The Gryphon's Skull

As irony had, glibness satisfied the officer. He walked back down the pier, “Can we make Mykonos in half a day?” Sostratos asked.

“From here? I expect so,” Menedemos answered. “And who knows? Maybe we really will sell some silk in the agora tomorrow.”

“Maybe.” Sostratos didn't believe it, but he didn't argue. They'd already been surprised a couple of times this sailing season. He did point north and ask, “If we leave tomorrow a bit after noon, are you really sure we can get up to Mykonos by sunset?” Haze-purple in the distance, the other island heaved itself over the sea-smooth horizon, with tiny, holy Delos and the altogether mundane Rheneia off to its left.

“I told you once that I think so,” his cousin answered. With a grin, Menedemos went on, “Remember what a hard time we had last year convincing the people there that we weren't a pack of pirates?”

“I sure do,” Sostratos said. “We almost had trouble with pirates ourselves in those waters. I could do without that.”

“A lot of bald men on Mykonos.” Menedemos ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. “I could do without that.”

Laughing, Sostratos said, “Be careful, my dear, or your beauty will make me swoon. How can I possibly lie down on the poop deck beside you tonight and hope to go to sleep?”

That made Menedemos laugh, too. It also made him preen a little. He was a handsome man, and had had more than his share of suitors as a youth. For a while, a good many walls in Rhodes had had BEAUTIFUL MENEDEMOS and other such endearments scrawled on them. He'd basked in his popularity, too. Tall and plain and gawky, Sostratos had hidden jealousy behind a mask of indifference. Eventually, the mask became the thing itself, but it took a while.

With Aphrodite's wandering star already glowing in the west, it was too late to go looking for the Rhodian proxenos here. They did sleep on the poop deck, with the stars and mosquitoes for company. In the morning, Menedemos sent a party of sailors into the polis with water jars. With a chuckle, he said, “You boys can surprise the women who gossip around whatever fountain you find.”

“Now you've done it,” Sostratos said, watching the rowers straighten up and start to primp. “We'll be lucky if they don't jump ship.”

“They'd better not,” his cousin said. “Anybody who's not aboard by noon gets left behind. That means they won't be able to get away from her husband or her father or her brothers.” He spoke like a man with considerable experience in such matters. Sostratos knew he was.

More sailors carried silk and dye and balsam and perfume and papyrus and ink behind Sostratos and Menedemos as they made their way to the Naxian market square. Sostratos had to give a local an obolos for directions; Naxos was an old town, with streets running every which way. Men in the agora shouted about their garlic and cheeses, their barley and wool, their olives and olive oil, their raisins and the local wines. “Just another small-town market,” Sostratos said.

Menedemos chuckled. “We'll take care of that, by the gods.” As soon as they'd found a place that would stay shady all morning long and the sailors had set up the goods they'd brought along, he sang out, “Koan silk! Rhodian perfume! Crimson dye from Byblos! Balsam from Engedi, finest in the world!”

For a moment, everybody else in the market square stopped and gaped. Menedemos went right on crying his wares. He liked being the center of attention; he liked few things better, in fact. Having all the people within earshot crane their heads his way was sitos and opson and unwatered wine to him,

“Papyrus from Egypt!” Sostratos added for good measure. “It's been going fast—get it while we've still got some left. Best quality ink!”

“Silk! Perfume! Crimson! Balsam!”

Before long, they had quite a crowd around their little display: people eager to feel and to sniff and to gawk. The Naxians were Ionians, and dropped their rough breathings: “ 'Ere, be careful! Get off my foot!” “ 'E meant you!” “No, 'e didn't. 'E meant you!” “Watch where you put your 'ands, pal!” “You've got nutting wort' watching, lady.”

People did plenty of looking, yes. They were less eager to part with their silver, though a physician did buy a couple of drakhmai's worth of balsam. “Good to see it here,” he said gravely. “I find it very useful, but I seldom have a chance to buy any.”

“You should get more, then,” Sostratos said.

“So I should.” The fellow smiled a sweet, sad smile. “Trouble is, I can't afford to. Necessity is master of us all.” He took the little bit of balsam he had bought and went on his way.

Sostratos also sold a pot of ink, and Menedemos sold a couple of jars of perfume. But business was slow. When Aristeidas made his way into the market square to report that the water jars were filled, Sostratos and his cousin breathed identical sighs of relief.

Menedemos glanced at the sun. “Not quite noon yet, but close enough. Let's pack up and head back to the ship.” Sostratos said not a word in protest.