“No, and I'm almost not sorry I got hurt, you know what I mean?” the fellow said. Menedemos dipped his head, though he thought, Whether you know it or not, you mean that hetaira's got her hooks into you deep. He recognized the symptoms from experience. The soldier went on, “Now that I'm back here, at least she can't forget I'm alive.” Sostratos pointed to his arm, too. “How did it happen?” “One of those things,” the scarred man said with a shrug. “We tried scaling ladders. I was moving up towards one of 'em when I got shot. Might've been just as well, too, on account of I heard later they tipped that ladder over with a bunch of men on it. If I'd been near the top . . .” He grimaced. “It's a long fall.” “Have you got any idea how much longer the siege will take?” Menedemos asked. “Not me, best one.” The soldier tossed his head. “We're liable to still be at it by the time this heals”—he wiggled the fingers sticking out of the bandage—”and I've got to go back to work. That place has strong walls, and you might think old One-Eye's men in there were all citizens by the way they're fighting.” Menedemos grunted. That was exactly what he didn't want to hear. Ptolemaios' mercenary took the perfume and left the agora. He wasn't worried about the siege's going on forever; he just wanted to enjoy the holiday his wound had given him. Menedemos wished he could take such a bright view of things himself. A juggler strolled past, keeping a fountain of six or eight knives and cups and leather balls in the air. Someone tossed him a coin. He caught it and popped it into his mouth without missing a beat. Menedemos was fond of such shows. Most days, he would have thrown the fellow an obolos, too. Today, he let the juggler go by unrewarded. The man shot him a reproachful look. He stared stonily back. With news like that which he'd just got, he felt he needed to hang on to every bit of silver he had. Sostratos said, “Not Myndos, then. Maybe Kalymnos. It's not much farther. Or we could go back to Knidos and use the wind instead of our rowers.” “I get more tempted with every day that goes by,” Menedemos admitted. “We did make it back here from the middle of the strait between Kalymnos and the mainland. So I suppose we have a good chance of getting away with one more trip. But even so ...” He scowled. “I don't like to take the chance.” “You're the captain,” his cousin said. “I suppose I ought to be grateful you're more careful at sea than you are on land.” “Ha,” Menedemos said in a hollow voice. Sostratos often twitted him harder than that. He raised his voice: “Perfume from fine Rhodian roses! Balsam from Engedi—makes a fine medicine or a wonderful incense. Best quality ink! Crimson dye!” He and Sostratos sold some ink and some balsam by the time the sun sank toward the western horizon. They sold some more perfume, too, and a small-time silk merchant bought some of their dye. They didn't come close to making the mina and a half their crew cost them every day. As they walked back toward the harbor, Sostratos said, “I hope we won't have to start selling the silk we bought from Pixodaros.” “We'd better not!” Menedemos said. “The only way we can unload it here where they make it is to sell at a loss. We've been over that road before.” “Don't remind me,” Sostratos said. “But if we have to get silver to keep the sailors paid . . .” He kicked at the dirt.
Вы читаете The Gryphon's Skull
