“Ahoy, the !” The hail came from the base of the pier. A barefoot man also wearing only a loincloth—surely a sailor—hurried up toward the merchant galley. “Ahoy!” he called again. “Looking for another rower?”
“Hail, Teleutas.” Now Menedemos sounded unhappy. In a low voice, he asked Diokles, “He’s not one of the men you’re waiting on, is he?”
“He sure isn’t,” Diokles answered at once. “He always shows up at the last minute, looking for whatever he can get.”
“Do we want him aboard?” Sostratos said. “He is a thief, even if he hasn’t stolen from his crew, and he’s no braver than he has to be.”
“I know. I know,” Menedemos said. “He works as little as he can get away with, too. But he’s here, and the other fellows aren’t.”
Sostratos gnawed his lower lip. Diokles looked as if he’d bitten into bad fish. Menedemos felt the same way. But neither his cousin nor the keleustes said no. With a sigh, Menedemos waved Teleutas on. The sailor grinned and came down the gangplank and onto the . He had his own pillow to protect his backside from the hard rower’s bench where he’d soon perch.
A quarter of an hour later, one of Diokles’ chosen men wove his way up to the akatos. Watching him, Menedemos hoped he wouldn’t fall off the pier and into the sea. He made it down the gangplank and aboard the , though Sostratos had to grab him to keep him from falling flat on his face on the poop deck.
Up on the wharf, Lysistratos laughed. He’d seen plenty of sailors board their ships in that condition. So had Philodemos, but Menedemos’ father looked disgusted, not amused. The glance he shot his son said he thought Menedemos made a habit of getting that drunk as soon as he put under the horizon. That wasn’t fair, or true, but Menedemos knew his father wouldn’t listen if he said so.
He turned his attention to the sailor instead. “Hail, Nikodromos,” he said, his voice as sweet as unmixed Ariousian from Khios. “Take your place, my dear—we’re going to sweat the wine out of you.”
“Whatever you want, skipper,” Nikodromos said grandly. He found an empty rower’s bench and sat down—almost fell down again.
“Maybe we ought to wait for one more man,” Sostratos said. “The shape he’s in, he’ll foul the stroke till noon.”
“We’ll survive it, and so will he,” Menedemos answered. “He’ll sober up faster by working than any other way.” His chuckle was thoroughly nasty. “And he’ll be sorrier about it than he would be any other way, too.”
“We won’t make much of a show leaving the harbor if he’s too sozzled to keep time,” Sostratos said.
Menedemos gnawed on the inside of his lower lip. That got home. He liked to leave with every bench manned, and with the oars rising and falling as smoothly as if the were a five in the Rhodian navy. Most of the sailors had pulled oars in a navy five or a smaller trireme at one time or another, so the hope was by no means forlorn. With Nikodromos drunk, though, he wouldn’t be able to look like a warship today.
He was still wondering whether to change his mind when somebody else—not a sailor, but one of the harborside loungers who might be found in any port around the Inner Sea—ran along the pier calling, “I thought you were already loaded here, but there’s a troop of slaves carrying amphorai headed this way.”
Menedemos and Sostratos exchanged glances of consternation. “Damonax!” they said together. So did their fathers, up on the quay. Menedemos realized he’d just had his mind made up for him. “Cast off!” he called, and the linen ropes that bound the to the wharf came in at bow and stern. He dipped his head to Diokles. “Let’s get moving, best one.”
“Right you are, skipper.” The oarmaster held up a small bronze square on a chain and a little mallet with which to strike it. He raised his voice till it carried all the way to the bow: “You ready, boys?” The rowers set themselves at their oars, staring back at him and waiting for the word of command. He smote the square, at the same time calling out, “Rhyppapai!”
The rowers all pulled, even Nikodromos. Diokles clanged the square again, and also used his voice to give the stroke. “Rhyppapai!” At the last syllable, the men pulled. “Rhyppapai!” The slid forward, a little farther, a little faster this time as she began to gain momentum. “Rhyppapai! Rhyppapai!”
“Farewell! Safe voyage!” Lysistratos called from the end of the quay. Menedemos’ father didn’t say anything, but he did wave. Menedemos lifted one hand from the steering-oar tillers to wave back.
