The Gryphon's Skull

The wind held. Telos drew near, the sun dropping down the sky towards it. The island was long and thin and curved, rather like a strigil lying in the water. Only a couple of fishing boats bobbed offshore; they were plenty to bring home opson for the inhabitants of the village near the north coast that was Telos' largest settlement.

A stretch of beach in front of the village was the most common spot for ships to put in, but Menedemos sailed past it. “Why did you do that?” Sostratos asked.

“Something one of the sailors told me while you were on the fore-deck,” his cousin answered. “Once we get past this rocky stretch here”—he waved at the forbidding coastline they were passing— “there's another good bit of beach, one where sea turtles come ashore to lay their eggs. They ought to make good eating. We can boil up a mess of them and have opson for the whole crew.”

“Turtle eggs, eh?” Sostratos felt the lure of the exotic. “I've never tried them. Lead on, O best one.” He patted his stomach. “It's been a long time since bread and wine back on Rhodes.”

“Hasn't it just?” Menedemos agreed.

From the bow, Aristeidas pointed ahead and to port. “There's the beach, skipper!” the sharp-eyed sailor sang out.

“Good,” Menedemos said, and then started calling out orders: “Brail the sail up to the yard! Rowers every other bench! Come on— move faster there. Do it as if you had pirates breathing down your neck.”

To Sostratos, the men seemed to be moving quite fast enough, but Menedemos drove them like the commander of a trireme. The sailors didn't grumble. They knew they would have to be able to work together without thinking if they ever did need to flee pirates or fight them.

This length of beach was considerably shorter than the one near the village. Peering toward it, Sostratos exclaimed in excitement: “That fellow was right! I just saw a turtle crawling back into the sea.”

Whistling, his cousin swung the ship so that her stern pointed toward the beach and her bow out to sea. A couple of men got into the boat she towed and rowed it ashore. “Back oars!” Diokles called. The rowers reversed their stroke. After the Aphrodite beached, pushing her into the sea again come morning would be easier bow-first.

Menedemos kept stealing glances back over his shoulder at the beach as the Aphrodite covered the last couple of plethra. Plovers scurrying along the sand took to the air when the merchant galley drew too close to suit them. “That's fine,” Menedemos said, “just fine. Keep it going and—”

A grinding, scraping noise interrupted him. “What's that?” Sostratos asked at the same time as his cousin exclaimed in surprise and dismay. “Have we struck a rock?” It didn't feel like that, and the akatos still moved backwards through the water.

“We haven't,” Menedemos answered. “But our starboard steering oar just did. Almost tore my arm out of the socket when it hit, too.” Sure enough, the steering oar was torn out of the housing that secured it to the ship. And another crackle of splintering timber said the narrow length of the tiller hadn't come through undamaged, either.

The rock missed impaling the Aphrodite's flank. A moment later, soft sand scrunched under her false keel as she beached herself as prettily as anyone could have wanted.

“Well, that's a nuisance,” Sostratos said.

“It certainly is,” Menedemos said, “I can guide the ship well enough with only one steering oar, but it's not something I want to do. If you've only got one and something goes wrong ...”

He's a sensible and cautious seaman, Sostratos thought, most of the time, anyway. Why doesn't his mind work the same way when he's on dry land?

One more crackle and the steering oar fell away from the tiller and onto the sand, leaving Menedemos holding what was left of the tiller. With an oath, he threw it down onto the poop deck, narrowly missing Sostratos’ toes. “What a miserable piece of luck,” he said. “It was only a year old, and part of the best pair we ever had.”

“You want to make repairs here, skipper, or go on up to Kos and have the shipwrights there do a proper job of it?” Diokles asked.

“I'm going to have to think about that,” Menedemos answered. “For now, let's push her farther out of the water. I'll be able to take a better look at the damage then, too.”

“Makes sense,” the oarmaster agreed. He angled the gangplank down from the deck to the beach and descended. Sostratos and Menedemos followed. Sailors in the undecked waist of the ship simply scrambled over the side and dropped to the sand.

Sostratos, Menedemos, and Diokles added their weight and strength to those of the sailors. Sostratos' hands gripped the thin lead sheathing that helped hold shipworms at bay; his toes dug into the sand. Digit by digit, the Aphrodite moved up the beach.