The Gryphon's Skull

by Harry Turtledove

  “You've got to make her happy,” Menedemos said, and sternly told himself not to pursue that line of thought, either.

  “Make her happy?” Sikon howled, peeling another prawn. “How am I supposed to manage that, short of serving nothing but barley porridge for the next six months? I think her mother must have been frightened by a tunny while she was in the womb.”

  Menedemos pointed to the prawn shells and the tiny bits of flesh clinging to them. “Instead of throwing those in the street in front of the house, why don't you give them to her to bury in the garden? They'll make her flowers and herbs grow better, and she's bound to like that.”

  “Is she? If you want to know what I think, I think she's more likely to grill me about how much the polluted prawns cost,” the cook said. As Menedemos did when his temper began to rise, he drummed his fingers on the outside of his thigh. Sikon recognized the danger sign. “All right, all right. I'll give them to her, and I hope it does some good, that's all I've got to say.”

  It wasn't all he had to say, nor anywhere close to it. And he said still more when Menedemos reached out and hooked a fat prawn from the bowl into which he'd been tossing them. Mouth full, Menedemos retreated.

  A moment later, he wished he hadn't: Baukis had come down from the women's quarters and was picking up a hydria so she could water the garden. “Hail,” she called to him.

  “Hail,” he answered. His gaze flicked to the andron. Sure enough, his father still sat inside. He would have to be all the more careful about what he said, then.

  But before he had a chance to say anything, Sikon stormed out of the kitchen, both hands full of prawn shells. He all but threw them at Baukis' feet. “Here you are, my lady,” he said. “They'll make good manure for the plants, I hope.”

  She looked startled; plainly, Sikon had never done anything like that before. “Thank you,” she said. “You're right. They will.” But then she asked, “How much did you pay for the prawns?”

  The cook glared at Menedemos. I told you so, his eyes said. Then, reluctantly, he turned back to Baukis. “I got a good price for them.”

  “I'm sure they'll be very tasty,” Menedemos said. “In fact, I know they'll be very tasty, because I tasted one.” Since he'd suggested this course to Sikon, he had to back him now.

  Baukis said, “Tasty is one thing. Expensive is something else. What exactly did you pay for the prawns, Sikon?” Having no choice, the cook told her. She fixed him with a stony glance. “What would you call a bad price, if that's a good one?”

  Defiantly, Sikon answered, “I've paid plenty more in years gone by. And”—he folded his arms across his chest—”nobody complained, either.”

  The Macedonians and Persians lined up against each other at Gaugamela could not have glowered with greater ferocity. Menedemos, in the middle, feared he might be torn limb from limb. “Peace, both of you,” he said. “That isn't a dreadful price.” He found himself wishing his father would come out of the andron and help him. If that wasn't a measure of his alarm and desperation, he couldn't imagine what would be.

  Philodemos stayed where he was. He had too much sense, or too little courage, to jump into the middle of this battle. Under Menedemos' protection, Sikon preened and swaggered. Baukis looked as if he'd stabbed her in the back. “If you care more about your belly than about what this house really needs ...” She didn't finish the sentence, but turned on her heel and stalked toward the stairs leading up to the women's quarters.

  Menedemos watched—he couldn't help watching—the furious roll of her hips. Beside him, Sikon cackled with glee. “Thank you kindly, sir,” the cook said. “I guess you told her.”

  “I guess I did,” Menedemos said dully. He scowled at Sikon. Could those prawns possibly be good enough to make up for getting Baukis angry at him? He doubted ambrosia from Olympos would be good enough for that.

  “—And I looked under the rower's bench,” Sostratos said, “and the sack with the gryphon's skull in it was gone. One of those polluted pirates had stolen it. What I'd do to that son of a whore if I could ...”

  “I'm sorry,” Erinna said, and then, with something like awe, “I've never seen you so angry before.”

  Sostratos looked down at his hands. Of themselves, they'd folded into fists. When he willed them open, the marks of his nails were printed on his palms. More than a little sheepishly, he smiled at his younger sister. “If you think I'm angry now, you should have seen me when it happened. So much knowledge that might have been so important, gone forever ... I was beside myself.”

