The Gryphon's Skull

here.” Menedemos shrugged. “If it is a storm, we'd get it in Miletos, too. Just as well not to get it out in the middle of the Aegean, though,” His feet went from the gravelly dirt of the street to the planks of the quay, hot under the sun but worn smooth by the passage of countless barefoot sailors. When he and Sostratos came up to the Aphrodite, Aristeidas asked, “Will they bring some of this famous Koan wine aboard tomorrow?” “Afraid not.” Menedemos tossed his head. “Nikomakhos wouldn't come down far enough to make it worth our while to buy.” “Ah, too bad,” the lookout said. A fair number of sailors had a lively interest in the business end of what the Aphrodite did; Aristeidas was one of them. Maybe he dreamt of owning a merchantman himself, or maybe of serving as captain aboard one and going on trading runs for the owner. The first was unlikely. The second was by no means impossible. Had things gone better for Diokles, he would have been doing that this sailing season. His time might— probably would—still come. In his turn, Menedemos asked, “See anything interesting across the water at Halikarnassos?” “No, skipper,” Aristeidas answered. “Everything's quiet over there. Ptolemaios' war galleys go back and forth outside the harbor here, and you can see Antigonos', little as bugs, doing the same thing over there. They don't even move against each other.” “Just as well,” Menedemos said. “I wouldn't want to sail out of here and end up in the middle of a sea fight.” “I should hope not,” Aristeidas exclaimed. In a low voice, Sostratos said, “Oh, you had warships in mind when you asked about Halikarnassos? I thought you were still worrying about the husband you outraged a couple of years ago.” “Funny,” Menedemos said through clenched teeth. “Very funny.” If he hadn't got out of Halikarnassos in a hurry, he might not have been able to get out at all; that husband had wanted his blood. But he made himself look northeast, toward the city on the mainland. “I'll get back there one of these days.” “Not under your right name, you won't,” Sostratos said. “Not unless you come at the head of a fleet yourself.” He was probably right. No: he was almost certainly right. Menedemos knew as much. He didn't intend to admit it, though: “I could do it this year if I had to, I think. In a couple of years, that fellow won't even remember my name.” His cousin snorted. “He won't forget you till the day he dies. And even then, his ghost will want to haunt you.” “I doubt it.” Now Menedemos spoke with more confidence. “He'll have another man, or more than one, to be angry at by then. If his wife bent over forward for me, she'll bend over forward for somebody else, too. Women are like that. And she'll probably get caught again. She's pretty, but she's not very smart.” As was Sostratos' way, he met that thoughtfully. “Character doesn't change much, true enough,” he admitted. But then he pointed at Menedemos. “That holds for men as well as women. You in Taras last summer ...” “I didn't know Phyllis was that fellow's wife,” Menedemos protested. “I thought she was just a serving girl.”