Damonax shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a breakfast much like Sostratos’. He ate quickly, so he finished not long after his guest. Rubbing crumbs off his hands, he said, “Shall we be off, then?”
“Lead the way. I’ll stay with you.”
When Sostratos went outside with Damonax, he saw the sun shining to the north. Damonax’s farm remained shadowed a little while longer, for the mountain to the east shielded it from sunrise. Damonax set a brisk pace, heading up toward the peak. He seemed surprised when Sostratos had no trouble keeping up with him. “Your feet really don’t trouble you,” he blurted.
“No, not at all.” Sostratos tried to hold amusement out of his voice. “I can’t recall the last time I wore shoes, and my soles are hard as leather. I’d say we could race, but you know where you’re going and I don’t. Even if I knew, you’d probably win; I’ve never been a fast runner.”
Damonax cocked his head to one side, plainly having trouble believing that. “But didn’t you fall just short of going to the Olympic Games a few years ago?”
“Me?” Sostratos laughed at the absurdity of the notion. Then he snapped his fingers. “1 know why you think so. That wasn’t me—that was Menedemos.”
“So you say.” Damonax kept waiting for him to start to sprint, or to offer a bet about which of them could run faster, or something of the sort. Only when Sostratos just kept placidly ambling along did it seem to occur to his brother-in-law that he might be telling the truth.
Several streams from the mountains ran down toward the sea. Most of them dried out in summer, leaving their beds nothing but rock-strewn gullies. One, though, kept a trickle of water even at the driest season of the year. A hare bounded away as Sostratos and Damonax came up.
Pointing upstream, Sostratos asked, “Does a spring feed this river?”
“That’s right.” Damonax dipped his head. “We follow it now, until we get to the Valley of the Butterflies.”
They flushed another hare a few minutes later. Damonax sighed, perhaps wishing he had dogs along so he could hunt. A mouse skittered into the bushes. A hedgehog rolled itself into a ball. A lizard on a boulder by the stream stared at the Rhodians out of beady black eyes. It stuck out its tongue, as if in derision.
After a while, Damonax stooped and dipped some water from the stream with his hand. “Warm work,” he remarked.
“Yes.” Sostratos drank a little water, too, and splashed some on his face. It felt good.
They went on. The stream bent a little more toward the north. “There!” Damonax said. “You see those treetops? The trees themselves are growing down in the valley, or you’d be able to spy the rest of them. We’re almost there.’
The Valley of the Butterflies was long and narrow. Sostratos wondered how long the stream had taken to carve it from the hard gray stone. Branches from the trees on either side met above the gurgling stream, shading and cooling the valley. Sostratos sniffed. A faint, almost familiar spicy smell filled his nostrils. “What is that?” he asked, sniffing again.
“Styrax,” Damonax answered. “They make incense from the gum. The butterflies seem to like the fragrance, too.”
“The butterflies ...” As Sostratos’ eyes got used to the shade, he saw them, and let out a soft, marveling sigh. They were everywhere in the valley: on the rocks, and covering the trunks and branches of the trees. Their favorite spot seemed to be a big, mossy rock next to a little waterfall at the far end of the valley. Mist swirled around them; perhaps they especially liked the moisture there. “How marvelous!” Sostratos exclaimed. “Thank you so much for bringing me here!”
“My pleasure,” Damonax said, as if he’d created the valley for Sostratos’ benefit.
Sostratos reached out and delicately plucked an insect from a branch. Its body was about as long as the last joint of his thumb, though far thinner. Its upper wings were brown, almost black, and streaked with yellow. When it fluttered for a moment, lackadaisically trying to escape, it revealed lower wings of a rich crimson with a few dark spots. Then it seemed to resign itself to disaster and sat quiet in his hand.
After examining it a little longer, Sostratos turned to Damonax. “I’m sorry, best one, but this isn’t a butterfly.”
“No?” His brother-in-law raised both eyebrows. “What would you call it, then? A stingray? An olive, maybe?”
Though Sostratos smiled at the sarcasm, he answered, “A moth.”
“By the dog, what’s the difference?”