  A fly landed on Erinna's arm. She brushed at it, and it darted away. Gyges, the majordomo here, had heard from Philodemos' cook next door that Baukis was using fish offal to fertilize her garden. Erinna had started doing the same thing. Maybe the plants appreciated it. Sostratos was certain the flies did. The one that had been on Erinna's arm landed on his leg. He smashed it. It fell in the dirt. A tiny gecko darted out from between two stones, seized it, and disappeared again. Sostratos wiped his hand on his chiton.

  His sister sighed. “Being a man, being able to do all those things, go all those places, must be wonderful.”

  “Not always,” Sostratos said dryly. “I could have done without pirates trying to kill me or sell me into slavery.”

  Erinna flushed. “Well, yes. But most of the time . . . You know what I mean. You usually know what I mean.”

  Sostratos coughed. “Thank you.” That was a rare compliment. He couldn't imagine anyone else saying such a thing to him. Menedemos? No, not likely. And he couldn't imagine saying such a thing to anybody else himself, not even to Erinna.

  She asked him a question that surprised him: “You know Damonax son of Polydoros, don't you?”

  “Of course I do,” Sostratos answered. “I took the gryphon's skull to show him this past spring, remember? He tried to buy it from me. Now I wish I'd let him do it.” He frowned. “Why do you want to know? “

  “You were at the gymnasion yesterday when he stopped by,” Erinna said. “He might be interested enough in marrying into the family not to care so much about how old I am.”

  “You're not old,” Sostratos said loyally. “You're only nineteen.”

  “That's old for a girl to be marrying,” Erinna said.

  He couldn't very well argue with her, because she was right. She'd been only fourteen when she wed for the first time. But he said, “Isn't Damonax already married?”

  “He was.” Erinna's face clouded. “His wife died in childbirth not long after you set out for Kos. He's looking to marry again. Of course, from what Father said, he wants a bigger dowry because I'm older.”

  “He would,” Sostratos said. But that wasn't anything out of the ordinary.

  “What's he like?” Erinna asked. “I got a glimpse of him as he was leaving, and he's more than good-looking enough, but that only goes so far. What's he like?”

  Sostratos had never thought he might be describing Damonax as a possible husband. Would I want him for a brother-in-law? he wondered. He wasn't sure. He said, “He's bright enough—he studied in Athens before I did, you know. I don't think he's as bright as he thinks he is, but how many people are? He's not stingy, not from anything I've ever seen. I've never heard anything bad about him.”

  He hadn't heard that much praise for Damonax, either. He went on, “When he wants something, he really wants it—I have noticed that about him. But that's not necessarily good or bad.”

  “Would you want him in the family?” Erinna asked.

  That was the very question Sostratos was asking himself. Since he had no good answer for it, he gave back a question of his own: “What does Father think?”

  “He didn't send Damonax away with a flea in his ear,” his sister said. “He's—thinking things over, I guess you'd say.”

  “Good. These dickers can take a long time,” Sostratos said. “The one for your first marriage did. I probably remember that better than you do—you were still a girl then.”

  “I didn't have much t
o do with it,” Erinna agreed. “But it's different now. I'm not a girl any more. And I don't want this dicker to take a long time, because I'm not getting any younger.”

  “Time is a terrible enemy. Sooner or later, it always wins.”

  Erinna sprang to her feet and hurried upstairs to the women's quarters. Sostratos stared after her. Oh, dear, he thought. That wasn't what she hoped I'd say at all. Then he realized something else: no matter what Father thinks, she wants to marry Damonax. He must feel like a second chance for her.

  Do I want Damonax in the family? If I don't, have I got any good reason for not wanting him? And why does he want to join us? We're tradesfolk, and he's got land. Is he in debt?

  Those were all good questions. He had answers for none of them. He couldn't ask his father; Lysistratos was down at the harbor. From what Erinna said, his father was at least thinking about the match. That was interesting. Erinna, no doubt, found it much more than interesting.

  A bumblebee buzzed through the garden. Sostratos went into the andron. He'd been stung before, and didn't care to get stung again. After a while, the bee had drunk its fill and went away. Sostratos returned to the courtyard.

