“Triremes are a lot bigger'n two-bankers,” one of the loungers said.
Menedemos dipped his head. “Truth. But they pack in a lot more rowers, too, so they go just about as fast, and the extra weight makes 'em hit a lot harder when they ram. What we could really use is a trireme built fast and light like a hemiolia, maybe with the same way to stow mast and yard where the back half of the thranite bank of oarsmen work.”
He'd been talking to hear himself talk. He hadn't expected anything particularly interesting or clever to come out. But Khremes slowly put down the hammer and gave him a long, thoughtful look. “By the gods, best one, I think you may have thrown a triple six there,” he said.
Menedemos listened in his own mind to what he'd just said. He let out a soft whistle. “If we wanted to, we really could build ships like that, couldn't we?” he said.
“We could. No doubt about it—we could. And I think maybe we should,” Khremes said. “They'd be quick as boiled asparagus, they would. And they'd have enough size and enough crew to step on a hemiolia like it was a bug.”
“One of them would be a hemiolia, near enough,” Menedemos said. “An oversized hemiolia, a hemiolia made from a trireme's hull. You could call it a ...” He groped for a word. He didn't think the one he came up with really existed in the Greek language, but it suited the idea, so he used it anyway: “A trihemiolia, you might say.”
Whether that was a word or not, it got across what he wanted, for Khremes dipped his head. Excitement in his voice, the carpenter said, “When I close my eyes, I can see her on the water. She'd be wicked fast—fast as a dolphin, fast as a falcon. A trihemiolia.” It came off his tongue more readily than it had from Menedemos'. “You ought to talk to the admirals, sir, Furies take me if I'm lying. A flotilla of ships like that could make a big pack o' pirates sorry they took up their trade.”
“Do you think so?” Menedemos asked. But he could see a tri-hemiolia in his mind's eye, too, see it gliding over the Aegean, swift and deadly as a barracuda.
Khremes pointed north and west, toward the military harbor. “If you don't find one of the admirals at the ship sheds, I'd be mighty surprised. And, by the gods, I think this is something they need to hear.”
“Come with me, will you?” Menedemos said, suddenly and uncharacteristically modest. “After all, you're one of the men who'd have to build a trihemiolia, if there were to be such a thing.”
The carpenter stuck the hammer on his belt, carrying it where a soldier would have worn a sword. “Let's go.”
Ship sheds lined the military harbor: big, wide ones that held the fives Rhodes used to defend herself against other naval craft; smaller ones for the triremes that hunted pirates. When not on patrol or on campaign, war galleys were hauled up out of the water so their hulls stayed dry and light and swift.
A few guards tramped back and forth by the ship sheds. When Menedemos and Khremes came up to one of them and asked their question, the fellow dipped his head, which made the crimson-dyed horsehair plume on his helmet nod and sway. He pointed with his spear. “Yes, as a matter of fact, Admiral Eudemos just went into that shed there. The Freedom's been having trouble with her sternpost, and he wants to make sure they got it fixed.”
When Menedemos walked into the shed that housed the five, his eyes needed a few heartbeats to adjust to the gloom. He heard Eudemos before spotting him up on the deck of the war galley: “You really think she's sound this time?” he was asking a carpenter.
“Yes, sir, I do,” the man answered.
“All right. She'd better be,” Eudemos said. “Nothing much wrong with having trouble—that's going to happen. But taking three tries to fix it? That's a shame and a disgrace.” He noticed Menedemos and Khremes at the mouth of the shed and raised his voice to call out to them: “Hail, the two of you. What do you need?”
For a moment, Menedemos didn't know what to say. Come on, fool, he told himself. You've got something to sell, same as you would in the agora. That steadied him. “Sir, I've had an idea that might interest you,” he said.
“It's a good one, Admiral,” Khremes added.
“That you, Khremes?” Eudemos said. He might not have recognized Menedemos' voice, but he knew the carpenter's at once. “You've got pretty good sense. If you say it's worth listening to, I'll hear it.”
