Over the Wine-Dark Sea

by Harry Turtledove

  "Yes. Certainly." Again, Menedemos spoke as if he were being charged for every word he uttered. Sostratos gave up until the merchant galley rounded Rhodes' northernmost promontory, passed the fleet's harbor, and sailed into the sheltered waters of the Great Harbor, from which it had set out that spring.

  "It is good to be back," he said then.

  "Well, so it is," Menedemos admitted - something of a relief to Sostratos, who'd begun to wonder if his cousin ever intended to speak more than a couple of words to him. Menedemos wasn't shy about talking to the rowers, of whom he had ten on a side at the oars: "Come on, boys - make it pretty. The whole polis will be watching you, and there's not a Rhodian man breathing who doesn't know what to do with an oar in his hands."

  Thus encouraged, the rowers showed what a well beaten-in crew could managed, following the stroke Diokles set with perfect precision as Menedemos guided the Aphrodite to an open berth. "Back oars!" the keleustes called, and the men did that as smoothly as everything else. As soon as they'd killed the merchant galley's momentum, he called, "Oöp!" and they rested at their oars.

  Sailors heaved lines to men on the wharf, who made the akatos fast. Sostratos tossed an obolos to each roustabout, and another little silver coin to a fellow to whom he said, "Hail, Letodoros. Run to the houses of Lysistratos and Philodemos and let them know the Aphrodite's home and safe. They'll have something more for you there, I expect."

  "Thanks, best one. I'll do that." Letodoros popped the obolos into his mouth and went off at a ground-eating trot.

  "Won't be long now," Sostratos said to Menedemos.

  "So it won't." His cousin still stood between the steering oars, as he had throughout the voyage. Menedemos drummed the fingers of his right hand on the starboard tiller. "It won't be so bad," he said, as if trying to make himself believe it. "We did make a profit, after all, and a good one. Nobody can deny that."

  "Nobody will even try to deny it," Sostratos said. "You'll see. And you're the one who claims I worry too much."

  Menedemos fidgeted while they waited for their fathers to come down to the harbor. Sostratos paid the sailors what he owed them since he'd last given each of them silver, and wrote down the payments so no one could say he hadn't got his due. Watching Menedemos, he thought, I wouldn't twitch like a man with fleas even if I didn't have anything to do. I might feel like it, but I wouldn't do it.

  After he paid off Diokles, he clasped the keleustes' hand and told him, "I hope you'll sail with us again next spring."

  "I hope so, too, young sir," the oarmaster answered. "Never a dull moment, was there?"

  "Too few of them, anyway," Sostratos said, which made Diokles laugh.

  "Oh, by the gods," Menedemos said softly. "Here comes Father." He'd attacked a Roman trireme with no visible trace of fear, but quivered to see a middle-aged man approach the Aphrodite.

  Sostratos waved. "Hail, Uncle Philodemos," he called. "We've come back with every man we started out with but one, and with a tidy profit."

  "What happened to the one man?" Philodemos rapped out. He aimed the question not at Sostratos but at his own son.

  "Hail, Father," Menedemos said. "He died of an arrow wound he took in a sea fight."

  "Pirates?" Philodemos asked. "The Italian waters are lousy with 'em. Polluted bastards all ought to go up on crosses." His right hand folded into an angry fist.

  "Yes, sir," Menedemos agreed. "But this wasn't a fight with pirates. The Romans sent a fleet of triremes to raid a Samnite town called Pompaia just as we were sailing away from it, and one of the triremes took after us."

  Philodemos raised an eyebrow. "And you got away from it? That must have taken some fine sailing. I wasn't sure you had it in you."

  Menedemos grappled with that, trying to decide whether it came out a compliment. Sostratos spoke up before his cousin could: "We didn't get away from it, Uncle. We wrecked it - used our hull to break its starboard oars. After we crippled it, then we got away."

  "Really?" Philodemos said. Not only Sostratos and Menedemos but also a good many sailors amplified the story. Menedemos' father stroked his chin. "That does sound like a smart piece of work," he allowed.

  "There," Sostratos hissed. "You see?" But Menedemos ignored him.

