'I suppose so.' Sostratos thought of the redheaded Thracian slave girl. But Erinna hadn't been talking about him; she'd been talking about Menedemos. He said, 'You know how our cousin is. For him, sometimes, half the reason for doing something is knowing he shouldn't.' 'It could be.' Erinna considered. 'It probably is, in fact. But what would he say of you if he had the chance?' 'Of me?' Sostratos echoed in surprise. 'Probably that I'm too boring to say anything much about.' He yawned to emphasize the point. 'Xanthos is boring - or at least that's what everybody says,' Erinna answered. 'You just don't care to talk about fighting and drinking and women all the time, that's all.' Sostratos went over and gave her a brotherly hug. The peahen, seeing the protector of the herb garden distracted, darted forward. Sostratos and Erinna shooed it off again together. The trouble is, most people like to hear about fighting and drinking and women, Sostratos thought. He did himself, sometimes. And Menedemos could indeed go on most entertainingly about any or all of them. I'd better give it up, Sostratos thought, or I'll convince myself that I am boring after all. He took a warning step toward the peahen. It backed away, looking as if it hated him. Getting a ship ready to sail was always a tricky business. Menedemos was convinced he had a harder time with the Aphrodite than he would have had with a round ship, a sailing ship. The reason was simple: with forty oars to man, he needed far more sailors than the master of a sailing ship did. 'We're still a couple of men short,' he said to Diokles, his keleustes. The oarmaster dipped his head in agreement, but didn't seem particularly upset. 'We'll hire harbor rats, that's all,' he answered, 'and if they drink up their wages the first good-sized port we come to, well, to the crows with 'em. Plenty more of that kind to be picked up in any harbor of the Inner Sea.' 'I want as good a crew as I can get.' Menedemos pointed toward the Aphrodite's bow. 'That ram isn't there just for show. Crete breeds pirates the way a dog breeds fleas, and Italy's the same way. And the war between Syracuse and Carthage goes on and on, so the Punic navy's liable to be prowling around, too.' Diokles shrugged. He was about halfway between Menedemos and his father in age, burnt brown by the sun, with the massive shoulders and heavy arms of a man who'd spent a lot of years working an oar himself. 'The way I look at it is like this,' he said 'if a Carthaginian galley with four or five men to a bank of oars comes after us, it won't matter whether a couple of our rowers aren't everything they might be, because we'll get sunk any which way.' Since he was probably - no, almost certainly - right, Menedemos didn't argue with him. Instead, he turned to Sostratos and asked, 'How's the cargo shaping?' His cousin held out a three-leafed wooden tablet faced with wax, on which he'd written the manifest with the sharp end of his bronze stylus. As items came aboard, he'd either erased them with the blunt end or drawn a line through them, depending on how harried he was at any given moment. 'We've still got some papyrus to take on board,' he answered, showing Menedemos the tablet, 'and the peafowl, and their feed, and wine and water and oil and bread for the men.'
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