemos asked, “What happened to Stratonikos?”

“Why, he spoke freer about Nikokreon’s family than he should have,” the keleustes answered. “That’s why the king drowned him.”

“This has a familiar ring, doesn’t it?” Sostratos said, and Menedemos dipped his head. Sostratos went on, “I believe it about Stratonikos, too. I saw him in Athens, years ago. Marvelous kitharist, but he would say the first thing that popped into his mind, and he didn’t care where he was or to whom he said it.”

“Tell me more,” Menedemos urged,

“He was the fellow who called Byzantion the armpit of Hellas,” Sostratos said, and Menedemos guffawed. His cousin added, “When he was coming out of Herakleia, he looked around carefully, this way and that. Somebody asked him why. ‘I’m ashamed oi being seen,’ he answered. ‘It’s like coming out of a brothel.’“

“Oh, dear,” Menedemos said, “No, I don’t think he’d have got on well with Nikokreon.”

“He didn’t get on well with anybody,” Sostratos said. “When he was playing in Corinth, an old woman kept staring and staring at him. Finally, he asked her why. She said, ‘It’s a wonder your mother bore you for ten months when we can’t bear you for even a day’ But by Apollo, Menedemos, he played the kithara like no man since Orpheus.”

“He must have, or somebody would have drowned him sooner.” Menedemos turned to Diokles. “How did he fall foul of the king of Salamis?”

“I know he insulted Nikokreon’s two sons, but I don’t know how,” the oarmaster answered. “But once when the king’s wife-Axiothea, her name was-came in for supper, she happened to fart. And then later on she stepped on an almond while she was wearing a slipper from Sikyon- and Stratonikos sang out, ‘That’s not the same sound!”

“Oimoil” Menedemos exclaimed. “If he said that to anyone from my family, I’d probably pop him in the chops myself.”

“Ah, but would you kill him?” Sostratos asked, “That’s what’s wrong with what Nikokreon did-nobody could stop him if he set his mind on killing or torturing someone. That’s what’s wrong with kings generally, if you ask me.”

“I’m as good a democrat as you are, my dear,” Menedemos answered.

The answer was soft enough to keep Menedemos from going any further with his complaints. And he knew Sostratos didn’t want to have the oil aboard the Aphrodite , either, even if it had come from his brother-in-law’s groves. With a sigh, he turned to Diokles. “Whereabouts is this Areios playing?”

“It’s not far,” the oarmaster answered. “I was going to go over there myself, listen for a while, and see how overpriced the wine is. You gents coming? “

“Why not?” Menedemos said, and Sostratos dipped his head, too.

Diokles led them to the tavern where the kitharist was performing. When Menedemos saw where it was, he started to laugh. So did Sostratos, who said, “Call it Stratonikos’ revenge.” Nikokreon’s cenotaph stood only fifteen or twenty cubits away, with the statue of the late king of Salamis looking back toward the tavern.

“Play loud, Areios,” Menedemos said. “Let’s hope Nikokreon’s shade is listening,”

The place was crowded when Menedemos, his cousin, and the keleustes went inside. He heard the archaic Cypriot dialect, Macedonian, several less unusual varieties of Greek, and assorted retching gutturals from a table full of Phoenicians.

“By the dog of Egypt!” Menedemos exclaimed. “Isn’t that Ptolemaios?” He pointed to a blunt-featured, middle-aged man sitting at the best table in the place.