Aristaion listened without a word. He blinked a couple of times. He heard what Sostratos said, but as yet it meant nothing. Menedemos set a leather sack on the counter. “Here is his pay, sir, for the whole journey he took with us. I know it can never replace Aristeidas, but it is what we can do.”

Like a man still half in a dream, Aristaion tossed his head. “No, that’s not right,” he said. “You must take out whatever silver he’d already drawn-otherwise you unjustly deprive yourselves.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Menedemos said. “For one thing, he drew very little-as you’ll know, he saved his silver. And, for another, this is the least we can do to show what we thought of your son.”

“When he died, everyone on the Aphrodite was heartbroken,” Sostratos added, and that was nothing but the truth, too.

When he died. Aristaion finally seemed not only to hear but to believe. He let out a low-voiced moan, then reached under the counter and brought out a knife. Grunting with effort and with pain, he used it to haggle off a mourning lock. The gray hair lay on the counter. Menedemos took the knife and added a lock of his own hair. So did Sostratos; the lock he’d cut off in loudaia was beginning to grow out again. He sacrificed another without hesitation.

“He was my only boy that lived,” Aristaion said in a faraway voice. “I had two others, but they both died young. I hoped he’d take this place after me. Maybe he would have in the end, but he always wanted to go to sea. What am I going to do now? By the gods, O best ones, what am I going to do now?”

Menedemos had no answer for that. He looked to Sostratos. His cousin stood there biting his lip, not far from tears. Plainly, he had no answer, either. For some things, there were no answers.

“I mourned my father,” Aristaion said. “That was hard, but it’s part of the natural order of things when a son mourns a father. When a father has to mourn a son, though… I would rather have died myself, you know.” The sun glinted off the tears sliding down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” Menedemos whispered, and Sostratos dipped his head. No, for some things there were no answers at all.

“Thank you, gentlemen, for bringing me the news,” Aristaion said with haggard dignity. “Will you drink wine with me?”

“Of course,” said Menedemos, who wanted nothing more than to get away. Again, Sostratos dipped his head without speaking. If anything, he probably wanted to escape even more than Menedemos did. But this was part of what needed doing.

“Wait, then,” Aristaion said, and ducked back into the part of the building where he lived. He came out a moment later with a tray with water, wine, a mixing bowl, and three cups. He must have made the bowl and the cups himself, for they looked very much like the pots he was selling. After mixing the wine, he poured for Menedemos and Sostratos, then poured a small libation onto the ground at his feet. The two cousins imitated him. Aristaion lifted his cup. “For Aristeidas,” he said.

“For Aristeidas,” Menedemos echoed.

“For Aristeidas,” Sostratos said. “If he hadn’t spotted the bandits coming, we all might have died there in Ioudaia-and other times before that, out on the sea. He was a good man to have on our ship, and I’ll miss him. Everyone who sailed with him will miss him.”

“Thank you kindly, young sir. You’re generous, to say such a thing.” Aristaion raised the cup to his lips and drank. Menedemos and Sostratos also drank to their shipmate’s memory. The wine was better than Menedemos would have expected it to be. Like the ware Aristaion made, it suggested the best taste not a great deal of money could buy.

“I wonder why these things happen,” Sostratos said, “why good men die young while those who are not so good live on and on.” Menedemos knew he was thinking about Teleutas. His cousin took another sip of wine, then continued, “Men who love wisdom have always wondered such things.”

“It was the will of the gods,” Aristaion said. “In front of Troy, Akhilleus had a short life, too, but people still sing about him even now.” He murmured the opening of the Iliad: “‘Rage!-Sing, goddess, of Akhilleus’…’“

Sostratos had often wrangled with Menedemos about whether the Iliad and Odyssey deserved to hold their central place in Hellenic life. He wasn’t always the most tactful of men; there were times, especially in what he saw as pursuit of the truth, when he was among the least tactful. Menedemos got ready to kick him in the ankle if he wanted to argue philosophy today. But he only dipped his head once more and murmured, “Just so, most noble one. Nor will Aristeidas be forgotten, so long as any one of us who knew him still lives.”

Menedemos took a long pull at his own wine. He silently mouthed, “Euge,” at Sostratos. His cousin only shrugged a tiny shrug, as if to say he hadn’t done anything worth praise. He’d remembered the occasion. To Menedemos, that was plenty. Only later did he wonder whether that was unfair to Sostratos.

The two of them let Aristaion fill their cups again. Then they made their farewells. “Thank you both again, young sirs, for coming and telling me… telling me what had to be told,” Aristeidas’ father said.

“It was the least we could do,” Menedemos said. “We wish we didn’t have to do it, that’s all.”

“Yes,” Sostratos said softly. By the distant look in his eyes, he was back among those Ioudaian boulders again. “Oh, yes.”

They gave Aristaion their sympathies one last time and left the potter’s shop. They hadn’t gone far before a woman started to shriek behind them. Wincing, Menedemos said, “Aristaion must have told his wife.”

“Yes,” Sostratos agreed. They walked on for a few more paces before he went on, “Let’s go back to your house or mine and get drunk, shall we? There’s nothing more we really have to do today, is there?”

“Nothing that won’t keep.” Menedemos put an arm around Sostratos’ shoulder. “That’s a good idea-the best one you’ve had all day, I’m sure.”

“Will we think so in the morning?” Sostratos asked.

Menedemos shrugged. “That will be in the morning. We’ll worry about it then.”

Sostratos opened his eyes and wished he hadn’t. The early-morning sunlight leaking in through the shutters pained him. His head hurt. His bladder seemed about to burst. He reached under the bed and found the chamber pot. After easing himself, he went to the window, opened the shutters, called, “Coming out!” to warn anyone walking by below, and flung the contents of the pot into the street.

Then, still moving slowly, he went downstairs and sat down in the cool, shadowed courtyard. A few minutes later, Threissa, the family’s redheaded Thracian slave girl, poked her snub nose into the courtyard. Sostratos waved to her. He saw her wondering if she could get away with pretending not to see and deciding she couldn’t. She came over to him. “What do you want, young master?” she asked in accented Greek.

Every so often, he took her to bed. She put up with that rather than enjoying it, one reason he didn’t do it more. It wasn’t what he had in mind now. He said, “Fetch me a cup of well-watered wine and a chunk of bread to go with it.”

Relief flowered on her face. “I do that,” she said, and hurried away. Some requests she minded much less than others. Sostratos didn’t even eye her backside as she went off to the kitchen, proof he’d drunk too much the day before. She soon returned with the wine and a barley roll. “Here you is. Roll just baked.”

Sure enough, it was still warm from the oven. “Thanks,” Sostratos said. He made as if to push her away. “Go on. I’m sure you’ve got plenty to do.” She nodded and left him by himself. He took a bite from the roll. It was nice and bland, just what his stomach needed. He sipped the wine, a little at a time. Bit by bit, his headache eased.