Harry Turtledove - Over the Wine-Dark Sea

Amused at his cousin's foibles, Menedemos hurried off toward the ropemaker's shop. It lay close to the lagoon whose splendid harbor gave Taras its reason for being, not far from the shipsheds of the Tarentine navy - and not far from the Aphrodite herself.

And the haggle with the ropemaker turned out to be easier than Menedemos had expected. Cordage here cost only a little more than half as much as it did at Rhodes. The Tarentines made most of their rope from hemp rather than linen, but that didn't bother Menedemos; the two were of comparable strength and weight. He left the shop well pleased with himself.

He was so well pleased with himself, in fact, that he didn't notice the four men following him quite so soon as he should have. They weren't doing anything in particular to keep him from noticing them. They came down the street after him shoulder to shoulder, and people walking in the other direction got out of their way in a hurry.

It was, in fact, a squawk of protest from one of those people that made Menedemos look back and spot the four bruisers. When they saw he'd seen them, they walked faster, closing the gap between themselves and him and making it plain he was their target.

Two of them wore knives on their belts. One carried a stick that would make an excellent bludgeon. The fourth had no immediately visible weapon, but that did little to reassure Menedemos.

I'm only a stadion or so from the house, and I ran the sprint almost well enough to go to Olympos, he thought. If I can outrun them . . .

He was about to flee when three other ruffians of similar sort came round a corner in front of him. One of them pointed his way. He'd been worried before. Now he was afraid. They weren't just toughs who'd chosen him at random, and might as easily have picked someone else. They wanted him in particular, which meant they were bound to want to do something especially dreadful to him in particular. What ran through his mind was, Sostratos was right. That bothered him almost as much as the ruffians did.

He took a couple of quick steps toward the three in front of him. But even as they opened their arms to grab him, he whirled and dashed back at the four behind, shouting at the top of his lungs. They shouted, too, in surprise - whatever they'd looked for him to do, that wasn't it.

One of them sprang at him. He dodged and kicked at the same time. The fellow went down with a groan. The tough with a stick swung. It struck Menedemos a stinging blow across the back, but then he was through and running like a man possessed back toward the harbor.

"After him, you fools!" one of the bruisers said. "Don't let him get away!" another added. Their sandals flapped on their feet as they began to run. Then one of them proved he had wit as well as brawn, for he shouted, "Stop, thief!"

Menedemos didn't stop. He did wiggle past a bystander who tried to stop him. His bare feet kicked up dust at every stride. He was glad sailing men seldom wore shoes even ashore - he'd always run races without them, and was convinced he ran faster that way. Now he wasn't running for his own pride or the glory of his polis. He was running for his life. His ankle screamed at him. He took no notice of it.

"Stop, thief!" That shout rose again behind him. But people did more staring than grabbing. Menedemos ran on, breath sobbing in his throat. He couldn't look back to tell whether his pursuers were gaining. A heartbeat's inattention and he might run into somebody or stick his foot into a hole in the ground and sprawl headlong. If he did, it would be the end of him.

There was the Little Sea, and there were the piers sticking out into the green-blue water of Taras' lagoon. A forest of masts sprouted from the ships tied up along those quays. Now Menedemos had to slow. Where was the Aphrodite? Right or left? If he went in the wrong direction, he would never get another chance to make a mistake.

There! The shipsheds farther east gave him his bearings. And most of the craft in the harbor were either little fishing boats or tubby roundships. Not many had the merchant galley's size and sleek lines. It lay only a couple of quays over to the left. Menedemos started running again - and just in time, too, for the footsteps behind him were getting closer fast. Now he was limping, but he kept going as best he could.

How many men would be aboard the akatos? Enough to keep off robbers, no doubt; Diokles was meticulous about such things. And they would be - Menedemos hoped they'd be - enough to stand off the ruffians on his tail.

Roustabouts and the usual sprinkling of quayside loafers pointed and called out as Menedemos raced past them. They pointed and called out again a moment later when his pursuers pounded after him. Gulls screeched and flapped into the air. Starlings let out metallic cries of alarm and flew off straight as arrows, their wings beating rapidly, the sunlight glistening from their iridescent feathers.

Menedemos' feet thudded on the planks of the pier that led out to the Aphrodite. He dashed down the gangplank and onto the poop deck. "By the gods, captain!" Diokles said. The oarmaster had been splicing a couple of lines. He and the double handful of sailors on the ship all gaped at Menedemos.

Gasping to get air back into his lungs, Menedemos pointed toward the ruffians advancing on the merchant galley. "Those whipworthy rogues set on me in the street," he panted, not mentioning the most likely reason why they'd set on him. "I broke through 'em and made it here."

"Oh, they did, did they?" Diokles got to his feet. He wore a knife on his belt. So did most of the other sailors aboard the Aphrodite. The ones who didn't were quick to grab belaying pins and other implements of mayhem. Diokles gave the local toughs a scowl that would have melted any of the akatos' rowers like beeswax in a fire. "Whatever you boys want, you'd better go find it somewhere else."

The ruffians stopped eight or ten cubits from the Aphrodite's bow. They started arguing among themselves. "Well, to the crows with him!" one of them said loudly. "I didn't take this job to get my head broken. I took it to give the other guy some lumps. If he don't like it, he can go to Tartaros for all of me." He strode off.

A couple of the others turned toward the akatos. One of the sailors smacked the length of wood he was holding into the palm of his other hand. The sound seemed to make the toughs thoughtful. They put their heads together again. Two more walked away. That left four. Four were not enough to go up against the men on the Aphrodite. They left, too, looking back over their shoulders as they went.

"Somebody in Taras doesn't like you," Diokles remarked. Menedemos dipped his head. The oarmaster asked, "Any idea who?"

"I've got some ideas, but nothing I could prove," Menedemos said. Diokles grunted. Did he know? Some of the sailors who'd been at the house might have gossiped. For all Menedemos knew, the gossip might have got back to Gylippos. Or Gylippos might have drawn his own conclusions from Menedemos' limp, as Sostratos feared. It didn't really matter.

Now that he wasn't running any more, he had time to notice his ankle again. He wished he didn't. When he looked down at it, he saw how swollen it was. It felt as bad as it looked, too. How did I run on it? he wondered. But the answer to that was simple. You could do anything, as long as the alternative was worse.

Diokles asked, "You want a few of the boys to come along back to the house with you?"

"Now that you mention it, yes," Menedemos answered, and the oarmaster chuckled. Menedemos tried to laugh, too. It wasn't easy, not with the fire in his ankle - and his back hurt, too, where the ruffian had hit him with the stick.

He wished he had a stick of his own. On board ship, the sailors quickly found a length of wood that would do for one, at least long enough to let him get back to the rented house. He put as much weight as he could on it and as little as he could on his bad leg.