The Gryphon's Skull

by H. N. Turteltaub

  “No,” Sostratos agreed, “but how much good will he do with the rain coming down like this? I can hardly see him up there, and he's only—what?—thirty or thirty-five cubits away.”

  “He's the best set of eyes we've got,” Menedemos said. “I can't do any more than that.”

  Sostratos dipped his head. “I wasn't arguing.” Pie pulled off his chiton and threw it down onto the deck. In the warm rain, going naked was more comfortable than wet wool squelching against his skin. He looked back toward the Aphrodite's boat, which she towed by a line tied to the sternpost. “I wonder if you'll need to put a man with a pot in there to bail.”

  “It is coming down, isn't it?” Menedemos said. An unspoken thought flashed between them: I wonder if we'll need to start bailing out the ship. Sostratos knew he hadn't expected weather this nasty, and his cousin couldn't have, either, or he wouldn't have set out from Kos. Menedemos quickly changed the subject; “Take the steering oars for a moment, would you? I want to get out of my tunic, too.”

  “Of course, my dear.” Sostratos seized the steering-oar tillers with alacrity. Menedemos usually had charge of them all the way through the voyage. Sostratos didn't have to do any steering past holding the merchant galley on her course. Even so, the strength of the sea shot up his arms, informing his whole body. It's like holding a conversation with Poseidon himself, he thought.

  Menedemos' soggy chiton splatted onto the planks of the deck beside his own. “That's better,” his cousin said. “Thanks. I'll get back where I belong now.”

  “All right,” Sostratos said, though his tone suggested it was anything but.

  Laughing, Menedemos said, “You want to hang on for a while, do you? Well, I can't say that I blame you. It's like making love to the sea, isn't it?”

  That wasn't the comparison Sostratos had thought of, but it wasn't a bad one. And it suits my cousin, too, he thought. “May I stay for a bit?” he asked.

  “Why not?” Menedemos said, laughing still. But then he grew more serious: “Probably not the worst thing in the world for you to know what to do.”

  “I do know,” Sostratos answered. “But there's a difference between knowing how to do something and having experience at it.”

  Before Menedemos could reply, Aristeidas let out a horrified cry for the foredeck: “Ship! By the gods, a ship off the port bow, and she's heading straight for us!”

  Sostratos' head jerked to the left. Sure enough, wallowing through the curtain of rain and into sight came a great round ship, her sail down from the yard and full of wind as she ran before the breeze— straight for the Aphrodite. Sostratos knew what he had to do. He pulled one steering oar in as far as it would go, and pushed the other as far out, desperately swinging the akatos to starboard. That wasn't making love to the sea but wrestling with it, forcing it and the ship to obey his strength. And the sea fought back, pushing against the blades of the steering oars with a supple power that appalled him.

  Had Menedemos snatched the steering-oar tillers from his hands, he would have yielded them on the instant. But his cousin, seeing that he'd done the right thing, said only, “Hold us on that turn no matter what.” And Sostratos did, though he began to think he was wrestling a foe beyond his strength. “Pull hard, you bastards! Pull!” Menedemos screamed to the rowers, and then, to the men who weren't rowing, “Grab poles! Grab oars! Fend that fat sow off!” He cupped his hands and screamed louder still at the round ship: “Sheer off! Sheer off, you wide-arsed, tawny-turded chamber pot!”

  A couple of naked sailors on the round ship were yelling, too. Sostratos could see their open mouths. They were so dose, he could see that one of them had a couple of missing teeth. He couldn't hear a word they said, though. One of them ran hack and snatched up a pole, too, to try to push the Aphrodite away. But the big, beamy ship lumbered on, right toward the merchant galley.

  Right toward? At first, Sostratos had been sure she would simply trample the Aphrodite under her keel, as a war galley might have done. But his hard turn gave him hope. He had to turn his head farther to the left every moment to keep an eye on the round ship. Maybe she would slip past the akatos' stern. But she was close now, so close. . .

  “Port oars—in!” Diokles yelled, not wanting them broken and crushed by the round ship's hull. With only the starboard rowers working, the Aphrodite tried to slew back to port. Sostratos held her on course against the new pressure.

