Harry Turtledove - Salamis

He also suspected Antigonos and Demetrios didn’t care for their new Cypriot subjects trading with men who wouldn’t bend the knee to them. No skippers who did come to Rhodes wanted to admit any such thing. They acted as prickly about independence and respect as any other Hellenes. Wherever Greek was spoken, men were touchy about letting others subject them.

He didn’t ask any Cypriots, then, about whether their cities belonged to the new-crowned kings. He asked questions like, “Have you heard whether Antigonos and Demetrios aim to move against Rhodes?” No one could mind a question like that. What else was likely to be uppermost in a Rhodian’s mind these days?

None of the men from Cyprus said that he’d heard about or seen an expeditionary force fitting out or sailing this way. And then one day the captain of a fishing boat out of Paphos laughed out loud at his question. “Thou hast not learned, then?” he asked.

As always, his old-fashioned dialect made Sostratos want to smile. He carefully kept his face straight, though. “Learned what?” he said. “Not much news from overseas here since the Macedonians all started putting diadems on their heads.”

“Why, man, thou and thy polis’ll be the olives served after a great feast of tunny and mullet and eel,” the fisherman said. “Art thou ignorant, then, of the two kings’ movement against the one?”

“This is the first I’ve heard of it, by the gods!” Sostratos exclaimed. “The first anyone here has, I’m sure. Tell me what you know, if you’d be so kind.”

The Cypriot just stood there on the deck of his boat. He had black, prominent eyebrows: all the more so when he raised one, as he did now. Sostratos could take a hint. He tossed the fellow a drakhma. Deft as a monkey, the fisherman caught it out of the air. “I am in thy debt,” he said. “ ’Tis true—they move on Egypt by both land and sea, the elder king commanding the army setting out across the desert Nilewards, the younger leading the fleet accompanying.”

“If they can do that ….” Sostratos’ voice trailed away. This was the time to try, sure enough. With Ptolemaios weakened by the sea-fight off Salamis, Egypt might fall into Antigonos and Demetrios’ hands like a ripe fruit. And the Cypriot was right—next to Egypt, Rhodes, rich as it was, would be only a snack.

“Verily, thou seest whither bloweth the wind,” the Cypriot said.

“I do. And I thank you.” Sostratos carefully didn’t say anything like Forsooth or thee . He didn’t mock people for their accents—not to their faces, anyhow. He hadn’t liked it a bit when the Athenians snickered at the Doric drawl he’d had when he came to study at the center of Greek learning and wisdom, and had sense enough to see other people were unlikely to care for what he didn’t. He added, “Men here who are more important than I am will need to hear this. Can you come with me and tell them whatever you know about it?”

“Will they pay me more, so I waste not my time? Otherwise, belike I’d make better use of selling the mackerel in my hold.”

He cared nothing for Rhodes except for the money he could get here. Why should he? It wasn’t his polis. Most Hellenes had always brought that attitude to their dealings with their neighbors. It was their besetting flaw. Because of it, the Great Kings of Persia had almost conquered Hellas, and the kings of Macedonia had. The ancient Greek homeland was a backwater these days.

Except for Rhodes , Sostratos thought, not without a certain parochial pride of his own. Except for Rhodes .

He realized the fishing-boat captain was still waiting for an answer. “You’ll be paid, O best one. By the gods, I’ll pay you myself if no one else does.”

“Thy speech shows thee a true kalos kagathos . I’ll come with thee,” the skipper said. Before he did, though, he briefed the three men with him on what he wanted to make from the catch. They were all young, two clean-shaven and one with a soft, thin, fuzzy beard, and they all looked a bit like him. “My sons, and a nephew,” he told Sostratos as he gained the pier with a gangplank.

“Likely lads,” the Rhodian said politely. “Come this way, if you’d be so kind.” For calling him a kalos kagathos , Sostratos would have forgiven his new acquaintance almost anything. The praise would have mattered more had he got it younger, but he didn’t despise it even now.

They walked past the gymnasion on the way to Komanos’ home. The Cypriot eyed the men there training in warlike arts. “Thy polis hath no trust in kings,” he remarked.

“Would you?” Sostratos returned, and then, “Tell me your name, if you would, so I can give it to my leaders.”

“I hight Paramonos, the son of Khairemon. And thou art …?”

Sostratos gave his name. A block farther on, he stopped in front of Komanos’ house and knocked at the door. The old Lykian who was Komanos’ man of affairs opened it. “Hail, son of Lysistratos,” he said, his Greek almost without accent after many years of slavery. Dipping his head to Paramonos, he added, “And hail to you as well, best one.”

“For which I thank thee,” Paramonos said.

“Is your master in, Lydos?” Sostratos asked.

“He is, sir,” the old man replied. “Come into the andron. I’ll have refreshments brought for you and your friend, and tell the master you wish to speak with him.”

The men’s chamber was larger and grander than the one in Sostratos’ home, or Menedemos’. They were far from poor, but Komanos was rich. Another slave brought in wine and olives and figs candied in honey; Lydos didn’t lower himself to such a menial task.

After a short pause to let his guests eat and drink, Komanos walked into the andron. He clasped hands with Sostratos and, after Paramonos was introduced to him, with the Cypriot as well. Sostratos said, “I met Paramonos at the harbor. As soon as I heard his news, I brought him straight to you.”

“Did you? You’re still a young man, but not one to get excited over nothing. I’ve seen that before,” Komanos said. Sostratos stared down at the mosaic tiles under his feet, embarrassed and pleased at the same time. Menedemos wouldn’t have been flustered; he would have strutted. Komanos turned to the fisherman. “And what is this news, sir?”

Paramonos told of Antigonos and Demetrios’ move against Egypt. He gave details Sostratos hadn’t heard before: that Antigonos, with 80,000 men, was advancing on the Nile from Gaza, while Demetrios had accompanied his father down the coasts of Syria, Phoenicia, and Palestine with a fleet of 150 warships and some large number of transports.

“And they seize Egypt and put the Ptolemaios to the sword, they’ll swallow Rhodes for a sweet,” Paramonos finished. “An they fail there, haply they’ll have thy polis in place of the supper they ate not.”

Komanos sighed. “I wish I could tell you you were mistaken, my friend, but I fear you see all too clearly.” He dug in his belt pouch, found a pair of massy silver tetradrakhms, and put them in Paramonos’ callused palm. “This for your grace in telling us what you’ve learned.”

“I thank thee for thy kindness,” the Cypriot said. “Sostratos here assured me I’d not find thee lacking, and I see he spoke but the truth.”

“Will you stay for supper with me?” Komanos asked. “And you, too, Sostratos, of course?”

Paramonos tossed his head. “Again I thank thee, but I needs must say thee nay. I’d best hie me back to the harbor, to make sure my spawn and my brother’s son make all they can from what we brought to sell.”

“You will know your own business best, of course,” Komanos said smoothly, and then, in a louder voice, “Lydos! Show the gentleman to the door, if you’d be so kind.”