He came down the Freedom's steeply sloping gangplank and hurried toward Menedemos and Khremes. Menedemos got the notion he did everything in a hurry. He was somewhere in his forties, with a graying beard, a jutting nose, and hard, watchful eyes. “Ah, Philodemos' son,” he said to himself, placing Menedemos. “All right— you know a little something about ships, anyway. Say on.”
Menedemos did, finishing, “Too many pirates get away. If we had some ships like these, maybe some of them wouldn't. That's what I'm hoping for.” He waited to see how Eudemos would take the idea.
The admiral had heard him out without giving any sign of what was in his mind. Once Menedemos finished, Eudemos said not a word to him, instead turning to Khremes and asking, “Can we build such ships?”
“Yes, sir,” the carpenter answered. “Yes, sir, without a doubt we can. They might even be cheaper than ordinary triremes. You'd want 'em light—you wouldn't close in the whole deck or build on an oarbox of solid planks, so you'd save timber.”
That got Eudemos' attention. “I—see,” he said, and turned back to Menedemos. “You've given me something new to think about, and that doesn't happen every day. A whole new class of warship . . . Euge!”
“I was just passing the time of day with Khremes when I said something that struck both of us,” Menedemos said. “That was when we came looking for you.”
Eudemos briskly dipped his head. “Having a good idea is one thing. Knowing you've had a good idea is something else again. People have lots of good ideas when they're just passing the time of day. Usually, they keep right on talking and forget all about them. You didn't. A trihemiolia, eh?” He tried the unfamiliar word, then dipped his head again. “A lot of pirates may be sorry you didn't, too.”
“By the gods, I hope so,” Menedemos growled.
“Yes, you're another one who got attacked, aren't you?” the admiral said.
“I certainly am, sir.”
“Well, as I say, the pirates who struck you and a lot of their mates may be sorry they did it. That may prove one of the most important bits of piracy since Paris stole Helen, but not the way the pirates had in mind.” Eudemos sounded as if he thought it was.
Sostratos thought it was one of the most important bits of piracy of all time, too, on account of that polluted gryphon's skull, Menedemos thought. But then, the admiral has to think straighter than my cousin.
“Do you read and write?” Eudemos asked Khremes.
“Some, sir. Nothing fancy,” the carpenter answered.
“This doesn't need to be fancy,” Eudemos said. “Write me up a list of what all would go into making a trihemiolia, as best you can figure. Base it on what goes into a trireme, of course.”
“I'll do it,” Khremes said.
“Good.” Eudemos clasped Menedemos' hand. “And good for you, too. You've earned the thanks of your polis.”
Menedemos bowed low. Those were words that struck home. “What Hellene could hope for more, most noble one?”
“A trihemiolia, eh?” Sostratos said as he and Menedemos made their way through the streets by the great harbor toward Himilkon the Phoenician's workhouse.
“That's right,” his cousin answered. “Like I was saying, the gods might have put the word on my tongue day before yesterday.”
“If the gods gave you the word, why didn't they give you one that was easier to pronounce?” Sostratos asked. “A 'three-one-and-a-halfer'? People will be trying to figure out what that is for years.”
“Admiral Eudemos didn't have any trouble,” Menedemos said.
“He's an admiral,” Sostratos retorted. “He worries about the thing itself, not about the word.”
“Do you know wha
t you remind me of?” Menedemos said. “You remind me of Aiskhylos down in Hades' house in Aristophanes' Frogs, where he's criticizing Euripides' prologues. But I don't think the trihemiolia is going to 'lose its little bottle of oil,' the way the prologues kept doing.”
“Well, all right,” Sostratos said. “I'd be the first to admit Eudemos knows more about such things than I do.”
“Generous of you,” Menedemos remarked.
Sostratos wagged a finger at him. “You shouldn't be sarcastic, my dear. You don't do it well, and that's something I do know something about.” Menedemos made a face at him. Sostratos laughed.
Hyssaldomos, Himilkon's Karian slave, was puttering around by the ramshackle warehouse, looking busy while actually doing nothing in particular. Sostratos snorted. Every slave in the world learned that art. Seeing the two Rhodians approach gave Hyssaldomos a legitimate excuse for doing something that didn't involve much real work: he waved to them and called, “Hail, both of you! You looking for my boss?”
