The Sacred Land

“I… suppose so.” Sostratos had trouble sounding as reluctant as he knew he should. He wanted the embroidered cloth at least as much as the wax. Only later did he realize he might have asked for two cloths. Menedemos would have thought of that right away and would have done it, too. Menedemos automatically thought like a trader, where Sostratos had to force himself to do so.

Bodashtart, fortunately, noticed nothing amiss in Sostratos’ answer. He smiled. “We have a bargain, then-the cloth and the wax for seven jars of perfume.” He thrust out his hand.

Sostratos took it. “Yes, a bargain,” he agreed. “Seven jars of perfume for the wax and the cloth.” They exchanged the goods. The Phoenician put the perfume into a leather sack and led his ass on toward Sidon.

“You cheated him good and proper,” Teleutas said as Sostratos loaded the beeswax and the embroidered cloth onto his pack donkey.

“I think I got the better of him, yes,” Sostratos answered. “But if he makes a profit with the perfume, then no one cheated anybody. That’s the way I hope this trade works out.”

“Why?” the sailor asked. “Why not hope you diddled him good and proper?” He had a simple, selfish rapacity that wouldn’t have been out of place on a pirate.

Patiently, Sostratos answered, “If both sides profit, they’ll both want to deal again, and trade will go on. If one cheats the other, the side that gets cheated won’t want to deal with the other the second time around.”

Teleutas only shrugged. He didn’t care. He had no eye for the long term, only for quick gain. Some merchants were like that, too. They didn’t usually stay in business long, and they fouled the nest for everyone else. Sostratos was glad he had more sense than that. Even Menedemos had more sense than that. Sostratos hoped his cousin had more sense than that, anyhow.

He walked over to the mule. “Someone give me a leg-up,” he said. “We can get some more travel in before the sun goes down.”

Menedemos was begi

When he came up to the barracks one morning, a guard who’d seen him before said, “Haven’t you sold all your books yet?”

“I’ve still got a couple left,” Menedemos answered. “Want to buy one?”

The soldier tossed his head. “Not me. Only use I’d have for papyrus is wiping my arse, on account of I can’t read.”

“You wouldn’t want it for that. It’s scratchy,” Menedemos said, and the sentry laughed. Carefully keeping his voice casual, Menedemos asked, “What’s the name of your quartermaster here, eh?”

“What do you want to talk with Andronikos for?” the soldier replied. “With his shriveled-up little turd of a soul, he won’t want to buy your books.”

“Well, maybe you’re right and maybe you’re not,” Menedemos said easily. “I’d still like to find out for myself.”

“All right, Rhodian.” The sentry stood aside to let him into the building. “He’s got an office on the second floor. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Menedemos had to be content with that less than ringing endorsement. He paused inside the barracks to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. Someone on the first floor was reading aloud the story of Akhilleus’ fight with Hektor. Menedemos dared hope it was from a copy of the relevant book of the Iliad he’d sold. He didn’t stop to find out, though. He made his way to the stairs and went up them.

“I’m looking for Andronikos’ office,” he told the first Hellene he saw when he came out onto the second floor. The man jerked his thumb to the right. “Thanks,” Menedemos said, and went down the hallway leading in that direction.

Four or five people were in front of him. He waited for perhaps half an hour as the quartermaster dealt with them one by one. They didn’t emerge from Andronikos’ office looking happy, though Andronikos seldom if ever bothered raising his voice.

In due course, it was Menedemos’ turn. By then, a couple of more Hellenes had joined the line behind him. When Andronikos called, “Next,” he hurried into the office, a broad, friendly smile on his face.

That smile survived his first glimpse of the quartermaster, but barely. Andronikos was in his late forties, with a permanent fussy frown on his pinched features. “Who are you?” he asked. “Haven’t seen you before. What do you want? Whatever it is, make it snappy. I haven’t got time to waste.”

“Hail, O best one. I’m Menedemos son of Philodemos, of Rhodes,” Menedemos said. “My bet is, you’re having more trouble keeping this garrison fed than you wish you did. Am I right or am I wrong?”

“You’re the Rhodian, eh? Hail.” Andronikos rewarded him with a dry grimace doubtless intended for a smile. “What do you care what the soldiers eat? You can’t sell them papyrus.”

“No, indeed, most noble, though I can sell you papyrus and first-quality Rhodian ink for record-keeping, if you’re so inclined.” Menedemos kept trying his best to be charming. Andronikos’ unwaveringly sour expression told him he was wasting his time. He continued, “The reason I’m asking is that I also have some top-notch olive oil aboard my akatos, oil fit for the highest-ranking officers in the garrison here. And I’ve got fine Pataran hams and a few smoked eels from Phaselis, too.”

“If the officers want fancy grub, they buy most of it themselves. As for you-you sailed an akatos here from Rhodes, and you’re carrying oil?” Surprise made the quartermaster sound amazingly lifelike. “You believe in taking chances, don’t you?”

Menedemos winced. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been telling himself the same thing-he had. But having someone he’d just met throw it in his face rankled. I’m going to hit Damonax over the head with a brick when we get home, he thought. Aloud, all he could say was, “It’s prime-quality oil, believe you me it is.”

“I can get plenty of ordinary oil for not very much,” Andronikos pointed out. “Why should I spend silver when I don’t have to? Tell me that, and quick, or else go away.”

“Because this isn’t ordinary oil,” Menedemos answered. “It’s the best oil from Rhodes, some of the best oil anywhere. You can give common soldiers ordinary oil to eat with their bread, and they’ll thank you for it. But what about your officers? Don’t they deserve better? Don’t they ask you for better?”

He hoped Antigonos’ officers asked the quartermaster for better. If they didn’t, he hadn’t the faintest idea what he’d do with all that oil. Andronikos muttered something under his breath. Menedemos couldn’t make out all of it; what he could hear was distinctly uncomplimentary to the officers in Antigonos’ service, mostly because they made him spend too much money.

At last, with the air of a man whose stomach pained him, Andronikos said, “Bring me an amphora of this wonderful oil. We’ll let a dozen soldiers dip bread in what they’re using now and in what you bring. If they can tell the difference, we’ll talk some more. If they can’t”-he jerked a thumb toward the doorway through which Menedemos had come- “many goodbyes to you.”

“What about the hams and the eels?”

“I already told you, I’m not interested. Maybe some of the officers will be-with their own silver, of course.”

“All right, most noble one. Fair enough. A chance to show how good my oil is is all I ask.” As usual, Menedemos spoke boldly. He did his best to hide the alarm he felt inside. Just how good was the oil Sostratos’ new brother-in-law had foisted on the Aphrodite ’? Good enough to let men tell the difference at a single taste? He didn’t know. He was about to find out. He did say, “Since you’ll be buying the oil mostly for officers, some of the men who try it should be officers, too.”