Sostratos peered over the ’s stern, back toward the quay she’d just left. “Oh, my,” he said a couple of minutes later. “Here come those slaves—and to the crows with me if Damonax isn’t with ‘em.”
“Tell me what’s going on,” Menedemos said. “I can’t look over my shoulder right now.” The merchant galley shared the calm but crowded waters of the Great Harbor with several fishing boats and a couple of round ships. Menedemos chuckled. “Wouldn’t do to take my eye off where I’m going and ram somebody when I wasn’t looking, eh?”
“I should hope not,” Sostratos said. “The damages a jury would vote if you did something like that...” He shivered at the idea. “I don’t even want to think about it.”
“Well, neither do I,” Menedemos said, steering toward the narrow outlet at the north end of the harbor. “And we won’t have to—if you do your job and tell me what’s happening back there.”
“All right.” But then, maddeningly, his cousin paused again. “Sorry,” Sostratos said after a moment. “A round ship just passed between us and the quay, so I couldn’t see. Now I can. The slaves have set down their amphorai, and Damonax is saying something to our fathers. Whatever it is, he’s upset—he’s pounding his fist into the palm of his other hand. A teacher of rhetoric couldn’t do it any better.”
“Won’t make an obolos’ worth of difference with my father,” Menedemos predicted.
“Looks as if you’re right,” Sostratos said. “Uncle is just standing there, tossing his head again and again. What’s that line in the Iliad where Akhilleus has been praying to that Patroklos should drive Hektor away from the ships of the Akhaioi and come back safe himself? hears, but—?”
“ ‘The father granted him the one prayer, but tossed his head at the other,’ “ Menedemos quoted at once; he knew well.
“Thank you, my dear. That’s just the line I wanted,” Sostratos said. “The only difference is, your father’s not granting any of Damonax’s prayers. And Damonax is getting madder and madder, too. Now he’s cupping his hands in front of his mouth—he’s going to try to shout to us.”
Thin and faint across the widening stretch of water, Menedemos heard, “Ahoy, the ! Come back and pick up some cargo!”
“Shall I answer him?” Sostratos asked. “I could yell back to the pier, I think.”
“Not a word!” Menedemos said. “Put a hand behind your ear and pretend you can’t make out what he’s saying.” Sostratos did. He wasn’t the greatest actor, but across four or five plethra of seawater he didn’t have to be.
Damonax yelled again. This time, Menedemos really did have trouble making out what he was saying. Sostratos kept that hand behind his ear. He started to laugh. So did several of the rowers, who also looked back at where they’d been. “Don’t foul up the stroke, you whipworthy rascals!” Diokles shouted at them. “’s prick, you’re clumsy enough already.”
“What’s so funny?” Menedemos asked.
“My brother-in-law’s jumping up and down on the wharf, like a three-year-old when you tell him he can’t have another piece of honey cake,” Sostratos answered.
“Somebody ought to give him a good thrashing, the way you do with a three-year-old who has a fit when you tell him he can’t have another piece of honey cake,” Menedemos said.
“That would be nice,” his cousin agreed. “He’s right by the edge of the pier now. Maybe he’ll fall in. Maybe your father—or mine—will help him fall in.” Menedemos waited in eager anticipation. But then Sostratos tossed his head. Disappointment in his voice
, he went on, “No such luck. The slaves are picking up the jars of oil and taking them away, and Damonax is going with them.”
“Too bad,” Menedemos said. “I’d have loved it if he went into the drink instead.”
“I just hope he doesn’t take it out on Erinna, that’s all.” Sostratos sighed. “Family.”
“Family,” Menedemos echoed, and gave all his attention back to the . A big, beamy round ship was bearing down on her, great square sail full of the breeze from out of the north, hold full of grain or wine or—irony—olive oil. The round ship was about as maneuverable as an avalanche. Like the , like any ship around the Inner Sea, she had eyes painted at her bow, but how much good did they do when she couldn’t get out of her own way? And Menedemos would have bet the round ship’s goose-headed sternpost had more brains than the man handling her steering oars.
