He named a price Sostratos didn’t find too outrageous. The Rhodian haggled anyhow; he didn’t care to seem an easy mark. He said, “I want to bring some of my rowers along, too, to help me while I’m in Memphis.”
The Egyptian, whose name was Pasos, grinned crookedly; the scar helped. “So I don’t knock you on head, feed you to crocodiles?”
“Malista.” Sostratos dipped his head as coolly as he could. “That, too. Even friends should watch other friends.”
“You maybe not come from the Two Lands, but you not so stupid, hey?” Pasos said. “Yes, you bring your mans—friend.”
“Thank you so much—friend,” Sostratos said. Pasos grinned again. So did the Hellene.
VI
Oxcarts half full of straw waited at the end of the wharf where the Aphrodite was tied up. Rowers—some of them hauled out of wineshops and brothels, more than a few obviously the worse for wear—hauled jars of Damonax’s olive oil from the akatos to the carts and set them in the straw.
Menedemos tilted his hat back on his head and turned to his cousin. “Are you sure you’ll be all right without me?” he asked.
“Yes, my dear.” Sostratos smiled patiently. “I made it to Jerusalem and back on my own. I expect I can get to Memphis and back, too.”
“But this is Egypt,” Menedemos said. Sostratos brought out the maternal in him. He always had, even when they were little boys. Menedemos didn’t understand it. He’d never felt that way about anyone else.
“I’ll be fine.” Sostratos had enjoyed having a protector when he was small. The idea pleased and amused him less these days, not least because he towered over his cousin. Menedemos didn’t care. No matter how large and clever his cousin was, he still had trouble coping with that maddening tribe known as the human race. He needed a helping hand. Menedemos would give him one—unless they happened to be squabbling, of course.
“Don’t you think you should take more men along?” No, Menedemos didn’t want to leave it alone.
“I’ll be fine,” Sostratos repeated. “A few men will help me. All the rowers we have won’t save me if the Egyptians—or the Hellenes and Macedonians down in Memphis—decide they really want to get rid of me.”
Menedemos knew he was right. Knowing didn’t make him feel any easier about it. Like a duck with ducklings, he fussed over everything. “Be careful down there. Come back as soon as you can.”
“The Egyptians would say ‘up there,’ ” Sostratos answered imperturbably. “Memphis is up the Nile from Alexandria. This is Lower Egypt to them, even if it sits on top of what they call Upper Egypt.”
“I don’t give a curse what the Egyptians say,” Menedemos told him, eyeing the men and the amphorai and the oxcarts. The carts were almost loaded. Pretty soon Sostratos would go off on this adventure. Menedemos unhappily recalled he’d encouraged his cousin to travel south if he got the chance. Sostratos would do well, or he’d do not so well. Whatever he’d do, he’d do it by himself. Menedemos was still unloading wine on fancy merchants.
“Everything will go fine,” Sostratos assured him, which only made him worry more. Sostratos couldn’t know that. Hearing him say it made Menedemos sure he would jinx it.
Menedemos eyed the men driving the oxcarts. Two were Egyptians, the other two Hellenes. They looked bored, as people who drove oxen often did. Oxen went at their own pace, even slower than walking. You couldn’t hurry them. Such men seemed unlikely to turn on Sostratos and the rowers, but Menedemos worried about it anyhow.
And the rowers! Sostratos wished his cousin hadn’t chosen Leskhaios for anything that might need more thought than pulling an oar. Not that Leskhaios couldn’t think, but that he liked to argue to a degree unusual even in a Hellene. He put Menedemos in mind of Thersites in the Iliad: full of inopportune questions and unwilling to listen to sensible answers. Sometimes the only thing such men understood was a good clout. Could Sostratos see that?
“Are we ready?” Menedemos’ cousin called. No one told him no. He waved to the drivers. Almost in unison, they flicked their whips above their beasts’ backs. Not one actually touched his ox. The animals started forward anyhow, snorting as the weight of the cart and cargo resisted their work. Then the ungreased wheels squealed and the carts began to move.
“Safe journey! Gods go with you, you thickskull!” Menedemos said when Sostratos and his little band strode after the oxcarts.
“Thickskull? Me? You should talk!” Sostratos sounded more than confident enough.
Menedemos felt like a father watching his son march off to war. He wanted to call his cousin back. He had no reason to, but that didn’t have anything to do with it. Sostratos looked over his shoulder after a dozen paces and waved. All Menedemos could do was wave back.
Once he was sure his cousin had got out of earshot, he turned to Diokles and asked, “Do you think he’ll be all right?”
“He should be,” the keleustes answered. “The Ptolemaios, he’s got this place roped down pretty tight. Not much nasty business goes on unless he wants it to. Happens he likes us Rhodians just now. People here know it, too. Everything’ll be fine, skipper.”
“You have a good way of looking at things,” Menedemos said gratefully. He’d wanted reassurance and he’d got some.
The oxcarts’ wheels squealed more as they slewed round a corner and disappeared. A moment later, Sostratos and his rowers also vanished from Menedemos’ ken. He fought down the urge to run after them. He had his own business to see to.
But Diokles also had things on his mind. Before Menedemos could leave the quay, the oarmaster set a hand on his arm and asked, “Do you have any notion how long we’ll be tied up here, skipper?” He pointed with his chin in the direction of the Aphrodite.
Menedemos understood the question behind the question. When the akatos stayed in the sea without getting hauled up onto a beach or into a shipshed, her timbers soaked up waters like so many sponges. That made her heavy and slow. With regret, Menedemos tossed his head. “I’m sorry, but I’ve no idea. At least till Sostratos and the rowers come back, plainly.”
Diokles clicked his tongue between his teeth: a discontented noise if ever there was one. “Any chance you might ask the Ptolemaios if we can use one of his sheds? We’ll be heavier than I like by the time we get near Rhodes any which way with all those days at sea, but I don’t want to make it any worse than I have to, know what I’m saying?”
“I’m afraid I do,” Menedemos answered. If Demetrios quickly beat Menelaos and overran all of Cyprus, he might turn on Rhodes next. If he didn’t quickly overrun Cyprus and Ptolemaios sailed north to oppose him, that fight might well involve the home island and home polis, too. Any which way, warships and pirate galleys might prowl in the waters around Rhodes. The Aphrodite could use every extra barleycorn of speed she could get.
“So will you ask him, then?”
“If he’ll see me. If he won’t see me, I’ll talk to the harbormaster or one of his men. If they say no, well, I tried. If they say yes …. You’re right. We’d be better off for it.”
“Good. That’s been on my mind.” The oarmaster looked pleased. “Like you say, no sure bet they’ll do what we want—gods-cursed Macedonians can be arrogant as all get-out. But if they will, it’ll help. I keep seeing pentekonters chasing us like sharks after tunny.”
“Heh,” Menedemos said uneasily. Those long, lean fifty-oared galleys were pirates’ favorite ships because of their speed. Even fresh and dry, the Aphrodite wasn’t quite that fast. Because she carried cargo, she was beamier than a pentekonter. But, gods willing, they’d be near Rhodes if they had one of those encounters. That would help their chances of escape.