The Gryphon's Skull

have been most mornings aboard ship; out of deference to Polemaios’ wife, he'd left his chiton on. Menedemos was right: not a breath of breeze stirred his hair. “Oimoi! This isn't good. We'll have a hard time making Paros by sundown on oars alone.” “Isn't that the sad and sorry truth?” his cousin agreed. “And even if we do, the men will be worn to nubs and in a dreadful temper. To the crows with me if I blame 'em, either. Rowing all day is a hard way to make a drakhma and a half.” “I know.” Sostratos set a consoling hand on Menedemos' shoulder. “Well, my dear, we got this job because we can go against the wind, or even without it. We could give the rowers a couple of days to roister in Kos once we get there.” “Not a bad notion.” Menedemos dipped his head, then smiled a wicked smile. “There you go, being right again.” “I'm sorry. I'll try not to let it happen again,” Sostratos said, and thought he came out of the exchange fairly well. Menedemos had the pleasure of waking Diokles, who wasn't up quite so fast as usual. The oarmaster noted the calm as fast as the captain had. “The men'll have their work cut out for 'em today if things don't pick up,” he said, and set about shaking sailors out of sleep. “We can't afford to waste time, then.” Polemaios and his bodyguards also roused. So did Polemaios' wife, who was no more happy about waking up aboard ship than she had been about the sleeping arrangements the Aphrodite offered. Barley rolls and raisins and olives for breakfast didn't seem to be to her taste, either, and she had some sharp things to say about the wine the akatos carried. “It'll be hot work,” Sostratos said. The sun was just climbing over the horizon, but, with the air so still, he could feel the furnace of noontime in his mind hours before it turned real. “Have we got enough water and wine to get us to Paros? We're carrying all those extra passengers.” “For one day, we'll be all right,” Menedemos answered. Sostratos dipped his head; that was likely true. His cousin went on, “Besides, if I water the ship here, we lose that much traveling time, and we haven't got much to spare today.” Diokles put eight men at the oars on each side of the Aphrodite. At his orders, the oarblades bit into the sea. The galley glided out of Kythnos harbor, past the southern tip of the island, and then south and east toward Paros. Navigating in the Kyklades was easy enough. A sailor rarely found himself out of sight of land. There was Seriphos, due south of Kythnos, and there due east lay Syros. A tiny islet between them gave a good course for Paros, and in the distance Sostratos could see clouds hovering about Mount Marpessos, Paros' central peak. Before long, the mountain itself came into view. The sea seemed smooth as a polished piece of Parian marble. The oars rose and fell, rose and fell. Diokles gave the rowers shifts of about two hours, keeping them as fresh as he could. Polemaios' wife amused herself by complaining. His bodyguards prowled the ship like so many feral dogs on the prowl for something they could eat. They were going to steal this and that. Sostratos knew as much. He couldn't keep his eye on all of them all the time. They couldn't steal too much, if only because they had nothing but their already-full sacks of personal goods in which to conceal their loot. Not all of them seemed to realize that. One—the big fellow who'd been standing outside Polemaios' front door —bent down under an unoccupied rower's bench and came up holding the big leather sack that contained the gryphon's skull. Sostratos jerked as if stuck by a pin. “Put that down!” he yelped. “Who's going to make me?” the guard demanded. His free hand went to the hilt of his sword. He hadn't doffed