  Poles probed out from each ship, trying to hold the other off. Sostratos felt two or three thud against the merchant galley's flank. With a far larger crew, the Aphrodite had more men straining to push away the round ship. Sailors on both ships cursed and called on the gods, sometimes both in the same breath.

  They almost got their miracle. Had the rain been even a little lighter, had lynx-eyed Aristeidas spied the round ship even a handful of heartbeats sooner, the two vessels would have missed each other. But, with a grind of timbers, the round ship's side scraped against the Aphrodite's stern. Sostratos jerked his arm off the port steering oar an instant before the other ship carried the oar away. Had he been late, he would have had the arm torn from its socket.

  The round ship sailed on, as if without a care in the world. Sostratos shook himself, as if waking from a bad dream. But a dream wouldn't have left him naked on a pitching, rolling deck, both hands now on the tiller of the surviving steering oar.

  “You did well there,” Menedemos said quietly. “You did as well as anyone could. I'll take it now. Duck under the poop deck and see if we're taking on water. To the crows with me if that fat pig”—a word with a lewd double meaning—”didn't stave in some of our planking.”

  “All right,” Sostratos said. “Why didn't you take the steering oars away from me? Maybe the round ship would have missed.”

  Menedemos tossed his head. “You had us going hard to starboard. That was the right thing to do, and I couldn't have done anything different. I didn't want the tillers without hands on 'em for even half a heartbeat there, so I just left you alone. Now go see how we're doing under here.”

  As Sostratos went past Diokles, the oarmaster clapped him on the back. That made him so proud, he all but flew down the steps from the poop deck to the waist of the ship: Diokles was not a man to show approval when it hadn't been earned.

  Ducking under the poop deck, Sostratos found the one drawback to sending a tall man down there—he banged his head twice in quick succession on the underside of the deck timbers, the second time hard enough to see stars. He wished he had some of Menedemos' Aristophanic curses handy.

  Then he found more reason to curse than a lump on the head, for his cousin had known whereof he spoke. The collision had staved in three or four of the timbers near the stern, cracking the tenons and breaking open the mortises that held them together. Seawater came through—-not in a steady stream, but by surges, so the damage was close to the waterline but not below it.

  Sostratos backed out from under the decking {and, not being the most graceful of men, hit his head once more for good measure). He went up onto the poop deck and gave Menedemos the news.

  “I knew it,” Menedemos said savagely. “And what do you bet we didn't do a thing to that stinking round ship? It'll have timbers as thick as its skipper's head. How much water's coming in?”

  “It's not too bad,” Sostratos answered. “It's leaking in spurts, not steadily.”

  “If we patch it with sailcloth and bail, do you think we can turn back and make Kos?”

  “I suppose so,” Sostratos said. “Myndos is a lot closer, though.” He pointed east.

  “I know it, my dear,” Menedemos answered. “I'll go there if I have to. But I'd rather not. Damage like that takes a while to repair, and word will get to Myndos that we were the ones who brought Polemaios to Kos. If I have a choice, I'd sooner not be there when it does. If I don't”—he shrugged—”that's a different story, and I'll do what I have to do.”

  “Ah.” Sostratos dipped his head. “That makes good sense. As I say, it's not too bad.
We got off easier than we might have. You might want to go under there and see for yourself.”

  “I suppose I'd better,” Menedemos said. “All right, take the steering oars—uh, oar. Who would've thought we'd lose two on the same voyage? Long odds there, by the gods. Swing her around to southward to run with the wind. We'll make for Kos unless I decide we can't get there.”

  When Menedemos came back up onto the poop deck, he was rubbing the top of his head. Seeing that made Sostratos feel better about his own bumps. Menedemos said, “They're sprung, sure enough, but I think we can plug 'em. You're right—that's not too bad a leak. We'll make Kos easy as you please.” He shouted commands, sending a couple of sailors under the poop deck with sailcloth to stuff up the sprung seams and ordering the sail lowered from the yard.

  Sostratos peered forward. “What'll we do if we spot the round ship?”

  “We ought to ram her,” Menedemos growled. “See how she likes it, by the gods.” In more thoughtful tones, he went on, “If we find out who she is, maybe we can go to law with her skipper or her owner.”