“That's right,” Sostratos answered. “Is he there?”
“You bet he is,” the slave said. “I'll go fetch him. I know he'll be glad to see you.” He ducked inside.
“Of course he will,” Sostratos muttered. “After we bought the peafowl from him, he's got to be sure he can sell us anything.”
“We made money from them,” Menedemos said.
“By the time we got rid of them, I'd sooner have served them up roasted at a symposion,” Sostratos said. Familiarity had bred contempt; he was, and would remain, a hater of peafowl.
Before Menedemos could answer, Himilkon emerged from the warehouse, Hyssaldomos behind him. The Phoenician wore an ankle-length wool robe not badly suited to the raw autumn day. Gold hoops glittered in his ears; a black, bushy beard tumbled halfway down his chest. He bowed himself almost double. “Hail, my masters,” he said in gutturally accented but fluent Greek. “How may I serve you today?”
Sostratos found the Phoenician's oily politeness excessive. As far as he was concerned, no free man should call another one master. “Hail,” he answered, doing his best to hide his distaste. “We'd like to talk with you about your homeland, if you don't mind.”
Himilkon's bushy eyebrows leaped upward. “About Byblos?” he said. “Of course, my friend. To you I shall gladly reveal the secrets of my heart.” He bowed again. Sostratos didn't believe him for a moment. On the other hand, he didn't think Himilkon had expected to be believed.
“Not just about Byblos,” Menedemos said. “About Phoenicia in general, and the countries thereabouts, and the kinds of goods we might expect to find in them.”
“Ah.” Intelligence glittered in Himilkon's black, black eyes. “You think to sail east next spring?”
“We've talked about it,” Sostratos said. “If we do, we'd like to learn as much as we can beforehand.”
“Wise. Very wise.” Himilkon gave him yet another bow. “Most Hellenes, if you will forgive my saying so, charge ahead first and think of questions afterwards—if they ever do. I might have known you would be different.” One more bow.
“Er—thank you.” Sostratos wondered if that was a real compliment aimed at him or just more Phoenician flattery. He couldn't tell.
Himilkon rounded on his slave. “Don't stand there with your ears flapping in the breeze, you lazy, worthless, good-for-nothing rogue. Go inside and fetch us some wine and a bite to eat, and don't take all day doing it, either.”
“Right, boss.” If his master's outburst frightened Hyssaldomos, the Karian hid it very well. He sauntered into the warehouse.
“I ought to give him a good whipping—find out if he's really alive,” Himilkon grumbled. “What do you have in mind buying, my masters, and what will you take east to sell?”
“Well, obviously, as long as we're in the country, we'll look to buy some of the crimson dye they make in the Phoenician towns,” Menedemos said.
Himilkon nodded. He'd lived in Rhodes a long time, but still didn't usually show agreement as a Hellene would. “Yes, of course,” he said. “You already know something of the qualities to look for there, for it comes west often enough. What else?”
“Balsam,” Sostratos answered. “We bought some in Knidos from a couple of Phoenician traders, and we did well with it—better than I thought we would. If we could get it straight from the source, we'd make even more.”
Before Himilkon could reply, his slave came out with wine and cups and some barley rolls and a bowl of olive oil on a wooden tray.
“Just set it down and go away,” Himilkon told him. “I don't want you snooping around.”
“Wait,” Sostratos said. “Could we have some water first, to mix with the wine?”
“Go on. Fetch it,” Himilkon told Hyssaldomos. But the Phoenician also let out a mournful cluck. “Why you Hellenes water your wine, I've never understood. It takes away half the pleasure. Would you wrap a rag around your prong before you go into a woman?”
“One of the Seven Sages said, 'Nothing too much,' “ Sostratos told him. “To us, unwatered wine seems too much, too likely to bring on drunkenness and madness.”
Himilkon's broad shoulders went up and down in a shrug. “To me, this is silly, but never mind.” He drank his wine neat, and with every sign of enjoyment. Smacking his lips, he went on, “You spoke of balsam, my master.”
Sostratos had been chewing on a roll, and answered with his mouth full: “Yes. Certainly.”
