The Gryphon's Skull

“All right,” Menedemos said mildly—so mildly, Sostratos shot him a sharp look. Had he been thinking something like, If Polemaios is worth a talent to Ptolemaios, how much is he worth to Kassandros? No way to prove it.

Something else occurred to Sostratos. He spoke with as much diplomacy as he had in him: “You do know, sir, we'll be sailing through the Kyklades on our way back to Kos?”

“And through my gods-detested uncle's polluted Island League.” Polemaios might have been harsh and crude, but he wasn't stupid. He went on, “Don't you worry about that. I won't travel under my right name.” He looked from Sostratos to Menedemos and back again. “And I will bring some bodyguards with me.”

“Of course, best one.” The two Rhodians spoke together. If they hadn't promptly agreed to that, Sostratos doubted they would have got back to the Aphrodite alive.

As things were, Polemaios said, “I'll see you in the morning, early,” and called for the slave. At his brusque gesture, the fellow led Sostratos and Menedemos out of the house and all but slammed the door in their faces.

Outside, the big bodyguard barked, “You find out what you needed to know?” Sostratos dipped his head. The guard said, “Why don't you get lost, then?” He set a hand on his swordhilt to let them know it wasn't a suggestion. They left in a hurry.

“What a charming fellow,” Menedemos said once they were around a corner and out of earshot.

“Who?” Sostratos asked. “The man himself, or his comrade?” In a polis full of Polemaios' soldiers, he didn't name Antigonos' nephew,

“I had the man himself in mind,” Menedemos answered. “But his comrade's just as delightful, isn't he?”

“Every bit.” Sostratos walked on for a few paces, then turned to his cousin. “I wonder just how many friends the man himself will bring to the symposion.”

He didn't mention bodyguards or the merchant galley, either, but Menedemos had no trouble following him. “What an interesting question,” he said brightly. “Not so many that they get in the way of the slaves, I hope.”

“So do I,” Sostratos said. “This gets more and more complicated, doesn't it?”

His cousin flashed him a smile. “Well, my dear, have you ever heard of anything that didn't?”

Menedemos had a knack for waking up whenever he told himself to do so, as if somewhere in the back of his mind there were a klepsydra like the one used to time speeches in the Athenian law courts. It was still dark when his eyes came open the next morning. A glance at the stars and the moon told him dawn wasn't far away, though. He peered into Khalkis. No sign of Polemaios yet.

Sostratos lay on his back on the poop deck, snoring like a stonecutter's saw working its way through a block of marble. Menedemos shook him. The snores rose in pitch but didn't stop. Menedemos gave another shake. His cousin's eyes opened. “What in the name of the—?” Sostratos spluttered.

“Good day,” Menedemos said cheerfully. “We're waiting for a friend, remember?”

“Oh. That's right.” Sostratos yawned till the hinges of his jaw creaked. “No sign of him yet?”

“You don't see him, do you?” Menedemos said. He paused to gauge the feel of the water under the Aphrodite. “I wish he'd get here, too, because the Euripos is going our way right now. If it switches back to the north, we'll be stuck here for hours.”

“That's true,” Sostratos said around another yawn, this one not quite so enormous. He got to his feet and, as Menedemos had done a moment before, stared into Khalkis. The town was dark and quiet. An owl hooted, A baby wailed. A dog barked—three individual, widely spaced sounds against the background of silence. “Where is he? I hope he hasn't changed his mind.”

“He'd better not!” Menedemos exclaimed in horror; the elemental, entirely understandable horror of losing forty minai of silver.

“Cheer up,” Sostratos said. “If he does, we can just drop down to Athens and go on about our business.”

“You don't care about business. All you care about is that miserable old skull we got in Kaunos. I'm beginning to wish I'd never set eyes on the stinking thing. It won't make up for what Polemaios will cost us if he doesn't come—and nothing else will, either.”

Instead of answering, Sostratos pointed into the sleeping polls. “What was that?”

“What was what?” Menedemos had been eyeing the gray starting to seep up into the eastern sky.

“Light, moving. Look—there it is again.”

“You're right,” Excitement filled Menedemos' voice. “That's torchlight on walls, sure as sure—we just can't see the torches themselves yet.” And then, a moment later, as the men carrying them rounded a corner, he could: a dozen, at least. They flickered like bright stars on a cold night, and they were, without a doubt, heading for the Aphrodite.

From one of the rowers' benches, Diokles spoke up: “Looks like we're in business, skipper. And the current's flowing our way, too.”