“Ah. Theophrastos must have skipped that lecture while you were at the Lykeion. Butterflies rest with their wings up over their backs, while moths let them lie flat—as this one does. And butterflies have slim, clublike antennae, while moths have thick, hairy ones—like these. If it has the characteristics of a moth, what else can it be?”
“Nothing else, I suppose,” Damonax replied. “But would you have wanted to come here if I’d invited you to see the Valley of the Moths?”
“Me? Probably. I’m curious about such things. Most people would stay away, though, I admit.” Sostratos put the moth back where he’d got it. It wriggled in among the others, then held still. He asked, “How is it that the birds don’t come here and feed till they burst?”
“That I can tell you, for I’ve seen birds take these butterflies— moths, I mean.” Damonax corrected himself before Sostratos could. “They take them, yes, but they don’t swallow them. The . . . moths must taste nasty.”
“How interesting!” Sostratos said. “And so they stay here undisturbed all through the summer? “
Damonax dipped his head. “That’s right. When the rains come in the fall, they mate—some of them even fall in the stream while they’re coupling—and then they fly away, so you might see them all over the island. But when things dry up in spring, here they are again.”
“And why not?” Sostratos gazed around the valley in awe tempered by affection. “After all, they’re Rhodians, too.”
Menedemos watched his father go over the accounts Sostratos had kept during their journey to Athens. “Almost a pity to take the rowers along,” Philodemos remarked. “Their pay ate up a good chunk of profit. If you’d gone in a round ship instead—”
“We wouldn’t have got there till later,” Menedemos said. “As things were, we had the market in our goods to ourselves for quite a while. Who knows how it would have gone if we’d come in second? And we’d surely have had to carry Damonax’s olive oil then.”
“I suppose so.” But Philodemos still sounded unhappy. He had other reasons to sound that way, too: “I wish your cousin would write larger. When you have to read at arm’s length the way I do, these little squiggles drive you mad.”
“Sorry, Father, but I can’t do anything about that now,” Menedemos said.
A slave came into the andron. “Excuse me, sir, but a man is here to see you. ...” Philodemos started to get to his feet. The slave said, “No, sir. To see the young master.”
“Me?” Menedemos said in surprise.
“Some husband catch you going after his wife?” his father asked. I hope not, Menedemos thought. Before he could say the words or so much as toss his head, Philodemos told the slave, “Bring this fellow here. I want to see this for myself.” Menedemos couldn’t even contradict the order. Miserably, he watched the slave hurry back to the entry hall.
When the caller appeared, though, his heart took wing with relief. “That’s Admiral Eudemos!” he said, adding, “And in case you’re wondering, I haven’t had anything to do with his wife.” His father only grunted.
Eudemos was in his mid- to late forties, burned walnut-brown by the sun, with a gray beard, a beaky nose, and hard eyes that seemed to see everything at once. “Hail, Philodemos,” he said as he strode into the andron. “Need to talk to your son for a minute. Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“Nothing that won’t keep, most noble one.” Philodemos could be polite; he just didn’t bother while talking to Menedemos.
“Good.” Eudemos turned to the younger man. “So you’re back from Athens a little sooner than you thought you’d be.”
“That’s right, sir,” Menedemos said, wondering why the admiral cared.
Eudemos was not the sort to keep a man hanging. With a brisk dip of the head, he said, “How would you like to take the Dikaiosyne out on a sweep after pirates? Seems a shame you weren’t her first skipper, seeing as you were the one who came up with the idea for the class, but I know you’ve got to make a living. Still, anyone who can captain a merchant galley can captain a war galley, too, and anyone who can captain a merchant galley should captain a war galley, too. The more people who know how to do that, the better off the polis is. What do you say?”
“When does she sail?” Menedemos blurted. He wanted to burst with pride. He turned to see how his father responded: here was the Rhodian admiral acclaiming him not only as a seaman but also for inventing the trihemiolia. Philodemos, though, might have been carved from stone. Menedemos sighed quietly. He didn’t suppose he should have expected anything different.