  Threissa, the family's redheaded Thracian slave girl, came out with her arms full of freshly washed tunics and mantles. She started spreading them in the sun to dry. “Hail,” Sostratos said.

  “Hail, young master,” she answered in her oddly accented Greek. Carrying a load of wet clothes had got the front of her own tunic wet, too, so that it clung to her breasts. Sostratos eyed her. She noticed him doing it, and spoke quickly: “You excuse me, please, young master? I terrible busy.”

  He took her up to his bedroom every so often. She was only a slave girl; how could she say no? Even asking him to wait would have landed her in trouble in some households. But taking her for his own pleasure while she was in the middle of work would have landed him in trouble with his mother and sister. And, since she was more resigned to their occasional couplings than eager for them, he was less eager for them himself than he might have been. And so he said, “All right, Threissa,” though he didn't leave off eyeing the way the wet wool displayed her nipples.

  “I thank you, young master,” she said. “You a kind man.” Despite such praise, she stood with her back to him as much as she could.

  Terrible to be a slave, Sostratos thought. Terrible to be a woman and not a man. And if you're unlucky enough to be both, what can you do? Turn your back and hope, no more. Gods be praised I'm a free man.

  He might have gone upstairs with her when she finished spreading out the clothes, but his father got back while she was busy there. Lysistratos looked pleased with himself, saying, “I may have a deal for some olive oil of the very first pressing. That won't be long now; the fruit's getting on toward being ripe.”

  “That's good, Father,” Sostratos said, “but what's this I hear about Damonax son of Polydoros sniffing around after Erinna?”

  “Well, I don't quite know what it is,” Lysistratos answered. “It's all very tentative right now. But she should be married again if we can arrange it—you know that. And I wouldn't mind a connection to Damonax's family—I wouldn't mind that at all.”

  “I understand—they've owned land for generations,” Sostratos said. “Why do they want anything to do with us, though? Have they fallen on hard times?”

  “That occurred to me, too, but not that I know of,” his father said. “I am sniffing around—I'm sniffing around like a scavenger dog sniffing for garbage, as a matter of fact. Haven't found anything out of the ordinary yet.”

  “There must be something. Otherwise, he wouldn't be willing to join with mere tradesmen.” Sostratos smiled a sour smile. People whose wealth lay in land always looked down their noses at those who made money by their wits. Land was safe, stable, secure—boring, too, Sostratos thought.

  “Actually, son, you had something to do with it,” Lysistratos said.

  “Me?” Sostratos' voice was a startled squeak. “What? How?”

  “Seems you impressed Damonax no end when you wouldn't sell him the gryphon's skull this spring,” Lysistratos told him.

  “I wish I had. Then it would still be here.”

  “That's as may be,” his father said. “But Damonax thought all merchants were whores, and they'd do anything for money. He knew you'd gone to Athens, to the Lykeion, but when you put knowledge ahead of silver, that opened his eyes. 'Not many gentlemen would have done the same,' was how he put it.”

  “Did he?” Sostratos said, and Lysistratos dipped his head. “That's . . . surprising,” Sostratos went on in musing tones. “What I was afraid of at the time was that he would call for half a dozen burly slaves and keep the gryphon's skull. I thought he was admiring that, not my integrity. You never can tell.”

  “No, you never can,” Lysistratos agreed. “Would you want him in the family?”

  “I've been thinking about that. Before what you said just now, I would have told you no,” Sostratos answered. “Now...” He shrugged and let out a rueful chuckle. “Now I'm so flattered, my advice probably isn't worth a thing.”

  “Oh, I doubt that. If there's one thing I can rely on, son, it's that you keep your wits about you.”

  “Thank you,” Sostratos said, though he wasn't quite sure his father had paid him a compliment. He might almost have said, Coldblooded, aren't you? Sostratos chuckled again. Compared to, say, his cousin, he was coldblooded, and he knew it. After some thought, he went on, “Do I want Damonax in the family? Erinna wants the match; I know that. It would be a step up for us, if he's not after our money to repair his fortunes. Actually, it would be a step up for us even if he is, but I don't think I care to take that kind of step.”

