Sostratos doubted that. Leskhaios was the kind who did as little as he could to get by, or a bit less than that. Such men often failed to endear themselves to the people who paid them. Telling him so would only be a waste of breath; Sostratos knew as much. Instead, he asked, “What about your family in Rhodes?”
“What about ’em?” the rower said. “If I never see my father again, I’ll thank the gods. He’ll have to hit my mother some more, ’cause he won’t have me to knock around. My brother didn’t live past eight—lockjaw. Don’t have a wife. Don’t have a sweetheart. Maybe I’ll find one here.”
Again, Sostratos wondered. Why would anyone want anything to do with somebody like Leskhaios? “You’re leaving us in the lurch,” he said.
“Don’t blame just me,” Leskhaios answered. “You know as well as I do, I’m a long way from being the only one.”
That made Sostratos’ lips skin back from his teeth in what came closer to a snarl than a smile. Half a dozen rowers had decided they didn’t want to go north with the Aphrodite. Like Leskhaios, the others thought they could do better for themselves here in Egypt, As with Leskhaios, Sostratos thought most of them were fooling themselves, but they didn’t want to listen.
Trying to sound patient, Leskhaios went on, “So if you’ll pay me what you still owe me, I’ll be on my way.”
Sostratos was tempted to tell him he could be on his way without his back pay. More than a few traders would have said just that. What could Leskhaios do about it? Nothing. Nothing legal, anyhow, though murder and arson might jump to mind. But Sostratos prided himself on scrupulous honesty. “I’ll do it,” he said. “It may be less than you hope. You’ve drawn silver while you were here and when you went up and down the Nile with me.”
“Yes, yes,” the rower said. “It’ll keep me afloat a little while, anyway. The baker will be putting money in my hands before long.”
“I think I know how much you’re due. Let me talk to Menedemos and Diokles to make sure we all have about the same number in mind, and I’ll give you your money this afternoon,” Sostratos said.
“That’s fair, I expect. Gods only know how you stay in business when you don’t go out of your way to cheat people,” Leskhaios said.
After Sostratos left the inn where most of the rowers were staying, he kicked at the dirt in the street. He wouldn’t show Leskhaios his fury, but he couldn’t hold it all in, either. When he got back to the palace, he knocked on the door to the room he shared with Menedemos.
His cousin opened it, then drew back a pace. “What’s wrong? You look as though a mask-maker could do a Gorgon from your face.”
“Do I? I’m not surprised. Leskhaios just told me he’s staying in Alexandria,” Sostratos said.
“Another one?” Menedemos swore. He went on, “Many good-byes to him! He didn’t like to row. He just wanted to eat and complain.”
“I know, but he still leaves another bench empty. Where will we get the bodies to fill them up? If we go where there’s fighting, we’ll want a man at every oar,” Sostratos said.
“We could ask the Ptolemaios or his admirals for rowers,” Menedemos said.
“I don’t like doing that. It would be all right till we got to Cyprus, but what about when we go on to Rhodes? Men with families here won’t care to do that,” Sostratos said.
“I’ll do it anyhow. Maybe we can give them back to Ptolemaios after he wins his sea-fight. We wouldn’t need them so much then,” Menedemos said.
Sostratos stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. When he spoke again, it was in a voice not much above a whisper: “But what if Ptolemaios loses?”
His cousin scowled at him. “That would spill the perfume into the soup, wouldn’t it?” Menedemos also made sure no one outside the chamber could overhear. He sighed. “I’ll ask around. Maybe some Rhodians here are willing to pull an oar to go home again. Maybe.” He didn’t sound as if he believed it.
Sostratos didn’t, either. He changed the subject: “By your reckoning, what do we owe Leskhaios?”
“A good kick in the arse,” Menedemos said. He startled a laugh out of Sostratos. Menedemos calculated on his fingers, then named a number not far from the one Sostratos had in mind.
Relieved, Sostratos said, “I want to check with Diokles, too—make sure we haven’t forgotten anything.”
“I forget things all the cursed time. I didn’t think you ever did,” Menedemos said, which made Sostratos’ ears heat. Menedemos continued, “But ask Diokles, of course. If we did miss something, he’ll catch it.”
When Sostratos asked the keleustes what Leskhaios had coming to him, Diokles answered, “How about a sharp stake up his backside, the kind the Persians use to get rid of people they don’t like?”
“Tempting, but I was thinking more along the lines of back pay,” Sostratos said.
“Too bad,” Diokles grunted. Then his face got a faraway look for a few heartbeats. When he came back to himself, he named a figure only a couple of drakhmai less than the ones Sostratos and Menedemos had worked out.
Determined to be as fair as he could, Sostratos paid Leskhaios the highest of the three calculations (his own). After counting the silver coins, the rower rolled his eyes up toward the heavens. “Well, I was afraid you’d give it to me by the back door in spite of all your fancy talk, and by the gods you did.”
Whatever sympathy Sostratos might have felt for him went out as abruptly as a torch dropped in a rain puddle. “If you aren’t happy with it, you can give it back,” he said in a voice so cold and deadly, he had trouble recognizing it as his own.
It made Leskhaios flinch, too. “Never mind that,” he said hastily. “I’m off to make my fortune.” He left the rowers’ inn at something not far short of a run, as if afraid Sostratos would kick him or take the money away if he lingered. He might not have been so far wrong, either.
The captain of one of Ptolemaios’ fives was a Thasian named Blepyros. He might have been carved from the same block of dark wood that had produced Diokles. At the moment, he eyed Menedemos with all the warmth of a Thracian blizzard. “How many rowers are you after?” he demanded, his voice as frigid as the rest of his manner.
“Half a dozen, sir,” Menedemos answered.
And Blepyros thawed as if by magic. “Is that all?” he exclaimed. “I thought you were trying to steal scores of ’em from me.”
“My akatos only has forty oars,” Menedemos said. “I’m just trying to get them all filled.”
“Akatos?” Blepyros’ bushy eyebrows jumped. “Oh. You’re that fellow, the Rhodian. I heard about you.”
“Did you?” Menedemos said tonelessly. How many of Ptolemaios’ skippers had heard about him? How many of them were laughing at the way Ptolemaios had made him join their fleet?
“Sure did. The way the story goes, you held the big boss man for ransom, or near enough as makes no difference, before you finally threw in with him,” Blepyros said. “Must be something to that ‘free and independent’ stuff after all, hey?”
“Well, we like to think so,” Menedemos replied, all at once feeling better about the world. “The rowers need to know my ship will go on to Rhodes after the campaign off Cyprus is over. We won’t come back to Alexandria.”
“I understand. Do you suppose you can put them aboard one of the other ships in the fleet before you head off on your own?”
Menedemos puffed out his cheeks, then blew a stream of air through pursed lips. He’d done more thinking about that after talking with his cousin. “Part of me wants to say yes, O best one, but I don’t dare promise. Gods only know what we’ll run into in Rhodian waters. Maybe we’ll have clear sailing. But if we find pirates or some of the Demetrios’ war galleys, we’ll want a backside on every bench.”