“A pankratiast, back around the time of the Persian Wars,” Sostratos answered. “He would have won at the Olympic Games, but he killed his foe in the all-out fight and got disqualified. He must have gone mad with grief after that. He came back to Astypalaia and pulled down a pillar that held up the roof for a boys' school—fifty or sixty people died. He fled to Athena's temple and hid in a wooden chest there, but when the Astypalaians broke it open he wasn't inside, either: not alive, not dead, just. . . gone.” Menedemos felt the hair at the back of his neck try to prickle up in awe and dread. “What happened then?” he asked. “They sent to Delphi to find out what they should do, and the verse they got back was, 'Last of the heroes—Kleomedes the Astypalaian. Honor him with sacrifices, he being mortal no more.' “ “Do they?” Menedemos asked. “I've never heard otherwise,” Sostratos said. “A demigod, from as late as the Persian Wars,” Menedemos mused. “That's strange all by itself. . . although people are saying Alexander was divine, too.” “They're saying it, all right,” Sostratos agreed. “What do you think of it?” “I don't know,” Menedemos answered. “He did things no ordinary mortal could do. Maybe that does make him divine. Who knows where humanity stops and divinity starts? It's not as though there were a neat line between gods and men.” He poked his cousin in the ribs. “What do you think?” “I don't know, either.” Sostratos sounded uncomfortable, even a little annoyed: he always hated not knowing. He went on, “He was just a man—Ptolemaios and Polemaios knew him. I'm not comfortable with calling anyone a god—but, as you say, he did things you wouldn't think a mere man could do. I wish I had a better answer, but I don't. I wonder what Ptolemaios would say if we asked him.” “Well, we're only a couple of days from Kos,” Menedemos said. “You can do that, if you've got the nerve.” “Oh, I'm sure he'd talk about Alexander—Alexander's dead, divine or not,” Sostratos said. “Now, if I were to start talking about Antigonos ... I don't think I'd want to do that.” He glanced toward Dionysios son of Herakleitos, who'd dropped a fishing line over the side to see if he could catch some opson to go with his sitos. In a low voice, he added, “You never can tell who might be listening.” Just then, Dionysios tugged on the line and hauled a plump mackerel up into the ship. It wasn't a mullet or a dogfish—no opsophagos' delight—but it was a lot better than nothing. He gutted it, threw the offal into the sea, and took out a little charcoal brazier to cook his catch. “He's got good luck,” Menedemos remarked. “So he does,” Sostratos said, still quietly. “I wonder where he stole it.” To that, Menedemos had no answer. The run from Astypalaia to Kos the next day proved harder work and slower than he'd hoped, for the wind died away to next to nothing and the rowers had to go to their benches. Even with a good following wind, though, Menedemos would have been amazed to make the polis of Kos before nightfall. The Aphrodite did reach the western end of the island, where he grounded her on a broad, fair beach on the north coast. “She'll be easy to get into the water again tomorrow,” he told Sostratos. “We're not carrying enough to weigh her down.”
Вы читаете The Gryphon's Skull