  “I told you you keep your wits about you,” his father said. “I don't care to, either.”

  “I didn't think you did, sir.” Sostratos plucked at his beard. “Damonax isn't bad-looking, he isn't stupid, and he isn't a churl. If he's not hiding something from us, Erinna could do worse.”

  “Fair enough,” Lysistratos said. “I was thinking along the same lines. I'll keep talking with him, then. We have some haggling to do. He wants a big dowry—you already knew that, didn't you?”

  Sostratos dipped his head. “He has some reason to ask it, because Erinna's a widow, not a maiden. But if he won't come down, if he cares more about the dowry than he does about her, that's a sign his own affairs aren't prospering.”

  “Good point—very good,” Lysistratos said. “We'll take a few steps forward and we'll see, that's all.”

  Menedemos spent as much time as he could away from the house. That kept him from quarreling with his father, and it kept him from having much to do with his father's wife. He exercised in the gymnasion. He strolled through the agora, looking at what was for sale there and talking with other men who came there to look and to talk. All sorts of things came to the marketplace at Rhodes. He kept hoping he would see another gryphon's skull. If he did, he intended to buy it for his cousin. He had no luck there, though.

  And, when he wasn't at the gymnasion or the agora, he went down to the harbor. Not many ships came in much more than a month after the autumnal equinox, but the harbor stayed busy even so, with new vessels a-building and old ones—the Aphrodite among them— hauled up on the beach for repairs and refitting. The talk was good there, too, though different from that in the market square: centered on the sea, much less concerned over either the latest juicy gossip or the wider world.

  “You're lucky you're here, and not in shackles in a slave market in Carthage or Phoenicia or Crete,” a carpenter said, driving home a large-headed copper tack that helped secure lead sheathing to a round ship's side.

  “Believe me, Khremes, I know it,” Menedemos answered. “A pestilence take all pirates.” Everyone working on the merchantman dipped his head. In a savage mood, Menedemos went on, “And if the pestilence doesn't take 'em, the cross will do.”

  “I'd like to see that myself,” Khremes said. “But those whore
sons are hard to catch. Remind me—I heard your story, but this bit didn't stick—was it a pentekonter that came after you, or one of those gods-detested hemioliai?”

  “A hemiolia,” Menedemos said. “To the crows with the whoreson who first thought up the breed. He must have been a pirate himself. I hope he ended up on a cross and died slow. They're only good for one thing—”

  “Might as well be women,” Khremes broke in, and all the men in earshot laughed.

  That hit closer to the center of the target than Menedemos would have liked. To keep anyone else from guessing, he took the gibe a step further with a bit of doggerel:

  “Every woman's gall,

  But she has two moments:

  In bed, and dead.”

  “Euge!” Khremes exclaimed, and put down his hammer to clap his hands. The other carpenters and the harborside loungers bending an ear dipped their heads.

  “Thanks,” Menedemos said, thinking, I'll have to remember that one and spring it on Sostratos when he's got a mouthful of wine—see if I can make him choke. He made himself go back to hemioliai: “Cursed ships are only good for darting out to grab a merchantman—and for showing a pair of heels to anything honest that chases em.

  “Sometimes a trireme'll catch 'em,” Khremes said, picking up the hammer once more and choosing another short copper tack.

  “Sometimes,” Menedemos said morosely. “Not often enough, and we all know it.”

  The Rhodians dipped their heads again. A lot of them had pulled an oar in one of the polis' triremes, or in one of the bigger, heavier warships that were fine for battling their own kind but too slow and beamy to go pirate-hunting despite their swarms of rowers.

  Khremes started hammering away. A man who looked as if he had a hangover winced and drew back from the round ship. As the carpenter drove the tack home, he said, “Don't know what to do about it. Triremes are the fastest warships afloat, and they have been for—oh, I don't know, a mighty long time, anyways. Forever, you might almost say.”

  Sostratos would know how long—probably to the hour, Menedemos thought. He didn't himself, not exactly, but he had some notion of how things worked. He said, “Biremes are faster than pentekonters because they can pack just as many rowers into a shorter, lighter hull. Hemioliai are especially little and light—the back half of that upper bank of oars only gets used part-time.”