comes out of the northwest hereabouts during sailing season.' With the passengers aboard, and with the peafowl cages taking up much of the foredeck, the poop deck was more crowded than usual. Philippos said, 'You'll put right into the harbor at Taras, won't you?' Menedemos didn't laugh out loud. Neither did Sostratos. But Diokles did, and so did Alexidamos and Rhoikos. They knew what an inexact art navigation was. Turning to his fellow mercenary, Rhoikos spoke in his broad Doric drawl: 'Don't sail a whole lot, you tell me?' 'What's that got to do with anything?' Philippos asked. At that, Menedemos did laugh. He couldn't help himself. He wasn't the only one, either. He said, 'Best one, I'm sailing northwest. I'm keeping my course as true as I know how. And if the weather holds, we'll make the Italian coast within a couple of hundred stadia of Taras either way, and then sail along it to the city. If the weather doesn't hold . . .' He shrugged. He didn't want to talk about that, or even to think about it. Philippos looked as astonished as a young boy might on first learning where babies come from. In tones that said he had trouble believing what he'd just heard, he asked, 'But why can't you get right where you're going?' Patiently, biting down on new laughter, Menedemos answered, 'We'll be out of sight of land pretty soon. Once we are, what have we got to go on? The sun - the stars at night - the wind and the waves. That's all. I haven't got a magic pointer to tell me which way north is. I wish I did, but Hephaistos has never shown anybody how to make such a thing.' 'If I'd known that, I'd've stayed at Tainaron till I found a general who'd march me off to his army,' the unhappy mercenary said. 'You're welcome to go back,' Menedemos said. Philippos brightened, but only till he added, 'Provided you can swim that far.' 'Perhaps the dolphins would carry him, as they did Arion,' Sostratos said helpfully. 'You're making fun of me,' Philippos said, which was true. He pushed by Menedemos to the Aphrodite's stern. There he stood, staring out past the sternpost toward Zakynthos, which steadily dwindled in the southeast and finally vanished below the horizon. Philippos kept staring anyhow. Menedemos fancied himself Prometheus rather than Epimetheus: he looked ahead, not behind. Fluffy white clouds drifted across the sky from north to south. The sea was low; the Aphrodite pitched a little because she headed straight into the swells, but the motion wasn't enough to make even a lubber like Philippos lean out over the rail. In a low voice, Menedemos asked Diokles, 'Do you think the weather will hold for the crossing?' The oarmaster shrugged. 'You'd do better asking the gods than me. We've got a pretty fair chance, I think - couldn't hardly ask for anything better than we've got right now. But it's still early in the sailing season, too.' 'Would you head up to Korkyra?' Menedemos asked. 'We could still swing back in that
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