“You want the best, the balsam of Engedi?” Himilkon asked. Sostratos and Menedemos both dipped their heads. Himilkon said, “You won't get it straight from the source, not in Phoenicia you won't. Engedi lies inland, perhaps twelve or fifteen parasangs inland—you would say, let me see, about, oh, three hundred stadia.”
“Isn't that Phoenicia, too?” Menedemos asked.
“No, no, no.” Himilkon shook his head. “The Phoenician cities are along the coast. Inland, down there, is the country of the Ioudaioi. And the Ioudaioi, my friends, are very peculiar people.”
Menedemos sent Sostratos a quick glance, as if to say anyone not a Hellene was of course a peculiar person. Sostratos would not have disagreed, but didn't care to say any such thing where Himilkon could hear. What he did say was, “I don't know much about these Ioudaioi, O best one. Tell me more.”
“Foolish people. Stubborn people. About what you'd expect from ignorant, back-country hillmen.” Himilkon sniffed and poured himself more wine, then shook his head. “And they're slightly daft— more than slightly daft—about their religion. You need to know that if you decide to go inland.”
“Daft how?” Sostratos asked. “If I go into their country, will they want me to worship the way they do?”
“No, no, no,” the Phoenician said again. He laughed. “But they may not want to have anything to do with you, because you don't worship the way they do. Dealing with you might cause them ritual pollution, you see. They're very prickly about that sort of thing.”
“They sound as bad as Egyptians,” Menedemos said.
“They're even worse,” Himilkon said. “They worship their own god, and they say nobody else's gods are real.”
“What? Zeus isn't real?” Menedemos burst out laughing. “Oh, my dear fellow, that has to be a joke.”
“Not to the Ioudaioi,” Himilkon said. “Not at all.”
“That holds an obvious logical flaw,” Sostratos said. “If theirs is the only true god, why is he worshiped by one little tribe nobody ever heard of, and by nobody else in the whole wide world?”
Himilkon shrugged once more. Menedemos said, “Well, my dear, if you deal with these strange people, I suggest you don't ask them that question. Otherwise, you won't be dealing with them long. If they're like Egyptians, they'll be touchy as all get-out about religion, and they won't care a fig for logic.”
However much Sostratos might wish it didn't, that made good sense. “I'll remember,” he promised, and turned back to Himilkon. “What else can you tell me about these Ioudaioi?”
“They
are honest—I will say that for them,” the Phoenician answered. “This god of theirs may seem silly to everyone else, but they take him very seriously.”
“What does he look like?” Sostratos asked. “Do they turn a crocodile or a baboon or a cat or a jackal into a god, the way the Egyptians do?”
“No, my master—nothing of the sort, in fact.” Himilkon shook his head again. “If you can believe it, he doesn't look like anything at all. He just is—is everywhere at the same time, I suppose that means.” He laughed at the absurdity of it.
So did Menedemos, whose ideas about religion had always been conventional. But Sostratos thoughtfully pursed his lips. Ever since Sokrates' day, philosophers had been dissatisfied with the gods as they appeared in the Iliad: lustful, quarrelsome, often foolish or cowardly—a pack of chieftains writ large. One cautious step at a time, thinkers had groped their way toward something that sounded a lot like what these Ioudaioi already had. Maybe they weren't so silly after all.
How can I find out? he wondered, and asked Himilkon, “Do any of them speak Greek?”
“A few may.” But Himilkon looked doubtful. “You'd do better to learn a little Aramaic, though. I could teach you myself, if you like. I wouldn't charge much.”
Now Sostratos wore a dubious expression. His curiosity had never extended to learning foreign languages. “Maybe,” he said.
“I know how it is with you Hellenes,” Himilkon said. “You always want everybody else to speak your tongue. You never care to pick up anybody else's. That's fine in Hellas, my friend, but there's more to the world than Hellas. Your other choice would be to hire a Greek-speaking interpreter in one of the Phoenician towns, but that would cost a lot more than learning yourself.”
Mentioning expense was a good way to get Sostratos to think about acquiring some Aramaic on his own. “Maybe,” he said again, in a different tone of voice.
The Gryphon's Skull Page 42