  He was miffed, but only for a moment, for he saw his own father coming down the wharf toward the Aphrodite. He waved again. Lysistratos waved back. "Hail, son," he said. "Good to see you again. How did everything go?"

  Uncle Philodemos didn't say it was good to see Menedemos, went through Sostratos' mind. He may have thought it, but he didn't say it. "Hail," he answered. "We're here. We made money. And we got rid of all the peafowl and all of their chicks." Relentless honesty made him add, "Well, almost all the peafowl. One peahen jumped into the sea. That was my fault."

  "Many good-byes to them," Menedemos said. "They're gods-detested birds, no matter how pretty the peacock was. The Italiotes and barbarians who bought them are welcome to them, believe you me they are."

  "They did make nuisances of themselves in our courtyards, didn't they?" Lysistratos said. "But I'm sure the two of you will be glad to come home and sleep in your own beds again. That was always one of the things I liked best about getting back from a trading run, anyhow."

  "I don't know, Father," Sostratos said. "I've spent so much time on the planks of the poop deck, the mattress will probably feel strange the first few days. And then there was the night on the sacks of wheat when we were going down to Syracuse."

  "Syracuse?" Lysistratos and Philodemos said together. Menedemos' father went on, "What's the news from Syracuse?" and Sostratos realized the Aphrodite was the first ship coming into Rhodes with word of everything that had happened in the west.

  He and his cousin told the story together. Menedemos told more of it. Of the two of them, he'd always had the quicker tongue as well as the quicker feet. Sostratos got his chances to talk after Philodemos' frequent questions, for each one would throw Menedemos off his stride for a little while. Questions from Lysistratos didn't faze Menedemos at all, Sostratos noted.

  When the two young men finished, Philodemos clicked his tongue between his teeth. "You took some long chances there, son," he said, his tone suggesting he might have other remarks when not so many people could hear them.

  "I know, sir, but we got by with them, and they ended up paying off well," Menedemos replied, with something less than the cheeky brashness he'd shown through most of the journey.

  "Just how much money did you make?" Philodemos asked. Menedemos looked toward Sostratos. Sostratos had told his cousin the answer, but Menedemos had no confidence in it. Here in his home port, Sostratos saw no point in keeping it a secret. He told his uncle, and had the satisfaction of watching the older man's jaw drop. "You're joking," Philodemos said.

  "And five oboloi," Sostratos added. "No, I'm not joking at all."

  "Euge!" his father said, and clapped his hands together to show just how well he thought it was done. "That's . . . splendid is the only word I can find." Lysistratos clapped again. "I'm proud of both of you."

  "We also still have a little silk and a little Ariousian and some perfume on board," Sostratos said. "They won't bring so much here as they would have in Great Hellas, but they'll bring something."

  Lysistratos beamed. Even Philodemos didn't look too unhappy. Sostratos waved to Himilkon the Phoenician, who was heading over to find out the news. We did it, he thought. We really did it, and now, at last, we're back. It feels even better than I thought it would.

  Menedemos sat in the andron in his house, sipping from a cup of wine and wishing he were somewhere, anywhere, else. Even the men's chamber itself left him disappointed. Here in Rhodes, it was pretty fine. Set it next to Gylippos' in Taras, though, and it wasn't so much of a much.

  But he wouldn't have minded the andron so much if his father hadn't been sitting a couple of cubits away glaring at him. "You idiot," Philodemos said. "What on earth or under it were you thinking of?"

  "Profit," Menedemos
answered in a low voice. His father always managed to put him in the wrong. With a flash of defiance, he added, "We got it, too. We got a lot of it."

  Philodemos waved that away, as of no account. "You came much too close to getting exactly - exactly, I tell you - what you deserved for such a piece of foolishness. What did your cousin think of it? Was he as mad to put on wax-glued wings and imitate Ikaros flying up toward the sun as you were?"

  Menedemos thought about lying, but reckoned he was too likely to get caught. Reluctantly, he tossed his head. "Well, no. Not quite."

  "Not quite?" Philodemos put a world of expression into his echo. "What does that mean? No, don't tell me. I can figure it out for myself. Sostratos has some sense, at least - more than I can say for my own flesh and blood."

