Harry Turtledove - The Gryphon's Skull

Rhamnous was a sleepy fishing village. The arrival of a merchant galley that looked a lot like a pirate ship created a small sensation. To explain the Aphrodite 's presence in those waters, Menedemos displayed some of the most transparent silk he'd got from Pixodaros and said, “We're bringing it up to Khalkis for Polemaios' favorite hetaira. If I told you how much he's paying, you'd never believe me.”

“Let him waste his money,” somebody said, to which there was a general mutter of agreement. Sostratos hadn't expected anything else. Polemaios had broken with Kassandros, whose puppet ruled Athens and Attica. Demetrios of Phaleron was a popular leader, too; if he and Polemaios didn't get along, the people of Attica wouldn't have much use for Antigonos' nephew.

“A good story,” Sostratos murmured to Menedemos. “No one will go hotfooting it back to Athens to let Demetrios know we're on our way up to Khalkis to see Polemaios.”

“No, not for some silk,” his cousin agreed, stowing the filmy fabric once more. “I wonder how fancy the hetairai in Khalkis are.”

“Of course you do,” Sostratos said. Menedemos clapped both hands over his chest and staggered, as if Sostratos had hit him with an arrow as he'd hit the pirate in the hemiolia. Sostratos laughed; he couldn't help himself. “You're Impossible.”

“Thank you,” Menedemos said, which set them both laughing all over again.

Menedemos got the Aphrodite out of Rhamnous not long after sunrise; the akatos neared Khalkis not long after noon. A wooden bridge spanned the Euripos, the narrow channel separating Euboia from the mainland of Hellas. The fortress of Kanethos on the mainland protected the bridge, and was reckoned part of the city of Khalkis.

Putting in at Khalkis proved a good deal harder than getting to it had been. A strong current flowed south through the Euripos; the rowers had to pull hard to hold the merchant galley in place, let alone make headway against the rushing water. “You couldn't even get near this place from the south in an ordinary round ship,” Menedemos said.

“Be patient, best one,” Sostratos told him.

Sure enough, after something less than an hour, the current abruptly reversed itself and began flowing north. It almost carried the Aphrodite past Khalkis. Only some smart rowing let her ease her way alongside a pier. “By the dog of Egypt, I'd heard of that, but I wasn't sure I believed it,” Menedemos said. He raised his voice to call out to the sailors: “Make sure she's securely moored. We don't want her swept away.”

“Now you see it's true,” Sostratos said as the men checked the lines and the knots. “The current In the Euripos changes direction six or seven times a day. Sometimes more—sometimes even twice that.”

“Why would it do such a mad thing?” his cousin asked.

“I haven't the faintest idea, and I don't think anyone else has, either,” Sostratos replied.

“One of your philosopher friends ought to look into it,” Menedemos said. “Either it's something natural, in which case he'll figure it out, or it's a god putting his finger in there, in which case a philosopher won't do anybody much good.”

“A cause could be natural without being easy to understand,” Sostratos said.

His cousin didn't rise to the argument. Instead, Menedemos said, “Get that letter from Ptolemaios and come on. We've got to find Polemaios.”

The winding streets of Khalkis were full of soldiers who followed Antigonos' rebellious nephew. They all had swords or spears. Quite a few of them had taken on too much wine. Ordinary Khalkidians mostly stayed indoors. Seeing how quarrelsome the soldiers were, Sostratos couldn't blame the locals. One of the soldiers, though, directed him and Menedemos to a house not far from the market square.

As at Ptolemaios' residence back on Kos, sentries stood guard in front of this one. One of them—an immense man, three or four digits taller even than Sostratos—rumbled, “Yes, he's here. Why should he want to see you people, though?”

“I have a letter for him.” Sostratos showed it to the sentry. “He'll have some kind of answer to give us, I expect.”

“Give me the letter,” the big guard said. “I'll take it to him. You wait here.” He held out his hand. That was, plainly, the best offer Sostratos would get. He handed the fellow the letter. The big man went into the house. The remaining guard set a hand on his sword-hilt, as if expecting Sostratos and Menedemos to try to leap on him and beat him into submission.

Polemaios, Sostratos reflected, had burned two bridges in rapid succession. Maybe it was no wonder that his men seemed jumpy. Antigonos and Kassandros both wanted their commander dead. How could they be sure a couple of Rhodians weren't a couple of hired murderers? That was simple: they couldn't. And Polemaios himself had to feel more hunted than any of his soldiers.

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.”