The Gryphon's Skull

“Not so easy as acting, I'd say,” his cousin answered. “A sophist hasn't got a mask to hide behind, the way an actor does.” A good-sized wave slapped the merchant galley's bow, and then another and another, making her pitch up and down. “And we're coming out into the Ikarian Sea,” Menedemos said, “which means we haven't got any more islands to hide behind. We'll be bouncing like a toy boat in a little boy's hip bath all the way up to Miletos. This is one of the roughest stretches of the Aegean,” “I know.” Sostratos gulped and looked faintly green. “I had my sea legs, but I may have lost them in the layover at Kos.” He wasn't the only one. A couple of sailors leaned out over the rail and heaved up their guts, too. Maybe they wouldn't have done it if they hadn't drunk deep in Kos the night before. But maybe, like Sostratos, they'd just spent too much time ashore. To Menedemos' relief, the Aphrodite did make Miletos by night­fall. He wouldn't have cared to spend a night at sea in such rough waters, and a wind might have blown up to make things worse still. Tying up at a quay as the sun went down made him much happier about the world. The Milesians who made the ship fast to the quay chattered away amongst themselves in the town's Ionic dialect. When one of Antigonos' officers strutted up to ask his questions, the harbor workers fell silent and flinched away like beaten children. A generation before, Miletos had tried to hold out Alexander's soldiers and been sacked for its effort. These days, the locals gave their occupiers no trouble. “From Kos, eh?” the officer said, Menedemos hadn't dared lie about that, not when the akatos carried so much silk. Bristles rasped under the officer's fingers as he rubbed his chin in thought. At last, he asked, “While you were there, did you . .. hear anything about Antigonos' nephew joining forces with that ugly toad of a Ptolemaios?” Oh, good, Menedemos thought. He has no idea we're the ones who brought Polemaios to Kos. That makes things a lot easier. Aloud, he answered, “Yes, Polemaios was there while we were. But your master doesn't have to worry about him anymore.” “What? Why not?” the man demanded. “Because he's dead,” Menedemos replied. “He tried to bring some of Ptolemaios' officers over to his own cause. Ptolemaios caught him at it and made him drink hemlock. I'm sure the news is true—it was all over Kos when we left this morning.” That seemed preferable to telling the officer Sostratos had watched Polemaios die. If the fellow believed him, he might—probably would—wonder how Sostratos had gained that privilege. As things were, the officer's jaw dropped. “That's wonderful news, if it's so. Are you certain of it?” “I didn't see his body,” Menedemos answered truthfully, “but I don't see why Ptolemaios would lie about something like that. A lie would only make the soldiers who came along with Antigonos' nephew want to riot, don't you think?” After a little thought, the officer dipped his head. When he grinned, a scar on one cheek that Menedemos hadn't noticed till then pulled the expression out of shape. “You're right, by the gods. This has to go straight to Antigonos. He's up by the Hellespont, setting things to rights there. You might want to stay in port here for a while; I wouldn't be surprised if he gave you a reward for the news.” Sostratos looked like a man who'd just taken a knife in the back. Menedemos spoke to the officer: “Best one, if I were sure of that, I would stay. But look at the size of my crew. I don't know that I can afford to linger just on the hope of a reward—I have to pay them any which way.”