“Tomorrow at sunrise,” Eudemos said. “You’ll be there?”
“Yes, O best one. I’ll be there,” Menedemos said.
“Good. Farewell, then. Nice to see you, Philodemos.” The admiral turned and left. Like any seafaring man, he went barefoot and wore only a chiton, though his was of very fine white wool.
“They want you to skipper one of those newfangled war galleys, do they?” Philodemos said.
“Yes, Father.”
“Not bad.” From the older man, that was the highest praise Menedemos got. “I was about your age when I first captained a trireme for the city. It’s getting close to the end of the sailing season. I hope you have good luck catching pirates, and give them what they deserve.” On that subject, Philodemos’ views coincided perfectly with those of his son.
“I’ve fought them off in the akatos,” Menedemos said. “Now I’ll have the edge.”
He woke while it was still dark. He’d been sure he would. The only question in his mind had been whether he would sleep at all, or whether excitement would keep him up all night. But excitement had faded after he lay in darkness for a while. Now he ran his fingers through his hair—no time to scrape whiskers from his chin—and hurried to the kitchen to snag a chunk of bread to eat on his way down to the naval harbor.
He was heading out to the front door when someone behind him called, “Farewell, Menedemos.”
That voice stopped him in his tracks. “Thank you, Baukis. What are you doing up so early?”
“I wanted to say goodbye to you,” Philodemos’ wife answered. After a moment, she added, “Your father is very proud of you, you know.”
“Is he?” Menedemos said tonelessly. To his way of thinking, a grudging not bad didn’t translate into anything approaching great pride.
But Baukis dipped her head. “Yes,” she said. “And so am I.” She took a couple of steps toward him, then stopped nervously and looked around to make sure no slaves were awake to hear and see the two of them.
Menedemos understood those jitters. He had them himself. “I’d better go,” he said, and did. But he might have been wing-footed Hermes as he made his way down through the night-silent streets of Rhodes toward the naval harbor. He didn’t think his feet touched the hard-packed dirt at all. Baukis was proud of him! She’d said so! Each bite of rather stale bread suddenly seemed ambrosial. Yes, love was a disease, of course it was, but oh! what a sweet one!
Actually, the streets of Rhodes weren’t so very silent after all. Though morning’s gray light was just coming into the eastern sky, the sounds of drunken song floated up from the direction of the temple of Apollo in the southwest. Those were surely symposiasts reeling home after a night—a long night—of debauchery. Menedemos smiled and chuckled. He’d come home at this hour once or twice, and roused the whole household with his songs. He laughed again, remembering how splutteringly furious his father had been.
A night watchman with a torch patrolled the naval harbor. “Excuse me, O best one, but which shipshed houses the Dikaiosyne?” Menedemos asked.
“Who wants to know?” the watchman asked. Menedemos smelled wine on his breath, too, though he hadn’t passed the night in revelry.
“I’m Menedemos son of Philodemos, and I’m her captain this trip out.” The pride he’d felt when Eudemos named him captain rang in his voice.
The night watchman pointed to one of the sheds on the western side of the harbor. Those were the narrow buildings that housed triremes and now trihemioliai as well. The shipsheds on the southern side of the harbor were broader, to accommodate fives and other bigger, beamier war galleys. A galley with dry timbers was lighter and therefore faster than a waterlogged ship, and so the naval vessels spent as much time as possible dragged up out of the sea and into the sheds.
Three or four men carrying oars and pillows made their way toward that shed without bothering to ask the watchman. Menedemos trotted after the rowers. He didn’t have to be the first one there, but he wanted to get there ahead of most of the crew.
He got his wish. Only a couple of dozen men had boarded the Dikaiosyne. That would have been a big part of the Aphrodite’s complement, but was only a fraction of the trihemiolia’s. Like a trireme, she carried 170 rowers plus a squad of marines, although her oarsmen in the rear part of the thalamite bank would join the marine contingent once their benches were stowed.
A burly man with a bald pate came up to Menedemos. “You’re going to be the captain on this run?” he asked. When Menedemos dipped his head, the bald man went on, “Pleased to meet you. I’m Philokrates son of Timokrates, and I’m your keleustes. Is it true you were the one who had the idea for this class of ship?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Menedemos answered.
