The Gryphon's Skull

But when the poisoner came back, he said, “No, it's too late now. He may take a little longer, but he's still a dead man. With hemlock, you need to heave it up right away to have any chance of coming through.” Polemaios vomited again half an hour later. He cursed Ptolemaios, and also all the men who were watching him die. Sostratos spat into the bosom of his chiton to turn aside the omen. He wasn't the only one, either. “Cold,” Antigonos' nephew moaned. “So cold. And it's getting dark.” He paused, then tossed his head. “It can't be so late in the day already. The cursed drug must be stealing my sight.” Despite the ravages the hemlock worked on his body, his mind stayed clear. Sostratos would have preferred delirium. After a while, Polemaios fouled himself, adding one more stench to the air in the andron. The man who'd given him the hemlock came up to him and said, “I'm going to feel of you, to find out how far the drug has gone.” “Go ahead,” Polemaios answered. “I can't feel any of myself down past my middle anymore.” The poisoner probed at his groin and belly. “Your body's cold up to your navel. When it gets to your chest, that will be the end, because your heart will stop and you won't be able to breathe.” “I wish it would hurry up,” the big Macedonian said. “I don't want to go on lying here smelling like Ptolemaios.” Even as death advanced on him, he had the spirit to revile the man who was its author. But the ruler of Egypt had had the right of it, too: in the Phaidon, Platon had surely cleaned up the way Sokrates perished, not wanting to present his beloved teacher in an unflattering light. Polemaios began fighting for air, each breath coming harder than the one before. “Furies take—all of you—and especially—Ptolemaios,” he said, forcing the words out in little bursts. With ever increasing effort, he took a few more breaths, and then, after one last soft sigh, breathed no more. The man who'd given him the drug took hold of his wrist, feeling for a pulse like a physician. When the fellow let go, Polemaios' arm flopped down limply. The poisoner dipped his head to his audience. “It's over, best ones.” “About time, too,” grumbled the officer next to Sostratos. He got to his feet and stretched. “I really have to piss.” Another officer said, “Remember, we've got to mix his men in amongst our own so there aren't enough of 'em in any one place to give us trouble.” That struck Sostratos as a good idea, and very much the sort of thing Ptolemaios would think of. Yet another officer said, “As long as we pay 'em on time, they shouldn't cause too many problems. Mercenaries worry about what they get first and everything else afterwards.” He added, “Let's get out of here. This place stinks.” Sostratos was glad to breathe fresh air out in the courtyard, too. His shadow puddled at his feet. It was close to noon. He hadn't realized he'd been in the andron so long. Several slaves went into the room. They came out carrying Polemaios' corpse. Sostratos wondered whether whoever owned this place knew it had just been used for an execution. Were the house his own, it wouldn't have been just a matter of making it ritually clean once more. Even after that, he wouldn't have cared to hold a symposion, say, in the chamber where a man had been put to death. Fortunately, that wasn't his worry. He wouldn't see this place again, and he was glad of it. A soldier politely opened the door for him. When he stepped out into the street, a guard asked, “Did you find out what you wanted to know?” How am I supposed to answer that? I was curious about how hemlock works, but did I really want to watch a man die? Finding no way to separate the one from the other,