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.”