The Gryphon's Skull

Before long, the Aphrodite glided north over the waves. Diokles called out the stroke for the rowers. They were heading straight into the wind, so they went by oars alone, with the sail brailed up to the yard. Sostratos said, “We'll have an easier time bringing Polemaios back to Kos.”

His cousin gave him an odd look. “As far as wind and weather go, yes,” Menedemos said after a brief pause. Sostratos' ears burned. A lot of other things besides wind and weather might be involved.

At Panormos on the north coast of Mykonos, the Aphrodite got mistaken for a pirate ship again. That amused Menedemos and saddened him at the same time. He needed all his persuasive talent to keep the townsfolk there from either fleeing into the interior of the island or else attacking his ship. “Good thing we don't want anything more than an anchorage for the night,” he told Sostratos after the locals calmed down.

“I know,” his cousin answered. “I hope we don't run into any of the real sea-raiders as we head up towards Euboia.”

“May it not come to pass!” Menedemos exclaimed, and spat into the bosom of his tunic to turn aside the evil omen. So did Sostratos. Menedemos smiled. For all of Sostratos' philosophy, he could act as superstitious as any other seaman.

Sostratos coughed and looked faintly embarrassed. Though he had a sailor's superstitions, he didn't wear them comfortably, as most sailors did. He seemed to be looking for a way to change the subject: “Another night aboard ship.”

Panormos had no Rhodian proxenos. To Menedemos' way of thinking, the place barely counted as a polis. “We're probably better off here than we would be on dry land,” he said.

“I should think so.” Sostratos sent Menedemos a sly look. “No girls aboard the Aphrodite, though.”

“Any girls in a backwater place like Panormos would likely be ugly anyhow,” Menedemos replied. He spread out his himation on the poop deck, lay down on it and wrapped it around himself, and fell asleep.

When he woke up, Sostratos was snoring beside him. He got to his feet and pissed into the sea. The sky was lightening toward dawn. Diokles was awake, too. He looked back over his shoulder from the bench on which he'd been resting and waved to Menedemos, who dipped his head in return.

He let those sailors who could sleep till the sun followed rosy-fingered Aurora up over the horizon. Then the men who'd already wakened roused those who'd stayed asleep. They ate bread and oil and olives and onions. With Diokles beating out the stroke, they headed north and west toward Euboia.

A year before, the Aphrodite had sailed past Delos on her way toward Cape Tainaron. Now she left the sacred island and its ordinary neighbor behind, pushing up toward Tenos and Andros. The ship hadn't even come close to Tenos, one of the larger of the Kyklades, before Menedemos told Diokles, “Stop us for a bit.”

“All right, skipper,” the oarmaster said, and called out, “Oöp!” to the crew. The eight men on the oars on each side rested. They and the rest of the sailors looked back expectantly at Menedemos.

“Time to serve out weapons,” he said. “I just don't like the way things feel. If we're ready for trouble, maybe we can hold it away from us.”

“Probably not a bad idea,” Diokles said. Men put on sword belts and leaned pikes and javelins by their benches or in other spots where they could grab them in a hurry. Menedemos set his bow and a full quiver of arrows on the poop deck behind him. He could string the bow and start shooting in the space of a couple of heartbeats.

“Aristeidas, go forward,” he called. “I want the best lookout we've got up there.” The sharp-eyed sailor waved and hurried to the fore-deck. Menedemos dipped his head to Diokles. “All right. We can get going again.”

“Rhyppapai!” the keleustes sang out. “Rhyppapai!” The oars bit into the blue water of the Aegean. The merchant galley slid forward again.

Sostratos came back to the raised poop. He had a sword on his hip and contrived to look foolish with it, like an actor in a role he hadn't rehearsed. “In Athens,” he said, “they talk about nervous men who see every distant headland as a pirate ship.”

Menedemos declined to get ruffled, “In Athens, from what I hear, they don't do much of anything bat

talk,” he said. “Tell me, best one, how many islands in the Kyklades?”

“Some say twelve, others fifteen,” his cousin answered.

“That's about what I've heard,” Menedemos agreed. “But when they make that count, do they reckon in rocks like the one ahead?” He pointed to an islet just big enough to support a handful of bushes.

“Certainly not,” Sostratos said, as if making a rejoinder in a philosophical discussion.

But this was property, not philosophy; freedom or slavery, not words. “Could pirates hide behind that nasty rock and come charging out when they see a merchantman go by?” Menedemos asked.

“Yes, without a doubt.” Sostratos laughed. “I sound like one of Sokrates' foils, don't I?”