Over the Wine Dark Sea

'Passengers are supposed to bring their own victuals -  everyone knows that. If you don't . . .' Sostratos shrugged. 'Whose fault is it?'   'I had to leave Tainaron in rather a hurry,' Alexidamos pointed out.   Sostratos shrugged again. 'And whose fault is that?' he answered, perfectly polite, perfectly deadpan. Alexidamos took a moment to realize he'd been skewered. When he did, he snarled a curse and let a hand fall to the hilt of his sword.   'Remember where you are, friend,' Menedemos said. He wondered if he would have to say something more than that, if the mercenary from Rhodes was too dense to take a hint. But Alexidamos looked around and saw not a single friendly face anywhere. He also saw not a speck of land anywhere on the horizon. His hand jerked away from the sword as if the hilt were hot.   Menedemos sent Kallikrates and Philippos up to sleep on the foredeck; they'd shown no signs of causing trouble. With the other two mercenaries sharing the poop with him and Sostratos and Diokles, it was crowded. Even so, they all had room to stretch out. The rowers at their benches had to lean up against the ship's planking to steady themselves as they slept.   When Menedemos woke the next morning, the swells were bigger than they had been. The breeze had freshened, and brought more clouds out of the north with it. The sunrise was redder than he would have liked to see, too.   'We may be heading into a blow,' he said to Diokles, hoping the oarmaster would tell him he was wrong.   But Diokles dipped his head. 'Looks that way to me, too, skipper. One thing: no lee shore to be washed up on. We've got a good many stadia between us and the nearest land. If we ride it out, we're fine.'   'Let's batten things down,' Menedemos said. 'We'd better do it, and then hope we don't need to.' Rather to his dismay, Diokles dipped his head again.   When he gave the order, the sailors who weren't rowing hurried to obey. He drew the obvious conclusion from that: they thought a storm was coming, too. 'Make sure the peafowl cages are well lashed down,' Sostratos called. 'We can't afford to lose any of the birds over the side.' By the time the men were done with them, a spider-web of lines secured them to the ship.   Philippos came up to Menedemos. 'Is it . . . going to blow?' the mercenary asked nervously.   'Only cloud-gathering Zeus knows for certain,' Menedemos answered, watching large, dark clouds gather in the north and spread across the sky. 'We don't want to take any chances, though.' Philippos dipped his head and went away. Menedemos didn't know how reassuring he'd been, but he didn't have a lot of reassurance to offer. The other mercenaries asked him no questions. They could see for themselves what was likely to happen.   'This is what's wrong with sailing in the Ionian Sea,' Diokles said. 'A storm will start building at the top of the Adriatic and just blow all the way down.'   'How bad do you think it will be?' Menedemos asked: the oarmaster had been going to sea about as long as he'd been alive, and he valued Diokles' experience. Only after the question passed the barrier of his teeth did he wonder if he wasn't looking for some reassurance himself.