The Gryphon's Skull

The Milesians who made the ship fast to the quay chattered away amongst themselves in the town's Ionic dialect. When one of Antigonos' officers strutted up to ask his questions, the harbor workers fell silent and flinched away like beaten children. A generation before, Miletos had tried to hold out Alexander's soldiers and been sacked for its effort. These days, the locals gave their occupiers no trouble.

“From Kos, eh?” the officer said, Menedemos hadn't dared lie about that, not when the akatos carried so much silk. Bristles rasped under the officer's fingers as he rubbed his chin in thought. At last, he asked, “While you were there, did you . .. hear anything about Antigonos' nephew joining forces with that ugly toad of a Ptolemaios?”

Oh, good, Menedemos thought. He has no idea we're the ones who brought Polemaios to Kos. That makes things a lot easier. Aloud, he answered, “Yes, Polemaios was there while we were. But your master doesn't have to worry about him anymore.”

“What? Why not?” the man demanded.

“Because he's dead,” Menedemos replied. “He tried to bring some of Ptolemaios' officers over to his own cause. Ptolemaios caught him at it and made him drink hemlock. I'm sure the news is true—it was all over Kos when we left this morning.” That seemed preferable to telling the officer Sostratos had watched Polemaios die. If the fellow believed him, he might—probably would—wonder how Sostratos had gained that privilege.

As things were, the officer's jaw dropped. “That's wonderful news, if it's so. Are you certain of it?”

“I didn't see his body,” Menedemos answered truthfully, “but I don't see why Ptolemaios would lie about something like that. A lie would only make the soldiers who came along with Antigonos' nephew want to riot, don't you think?”

After a little thought, the officer dipped his head. When he grinned, a scar on one cheek that Menedemos hadn't noticed till then pulled the expression out of shape. “You're right, by the gods. This has to go straight to Antigonos. He's up by the Hellespont, setting things to rights there. You might want to stay in port here for a while; I wouldn't be surprised if he gave you a reward for the news.”

Sostratos looked like a man who'd just taken a knife in the back. Menedemos spoke to the officer: “Best one, if I were sure of that, I would

stay. But look at the size of my crew. I don't know that I can afford to linger just on the hope of a reward—I have to pay them any which way.”

“That's a problem,” Antigonos' man admitted, “You'll have to do what you think best, then.”

Menedemos was tempted to linger. Old One-Eye might be very glad indeed to learn that his unpleasant nephew wouldn't bother him anymore, with or without the help of Ptolemaios. But he'd meant what he said; the Aphrodite's crew was expensive. If he waited half a month, he'd go through half a talent of silver.

Sounding like someone who'd just had a reprieve, Sostratos asked the officer, “What's the news here?”

“Not much right here,” the fellow said, “though some from Hellas came in the other day.”

“Tell us!” Menedemos spoke as quickly as his cousin,

“Well,” the officer went on, with the smug smile of someone who knows something his listeners do not, “you may have heard tell of the youth called Herakles, Alexander's bastard son by Barsine.”

“Oh, yes.” Menedemos dipped his head. “The one who got out of Pergamon last year, and went across to Polyperkhon to help him drive Kassandros mad in Macedonia.”

“That's right,” Antigonos' officer said, at the same time as Sostra­tos spoke out of the side of his mouth: “This Herakles likely isn't Alexander's get at all, but a tool of Antigonos' against Kassandros.”

“I know. Shut up,” Menedemos hissed to him, before asking the officer, “What about this youth?”

“He's dead, that's what,” the officer answered. “Dead as Polemaios, if what you say about him is true. Kassandros persuaded Polyperkhon that Alexander's kin were too dangerous to leave running around loose, and so—” He drew a finger across his throat. “They say Polyperkhon got land in Macedonia for it, and soldiers to help him fight down in the Peloponnesos.”

“Kassandros doesn't want any folk of Alexander's blood left alive, because they weaken his hold on Macedonia,” Sostratos said. “He's just a general; they could call themselves kings.”

“That's true,” Menedemos said. “Look how he got rid of Alexander's legitimate son, Alexandras, winter before last—and Roxane, the boy's mother, too.”

“Sure enough, you can't trust Kassandros,” Antigonos' officer de­clared. He started hack up the quay. “I'm off to tell my superiors of your news. Like I say, you can be sure they'll be glad to hear it.” He hurried away.

“ 'You can't trust Kassandros,' “ Sostratos echoed, irony in his voice. “You can't trust any of the Macedonian marshals, and they all want to see Alexander's kin dead.”