The Gryphon's Skull

That thought had hardly crossed his mind before the door opened again. Out came the bodyguard, followed by a man bigger still by a digit or two. “Hail,” the newcomer said. “I'm Polemaios. You're the Rhodians, eh?” “That's right,” Sostratos said. He'd heard that Antigonos and his sons, Demetrios and Philippos, were big men; it evidently ran in the family. Demetrios was supposed to be very handsome. Polemaios wasn't. He had a broken nose and what looked to be a permanent worried expression. He was, Sostratos judged, getting close to forty. “You'd better come in,” he said now. “I think we've got some things to talk about.” Like Ptolemaios, he spoke an Attic Greek with a faint undercurrent of his half barbarous northern homeland. He'd been drinking wine in the andron. At his gesture, a slave poured cups for Sostratos and Menedemos, then left the room in a hurry. Polomaios picked up his cup and took a long pull, After pouring a small libation, Sostratos drank, too. The wine was sweet and thick and strong and quite unmixed with water. After a small sip, he set down the cup. He also shot Menedemos a warning glance—Polemaios seemed to live up to, or down to, stories about Macedonian drinking habits. He didn't seem drunk, though, as he leaned toward the two Rhodians and said, “So Ptolemaios will take me in, will he?” “That's right, sir,” Sostratos said. Something glinted in Polemaios' eyes. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was even fiercer. “He wants to use me,” he said in tones that brooked no contradiction. “My uncle thought he'd use me. Kassandros thought he'd use me, too.” Sostratos judged he was bound to be right about Ptolemaios, even if the word he chose for use was the one that described what a man did with a boy. Menedemos spoke quickly: “Ptolemaios spoke to us of an alliance between the two of you.” He sounded more solicitous than usual. Sostratos didn't need long to figure out why—if Polemaios decided not to go back to Kos on the Aphrodite, that threw forty minai of silver into the sea. “Only goes to show he knows how to tell lies, too,” Antigonos' nephew said with a bitter laugh, “But I'll tell you something, Rhodians.” His intent, solemn stare showed the effects of the neat wine. So did his being rash enough to jab his thumb at his chest and speak his mind to strangers: “I'm all done with being used. I'm no wide-arsed slave boy, not me. From now on, I do the using.” Ptolemaios wants this fellow around? Sostratos thought, doing his best to hold his face steady. Me, I'd sooner pet a shark. His cousin still had his eye on the ruler of Egypt's fee, “O best one, will you sail with us?” he asked, “Oh, yes,” Polemaios replied. “Oh, yes, indeed. I'm squeezed here. I won't be squeezed . . . over there.” He'd paused there, quite noticeably. What was he going to say till he changed it? Sostratos wondered. “I won't be squeezed, once I hold Egypt?” Something like that, or I miss my guess. And Ptolemaios asked him to come to Kos? The man must be raving mad. Menedemos' mind was elsewhere: on the practical details of getting Polemaios out of Khalkis and across the Aegean. “Come to our akatos a little before dawn,” he told Antigonos' nephew. “We'll have you out past Attica before Demetrios of Phaleron is any the wiser, and you can make whatever arrangements suit you best to have your men follow you to Kos.” “Good enough,” Polemaios rumbled. “You're a little chap, but you get things done.”