Menedemos pulled the port-side steering-oar tiller toward him and pushed the starboard tiller as far away from him. Graceful as a dancer, the swung to port and slipped past the lumbering round ship. Sailors on the round ship’s deck waved as the merchant galley glided by. Most of the ’s crew were too busy to wave back.
Long fortified moles to the east and north protected the Great Harbor of Rhodes from storms. The opening between them was only a couple of plethra wide. Side by side with a little fishing boat from whose crew Sikon might buy the evening’s opson, Menedemos steered the akatos out of the harbor and onto the open sea.
As Sostratos did every sailing season, he discovered how much the ’s motion changed when she left the calm waters of the harbor and braved the Inner Sea. Before, all he’d noticed was the forward thrust each time her oars bit into the water. Now the light chop made her pitch up and down as her bow rode over the waves and down into the troughs between them.
Sostratos’ stomach felt as if it were lurching in the same way as the akatos. Gulping, he hoped the barley porridge he’d had for breakfast would stay down. He looked forward from the poop deck. A few sailors were similarly greenish, but only a few. That was how things usually went. Sostratos gulped again.
“Use the rail if you’ve got to give it back, boys,” Menedemos said, on the whole in a kindly way. “The bilges get foul enough without adding puke to the mix.” He lowered his voice to ask, “Are you all right, Sostratos?”
“I’ll be all right in a few days,” Sostratos answered. “I wish this didn’t happen every sailing season, but it does. I need a few days to get my sea legs, that’s all.”
“You look a little paler than usual,” Menedemos said.
“I’ll be fine in—” Sostratos stopped, gulped once more, clapped a hand to his mouth, and took two quick steps over to the rail. Breakfast did not stay down, but he put it neatly in the sea. “A pestilence,” he wheezed when he could speak again. “Been a long time since I’ve actually gone and heaved.”
“Happens to a lot of people,” his cousin said, with the ease of one whom seasickness didn’t bother. “Maybe now you’re over it, the way some pregnant women are when they throw up in the morning.”
“I hope so!” Sostratos spat to get the vile taste out of his mouth. Spitting didn’t do much good. He dipped some wine from an amphora carried for the crew. Rinsing his mouth with that helped more. He spat out one mouthful, then swallowed another. His stomach didn’t rise in immediate rebellion, which he took as a good sign.
Once the was well out of the Great Harbor, Menedemos took half the men off the oars, letting them row from every other bench. He’d started out with all forty benches filled for the sake of swank. Out on the open sea, he usually used eight or ten men on a side, and rotated the crew every couple of hours. That way, he could have fresh men rowing when he really needed them: escaping or fighting pirates, pushing forward against a headwind, or clawing away from the shore in case of storm.
The merchant galley rounded the northernmost tip of the polis— and the island—of . Sostratos pointed to the marble temple of Demeter, whose gleaming white bulk stood out from the swarm of red tile roofs. “Our houses are somewhere not far from there,” he said. “I wish I could pick out mine, but it’s just another roof from here.”
“I’m not sorry to be gone,” Menedemos said. “I suppose I even owe your brother-in-law a vote of thanks.”
“For what?” Sostratos said, and then, “Oh! You mean for nagging our fathers?”
“I sure do. If he hadn’t got my father good and mad, we’d still be stuck in , playing knucklebones and twiddling our thumbs. The biggest reason we got to sail so soon is that our fathers wanted him to shut up and go away.”
“I know,” Sostratos said. “And I’ll give you another reason to be grateful to good old thick-headed Damonax. Without him, we wouldn’t have had a chance to get up to Athens soon enough to catch the Greater Dionysia, and now we do. I tell you, my dear, you haven’t lived till you’ve seen the theater in Athens. There’s nothing like it in any other polis in the world.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Menedemos said. “That is one of the reasons I wanted to sail—not the only reason, mind you, but one of them.”
“The tragedies will probably be revivals,” Sostratos said, “but I keep telling you there are some good comic poets still writing.”
As usual, his cousin said, “Give me any day. I’ll believe anybody can match him when I see it, and not till then.”
That could have started another argument, had Sostratos let it.
