“What's the matter, young sir?” Diokles asked, “What did the thieving whoresons get?” “The gryphon's skull,” Sostratos choked out. “Oh. That thing.” The oarmaster visibly cast about for something to say. At last, brightening, he found it: “Don't fret too much. It wouldn't've brought in all that much cash anyways.” “Cash?” The word tasted like vomit in Sostratos' mouth. He cursed as foully as he knew how—not with Menedemos' Aristophanic brio, perhaps, but with far more real anger, real hatred, behind the foul language. Sailors shied away from him. They'd never seen him in such a transport of temper. He'd never known himself in such a fury, either. He would gladly have crucified every pirate ever born and set fire to every forest from which the shipwrights shaped the timbers of their hemioliai and pentekonters. From the stern, Menedemos called, “What's gone missing?” He had to say it again: “The gryphon's skull.” “Oh,” his cousin said. “Is that all?” “All?” Sostratos howled. More curses burst from him. Still hot as iron in the forge, he finished, “They could have taken anything else on this ship—anything, do you hear me? But no! One of those gods- detested rogues had to steal the single, solitary thing we carried that will—would—matter a hundred years from now.” Menedemos came forward and set a hand on his shoulder. “Cheer up, my dear. It's not so bad as that.” “No. It's worse,” Sostratos said. His cousin tossed his head. “Not really. Just think: right this very minute, you're probably having your revenge.” “My what?” Sostratos gaped, as if Menedemos had suddenly started speaking Phoenician. “What are you talking about?” “I'll tell you what,” Menedemos answered. “Suppose you're a pirate. Your captain decides to go after an akatos for a change. 'It'll be a tough fight, sure enough,' he says, 'but think how rich we'll be once we take her.' You manage to board the Aphrodite . Her sailors are all fighting like lions. Somebody stabs you in the leg. Somebody else cuts off half your ear.” He paused. “Go on,” Sostratos said, in spite of himself. Grinning, Menedemos did: “Pretty soon, even Antigonos the One-Eyed can see you aren't going to win this scrap. You grab whatever you can—whatever's under that bench there—and you hop back aboard your hemiolia. You have to get away from those fighting madmen on the merchant galley, so you pull your oar till you're ready to drop dead. Somebody slaps a bandage on your ear and sews up your leg. And then, finally, you say, 'All right, let's see what's in this sack. It's big and heavy—it's got to have something worthwhile inside.' And you open it—and there's the gryphon's skull looking back at you, as ugly as it was in the market square in Kaunos. What would you do then?”
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