The Gryphon's Skull

“What did he name the baby?” Sostratos asked: he wanted to know all the details.

“Why, Ptolemaios,” the Koan said.

Sostratos frowned. “Doesn't he already have a son named Ptolemaios? His wife bore the other one, not his mistress.”

“I think you're right,” Menedemos said.

The longshoreman shrugged. “I don't know anything about that. He's the richest fellow in the world. Who's going to tell him he can't have two boys with the same name, if that's what he wants? Not me, by Zeus.”

“Nor me,” Sostratos agreed. “But I wonder how happy his wife will be, knowing his mistress has a little Ptolemaios, too.”

“You're too young to have a wife of your own, aren't you, best one?” asked the longshoreman, whose hair was thinning on top and gray at the temples. He didn't wait for Sostratos to answer, but continued, “You must be—you're nowhere near thirty. But I'll tell you something: you've got that right, whether you learned it from your own wife or not. She'll be steaming, sure as sure.”

“Of course, Eurydike is back in Alexandria, and Berenike's here along with Ptolemaios—the grown-up Ptolemaios, I mean,” Sostratos said.

“He'll go home sooner or later, and so will his lady—and so will their brat,” the Koan said. “And how long he's been away won't matter a khalkos. What's-her-name back there will have plenty to say to him, no matter how long it is.” He spoke with a mixture of glum certainty and gloating anticipation; Sostratos wondered who ruled the roost at his house. No, actually he didn't wonder—he thought he could guess.

Something else struck him: “Eurydike is Kassandros' sister, remember. He won't be happy if she loses her place.”

“One more reason for a fight, maybe,” Menedemos said.

“Don't the Macedonians have enough already?” Sostratos said. “It's not as if they need more.”

“They're like a gang of pankratiasts fighting it out,” the longshoreman said. “They won't quit till only one's left standing.”

Sostratos thought uneasily of Kleomedes of Astypalaia. He'd slain his foe, and been disqualified for it. Nobody disqualified a Macedonian marshal who killed a rival or a royal heir. Unlike athletes, the marshals advanced their positions through murder.

Menedemos said, “Now that we've put Dionysios ashore here, to the crows with me if I'm not tempted to head straight for Rhodes and not spend even a night.”

Diokles gave him a reproachful look. “Seeing how hard the men worked through the hot spell, skipper, and seeing all the miserable, good-for-nothing places we stopped at on our way across the Aegean, don't you think they deserve one night's fun in a real polis?”

“Oh, I suppose so.” Menedemos donned a lopsided grin. “I may even deserve a night's fun in a real polis myself.”

“Sounds fair,” the oarmaster said. “Except that once over in Aigina, you had yourself a pretty quiet run this year.”

“We were talking about pankratiasts a minute ago,” Menedemos said. “I didn't realize everyone was keeping score on me.” Diokles and Sostratos solemnly dipped their heads at the same time. Menedemos made faces at both of them. Diokles laughed.

And Sostratos said, “Well, my dear, even if you do go out drinking and wenching tonight, I'm glad you sound as though you want to go home. When we set out this past spring, you didn't seem to care if you ever saw Rhodes again.”

Menedemos' face froze—and the expression on which it froze was one not far from hatred. Sostratos took a startled, altogether involuntary step away from him. After a moment, his cousin's bleak look faded ... a little. Menedemos said, “I'd almost forgotten about that, and you went and made me remember.” He sighed and shrugged. “I don't suppose I can blame you much. It would have come back to me when we got into the great harbor.”

“What would have?” Sostratos had known something was bothering Menedemos, but he'd had no idea what. And he still didn't; Menedemos had been unusually close-mouthed—astoundingly so, for him—all through this season's sailing.

He still was. He smiled at Sostratos and said, “However strange and sorrowful you may feel about it, O marvelous one, there are some things you aren't going to find out, no matter how much research you do.”

“No, eh?” Sostratos almost made a crack about going on with his investigations, but the memory of the look his cousin had given him a moment before made him hold his tongue. Whatever reasons Menedemos had for wanting to stay away from Rhodes, he was serious about them.

“No,” he said firmly. Maybe he'd expected a crack from Sostratos and was relieved not to get it, for his manner lightened again. He went on, “Why don't you come drinking and wenching tonight, too? It'd do you good.”

“Me?” Sostratos tossed his head. “Going around with a thick head the next day isn't my idea of fun.” He held up a hand before Menedemos could say anything. “Oh, once in a while—in a symposion, say. But getting drunk in a tavern isn't my idea of fun.”