Harry Turtledove - The Gryphon's Skull

“May I watch, sir?” Sostratos blurted.

“What?” Ptolemaios blinked. Whatever sort of answer he'd expected, that wasn't it. He stared more grimly than ever. “Why?”

Sostratos wished he'd thought more before speaking. He answered as best he could: “Because I studied at the Lykeion in Athens; and I've talked with men from the Academy, the school Platon founded; and I've read Platon's tale of how Sokrates died. I'd like to see it for myself, if I could.”

“I've read the Phaidon, too,” Ptolemaios said, which surprised Sostratos in turn; the ruler of Egypt looked like a warrior, not a man who'd studied philosophy. And Ptolemaios surprised him all over again by continuing, “That man wrote like a god.”

“Y-yes,” Sostratos stammered; his amazement came not because he disagreed but because bluff Ptolemaios was voicing such art opinion.

Going on in the same vein, the Macedonian marshal sighed and said, “I wish I would have met him. I was nineteen or twenty when he died, but I didn't get down to Athens till. . . later.”

Till after the battle of Khaironeia, Sostratos realized he meant: after Philip of Macedon crushed Athens as a power. He eyed the ruler of Egypt. Khaironeia had been fought three years before he himself was born. So much had happened since—Alexander's astonishing career and the wars of his successors—that seeing a man who'd fought there seemed a surprise, too. He's only a few years older than my father, Sostratos reminded himself. But Ptolemaios had been so many places, done so much . . .

Ptolemaios' thoughts had traveled down a different road. He shook a forefinger at Sostratos and said, “I warn you, it's not as neat as Platon tells it.”

“Sir?” Lost in his own musings, Sostratos had dropped the thread of the conversation.

“Hemlock,” Ptolemaios said. “Are you sure you want to see it?”

“Oh,” Sostratos said, and then, after some thought, “Yes. Yes, I am. I'd ... like to know what Sokrates went through.”

“Ah,” Ptolemaios said. “I can understand that. It may be foolishness, but I can understand it. All right, young fellow. I'm keeping Antigonos' nephew in the house next door to this one. You be here early tomorrow morning and you'll see what you want to see. But don't dawdle; my men won't wait. Bargain?”

“Bargain,” Sostratos said at once. “Thank you, sir.”

“Don't thank me, not till after you know what you talked yourself into.” Ptolemaios turned to Menedemos. “What about you? Do you want to watch Polemaios die, too?”

Menedemos tossed his head. “Not me. What I want is a carpenter.”

As if on cue, the man Ptolemaios had sent out came back into the andron. “Well?” the ruler of Egypt barked at him.

“Your Excellency,” the man replied, “the shipwrights all say these Rhodians have been clinging to them like leeches in a swamp.”

“Oh, they do, do they?” Ptolemaios rumbled. His messenger dipped his head. The marshal pointed at Menedemos. “You'll have your woodworker tomorrow. You can keep an eye on him instead of on Polemaios.”

“Thank you very much,” Menedemos said. “I think that's a better bargain.”

“You and your cousin both want to see things for yourselves,” Ptolemaios said. “You just want to see different things, that's all.” He gestured toward the doorway of the andron. “Go on, get out of here. I've wasted too much time on you,”

“May we beg a torch, to light our way back to the ship?” Sostratos asked.

“Take one from the courtyard.” Ptolemaios gestured again, even more imperiously than before. Sostratos retreated, his cousin on his heels.

Outside, a little twilight still lingered: enough, with the torch, to help the Rhodians find their way. As soon as they were well away from Ptolemaios' residence, Menedemos burst out, “Are you out of your mind?”

“What?” As Sostratos tossed his head, he stepped in something damp and nasty. He scrapped his foot in the dirt to clean it. “No, just curious. Ptolemaios understood that. He understood it better than I thought he would.”

“He understood it wouldn't cost him anything to humor a zany,” Menedemos said.

Sostratos tossed his head again. “No, I don't believe that's what he was thinking. He's read Platon himself. I never would have guessed that of a Macedonian, even if Aristoteles did teach Alexander.”

His cousin walked along for a couple of paces before saying, “Well, maybe it worked out for the best. You did convince him we weren't plotting with Polemaios. And”—Menedemos did a couple of dance steps, his shadow swooping wildly in the torchlight—”we'll get the Aphrodite fixed up.”

“That's good,” Sostratos agreed. “That's very good. We'll finally be able to press on towards Athens.”

“Toward Miletos first,” Menedemos said as they started up the quay. Sostratos swallowed a sigh.

“Gods be praised!” Diokles said when they came aboard the merchant galley once more. “When the soldiers took you away, I didn't know what would happen next.”

“As a matter of fact, neither did we,” Sostratos said. “It's all right, though.”

“It's better than all right,” Menedemos added. “We get a carpenter tomorrow.”

u Euge!” Diokles exclaimed. Then he asked, “What does Polemaios get?”

“Something to drink,” Sostratos answered. “He won't be thirsty afterwards, either.”

“Something to .. . ? Oh.” The oarmaster didn't need long to figure that out. “Well, can't say I'm surprised. You play those games and lose, you pay.”

“Just so,” Sostratos said, and waited for Menedemos to tell Diokles and the handful of sailors aboard the merchant galley what he'd be doing in the morning.

But Menedemos said only, “Kleiteles will be wondering what happened to us. I'll have to send someone over there tomorrow and let him know. I wouldn't have minded another round or two with his slave woman, either.” He shrugged. “Well, it'll be a hard deck tonight, not a soft bed and a wench. Can't be helped, I suppose.” He lay down on the planking as calmly as if there were no such things as beds or women within a thousand stadia.

Diokles went forward to sleep sitting on a rower's bench and leaning against the planking, as he always did when aboard ship. Sostratos took off his chiton, folded it up for a pillow, and lay down beside Menedemos, wrapping a himation around himself for warmth. “Good night, my dear,” he murmured.

“Good night,” his cousin answered. “You'd better not sleep late tomorrow, or you'll miss your big chance.”

He meant it sarcastically, which didn't mean he was wrong. Sostratos said, “You usually wake before I do. Give me a shake if I'm still sleeping.”

“All right, though why you'd want to watch such a thing . . .” Menedemos said no more, but rolled onto his side with his back to Sostratos. In a few minutes, he was snoring. Sostratos stayed awake a little longer, but not much.

Next thing he knew, Menedemos' prodding hand was on his shoulder. The sun hadn't risen. Sostratos needed a moment to remember why his cousin was getting him up so early. When he did, he stopped the feeble complaints he'd been making and said, “Thank you. I know what needs doing now.”

He gulped bread and cheese and wine, threw on his tunic, and hurried into the city of Kos. When he got to the street on which Ptolemaios was staying, he had no trouble figuring out which of the houses next door to the ruler of Egypt's residence held Antigonos' nephew. That one had more soldiers guarding it than did Ptolemaios' house itself. How many of Polemaios' men had come from Khalkis to Kos? Enough to leave Ptolemaios nervous, however calm things seemed at the moment.