The Gryphon's Skull

“Back oars!” Diokles said, and set the stroke with his mallet and bronze square. He also called it out: “Rhyppapai! Rhyppapai! Come on, you lugs! Put your backs into it!”

As if sliding through glue, the Aphrodite began easing away from the pier. Each stroke seemed to push her a bit faster than the one before, but she needed a little while to build up momentum. Kissidas' son—or maybe it was his son-in-law—spoke in a nervous tenor; “They're starting to run.”

“Rhyppapai! Rhyppapai!”Diokles called.

“You, there!” someone shouted from the shore.

“Who, us?” Sostratos called as the Aphrodite eased another few cubits away from the pier.

“Yes, you!” That had to be a soldier; no one else could hope to put so much authority into a shout. “Are you the polluted Rhodians?” More soldiers trotted down to the end of the wharf. Most of them carried spears, which would do them no good, but a few had bows, and the merchant galley wasn't out of arrow range yet.

“Rhodians?” Sostratos answered. “Are you daft? We're the Thetis, out of Kos. Want to buy some silk?”

That made the fellow with the big voice pause for a moment to talk to one of his comrades. Then he started yelling again: “Liar! We know you've got that gods-detested Kissidas on board. Bring him back or you'll be sorry!”

“What?” Sostratos artfully cupped a hand to his ear. “Say that again. I couldn't hear you.”

His performance might have won applause on the comic stage, but it failed to impress Antigonos' soldiers. They wasted no time in consultation now. One word came very clearly over the widening expanse of water: “Shoot!”

The handful of archers on the shore drew their bows and did their best. Sostratos thought the Aphrodite had got safely out of range. Indeed, most of the arrows splashed into the sea well short of the akatos. But one shaft, either shot with a superhuman tug on the bow or pushed along by a vagrant puff of breeze, thudded into the ship's planking a few cubits from Sostratos. That could have killed me, he thought with a sick dizziness he recognized only belatedly as fear.

Menedemos pulled in on one steering-oar tiller and out on the other till the Aphrodite's bow swung toward the south. “Regular stroke!” Diokles commanded, and the rowers shifted from backing oars as smoothly as if they'd been working together for years. The archers kept on shooting, but now all their shafts fell short.

“Lower the sail from the yard,” Menedemos called, and the sailors leaped to obey. The great linen square sail descended from the yard as the men released the brails that had tightly held it there. The sail wasn't a single piece of linen; for strength, it was sewn from many smaller squares. It also had light lines stretched horizontally across its front, perpendicular to the brails, giving it something of the appearance of a pavement made from square slabs of stone. The breeze blew from the north, as it usually did at this season of the year. As the sail filled with wind, the lines thrummed and the mast grunted in its socket as it leaned forward under the pull of the wind and got to work.

Sostratos ascended to the poop deck. Menedemos grinned at him. “You did a good job with those soldiers,” he said. “You kept them confused till we were too far away for it to matter.” He snickered. 'Want to buy some silk?' “

“That was foolish of me.” Sostratos was never satisfied with his own performance. “I should have said we came from Haiikarnassos or Knidos. Antigonos holds all the mainland cities, but Kos belongs to Ptolemaios.”

“Don't worry about it. It didn't matter,” his cousin said.

A new and unpleasant thought occurred to Sostratos. “You don't suppose they'll send a trireme after us, do you?”

“I hope not!” Menedemos exclaimed, and spat into the bosom of his tunic to avert the evil omen. Sostratos was a modern man who prided himself on rationality, but he did the same thing.It can't hurt, he thought with a twinge of guilt.

“I didn't see any triremes in the harbor,” Diokles said. Before that could do much to reassure Sostratos, the oarmaster went on, “I don't know how much it matters, though. A pentekonter or a hemiolia packed with soldiers could do for us nicely. Just depends on how bad that captain wants us.”

He was right. Sostratos felt it at once. By Menedemos’ dismayed expression, so did he. When Diokles spoke of matters pertaining to the sea, he almost always knew what he was talking about. Menedemos called, “Oë, Kissidas!”

“What is it?” the olive merchant asked.

“How bad does Hipparkhos want you dead? Will he throw some of his mercenaries into a ship and come after us?”