His cousin laughed and held up a hand. “All right, all right-you’ve persuaded me. Old men are old men, and they always have been.”

“A good thing you stopped me,” Menedemos said. “Nestor goes on blathering for a lot longer. He’s a dear fellow… if he doesn’t make you want to kick him. Most of the time, with me, he does.”

“And why is that?” Sostratos asked. Menedemos didn’t answer, but they both knew why: Menedemos’ father put him in mind of Nestor. Sostratos said, “If you and Uncle Philodemos got on better, you’d like Nestor more.”

“Maybe.” Menedemos didn’t want to admit more than he had to, so he tried a thrust of his own: “If you and Uncle Lysistratos didn’t get on, you’d like Nestor less.”

“Oh, I think Nestor blathers, too-don’t get me wrong about that.” Sostratos started to say something else, probably something that had to do with the Iliad, but then stopped and snapped his fingers. “By the gods, I know what else we can take to Phoenicia: books!”

“Books?” Menedemos echoed, and Sostratos dipped his head.

Menedemos tossed his. “Are you witstruck all of a sudden? Most Phoenicians don’t even speak Greek, let alone read it.”

“I wasn’t thinking about the Phoenicians,” his cousin answered. “I was thinking about the garrisons of Hellenes in those towns. They ought to be good-sized; Antigonos builds most of his fleet along the coast there. And they won’t be able to buy books from any of the local scribes, because you’re right-those scribes don’t write Greek. The ones who can read would probably pay plenty for some new scrolls to help them pass the time.”

Menedemos rubbed his chin as he considered. “Do you know, that might not be a bad notion after all,” he said at last. Then he gave Sostratos a suspicious look. “You weren’t going to take along philosophy and history, were you?”

“No, no, no.” Now Sostratos tossed his head, “I like such things, but how many soldiers are likely to? No, I was thinking of some of the more exciting books from the Iliad and the Odyssey. Anyone who has his alpha-beta can read those, so we’d have more people wanting to buy.”

“It’s a nice notion. It’s a clever notion, by Zeus.” Menedemos gave credit where it was due. “And books are light, and they don’t take up much space, and we can get a good price for them.” He dipped his head-in fact, he almost bowed to Sostratos. “We’ll do it. Go talk to the scribes. Buy what they’ve got written out and see how much they can copy before we sail.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Sostratos said.

Menedemos laughed. “I’ll bet you will. If I sounded that eager, I’d be going off to visit a fancy hetaira, not some nearsighted fellow with ink stains on his fingers.”

His cousin didn’t even splutter, which proved his point. “I’m always glad for an excuse to visit the scribes,” Sostratos said. “You never can tell when something new and interesting will have come into Rhodes.”

“Happy hunting,” Menedemos said. He wondered if Sostratos even heard him; his cousin’s eyes were far away, as if he were thinking about his beloved.

Even a polis as large and prosperous as Rhodes boasted no more than a handful of men who made their living by copying out books. Sostratos knew them all. The best, without a doubt, was Glaukias son of Kallime-don. He was fast, accurate, and legible, all at the same time. None of the others came close. Naturally, Sostratos visited him first.

However good Glaukias was, he wasn’t rich. His shop occupied a couple of downstairs rooms in a small house on a street near the Great Harbor; he and his family lived above them. The shop did face south, which gave Glaukias the best light for copying.

A skinny, angry-looking man was dictating a letter to him when Sostratos came up to the shop. The fellow sent him such a suspicious glare, he hastily withdrew out of earshot. Only after the man paid Glaukias and went on his way did Sostratos approach again.

“Hail, best one,” Glaukias said. He was about forty, with big ears, buck teeth, and, sure enough, a nearsighted stare and inky fingers. “Thanks for withdrawing there,” he went on. “Theokles, the fellow who was here, is certain a Samian merchant is cheating him, and that the Samian has hired people here in Rhodes to keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn’t get what’s his by right.”

“By the dog of Egypt!” Sostratos exclaimed. “Is that true?”

Glaukias rolled his eyes. “Last year, he got into the same sort of mess with a trader from Ephesos, and the year before that with somebody from Halikarnassos… I think it was Halikarnassos. He quarrels with people the way some men go to a cockfight. If he had his letters, he wouldn’t have anything to do with me-half the time, he thinks I’m part of these schemes to defraud him.”

“He sounds daft to me. Why do you keep writing letters for him?”

“Why?” Glaukias smiled a sweet, sad smile. “I’ll tell you why: he pays me, and I need the silver. Speaking of which, what can I do for you?”

Sostratos explained his idea, finishing, “So I’ll gladly buy whatever copies you’ve made of the quarrel of Akhilleus and Agamemnon, or of Akhilleus’ fight with shining Hektor, or of Odysseus’ adventure with the Cyclops, or of his return and his revenge on the suitors-that sort of thing.”

“I see,” Glaukias said. “You want all the high points from the epics.”

“That’s right,” Sostratos said. “People don’t have to buy books-I want the parts that would make them spend their money on Homer when they could be buying Khian wine or a night with a courtesan instead.”

“People don’t have to buy books,” the scribe echoed mournfully. “Well, the gods know I’ve seen the truth of that. But you’re right. When they do buy, that’s usually the sort of thing they’re after. And so, when I don’t have someone’s order in front of me, I copy out books like that from the epics. Let’s see what I’ve got.” He disappeared into a back room, returning a little later with ten or twelve rolls of papyrus.

“Oh, very good!” Sostratos exclaimed. “That’s more than I’d hoped for.”

“I do stay busy,” Glaukias said. “I’d better stay busy. If I’m not busy, I’m starving. Personally, I wish I didn’t have so many rolls to sell you. That would mean other people had bought ‘em.”

“What all have we got here?” Sostratos asked.

“The high spots, as you said,” the scribe answered. “Most are the ones you talked about, but I also made a couple of copies of the next-to-last book of the Iliad: you know, Patroklos’ funeral games.”

“Oh, yes. That’s a good one, too.” Sostratos unrolled one of the books and eyed the writing in admiration. “I wish I could be so neat with a pen. Your script looks as though it ought to be carved in marble, not set down on papyrus.”

“Believe me, it’s only because I have so much practice.” But Glaukias couldn’t help sounding pleased.

“I’ll buy them all,” Sostratos said. The scribe’s face broke into a delighted grin. Sostratos went on, “I’ll buy them all if your price is anywhere near reasonable, that is.”

“Well, best one, you know what these things cost,” Glaukias answered. “If you were just walking in off the street to buy one book, I’d try to get eight or ten drakhmai out of you. People like that, a lot of the time they don’t have any notion of what’s what, and you want to make a little extra. But I’ll sell you these for five drakhmai each-six for the two copies of those funeral games, because that’s an especially long book and takes more time and more papyrus.”

“You’ve got a bargain, my friend.” Sostratos did indeed know what books were supposed to cost. He laughed. “I don’t remember the last time I made a deal without haggling.”

“It’s been a while for me, too.” Glaukias sounded almost giddy. What Sostratos paid him would keep him and his family eating for a couple of months. Sostratos wondered how long it had been since anyone last bought a book from him, and how desperate he was getting. When Glaukias went into the back room again, returning with a couple of cups of wine to celebrate, Sostratos suspected he wasn’t getting desperate, but had got there some little while ago.