“Certainly.” Sostratos hid a wry smile. Iphikrates had called him more or less honest, but wouldn’t let him go unwatched into the room with the drugs. Sostratos wasn’t offended. Some medicines were valuable even in small, easy-to-conceal amounts. Iphikrates didn’t know him well enough to be sure he wouldn’t steal. He wouldn’t have let the physician wander unattended through the family warehouse, either.

Iphikrates returned with a fistful of silver. “Come along,” he said. He opened the door to let Sostratos go in ahead of him.

After the bright sunshine of the courtyard, the Rhodian’s eyes needed a few heartbeats to adjust to the gloom inside. His nostrils flared when he breathed in. The room was full of scents: spicy mint; the sharpness of ground pepper; the dark, heavy odor of poppy juice; delicate frankincense and bitter myrrh; vinegar; wine; something that tickled the nose (was that hellebore?); olive oil, familiar from the kitchen and the gymnasion; and others Sostratos could not name. The scales stood on a small table, next to a heavy alabaster mortar and pestle and a bronze spoon. Sostratos sniffed again, “You must enjoy working here,” he remarked.

“What? Why?” Iphikrates frowned, not following him,

“The smells, of course,” Sostratos said.

“Oh,” The physician sniffed with the air of a man who hadn’t for quite some time. “To me, you understand, they’re just the odors of work. That’s a shame, isn’t it? Here.” He set ten owls in one pan of the scale. It sank down. He handed Sostratos the spoon. “Put your balsam on the other pan till they balance.”

As Sostratos did, the balsam of Engedi added its own sweet fragrance to the rest of the odors in the room. Iphikrates smiled, Sostratos added a little more, scraping the sticky stuff from the bowl of the spoon with his thumbnail. Down came the pan with the balsam. He waited to see if he needed to put on a bit more yet, but the two pans could hardly have been more even,

“Well judged,” Iphikrates said. He took the drakhmai off the scale and handed them to Sostratos. “And here are ten more besides,” he added, giving the Rhodian the other coins as well. “I thank you very much.”

“And I you, O best one,” Sostratos replied. “I admire physicians for doing so much to relieve the pain and suffering that are a part of every life.”

“You’re gracious, Rhodian-more gracious than my profession deserves, I fear,” Iphikrates said. “You saw me at my best a little while ago. That man had an injury I know how to treat. But if he’d come to me coughing blood or with a pain in his chest”-he set a hand on his heart to show what kind of pain he meant-”or with a lump in his belly, what could I do for him? Watch him and take notes on his case till he either died or got better on his own, as Hippokrates did, I couldn’t cure him of any of those things, or of a myriad more besides.”

“I’ve seen Hippokrates’ writings,” Sostratos said. “My impression was that he treated patients with all sorts of conditions.”

“He tried to treat them,” Iphikrates answered. “Whether his treatments did an obolos’ worth of good is liable to be a different story. No man can be a physician without having his own ignorance shoved in his face a dozen times a day. You have no idea how frustrating it is to watch a patient die from something that seems minor-and that surely would be, if only I knew a little more.”

“Oh, but I do,” Sostratos said. Iphikrates looked dubious till he explained: “I’ve seen men aboard the Aphrodite die of fever after belly wounds that looked as if they ought to have healed in a few days. Can you tell me why that happens? “

“No, and I wish I could, because I’ve seen it, too,” the physician said. “Life is fragile. Cling to it tightly, for you never know when it may slip away.” With that reassuring piece of advice, he sent Sostratos on his way.

After the first meeting of the Assembly, the one that voted Demetrios son of Antigonos honors that might have embarrassed one of the twelve Olympians, Menedemos didn’t go back. He’d seen all he cared to see, and more than he could readily stomach. He would have expected Sostratos to keep going whenever he could, but his cousin also stayed away from the theater. That one session, evidently, had been plenty for him, too.

Protomakhos, on the other hand, kept going whenever the Assembly convened. Menedemos couldn’t blame him for that. He was, after all, an Athenian, He had an interest in the proceedings that the Rhodians lacked. He also had the right to speak and the right to vote.

One morning not too long after Menedemos and Sostratos sold Demetrios their truffles, Protomakhos returned from the theater with the expression he might have worn if he’d stepped barefoot into a big pile of dog turds right outside the house. Menedemos had come back from the agora to get some more perfume, and was on his way out when Protomakhos stormed in. His host’s revolted look couldn’t be ignored. “By Zeus, O best one, what’s wrong?” Menedemos asked. He didn’t think Protomakhos would look that way if he’d just found out Xenokleia was unfaithful, but he wasn’t sure.

To his relief, the Rhodian proxenos wasn’t glowering at him. Protomakhos said, “You were there when Demetrios first came into Athens.”

“Yes,” Menedemos said: simple agreement seemed safe enough.

“You saw how we debased ourselves, heaping honors on him and on his father.”

“Yes,” Menedemos said again.

“And, no doubt, you didn’t think we could sink any lower,” Protomakhos went on. He threw back his head and laughed. “Shows what you know, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, dear,” Menedemos feared he could guess where this was going. “What did Stratokles do now?”

“It wasn’t Stratoldes,” the proxenos answered. “We have more than one flatterer in our polis. Aren’t we lucky?” He didn’t sound as if he thought the Athenians were lucky.

“Who, then?” Menedemos asked.

“An abandoned rogue named Dromokleides of Sphettos,” Pro-tomakhos said. “Sphettos is a village on the far side of Mount Hymettos, here in Attica. Hymettos has good honey; Sphettos has troublemakers. This Dromokleides proposed that Demetrios be given the same honors as Demeter and Dionysos whenever he visits Athens.”

“Oimoi! That’s pretty bad,” Menedemos said. “Doesn’t he realize there’s a difference between being named after a god and being one yourself? I can see why some people say Alexander was a demigod- look at everything he did. But Demetrios? I’m sorry, but no.”

“You have some common sense, Rhodian,” Protomakhos said sadly. “That’s more than I can say for the Assembly.”

“You mean they passed this resolution?” Menedemos said in dismay.

“They certainly did,” Protomakhos shouted for wine. As a slave hurried to get some, the proxenos turned back to Menedemos. “I’m sorry, best one, but I have to wash the taste of this out of my mouth. Join me?”

“Thanks. I will, I don’t blame you a bit,” Menedemos said, “And did Demetrios look all shy and abashed, the way he did when Sostratos and I came with you?”

“He wasn’t even there,” Protomakhos replied. “Dromokleides did it anyway. I suppose Demetrios will hear about it sooner or later, when he gets out of bed with whatever woman he’s got in there with him now.” Menedemos remembered that pretty girl he’d glimpsed when he and his cousin dined with Demetrios. But Protomakhos hadn’t finished. As the slave came back with wine-he’d included a cup for Menedemos, too-the Rhodian proxenos went on, “That wasn’t the only decree our new Perikles passed today. By the dog, no!-not even close.”

He paused to let the slave pour the cups full. The wine couldn’t have been weaker than one to one. The slave had done a good job of gauging his master’s mood. Menedemos said, “Do I want to know the rest?”

“Probably not, but I’m going to tell you anyhow-misery loves company,” Protomakhos said. “They’re going to rename the month Mounykhion Demetrion, in honor-honor? ha!-of the victory Demetrios won at Mounykhia. They’re going to call the odd day between the end of one month and the start of the next that happens sometimes when you don’t know just when the new moon is-they’re going to call that a Demetrion, too. And you know the Dionysia you went to? It’s not the Dionysia any more, by Zeus. From now on, it’s going to be the Demetria.” His larynx worked as he emptied his winecup. Then he filled it again.