  To cover his feelings, Menedemos took a long pull at the wine. He wished he could get drunk right now, so he wouldn't have to pay his father any attention at all. But Philodemos wouldn't let him forget that, either, and they'd be living in the same house till spring. However much he wanted to, however insulted he felt, he couldn't storm away, either, not unless he wanted to create bad blood that might last till he could sail away again.

  What can I do? he wondered. Changing the subject was the only thing that came to him. He said, "We heard on the way back here that the war between Ptolemaios and Antigonos got going for all it was worth. Nobody really expected the peace to last, but even so . . .."

  "It's going, all right," his father agreed with a certain gloomy satisfaction. Philodemos was willing to criticize the follies of others besides Menedemos. "Ptolemaios sent his general Leonides up to Kilikia to seize the cities on the coast from Antigonos."

  "And he did it?" Menedemos asked.

  His father dipped his head. "He did it, all right - till Antigonos heard what had happened. Then old One-Eye sent out his son Demetrios, and Demetrios ran Leonides out of Kilikia and all the way back to Egypt. Ptolemaios sent messages to Lysimakhos and Kassandros, too, they say, asking them for help to keep Antigonos from getting too strong, but he sure didn't get much."

  "But Antigonos' nephew Polemaios turned on him," Menedemos said. "That has to be a heavy blow to Antigonos, losing the fellow who was his right-hand man."

  " 'Was' is right," his father said. "That's Demetrios' place now, Demetrios' and his younger brother Philippos'. Antigonos sent Philippos up to the Hellespont to take on Polemaios' lieutenant Phoinix, and Philippos whipped him almost as hard as Demetrios whipped Leonides."

  Menedemos whistled softly. "I hadn't heard that before. You have to admire Antigonos. He's never at a loss, no matter what happens to him."

  "If you're a fat partridge in a bush, do you admire the wolf who wants to eat you?" Philodemos said. "That's how Rhodes looks to the marshals. And the thing about Antigonos is, he frightens all the others enough to make 'em band together to try to pull him down. You mark my words, son: those Macedonians will still be knocking heads together when you're as old as I am."

  "Thirty years from now?" Menedemos tried not to sound scornful. He also tried to imagine what he would be like if he reached his father's years - tried and felt himself failing. "That's a long way off."

  "You mark my words," Philodemos repeated. "The generals have been going at each other ever since Alexander died. Why should they stop? What would make them stop?"

  "One man winning," Menedemos said at once.

  His father looked thoughtful. "Yes, that might do it," he admitted. "But if one of them looks like winning, all the others gang up on him, the way everyone is against Antigonos now. That's how it's gone so far. Why should it change?"

  "Panta rhei," Menedemos replied

  " 'Everything flows'?" Philodemos echoed. "Some philosopher or other, isn't it? I thought you left showing off how much you know to your cousin."

  "I'm sorry. I usually do." Menedemos liked his father much better when he was slighting Sostratos than when he was praising him.

  Philodemos grunted. "Well, that's not much of an apology, but I suppose it's better than nothing."

  You always find fault, Menedemos thought. If I cut my liver out for you, you'd complain that the priest didn't read good omens from it.

  But then his father said, "You beat a trireme? And you came home with that much silver? I suppose, all things considered, you could have done worse. Here, let me pour you some more wine." Menedemos was almost too startled to hold out his cup - almost, but not quite. But as Philodemos poured, he asked, "And how many husbands did you outrage in Great Hellas?" Even when he tried to praise, he couldn't do it unmixed with spite.

  And Menedemos answered with quick truth when, again, he might have done better lying: "Only one."

  His father muttered something under his breath, then sighed and asked, "Where was it this time? Will you ever be able to do business there again, or is it as bad as Halikarnassos?"

  "Taras, Father," Menedemos said, and Philodemos grunted as if he'd been hit in the belly. Menedemos went on, "I don't think it's quite so bad as at Halikarnassos." He didn't think Gylippos' toughs had intended to kill him, but only to beat him up. The fellow in Halikarnassos had definitely wanted him dead.

  "Not quite so bad." Philodemos looked as if he were sipping vinegar, not wine. "And Taras is an important polis, too, the first one you're likely to come to on the way west from Hellas. What are we going to do with you, son?" Menedemos found it expedient to stay mute. His father grunted again, then said, "Well, at least you don't do things like that here in Rhodes, the gods be praised."

