Between the shield and Athena’s left leg, a great serpent coiled and reared. The scales of its back were picked out in gold, those of its belly in ivory.

Sostratos and Menedemos stood at the far edge of the reflecting pool, staring up and up and up at the statue. After a long, long silence, Menedemos said, “Well, my dear, you were right, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. We haven’t got anything like this at home. I’m glad I’ve seen it. If I hadn’t… well, what point to coming to Athens if I hadn’t?”

“The core of the statue is of wood,” Sostratos said. “All told, a couple of hundred minai of gold cover it-and the ivory, of course. It-”

His cousin held up a hand. “Never mind the details. I don’t want to know. I see what it is, and that’s enough.”

“Really?” Sostratos said. “I think knowing how it’s put together makes it more marvelous, not less.”

“You would,” Menedemos said.

They might have squabbled then, but someone called to them from the direction of the entrance: “Are you fellows the Rhodians I’m supposed to meet?”

Sostratos and Menedemos both turned. A man stood silhouetted in the bright doorway. “Kleokritos?” Sostratos asked.

“That’s me,” he answered. Sure enough, he didn’t say he was sorry for being late. Sostratos and Menedemos walked away from the statue to greet him. They both kept looking back over their shoulders at it. Kleokritos laughed under his breath. He was about thirty-five; his cleanshaven face helped him seem younger. He spoke a pure Attic Greek, and looked like a Hellene. Even so, Sostratos wondered whether he was freeman or slave. Few free Hellenes would have subordinated themselves to another man as he had to Demetrios of Phaleron. Not my worry, gods be praised, Sostratos thought. After the introductions and small talk, Kleokritos went on, “So you fellows have something special to sell, do you?”

“I should say so.” Sostratos held up his little bottle of oil-and made very sure he didn’t lose it. “Olive oil flavored with Lesbian truffles.”

“Is that so?” Kleokritos had sharp, foxy features. He might have suddenly spied a duck swimming near the edge of a pond. “Yes, the boss might like something like that. You realize you’ll have to give me a taste? I’d look like a proper fool buying something like that without making sure it is what you say it is.”

“Certainly, O best one.” Sostratos pulled the stopper from the jar. He hid the nervousness he felt. He’d shaved the truffles he’d got from Onetor fine as he could, to make them give up the most flavor, but he hadn’t tasted the oil since. You should have, you fool. He wished it had had longer to sit. If it were little more than ordinary olive oil to the tongue…

Kleokritos plunged a forefinger into the jar, then stuck the digit in his mouth. When he assumed the expression of a fox that had just dragged a duck out of a pond, Sostratos knew the oil was all it should be. “Well, well,” Kleokritos said, and then again: “Well, well.”

“You see,” Menedemos said.

“Yes, I do.” Kleokritos dipped his head. “May I have another taste?” Sostratos held out the lekythos to him. He smacked his lips. “That’s quite something, isn’t it? I don’t suppose your price will be cheap, either.”

“Truffles cost several times their weight in silver,” Sostratos pointed out.

“Oh, yes. I know. Demetrios has bought them now and again.” Kleokritos licked his finger clean, tidy as an Egyptian cat. He sighed. “Suppose you tell me what you have in mind. Let’s see how loud I scream.”

“A mina a jar.” Sostratos never would have had the nerve to ask such an outrageous price if he hadn’t seen Demetrios’ production of Aiskhylos’ plays. Just being able to present a trilogy and a satyr play bespoke extraordinary wealth. Putting them on so sumptuously bespoke not only wealth but a certain willingness to spend it freely.

“A pound of silver, you say?” Kleokritos took Sostratos and Menedemos by the elbow. “Come, gentlemen.” He led them out of the Parthenon, into the sunshine once more. Then he screamed, loud enough to make a couple of passersby whip their heads around in alarm. “There,” he said. “I didn’t want to profane the shrine with that. You’re robbers, not Rhodians.”

“Sorry you think so,” Menedemos replied. “I’m sure Kassandros’ top officers wouldn’t-Macedonians are made of money, near enough. We wanted to give Demetrios the first chance at our oil, but…” He shrugged regretfully.

Kleokritos flinched. Sostratos smiled to himself. So there was friction between Demetrios of Phaleron and the Macedonians for whom he ruled Athens. That didn’t surprise Sostratos. He probably could have sold the news to Antigonos or Lysimakhos. On the other hand, maybe not. Who was to say they didn’t already know?

“Best ones, surely you see your price is beyond the moderate, beyond what is reasonable.” Kleokritos not only sounded like an Athenian, he sounded like one who’d studied at the Academy or the Lykeion.

As smoothly as if they were performing in a play at the theater, Sostratos and Menedemos tossed their heads together. “I’m sorry, most noble one, but that isn’t how things look to us,” Sostratos replied. “When you think about what we paid for the ingredients, and the risks we took bringing them to Athens-”

“Oh, come now!” Kleokritos said. “This polis is safe and strong under the leadership of Demetrios and the protection of Kassandros.”

So that’s the formula they use, is it? When I write my history, I’ll have to remember it, Sostratos thought. Aloud, he said, “I have no quarrel”- no public quarrel-”with what you say about the polis. But sailing on the Aegean is a risk, and no small one. My cousin and I were attacked by pirates less than two years ago between Andros and Euboia. We were lucky enough to fight them off, but they stole some of our most valuable cargo.”

Menedemos stirred at that. It might not have been strictly true of the gryphon’s skull, not in monetary terms. Sostratos didn’t care. Who could set a true price on knowledge?

Kleokritos sighed. “My principal will want this lovely oil. I have no doubt of that. But he does not care to be held for ransom. I’ll give you sixty drakhmai the lekythos. What do you say?”

“We say it’s time to talk to Kassandros’ officers,” Menedemos replied, and Sostratos dipped his head. With a nasty smile, Menedemos added, “Perhaps they’ll invite Demetrios to supper and let him have a taste.”

“You are a nasty, wicked wretch,” Kleokritos said. Menedemos bowed, as at a compliment. Demetrios of Phaleron’s man muttered under his breath. At last, he said, “Exactly how many lekythoi of truffle-flavored oil have you got?”

Menedemos looked to Sostratos. Sostratos had known his cousin would. “Seventy-one,” he said: as usual, he had the number on the tip of his tongue.

After some muttering and counting on his fingers, Kleokritos said, “I’ll give you a talent for the lot of them.”

“Sixty minai of silver, eh? You are talking of Athenian weight?” Sostratos asked, and Kleokritos impatiently dipped his head. Now Sostratos murmured as he flicked beads on a mental counting-board. In a low voice, he told Menedemos, “Eighty-four drakhmai, three oboloi the lekythos, more or less. What do you think?”

“It should do,” Menedemos answered, also softly. “Unless you think we can squeeze him-or maybe the Macedonians-for more?”

“No, let’s make the deal. It gives us a better chance to work on selling other things to other people.” Sostratos waited to see if Menedemos would argue. When Menedemos didn’t, he turned to Kleokritos. “We accept.”

“Good. That’s settled, then,” Kleokritos said. Sostratos thought so, too. That talent-less what the new ingredients had cost-would pay the crew for three months. No, longer than that, he realized: he paid the sailors in Rhodian coinage, which was lighter than what the Athenians minted. Kleokritos asked, “Do you have all the oil at Protomakhos’ house?”