The Gryphon's Skull

“I get more tempted with every day that goes by,” Menedemos admitted. “We did make it back here from the middle of the strait between Kalymnos and the mainland. So I suppose we have a good chance of getting away with one more trip. But even so ...” He scowled. “I don't like to take the chance.”

“You're the captain,” his cousin said. “I suppose I ought to be grateful you're more careful at sea than you are on land.”

“Ha,” Menedemos said in a hollow voice. Sostratos often twitted him harder than that. He raised his voice: “Perfume from fine Rhodian roses! Balsam from Engedi—makes a fine medicine or a wonderful incense. Best quality ink! Crimson dye!”

He and Sostratos sold some ink and some balsam by the time the sun sank toward the western horizon. They sold some more perfume, too, and a small-time silk merchant bought some of their dye. They didn't come close to making the mina and a half their crew cost them every day.

As they walked back toward the harbor, Sostratos said, “I hope we won't have to start selling the silk we bought from Pixodaros.”

“We'd better not!” Menedemos said. “The only way we can unload it here where they make it is to sell at a loss. We've been over that road before.”

“Don't remind me,” Sostratos said. “But if we have to get silver to keep the sailors paid . . .” He kicked at the dirt.

''Nothing new here,” Diokles said when they came aboard the Aphrodite. But then the oarmaster tossed his head. “No, I take that back. One of Ptolemaios' fives limped back into the harbor a good cubit and a half lower in the water than she should have been.”

Menedemos cursed. “One more thing to keep the stinking carpenters busy.” He turned to Sostratos. “I wish we'd gone straight up to the proxenos' house. That's the kind of news I didn't want to hear.”

“Can't be helped, my dear,” his cousin answered, “It would have happened whether we heard about it or not.”

That was true, but did little to console Menedemos. He took a couple of steps toward the gangplank to head back into the city with the last of the light when Diokles said, “Somebody's coming this way—coming in a hurry, too.”

“By the dog of Egypt!” Sostratos exclaimed. “That's Polemaios!”

The big man trotted up the quay toward the akatos. He paused halfway there to look back over his shoulder, as if fearing pursuit. Seeing none, he hurried on. “Hail, Menedemos,” he said, panting. “You must take me away from here, and quickly.”

“What?” Menedemos said, startled. “Why?”

Antigonos' nephew scowled. “I'll tell you why. That whoremaster of a Ptolemaios thinks I've been spreading silver around to some of his officers, to turn 'em against him and towards me, that's why. . . . All lies, of course,” he added after a couple of damning heartbeats.

“Of course,” Menedemos said, not believing him for a moment.

“Will you get me out of this place?” Polemaios demanded, “By the gods, I'll pay my fare and more. Name your price. I'll meet it. I'll drown you in drakhmai, so long as you get me out of that old bastard's reach.”

Ever so slightly, Sostratos tossed his head. Here, Menedemos didn't need his cousin's advice. He said, “I'm sorry, best one, but we're laid up ourselves. A polluted round ship rammed us, and we're still waiting for repairs. If we leave the harbor, we're liable to sink before we've gone even a stadion,” That exaggerated things, but Polemaios wouldn't know it. With a wave, Menedemos went on, “Besides, you can see for yourself that most of my crew's not aboard. How could I hope to sail?”

Polemaios growled, deep in his chest, the sound a desperate hunted animal might make. He looked back toward the center of town again, then howled out a curse, for a squad of hoplites approached at a quick march. “Hide me!” he said, and then, “Too late. They've seen me.” He yanked his sword from its scabbard.

The soldiers wore helmets and corselets, some of bronze, others of linen. They carried shields and long spears. They could have made quick work of the unarmored Macedonian. But their leader, an officer with a crimson-dyed crest nodding above his helm, politely dipped his head to Polemaios. “What point to fighting, most noble one?” he said. “Why don't you come along with us till this misunderstanding is sorted out?”

Menedemos thought Polemaios would make them kill him, but the big man grabbed hope like a drowning man seizing a spar. “Let it be as you say,” he said, and sheathed the sword again. At a word from the officer, the ruler of Egypt's soldiers surrounded him.

Then the captain eyed Menedemos and Sostratos. “Why don't you Rhodians come along with us, too, so we can find out just what exactly was going on here?”

He phrased it as a request, but it was an order, and Menedemos knew it. He walked up the gangplank, Sostratos behind him. The truth lay on their side. But would Ptolemaios believe it?

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