  Menedemos didn't answer that, either. His father, fortunately, took silence for agreement.

  "I was hoping I might hear my sister had been betrothed when I came home," Sostratos remarked to his father as they sat in the andron.

  "And I was hoping I might be able to tell you Erinna was," Lysistratos replied. "I did have some discussions about it with - oh, never mind what his name was: what point to going into the details when these things don't work out?"

  "What was wrong with him?" Sostratos asked.

  "Not a thing," Lysistratos said. "But he made a match with another family for their daughter who's never been married. They aren't so well off as we are, but the girl's fourteen, not eighteen. He's more likely to breed sons on her than he is on Erinna. You can't blame him for having that uppermost in his thoughts. What are wives for but sons?"

  "It's not Erinna's fault - " Sostratos began before checking himself.

  "It's not anyone's fault that I can see," his father said. "It's just one of those things that make life difficult for mortals."

  Gyges, the Lydian majordomo, stuck his head into the men's chamber. "Master, Xanthos is at the door. He wants to congratulate the young master on the Aphrodite's safe return."

  Sostratos rolled his eyes. "Speaking of the things that make life difficult for mortals . . ."

  His father laughed, but told Gyges, "Bring him in. He can drink some wine with us. Sooner or later, he'll go away."

  "Later," Sostratos predicted, but in a voice low enough to keep his father from giving him a reproving look. A moment later, when the majordormo brought Xanthos into the andron, Sostratos got to his feet and bowed to the older man. "Hail, O marvelous one. How are you today?"

  "Hail, Sostratos," Xanthos said. "It's good of you to ask. To tell you the truth, I do marvel that I failed to go down to the house of Hades while you were off in the west. My piles have been torture - and all the worse because I've been so constipated. And my shoulder joints ache whenever the weather gets damp. I dread this winter season, I truly do. I haven't been sleeping well, either. Old age truly is a misery; never let anyone tell you otherwise."

  "Here you are, Xanthos." Lysistratos gave the other merchant a cup of wine, no doubt hoping to slow the tide of words. "Drink with us. We have reason to be glad, with the boys home safe and with a tidy profit, too."

  "That's good news, very good news, very good news indeed," Xanthos said, flicking a few drops out of the cup for a libation. "Pity your son here could
n't have heard me at the Assembly earlier in the month. I'm immodest enough to say I surpassed even my usual eloquence."

  "What did you speak on?" Sostratos asked.

  "On how we should conduct ourselves if the fighting between Antigonos and Ptolemaios gets worse," Xanthos replied.

  "That is important," Sostratos agreed.

  He didn't ask the plump merchant to summarize the speech. He knew better. And Xanthos didn't summarize it. He said, "I believe I can remember how it went," and launched into it, complete with gestures that looked as if they would have been more at home on the comic stage than in the Assembly. His main point was that, since Rhodes did so much business with Egypt, she should stay on Ptolemaios' side provided she could do so without making Antigonos attack her. That made good sense to Sostratos, but he mightily wished Xanthos hadn't taken half an hour to get where he was going.

  "Stirring," Lysistratos said when Xanthos finally finished. He poured himself more wine, which showed just how much he'd been stirred. Sostratos held out his cup for a refill, too. His father didn't offer the oinokhoe to Xanthos.

  "Tell me the news from Italy," Xanthos urged Sostratos.

  "Up north of Great Hellas, the Samnites and the Romans are still fighting," Sostratos said. He started to tell the other Rhodian how the Aphrodite had wound up in the middle of that war, but decided not to. It would only have brought more questions, and maybe, the gods forbid, another speech. Instead, he went on, "And from Sicily, Agathokles has invaded Africa to pay the Carthaginians back for besieging Syracuse." He didn't say anything about how the Aphrodite had been involved there, either.

  "Well, well, isn't that interesting?" Xanthos said. He sensed he was being thwarted, and cast about for an opening: "You sold all your peafowl?"

  "All but one, which, uh, died before we got to Great Hellas." Again, he said not a word about peafowl eggs or peafowl chicks.