The Gryphon's Skull

“He did,” Euxenides said. Antigonos' officer coughed a couple of times. He turned toward Menedemos. “You've been saying you planned on stopping at Kos. If Ptolemaios' whole naval expedition is there, I don't think I want to visit the place, thank you very much. Can you put me ashore at Knidos instead? You can stop there before going on to Kos.”

“Yes, I'll do that,” Menedemos said at once. With Ptolemaios' whole great fleet and perhaps Ptolemaios himself at Kos city, he didn't want to get there with Antigonos' officer on board.

“I thank you.” Euxenides drummed his fingers on the adze handle. “I shouldn't have to pay twenty drakhmai for the trip, either, not when I'm not going to Miletos.”

Had Euxenides not gone to work on the new steering oar, Menedemos might have argued with him. But Sostratos, who was scrupulously fair, dipped his head in agreement with the officer's words. So Menedemos just said, “Ah, right. I’ll cut the price in half.”

Euxenides looked . . . half pleased. “Ten drakhmai to Knidos is as outrageous as twenty drakhmai to Miletos.” He paused. His nails clicked rhythmically on the axe handle. “It's no more

outrageous, I suppose. A bargain, captain. Ten drakhmai.”

He soon finished the steering oar and set to work repairing the pivot on which it would turn. He was as swift and deft there as he had been while turning a tree trunk into something useful. The sun had just swung past noon when he set the new steering oar in its place.

Menedemos went back aboard the Aphrodite to see how the new steering oar felt. The tiller seemed strange under his palm: it was a lopped-off branch from the tree that had made the steering oar, with the bark still on it. The new steering oar was a little heavier than the old one. It would be, he thought, being made of green wood. But the balance was everything it should have been, and the makeshift only had to last to Kos. Menedemos tossed his head. No, to Knidos, if it turns out not to serve.

He dipped his head to Euxenides of Phaselis. “Many thanks. It's plenty good enough.”

Antigonos' officer seemed more embarrassed than pleased. “You're welcome, though I hate to take thanks for anything that simple. The joinery that goes into catapults . . .”

“Never mind,” Menedemos said. “I believe you. You've made me believe you.” He raised his voice and called out to the Aphrodite's crew: “Come on, boys! Let's get her back into the water.”

Half a dozen men shoved the merchant galley's boat back out into the Aegean. They made the boat fast to the Aphrodite's bow with a line. The rest of the sailors, along with Menedemos, Sostratos, and Euxenides, stationed themselves along the length of the akatos' hull and at the stern.

“Ready?” Menedemos waited a heartbeat, then raised his voice to a shout: “Push!”

He put his own shoulder against the lead plates that sheathed the ship and shoved with all his might. The men in the boat rowed with all their strength, pulling the Aphrodite while everyone else pushed.

She didn't move at the first try. Menedemos hadn't expected that she would. She was more heavily built than a war galley or a piratical pentekonter, and she still carried her cargo. Had she had more of it, Menedemos would have had the crew do some unloading before trying to refloat her—or he might not have beached her at all, but left her anchored offshore instead.

“Push!” he called again. His shoulder complained as he set it against the ship. His feet dug into the sand. His grunt was one of a chorus that rose from the straining men. Telos was a barren place, nowhere anybody could possibly want to be stranded.

Sand ground under the oak of the akatos' false keel. “She's stirring!” Sostratos gasped from his place a couple of men over from Menedemos.

“That she is,” Menedemos agreed, also gasping. He paused for a couple of breaths, then managed a shout: “Put your backs into it, you lazy whoresons!” Something creaked in his own back as he shoved, but he didn't let that keep him from giving the work all he had in him.

Little by little and then, it seemed, all at once, the Aphrodite went into the Aegean. The sailors raised a cheer and waded out after the ship, scrambling aboard wet and naked and dripping, Menedemos took his place on the poop deck. His face wore a curious frown as he reached for the steering-oar tillers, one pale and sweat-stained, the other bark-brown.

Sostratos understood him perfectly. “Let's find out how that new one does now that it's really in the sea.”

Menedemos dipped his head. “Just so.” He called out to the crew: “Ten men on a side to the oars. Diokles, give us the stroke.”

“Right you are, skipper,” the oarmaster replied. He took out his mallet and square of bronze. “Come on, you lugs—pay attention to me. “Rhyppapai! Rhyppapai!”