Ptolemaios … Sostratos asked the newcomer, “Did the Demetrios catch the lord of Egypt, or did he manage to get away?”
The man spread his hands. “I didn’t hear one way or the other. I don’t think anyone in Rhodes knows yet.”
“All right. Thanks,” Sostratos said. He’d wondered whether Demetrios had freed Menelaos because he still held the more important brother. Now he’d have to keep wondering till Demetrios paraded Ptolemaios before Antigonos, or till word came from Egypt that Ptolemaios had made it back to Alexandria.
“Before long, every bit of Cyprus will lie in Demetrios’ hands,” Himilkon said as he walked back toward his warehouse with his men and Sostratos. “That can’t be good for Rhodes.”
“Nothing that’s happened lately has been good for Rhodes,” Sostratos said. “We’re like a sick man. If the fever breaks, we’ll get better. If it doesn’t ….” He let his voice trail off, not wanting to speak words of evil omen.
Himilkon replied, “Well, I’m not sorry I’m starting to learn the warrior’s trade after all.” He patted that ample belly. “I have a bit more training to do, I think.”
“If the gods are kind, all of this nonsense will have been for nothing,” Sostratos said. Himilkon, Hyssaldomos, and Attinos walked along in a silence suggesting they didn’t think it would be. Since Sostratos didn’t, either, he could hardly blame them for that.
He said his farewells at the warehouse, then went back to his home, where he gave his father the news. “Demetrios must really want to be Alexander’s successor,” Lysistratos said. “Alexander might have done something like that. I can’t think of any other Macedonian who would—and I’m including Demetrios’ father.”
“Antigonos? No. He always has his eye on the main chance,” Sostratos agreed. He rubbed his chin. “But Demetrios …. That’s interesting, what you said. I hadn’t looked at it just that way before. He’s as handsome as everyone says the Alexander was.”
“I only saw him the once, in the Assembly, and we weren’t that close to him,” his father said. “I mostly know him from a bust or two and from coins. Those always make you look better than you really do.”
“True enough.” Sostratos dipped his head. “You did see he was tall, though—taller than I am, and not many are. Alexander was supposed to be a little fellow, wasn’t he? Demetrios could make himself out to be the improved version, you might say.”
“Improved how?” his father asked. “Alexander went out and conquered the Persian Empire and went on into India. All Demetrios has ever done is fight other Hellenes and Macedonians. Even if he went after Carthage or the barbarians in Italy, that wouldn’t come close to matching what Alexander did.”
“You’re not wrong, sir,” Sostratos said. “But before he does any of that, he’ll try to take Rhodes.”
He wished his father would have told him he was being foolish. But Lysistratos just said, “Yes, I think so, too.” After that, the conversation flagged. Neither of them seemed to see much point in saying more.
Menedemos spent as much of his waking time as he could away from the house where he’d grown up. He worked out in the gymnasion with a ferocity even the hardened Cretan mercenaries who schooled Rhodians in the art of fighting on foot noticed.
One of them rubbed his shoulder after a blow from Menedemos’ wooden sword got home. “You could hire yourself out to any warlord from Sicily to the Indos River,” the veteran said. “I’ll be sore for the next two moon quarters, bugger me blind if I won’t. Most Rhodians, they still reckon this is a game. You, though, you want to kill things.”
“Do I?” Menedemos thought about it. He shrugged. “Well, what if I do?”
“Not everybody’s got that, not even every soldier.” The mercenary twisted his neck. “It’s turning black already, where you nailed me. Lucky you weren’t using iron. I’d’ve bled to death by now.”
His modest triumph pleased Menedemos not at all. After he scraped off his sweat and put his chiton back on, he went to a tavern. Someone who’d started pouring it down even earlier in the day had already drunk himself mean. For whatever reason, he chose Menedemos to swing at. Menedemos jerked his head to one side and kicked the brawler in the crotch. The man went down with a shriek. He rolled on the dirt floor, clutching at himself. Menedemos emptied his own cup, set it on the counter, and kicked the man in the ribs as he walked out.
“You could have killed him!” the taverner called after him.
“Too bad,” Menedemos said over his shoulder. “Maybe he’ll remember what I gave him before he tries to knock some other stranger’s teeth out.” He kept walking. He hoped somebody would come after him, but no one did.
Then he went down to the harbor. He wasn’t surprised to spot Sostratos’ gangly form there. They were both after news. Since he didn’t feel like talking with his cousin, he stayed several piers away from him.
An akation rowed into the harbor. Menedemos shaded his eyes with one hand, wondering if it was the same one that had given him such a fright off the south coast of Cyprus. He didn’t think so. This one seemed larger—not quite a triakonter, with fifteen rowers on each side, but not far short of that.
He didn’t remember ever seeing the ship before. That was odd; he thought he knew most honest vessels of that size, vessels likely to bring goods to Rhodes. Pirates were different, but pirates didn’t put in at this harbor.
The akation made for an open berthing space at the pier next to the one by whose base he stood. Casually, as if he had nothing much to do and all the time in the world to do it in, he ambled over to the newcomer. He wasn’t the only man who did, of course, but in spite of his seeming laziness he got there in time to catch a rope one of the crewmen tossed him and to secure it to a bollard.
“You’ve been to sea a time or two, I reckon,” the man said. “That’s a proper square knot, by the gods.”
“Oh, I may have,” Menedemos answered. “What ship are you? You’re new here, I think.”
“We may be. This is the Tykhe, out of Alexandria.”
“Lady Luck, are you? What’s your cargo? If you don’t mind my asking, I mean.” Menedemos did his best to hide a sudden surge of interest. Some of the other Rhodians on the pier exclaimed, in surprise or excitement. A ship from Alexandria, now ….
Tykhe’s skipper must have heard Menedemos’ question. He answered it from the stern platform: “What we bring here is news, important news. I am pleased to inform the people of Rhodes that the great and glorious Ptolemaios, the lord of Egypt, is by the gods’ kindness returned safe and hale to Alexandria.”
Everyone in earshot shouted then, Menedemos no less than anybody else. When he could make himself heard over the hubbub, he said, “That’s important news, sure enough, and the best of news for Rhodes. Will you tell it again, at my father’s house?” He got away from the house whenever he could, yes. But this was the polis’ business, not a family entanglement.
“Who are you, and who is your father?” By the way the Tykhe’s captain said it, he wouldn’t visit just anyone. Well, who could blame him?
“I’m Menedemos son of Philodemos.” Either the Alexandrian would know his name or not.
He did. “Are you?” he exclaimed, eyebrows rising. “Yes, I’ll come with you, then. One of the things the Ptolemaios charged me to do while I was here was learn whether you’d made it back. He’ll be pleased when I tell him you and your cousin have.”
Menedemos was a little less than pleased the skipper had mentioned his cousin, too, though he knew Ptolemaios thought well of Sostratos. “Come along, then,” he said shortly. But he unbent enough to add, “Tell me your name, O best one, so the slaves can use it to bring our polis’ leaders to the house.”