Instead, he only smiled and shrugged. Menedemos was loyal to as he was loyal to . Argument wouldn’t change that. In both poetry and drama, Sostratos had more modern tastes. Argument wasn’t likely to change that, either.
Once well clear of the northern tip of , Menedemos swung the to port, so that she headed west. Sostratos peered north, toward the haze-shrouded Karian coast. As with Rhodes, the rains of fall and winter had left it bright with greenery. When the merchant galley came back at the end of summer, the sun would have baked it sere and brown. Minor islands—Syme, Khalke, Telos—lay ahead. They too looked green and inviting. Sostratos had trouble imagining duller places to live, though.
“Think this breeze will hold, Diokles?” Menedemos asked.
“Reckon it ought to, skipper, for a while, anyway,” the oarmaster replied.
“Well, let’s get some use out of the sail, then.” Menedemos raised his voice to call out to the crew: “Lower the sail from the yard.”
The men hurried to obey. Using the brails—lines that ran from the top of the merchant galley’s square sail to the bottom—they quickly spread it, then swung the yard from the starboard bow back to the stern at the port side to take best advantage of the wind. The sail, sewn together from small pieces of linen, filled with air. The mast creaked a little as it took the force of the wind. The Aphrodite’s bronze ram, greened from all its time in the sea, dug deeper into the water.
“Seeing all the squares the brails and the seams make on the sail always makes me think of geometry lessons,” Sostratos said. “What can we prove from the figure before us? What is the area of this rectangle or that one?”
“Geometry lessons.” Menedemos shuddered. “All I remember when I think of them is the schoolmaster with his stick. He drew blood sometimes, the polluted rogue.”
“I didn’t get hit all that often,” Sostratos said.
“No—you were the one who always had his lessons straight,” Menedemos said. “The other boys in the class didn’t love you for it.”
“I know.” Sostratos sighed. “I’ve never had any trouble understanding being disliked for doing things wrong. Who wants a bungler around? But having people hate you for doing what’s right, doing what you’re supposed to—that always seemed unfair to me.”
“You made the rest of us look bad,” his cousin said.
“You should have paid attention, too, then,” Sostratos said. “Those lessons weren’t that hard.”
“Not to you, maybe,” Menedemos said. “As far as I was concerned, the master might have been speaking Aramaic. Per
imeter and hypotenuse and isosceles and I don’t know what all else.” He took a hand off the tiller and held it up. “And don’t you start explaining them to me, either. I don’t have to worry about them anymore.”
Sostratos’ ears burned. He had been on the point of launching into a geometry lesson. Like most of what he’d studied, mathematics had come easy for him. That it hadn’t for Menedemos and the other boys still perplexed him. But if it wasn’t a matter of their not studying, not paying attention, what was it?
He’d hardly posed the question in his own mind before Menedemos said, “Some of us are good at some things, others at others. You soaked up lessons the way a soft cloth soaks up water. But you won’t claim you’re better than I am at figuring out how people work, I hope.”
“Oh, I might claim it, but it wouldn’t be true,” Sostratos said. “You have the edge on me there.” He plucked at his beard. “I wonder why that should be.”
“People would be boring if everybody were just like everybody else,” Menedemos said. “We’d all go around like this”—he looked very severe and stiffened his body till he almost seemed cast from bronze—”as if we were so many Spartan hoplites all in a line in the phalanx.”
Laughing, Sostratos said, “Why couldn’t you make us all into pretty girls? But if we were all pretty girls, what would be the point of chasing one?”
“There’s always a point to chasing pretty girls.” Menedemos spoke with great conviction. But even joking with Sostratos hadn’t made him stop paying attention to the and the breeze. “Swing the yard forward a little more,” he called to the sailors.
As the men made the adjustment and the stays creaked, Sostratos asked, “Do you think we can go all the way to Knidos today?”
His cousin looked ahead. Knidos lay at the end of a long spit of land jutting west into the sea from the coast of Karia. At last, regretfully, Menedemos tossed his head. “If we’d put to sea earlier in the day, I do believe I’d try it, and sail on by the stars if we weren’t there by sunset.
Owls to Athens Page 5
