his armor aboard ship. Under the brim of his bronze helmet, his face twisted into a nasty grin. Sostratos wore only a wool tunic, and had nothing but a knife on his belt. He bit his lip in humiliation. From the stern, Menedemos called, “Well, best one, if you want what you've got so much, why don't you see what it is?” “I will.” The Macedonian undid the lashing that held the sack closed. The gryphon's skull stared out at him from empty eye sockets. Now he was the one who yelped, in surprise and superstitious fear. “Don't you dare drop that,” Sostratos warned. This time, he managed to put a snap rather than a whine in his voice. “Put it back where you got it.” Perhaps too startled not to, the bodyguard obeyed. He didn't close the sack, but that could wait. Once the gryphon's skull was stowed under the bench once more, the fellow managed a question of his own: “What do you want with that horrible, ugly thing?” Sostratos smiled his most sinister smile. “Before we got the commission to bring your master back to Kos, I was going to take it up to Thessalia, to sell it to one of the witches there.” Northeastern Hellas was notorious for its witches. Sostratos didn't believe in witchcraft—not with the top part of his mind, anyhow—but to protect the precious gryphon's skull he grabbed any weapon that came to hand. And this one worked. The big, fierce Macedonian went pale as milk. His ringers writhed in an apotropaic gesture. He said something in Macedonian that Sostratos couldn't understand. Once he got it out of his system, he switched to a dialect of Greek that made more sense: “I hope the witches turn you into a spider, you wide-arsed son of a whore.” Grinning, Sostratos said, “I love you, too, my dear.” Behind the grin was a fright he wouldn't show. If the bodyguard got angry enough, or frightened enough, he would draw that sword, and Sostratos couldn't do much to fight back. But the big man only shuddered and made another warding gesture before turning and stomping back up toward the foredeck. A couple of minutes later, Polemaios strode toward the stern. “Thessalian witchcraft?” he said. How superstitious was he? Sostratos couldn't tell by the tone of the question. He just said, “That's right,” and waited to see what happened next. Polemaios grunted, ascended to the poop deck, and pissed into the sea. Then he too returned to his station on the foredeck. He and his bodyguard got into a shouting match. To Sostratos' frustration, it was in Macedonian. The bodyguard wasn't shy about saying whatever was on his mind, waving his hands in Polemaios' face and bunching them into fists. Polemaios showed no more restraint. “A charming people, the Macedonians,” Sostratos remarked in a low voice as he went up to stand near his cousin. “Aren't they, though?” Menedemos rolled his eyes. “And they rule almost the entire civilized world,” Sostratos said mournfully. He drew himself up with more than a little pride. “But not Rhodes.” “Gods be praised!” Menedemos exclaimed, and Sostratos dipped his head.
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