Philokrates stuck out his hand. Menedemos clasped it. The oarmaster said, “Some god must have put the notion into your head, for she’s smooth and sweet as piggy.” His grin showed a missing front tooth. Menedemos smiled back; Philokrates reminded him of Diokles. The older man asked, “You ever skipper anything this big before?”
“No. The past few years I’ve captained the Aphrodite: twenty oars on a side.”
“Oh, sure. I know her.” Philokrates banged himself on the side of the head with the heel of his hand, annoyed at forgetting. “Well, all right. Big difference between this ship and that one is that not everybody on the Dikaiosyne may hear you when you yell—she’s too big, and a lot of her rowers are down below. We’ll use pipes and drums to set the stroke, and you’ll want to rely on your mates to pass orders. Remember ‘em and count on ‘em. They’re both good men.”
Menedemos met them moments later. Xenagoras was tall and thin, with a broken nose. Menedemos turned out to know the second mate, Nikandros, already: they’d run against each other, Menedemos usually having the better of it.
By then, the rowers crowded the shipshed and spilled out onto the walkway on either side. Real dawn had come. Before long, the rising sun would shine into the mouth of the shed. Philokrates said, “Looks like we’re ready.” Menedemos dipped his head. The oarmaster waited, then snapped his fingers. “That’s right—you haven’t done this before. The command you give is, ‘Take her down!’“
“Take her down!” Menedemos shouted, and waited to see what happened next.
With a roar, the rowers and marines pushed the Dikaiosyne down the sloping ramp of the shipshed and into the water. The Aphrodite’s crew had trouble manhandling her. The swarm of sailors on the trihemiolia made it seem easy. Down the way she went, into the water of the naval harbor. They scrambled aboard her. The mates, the keleustes, and Menedemos were not behindhand.
The Dikaiosyne had a higher freeboard than the merchant galley. Standing at the stern, steering-oar tillers in hand, Menedemos felt able to see as far as a god. “You’ll handle her yourself?” Philokrates asked.
“Yes, by the dog,” Menedemos answered. “1 want to find out how she feels. I’m not so
me gilded popinjay—I know how to steer.”
“All right. Let’s go, then.” Philokrates beat out the stroke. The rowers began to pull. The Dikaiosyne glided across the harbor toward the outlet in the north.
A fresh breeze in his face, Menedemos grinned enormously. He felt like a man who’d been riding donkeys all his life and suddenly found himself on the back of a Nisaian charger. This ship moved. She was made for speed, and delivered it.
Once they cleared the mouth of the harbor, he swung the trihemiolia east, intending to cruise along the Karian coast looking for pirates—or for ships that could be pirates. “This is the first time I’ve skippered one of these patrols,” he said to Philokrates. “What are the rules if we spy a pentekonter or a hemiolia going along minding her own business?”
“About what you’d expect,” the oarmaster replied. “We go up to her, we question her crew, and we sink her if we don’t like the answers we get. A captain or an owner who thinks we made a mistake can complain to the Rhodian government.”
“If he hasn’t drowned, of course,” Menedemos said.
Philokrates dipped his head. “Well, yes. There is that.”
Right away, Menedemos noticed one difference between the Aphrodite and the Dikaiosyne. Fishing boats and round ships fought shy of the akatos, fearing she might be a pirate ship. But sailors of all sorts waved toward the trihemiolia. A three-banked oar-powered ship had to be a war galley, a hound dedicated to hunting down the wolves of the sea.
“You don’t want to get too close to land and let the wide-arsed catamites playing watchman for the pirate crews get a good look at you,” Philokrates said.
“I understand,” Menedemos answered. “You know what, O best one? It might be fun to send a round ship or a merchant galley close enough to the coast to be easy to spot, with the Dikaiosyne out far enough to see the decoy, but too far out to be seen from shore. Then, when the pirates come out for the nearer ship, this one could dash in and swoop down on them.”
Owl to Athens Page 40
