The Gryphon's Skull

One of those prowling galleys spotted the Aphrodite and came centipede-walking across the sea toward her, three banks of big oars rising and falling in the smooth unison that bespoke a well beaten-in crew. The five was fully decked, her oar-box also encased in timber to protect the rowers from missiles. She mounted a catapult near the bow. Its crew stood by to send darts farther than any archer could. Armored marines, the plumes on their helmets waving in the breeze, strode here and there across the planking.

“You couldn't pay me enough to wear a corselet aboard ship,” Menedemos said. “One slip and splash!—right down to the bottom of the sea.”

“A swimmer sometimes has a chance,” Sostratos agreed.

Before his cousin could answer, an officer aboard the war galley cupped his hands in front of his mouth and bellowed, “You, there! Heave to!”

Diokles looked a question to Menedemos, who dipped his head. “Oöp!” the keleustes called, and the rowers rested at their oars. The Aphrodite slid to a halt, bobbing in the light chop. Sostratos' stomach tried to complain. He ignored it.

Up came the five, a wooden cliff rising from the sea. She had twice the freeboard of the Aphrodite; her deck stood six or seven cubits above the sea. The officer peered down from the deck at the merchant galley. So did her marines, some armed with bows, some with javelins, some with thrusting-spears. “Who are you and where are you from?” the officer demanded.

“We're the Aphrodite, out of Rhodes,” Sostratos answered.

That impressed Ptolemaios' officer less than he'd hoped it would. “All the stinking spies and pirates say they're Rhodians,” the fellow said. “Whose ship is this?”

“My cousin's father's and my father's,” Sostratos said. “Philodemos and Lysistratos.”

By his accent, the officer wasn't a Rhodian. He turned and spoke in a low voice to some of the marines. One of them dipped his head. Asking if they've ever heard of our fathers, Sostratos thought. The answer the officer got must have satisfied him, for his next question was less hostile: “What are you carrying?”

“Crimson dye. Papyrus. Ink. Fine Rhodian perfume,” Sostratos replied.

“Balsam from Engedi. A couple of lion skins. A tiger skin from far-off India,” Menedemos added. He said not a word about the thirteen emeralds in the pouch on his belt. Sostratos would have been astonished if he had. Since they'd been smuggled out of Egypt, these servants of the master of Egypt were all too likely to confiscate them.

Sostratos hadn't said anything about the gryphon's skull, either. His reasons were different from the ones Menedemos likely had. He simply couldn't imagine a naval officer caring about old bones or being able to see that the skull might be valuable.

“A tiger skin?” the officer said. “You show me a tiger skin and I'll send you right on in to the harbor.”

“Just as you say, O marvelous one,” Menedemos replied. Sostratos wouldn't have used that sarcastic formula to a fellow aboard a war galley that could have crushed the Aphrodite like a man stamping on a mouse, but his cousin always liked to push things. Menedemos waved to him. “Show the gentleman the skin, Sostratos,”

“Certainly,” Sostratos said. Menedemos assumed he knew exactly where it was stowed, and Menedemos was right. He got out the large oiled-leather sack that protected the tiger skin from seawater and undid the rawhide lashing holding the sack closed. The rank odor of a not quite perfectly cured hide and, he supposed, of tiger itself wafted out.

A couple of sailors helped him spread out the great striped skin. The officer leaned forward, staring so hard he almost fell into the sea. The marines aboard the galley gaped, too. Finally, the officer blinked a couple of times and seemed to come back to himself. “I'm a man of my word,” he said, and waved toward the harbor of Kos city a few stadia away. “Pass on.”

“Rhyppapai! Rhyppapai!” Diokles called, beating out the stroke with his mallet and bronze square. As the rowers began to work, the oarmaster aboard the war galley also began his endless chant. Those three banks of sweeps bit into the Aegean. Ptolemaios' galley resumed its patrol, and the Aphrodite glided into the harbor.

Finding a place to tie up took a deal of time and a deal of shouting. The harbor was much smaller than that of Rhodes. It didn't have nearly enough shipsheds to accommodate all the triremes and bigger galleys from Ptolemaios' fleet; close to half of them had to moor at the quays like so many merchantmen. Because of that, space for real merchantmen was at a premium.