The Gryphon's Skull

Then he found more reason to curse than a lump on the head, for his cousin had known whereof he spoke. The collision had staved in three or four of the timbers near the stern, cracking the tenons and breaking open the mortises that held them together. Seawater came through—-not in a steady stream, but by surges, so the damage was close to the waterline but not below it.

Sostratos backed out from under the decking {and, not being the most graceful of men, hit his head once more for good measure). He went up onto the poop deck and gave Menedemos the news.

“I knew it,” Menedemos said savagely. “And what do you bet we didn't do a thing to that stinking round ship? It'll have timbers as thick as its skipper's head. How much water's coming in?”

“It's not too bad,” Sostratos answered. “It's leaking in spurts, not steadily.”

“If we patch it with sailcloth and bail, do you think we can turn back and make Kos?”

“I suppose so,” Sostratos said. “Myndos is a lot closer, though.” He pointed east.

“I know it, my dear,” Menedemos answered. “I'll go there if I have to. But I'd rather not. Damage like that takes a while to repair, and word will get to Myndos that we were the ones who brought Polemaios to Kos. If I have a choice, I'd sooner not be there when it does. If I don't”—he shrugged—”that's a different story, and I'll do what I have to do.”

“Ah.” Sostratos dipped his head. “That makes good sense. As I say, it's not too bad. We got off easier than we might have. You might want to go under there and see for yourself.”

“I suppose I'd better,” Menedemos said. “All right, take the steering oars—uh, oar. Who would've thought we'd lose two on the same voyage? Long odds there, by the gods. Swing her around to southward to run with the wind. We'll make for Kos unless I decide we can't get there.”

When Menedemos came back up onto the poop deck, he was rubbing the top of his head. Seeing that made Sostratos feel better about his own bumps. Menedemos said, “They're sprung, sure enough, but I think we can plug 'em. You're right—that's not too bad a leak. We'll make Kos easy as you please.” He shouted commands, sending a couple of sailors under the poop deck with sailcloth to stuff up the sprung seams and ordering the sail lowered from the yard.

Sostratos peered forward. “What'll we do if we spot the round ship?”

“We ought to ram her,” Menedemos growled. “See how she likes it, by the gods.” In more thoughtful tones, he went on, “If we find out who she is, maybe we can go to law with her skipper or her owner.”

“Maybe.” Sostratos knew he sounded dubious. Going to law against anyone from another polis—and collecting a judgment if you won—was often a task to make Sisyphos' seem easy by comparison. Often, but perhaps not always. Sostratos brightened a little. “If she puts in at Kos, we could go straight to Ptolemaios.”

“So we could.” Menedemos smiled a predatory smile. “Hard to find a better connection than that, isn't it?”

Before Sostratos could answer, a sailor came out from under the poop deck and called to Menedemos: “Skipper, we've plugged up the sprung seams as best we can, but we're still taking on some water.”

“How much is 'some'?” Menedemos demanded. He waved a hand. “Never mind—I'll see for myself. Sostratos, take the steering oar again and keep us on our course.” As soon as Sostratos had hold of the tiller, his cousin disappeared under the deck once more. When he emerged, his expression was as gloomy as the weather. “Pestilence take it, I don't want to have to make for Myndos.”

Diokles said, “Skipper, why not fother a square of sailcloth smeared with pitch over the damage? War galleys will do that when they're rammed—if they have the time before they're rammed again, I mean.”

“Hold the sailcloth against the ship with ropes, you mean?” Menedemos said, and the oarmaster dipped his head. Menedemos looked thoughtful. “I've never tried that. You know how to go about it?”

“I sure do,” Diokles answered. Some men would say as much regardless of whether it was true. Sostratos didn't think the keleustes was one of them.

Evidently his cousin didn't, either. “All right. Take charge of it,” Menedemos said. “I'll learn from you along with the sailors.”

“Right,” Diokles said. “Getting pitch on the sailcloth will be a bastard in this rain, but what can you do?” As some of the sailors started that messy job, he ordered the sail brailed up again and took all but four rowers off the oars. “Hold her course steady,” he told Sostratos. “We don't want much speed on her right now, on account of we'll bring the boat alongside, and it'll have to keep up.”

“I understand,” Sostratos said.

The oarmaster called to the crew: “Now, who can swim? We have anybody who's ever dived for sponges?” One naked sailor raised a hand. Diokles waved to him. “Good for you, Moskhion.” He spoke quietly to Sostratos: “He'll be swimming under the hull. He ought to have something for it.”

“Of course.” Sostratos dipped his head and raised his voice: “Two days' pay bonus for you, Moskhion.”