Harry Turtledove - The Gryphon's Skull

“I know,” Sostratos said again. But his gaze went back to the rower's bench under which the skull was stowed. A lover's gaze might have gone to his beloved in the same way. A lover's gaze would have been no more tender, either.

“Me, I'll be glad when we get to Athens, just so we're rid of the miserable, ugly thing,” Menedemos said.

“Anything you can learn from is beautiful,” his cousin said stiffly.

“When I want beauty, I'll find it in a girl's flesh, not a gryphon's bone,” Menedemos said.

“There's beauty of the flesh, and then there's beauty of the mind,” Sostratos said. “The gryphon's skull has none of the one, but thinking about it may lead those who love wisdom to the other.”

After a few heartbeats, Menedemos tossed his head. “I'm afraid that's beyond me, my dear. Nothing you say can make that bone seem anything but ugly to me.”

“Let it go, then,” Sostratos said, somewhat to Menedemos' sur­prise: when his cousin felt philosophical, he was often inclined to lecture. A moment later, Sostratos explained himself: “I've got Platon and Sokrates on my mind, that's all.”

“Why?” Menedemos asked. Before Sostratos could, he answered his own question: “Oh. Hemlock, of course.”

“That's right,” Sostratos said. “There's a good deal of talk about the relationship between physical beauty and real love in the Symposion.”

“Is there? Well, that's more interesting than philosophy usually gets.”

“Scoffer.”

“Scoffer?” Menedemos assumed a hurt expression. “Now you've gone and got me interested, and you complain I'm scoffing. What does Sokrates have to say about it? Or should I ask, what does Platon have to say?”

“That's a good question,” Sostratos said thoughtfully. “There's probably no one left alive who can say how much of what Platon put in Sokrates' mouth really belongs there, and how much comes from the younger man.”

“Don't get sidetracked,” Menedemos told him. “What does beauty have to do with real love? That's a lot more interesting than who wrote what.”

“You were the one who brought it up, but never mind,” Sostratos said. “If you follow the argument in the Symposion, not a great deal. Physical beauty leads you on toward beauty of the mind, and that's where real love lies.”

“Sounds like an old man's argument to me,” Menedemos said. “If your prick won't stand, you talk about the beauty of the mind so you don't have to fret yourself about it.”

“You are a scoffer,” Sostratos said, and then, “I just had a nasty thought.”

“What's that?”

“Do we dare put in at Miletos? We spent all that time stuck in Kos when we hadn't planned to. By now, news that we brought Polemaios there will have spread all over the place. Antigonos' men may want to roast us over a slow fire.”

“I know you. You're still looking for an excuse to head straight for Athens,” Menedemos said. “That one won't do, though. Remember, Demetrios of Phaleron is Kassandros' puppet, and Kassandros won't be happy to find out Polemaios got loose, either.” He suddenly grinned. “Besides, it's not a worry anymore.”

“Why not?” Sostratos asked.

“I'll tell you why not. Suppose they blame us for letting Polemaios get loose so he can plague his uncle. What do we say? We say, 'Well, O marvelous one, you don't need to lose any sleep about that, be­cause we watched Polemaios die.' They won't be angry at us for that news—they'll be glad to hear it.”

His cousin looked sheepish. “You're right. You're absolutely right, of course. I can't think of anybody who wouldn't be glad to hear Polemaios was dead.”

“Neither can I,” Menedemos said. “He made himself loved as much for his mind as for his beauty, didn't he?”

Sostratos started just to dip his head, but broke out laughing with the motion half done. “You're not just a scoffer, you're a dangerous scoffer, I think you'd make Sokrates choke on his wine.”

“No, no—Sokrates choked down his hemlock, the same as Polemaios did,” Menedemos replied.

He and Sostratos kept on chaffing each other as the Aphrodite sailed north and west through the strait between the Anatolian main­land and the island of Kalymnos. This time, the akatos had fine weather for the journey. One of Ptolemaios' war galleys came out from the newly captured town of Myndos to look her over, but turned back on recognizing what ship it was. “I remember you,” an officer aboard the five called to Menedemos. “You're the fellow who brought what's-his-name—Antigonos' nephew—back to Kos.”

“That's right,” Menedemos answered, lifting a hand from the steering-oar tillers to wave to the war galley.

After the five swung away toward the east, Sostratos said, “You didn't tell him what's-his-name was dead.”

“I certainly didn't,” Menedemos said. “He would have wasted an hour of our time asking questions, and we haven't got an hour to spare, not if we want to make Miletos by sundown. You're not the only one who can be in a hurry to get where we're going, you know.”

Not long after the war galley came out from the mainland, the Aphrodite passed a sponge boat most likely from Kalymnos, which had a lot of sponge divers. A trident in his right hand to free sponges from the ocean floor and a large stone clutched to his chest to make him sink quickly, a diver leaped off the stern of the boat and splashed into the blue water. He came up again a couple of minutes later, hanging on to black sponges of varying sizes. The other men on the boat took the sponges from him and hauled him aboard again. Naked and dripping, he waved to the Aphrodite .

From his station at an oar, Moskhion said, “This is what I was talking about when we fothered the sailcloth over the planks. Gods know I'd rather be here than over there doing that.”

“I believe you,” Menedemos said. As he had to the men on Ptolemaios' five, he did wave back. “He doesn't think we're pirates, anyhow. Either that or he knows there's nothing worth stealing on his boat.”

“I wouldn't want his sponges, that's certain,” Sostratos said. “They don't look like the ones you'd use in a fine bathhouse.”

“Of course they don't,” Moskhion said. “They haven't been cleaned and dried yet.”

“Sponge diving is as hard a way to make a living as any other kind of fishing,” Menedemos said.

“Harder,” Moskhion said with conviction. “Believe me—harder.”

''When you get right down to it, there's no easy way to make a living,” Sostratos said.

“I'd rather be doing this than that,” Menedemos said. Sostratos and Moskhion both dipped their heads in agreement, Menedemos went on, “Easy work, now—wouldn't you like to be a sophist and make speeches in the market square for money?”

“By the dog of Egypt, I would,” Moskhion said.

“It can't be that easy,” Sostratos said. “If it were, more men would be able to make a living at it. Most of the ones who try fail, you know. You need to be able to think on your feet, and people have to want to listen to you. Otherwise, you go hungry.”

Menedemos hadn't thought about that. Sostratos had a way of reminding him of things he hadn't thought of. “Maybe you're right,” Menedemos allowed. “It must be something like being an actor.”

“Not so easy as acting, I'd say,” his cousin answered. “A sophist hasn't got a mask to hide behind, the way an actor does.”

A good-sized wave slapped the merchant galley's bow, and then another and another, making her pitch up and down. “And we're coming out into the Ikarian Sea,” Menedemos said, “which means we haven't got any more islands to hide behind. We'll be bouncing like a toy boat in a little boy's hip bath all the way up to Miletos. This is one of the roughest stretches of the Aegean,”