One of the harborside loungers-a fellow who would do a little work now and then, when he needed a few oboloi for wine, or perhaps for bread-came up to Sostratos and said, “Hail. You sail aboard this one, don’t you?”

“I’ve been known to, every now and again,” Sostratos said dryly. “Why?”

“Oh, nothing,” the other man replied. “I was just wondering what she might be carrying when she goes into the sea, that’s all.”

“She might be carrying almost anything. She’s taken everything from peafowl and lion skins and a gryphon’s skull”-Sostratos’ heart still ached when he thought about losing the gryphon’s skull to pirates the summer before, when he was on his way to show it off in Athens-”to something as ordinary as sacks of wheat.”

The lounger clucked reproachfully. He tried again: “What will she have in her when she goes to sea?”

“This and that,” Sostratos said, his voice bland. The lounger gave him an exasperated look. His answering smile said as little as he had. His father and uncle’s trading firm was far from the only one in the city of Rhodes. Some of their rivals might have paid a drakhma or two to find out what they’d be up to this sailing season. Men who hung around the harbor could make their money without getting calluses on their hands. They could-with a little help from others. Sostratos had no intention of giving that kind of help.

This fellow, if nothing else, was persistent. “You know where you’ll be sailing?” he asked,

“Oh, yes,” Sostratos said. The lounger waited. Sostratos said no more. The other man took longer than he should have to realize he wasn’t going to say any more. Muttering unpleasant ties under his breath, he turned away.

I should have answered him in Aramaic, Sostratos thought. I’d have got rid of him quicker. Then he shrugged. He’d done what needed doing.