  “Maybe.” Sostratos knew he sounded dubious. Going to law against anyone from another polis—and collecting a judgment if you won—was often a task to make Sisyphos' seem easy by comparison. Often, but perhaps not always. Sostratos brightened a little. “If she puts in at Kos, we could go straight to Ptolemaios.”

  “So we could.” Menedemos smiled a predatory smile. “Hard to find a better connection than that, isn't it?”

  Before Sostratos could answer, a sailor came out from under the poop deck and called to Menedemos: “Skipper, we've plugged up the sprung seams as best we can, but we're still taking on some water.”

  “How much is 'some'?” Menedemos demanded. He waved a hand. “Never mind—I'll see for myself. Sostratos, take the steering oar again and keep us on our course.” As soon as Sostratos had hold of the tiller, his cousin disappeared under the deck once more. When he emerged, his expression was as gloomy as the weather. “Pestilence take it, I don't want to have to make for Myndos.”

  Diokles said, “Skipper, why not fother a square of sailcloth smeared with pitch over the damage? War galleys will do that when they're rammed—if they have the time before they're rammed again, I mean.”

  “Hold the sailcloth against the ship with ropes, you mean?” Menedemos said, and the oarmaster dipped his head. Menedemos looked thoughtful. “I've never tried that. You know how to go about it?”

  “I sure do,” Diokles answered. Some men would say as much regardless of whether it was true. Sostratos didn't think the keleustes was one of them.

  Evidently his cousin didn't, either. “All right. Take charge of it,” Menedemos said. “I'll learn from you along with the sailors.”

  “Right,” Diokles said. “Getting pitch on the sailcloth will be a bastard in this rain, but what can you do?” As some of the sailors started that messy job, he ordered the sail brailed up again and took all but four rowers off the oars. “Hold her course steady,” he told Sostratos. “We don't want much speed on her right now, on account of we'll bring the boat alongside, and it'll have to keep up.”

  “I understand,” Sostratos said.

  The oarmaster called to the crew: “Now, who can swim? We have anybody who's ever dived for sponges?” One naked sailor raised a hand. Diokles waved to him. “Good for you, Moskhion.” He spoke quietly to Sostratos: “He'll be swimming under the hull. He ought to have something for it.”

  “Of course.” Sostratos dipped his head and raised his voice: “Two days' pay bonus for you, Moskhion.”

  With a grin, Moskhion went down into the boat, along with the sailcloth to be fothered over the sprung seams and the lines to make it fast to the hull. He had a line tied around his own middle, too, and carried one tied to a belaying pin on the Aphrodite. A couple of rowers kept the boat alongside the akatos. Another pair of sailors wrestled the sailcloth against the damaged planks. Sostratos got all this from Diokles and Menedemos' comments. He wished his cousin would take back the surviving steering oar so he could see for himself, but no such luck.

  Splash! Moskhion went into the sea. A surprisingly short time later, he scrambled over the starboard gunwale. He undid the line from his own waist and wrapped the one he'd carried round another belaying pin. Then he hurried over to the port side, got down into the boat again, hauled in his safety line, and tied it round himself again.

  After four trips under the hull, he said, “That ought to do it.”

  “Let's see what we've got, then.” Menedemos hurried down off the poop deck to go below and see what the fothering had done. Over his shoulder, he added, “You earned your three drakhmai, Moskhion.”

  “Wasn't as hard as sponge diving,” the sailor said. “There, you go down so deep, your ears hurt and your chest feels like somebody piled rocks on it—and you carry a rock yourself, to sink faster. You keep that up, you're an old man before you're forty. Tin glad to pull an oar instead.”

  When Menedemos came out from under the decking, he looked pleased. “Down to just a trickle now. Thanks, Diokles—I wouldn't have thought of that trick. Two days' bonus for you, too. Remember it, Sostratos.”

  As Sostratos dipped his head, Diokles said, “Thank you kindly, skipper.”

  “I'll take the steering oar now,” Menedemos said, and he did. He raised his voice to call out to the crew: “Eight men a side on the oars. And we'll lower the sail from the yard again now. The sooner we get back to Kos, the sooner we can get patched up and be on our way again.”

  Tin beginning to wonder if the Fates ever intend to let me get to Athens,” Sostratos said. “Here's one more delay, and not even one where we can turn a profit.”

