The Gryphon's Skull

Menedemos frowned. “You say 'certainly' now. A moment ago, you were talking about nervous Athenians and what they think they see.” “What if I was?” his cousin said. “You're neither nervous nor an Athenian, so what's that got to do with you?” After a moment's thought, Menedemos decided he meant it. Maybe I was looking for an argument where there wasn't one to find, he thought. Maybe. He still had trouble believing it. More likely, Sostratos was just finding smoother ways to get under his skin. The akatos slid past the city of Tenos, the great temple to Poseidon a few stadia to the west, and the hills rising up behind. She found no trouble. A few fishing boats fled from her; Menedemos had grown used to that. They might spread the word that a pirate galley was brazenly cruising in the neighborhood. He shrugged. The more ships that run from us, the fewer ships we have to run from. Having passed Tenos town, Menedemos looked up into the bright blue bowl of the sky and drummed his fingers on the steering-oar tillers. They both felt the same again, and he was still getting used to that. He drummed some more. He didn't think the merchant galley would get all the way up to Andros' polis by nightfall. That meant finding an anchorage somewhere short of the city. Plenty of promontories, without a doubt. Making sure he found one no raiders were already using . . . His fingers went up and down, up and down. Sostratos pointed west toward the headland of Attica, clearly visible though misty with sea haze. Sighing, Menedemos' cousin said, “We could be heading there. We should be heading there.” “And we will be heading there, my dear,” Menedemos said. “We have to pick up Polemaios and bring him back to Kos. Then we come back to Athens.” He drummed on the steering-oar tillers yet again. “We get to come through the Kyklades twice. I could live without that.” Before Sostratos could answer, Aristeidas and several other sailors shouted, “Ship ho!” and “Ship to starboard!” and “Pirate coming at us!” Others added curses that would have sunk the hemiolia sprinting out from behind a spit of land if only the gods were listening. “All men to the oars!” Menedemos called, and the crew scrambled to obey. As soon as every oar was manned, he turned to Diokles and barked, “Give us the stroke, keleustes—the best we can do.” “Right you are, skipper. . . . . Rhyppapai! Rhyppapai!” The oarmaster struck urgent notes from die bronze square. The rowers, grunting with effort, pulled hard. And the Aphrodite , which had been ambling over the wine-dark Aegean, seemed to gather herself and then leap forward. Since they'd been going against the wind, the sail was already brailed up to the yard. Menedemos glanced over toward the onrushing pirate ship. Her crew had taken down her mast and stowed it before sallying forth. And, however fast the akatos was going, the hemiolia, by the nature of things, had a better turn of speed. The Aphrodite needed to carry cargo as well as rowers, and was beamier than the lean predator knifing through the water propelled by its two banks of oars. Menedemos' smile went wolfish. Relative speeds would have mattered more had he been trying to run away. But that wasn't what he intended. He yanked hard on the steering-oar tillers, swinging the Aphrodite straight toward the pirate ship. “Going to ram, eh?” Sostratos said. “If those bastards don't sheer off, I will,” Menedemos answered. He'd played this game before. Pirate galleys weren't warships—they wouldn't strike home without counting the cost. They wanted easy victims, not fights. Show them you were ready to give them all they could handle and they weren't so likely to want anything to do with you. That was the theory on which Menedemos operated, anyhow. It had worked for him more than once. This time