The Gryphon's Skull

The rower flinched. “Sorry, skipper,” he said with a placating gesture. He kept his own voice low and soft. He also squinted, as if even the early-morning light was too bright to suit his eyes. “You knew we were going out this morning,” Menederaos said. “Why did you get drunk last night?” “I didn't mean to,” Teleutas answered. “It just sort of . . happened.” He gave Menedemos a sickly, ingratiating smile. Menedemos wasn't about to let himself be appeased so readily. “Go to your oar,” he said. “I hope you hurt as much as you deserve all day long.” That hangdog smile still on his face, Teleutas hurried off the raised poop deck and down into the waist of the merchant galley. “Cast off!” Diokles called. Once the lines that had moored the Aphrodite to the quay were aboard, the keleustes smote his little bronze square. “Back oars! “Rhyppapai! Rhyppapai!” The akatos slid away from the pier. Once Menedemos had room to do so, he swung the ship about till her bow pointed out toward the mouth of the harbor. But he hadn't even passed out beyond the moles before he said, “I want everybody to do lookout duty on this voyage. It's not just pirates we have to be careful of—it's Antigonos' war fleet, and Ptolemaios', too. If you see anything, sing out. You may be saving all of our necks, including your own,” “We're Rhodians, and neutrals,” Sostratos added. “That may help us in case of trouble, because neither side much wants to offend our polis. But some captains may not care about that. We'd rather not take the chance if we don't have to.” As it had a few days before, the motion of the waves changed as soon as the akatos left the sheltered waters of the great harbor. Menedemos smiled. He liked the livelier feel to the ship. Sostratos looked less happy. He would have preferred the sea as quiescent as the land. Menedemos glanced toward crapulent Teleutas. The rower had already gone a delicate green. Too bad, Menedemos thought. It's his own foolish fault. “Rhyppapai! Rhyppapai!” Clang! Clang! Diokles beat out the stroke. Once they were outside the harbor, Diokles cut the rowing crew down to eight men on each side. He left Teleutas at his oar. The rower sent him a look of appeal. He ignored it. Euxenides of Phaselis made his way back to the stair that led up to the poop. “May I come up?” he asked politely. Menedemos dipped his head, and Euxenides joined him and Dioldes. The passenger said, “You've got a good crew here.” He spoke in tones of professional appraisal. “Thanks,” Menedemos answered. “We're Rhodians, remember. We go to sea a lot.” He pointed to the mouth of the naval harbor, which lay just northwest of the great harbor. A trireme was coming out, all three banks of oars manned, each stroke enviably smooth. Not lifting his hands from the steering oars, Menedemos pointed toward it with a thrust of his chin. “Most of my men have rowed in one of those, or else in a five.” “I hadn't thought of that,” Euxenides said. “Now that I do, though, I see that you could put together a formidable little fleet.” “Little?” Menedemos said indignantly. But the indignation didn't last. Antigonos had all of Anatolia to draw upon, Ptolemaios the endless wealth of Egypt. Next to theirs, Rhodes' fleet would be small. Too small? Menedemos wondered. He hoped he'd never have to find out. Sostratos stood on the Aphrodite's little raised foredeck, peering north and west as if he expected to see Cape Sounion, the headland that announced one was coming up on Athens, appear over the horizon at any moment. Part of him did. Most of him, the rational part, knew perfectly well that Athens lay some days' journey from Rhodes, and that trading on the way would further delay the akatos' arrival. But the childlike part that never