  “This one's not our fault, by the gods,” Menedemos said. He raised his voice again: “Two days' pay to whoever spots the ship that hit us. When we find out who she is, we will take it up with Ptolemaios.”

  That had the sailors avidly peering out to sea all the way back to Kos, but no one spied the round ship. Maybe the weather was too dirty, or maybe she'd been making for Kalymnos, not Kos. “Maybe she sank,” Sostratos said as the Aphrodite neared the port from which she'd set out early in the morning.

  “Too much to hope for,” Menedemos said. “I don't see any of Ptolemaios' war galleys on patrol outside the harbor. They ought to be. The weather isn't too nasty to keep Antigonos from giving him a nasty surprise if he's so inclined.”

  When the akatos came into the harbor itself, Sostratos exclaimed in surprise: “Where did all the ships go? There's space at half the quays, where this morning everything was tight as a—”

  “Pretty boy's backside,” Menedemos finished for him. That wasn't what he'd been about to say, nor anything close to it, but it did carry a similar meaning,

  A fellow who wore a broad-brimmed hat to keep the rain off his face came up the pier to see who the newcomers were. Sostratos asked him the same question: “What happened to all the ships?”

  The man pointed north and east. “They're all over there by the mainland. Ptolemaios used the cover of the storm to mount an attack on Halikarnassos.”

  Menedemos scowled at the Koan carpenter. “What do you mean, you can't do anything for the Aphrodite?” he demanded,

  “What I said,” the Koan answered. “I usually mean what I say. We're all too busy repairing Ptolemaios' warships and transports to have any time left over to deal with a merchant galley.”

  “Well, what am I supposed to do till you find the time?” Menedemos said. “Hang myself?”

  “It's all the same to me,” the carpenter told him. The fellow picked up his mallet and drove home a treenail, joining a tenon and the plank into which it was inserted. Then he reached for another peg.

  Muttering, Menedemos walked away. It was either that or snatch the mallet out of the Koan's hand and brain him with it. But that wouldn't do any good, either: it wouldn't get the man to work for him, which was what he needed.

  In the harbor of Halikarnassos, carpenters were probabl
y just as busy repairing Antigonos' war galleys. That also did Menedemos no good. He looked northeast, toward the city on the Karian mainland. A plume of smoke marked any city at any time; smoke was a distinctive city smell, along with baking bread and the less pleasant odors of dung and unwashed humanity. But a great cloud of black smoke rose from Halikarnassos now. Did it come from inside the place, or had the defenders managed to fire a palisade Ptolemaios' men had run up? From this distance, Menedemos couldn't tell.

  He hoped Halikarnassos fell, and fell quickly. His reasons were entirely selfish. If Ptolemaios' ships weren't constantly limping back to the harbor of Kos with sprung timbers or smashed stemposts or out-and-out holes from stones thrown by engines, the carpenters here wouldn't be working on them at all hours of the day—and, sometimes, by torchlight at night. They would have a chance to fix the Aphrodite.

  But Ptolemaios had hoped to seize the town by surprise. That hadn't worked. Now his men had to settle down to besiege it, which could take a long time. Troy took Agamemnon and Odysseus and the rest of the Akhaioi ten years, Menedemos thought, and wished he hadn't.

  Things would go faster than that nowadays. Homer's hexameters said nothing of catapults that flung javelins or stone balls weighing thirty minai or more. Homer's hexameters, as a matter of fact, said next to nothing about siege warfare itself, even though the Iliad was about the siege of Troy. Alexander's army could probably have stormed Hektor's city in ten days, not ten years. Menedemos paused to scratch his head at that thought. Agamemnon and Akhilleus and the Aiantes and Diomedes and the rest might have been heroes, some of them the sons of gods, but they hadn't known a lot of things modern soldiers took for granted.

  Alexander had admired Akhilleus. He'd taken a copy of the Iliad with him on his campaigns in the trackless east. Had he ever realized his men could have thrashed the warriors who'd sailed the black ships to Troy? Menedemos doubted it.

  The next thing that went through his mind was, I can't tell Sostratos about this. His cousin might shrug and say he'd thought of the same thing years before. If Sostratos hadn't thought of it, though, Menedemos knew he would get no peace till his cousin had squeezed the whey out of every single related possibility. Keeping quiet was a better bet.