6
Menedemos clapped Sostratos on the back, then cupped his hands and interlaced his fingers to give his cousin a leg-up. With his help, Sostratos swung up onto the back of the mule he’d bought. Sostratos looked around with a grin, saying, “I’m not used to being so far off the ground.”
“Well, O best one, you’d better get used to it,” Menedemos answered. “You’re going to be on that mule for a while.”
“That’s right,” Aristeidas agreed with a grin. “You’ll come back to Sidon all bowlegged.” He stumped around with his legs splayed wide apart.
“Go howl!” Sostratos said, laughing.
“No, Aristeidas is right, or he should be. I like that,” Menedemos said, laughing, too. “Your legs’ll look like an omega, thus.” He wrote the letter-?.-in the dust of the street with his right big toe, then he also imitated a bowlegged man. “And when you get back, you won’t be any taller than I am.”
“In your dreams,” Sostratos retorted. That held more truth than he might have guessed, for Menedemos, especially when they were both growing up, had dreamt of matching his gangling cousin’s height. Sostratos went on, “You’d burst like a squashed melon if Prokroustes tried stretching you on his rack till you were my size.”
“Ha!” Menedemos said. “Prokroustes’d be cutting you down to size if he ever got you to sleep in his bed, and he’d start with your tongue.”
Sostratos stuck out the organ in question. Menedemos made as if to grab for his belt knife. Sostratos looked from him to Aristeidas, Teleutas, and Moskhion. The former sponge diver carried a pike as tall as he was, while the other two men wore swords on their hips. “Some bodyguards,” Sostratos said. He had a sword himself; a leather bowcase held Menedemos’ bow, several spare bowstrings, and twenty arrows. All four men wore cheap bell-shaped bronze helmets that would keep a club from knocking their brains out. The helms offered no protection for the face, but were far lighter and cooler than the all-enclosing ones hoplites used.
“I think we’re ready,” Sostratos said. As if to agree with him, Aristeidas picked up the lead rope of the donkey that carried their trade goods and money. The donkey brayed in protest. A moment later, the mule joined in, its voice louder and deeper.
“Wing-foot Hermes keep you safe,” Menedemos said. He set his hand on Sostratos’ leg for a moment. His cousin covered it with his own hand. Then Sostratos flicked the reins and squeezed the mule’s barrel with his knees and calves. The beast brayed again. For a moment, Menedemos thought it would do no more. But, ears twitching resentfully, it began to walk. Aristeidas had to yank on the ass’ lead line to get it to follow. The four Hellenes and two animals left the harbor and disappeared into Sidon. Before long, they’d be off in the wilds of the land of the Ioudaioi.
“Keep an eye on him, all of you,” Menedemos muttered. He wondered if he was talking to the sailors from the Aphrodite who accompanied Sostratos or to the gods high above. By then, the sailors were too far away to hear him. He hoped the gods weren’t.
Sighing, he walked back up the pier to the Aphrodite. Diokles said, “Hope everything goes good for him, skipper.”
“Yes. So do I,” Menedemos replied.
“He’s a clever fellow, your cousin,” the oarmaster said, doing his best to sound reassuring. “He’ll be fine.”
Menedemos remained un-reassured. “Oh, yes, Sostratos is very clever,” he said. “But has he got any common sense? There are times when I don’t think he’s got as much as the gods gave a gecko.”
“He’s got more than you think,” Diokles said. “The two of you, you’re kin, so of course you can’t see each other straight.”
“Maybe you’re right. I hope you’re right,” Menedemos said. “Still and all, though, I wish he weren’t wandering around among the barbarians. When he goes and does something strange, Hellenes know how to make allowances: almost everybody’s seen someone who’s more cut out to be a philosopher than to live in the real world. But what do these silly Ioudaioi know about philosophy? Not a thing. Not a single, solitary thing. How could they? They’re just barbarians. They’ll think he’s crazy, is what they’ll think.”
“Your cousin doesn’t do that stuff all the time, or even very often,” Diokles said.
“I hope you’re right,” Menedemos repeated. If the keleustes was right, Sostratos would, or at least might, come back with balsam and with profit. If, on the other hand, he was wrong… Menedemos didn’t want to dwell on that but couldn’t help it. He said, “If Sostratos has all this common sense, why did he take Teleutas for one of his guards? Why not anybody else? I wish I hadn’t let him.”
Diokles put the best face on it he could: “Nobody’s ever been able to prove anything bad about Teleutas. Everything he does, there’s always a good reason for it, or there always could be one, anyway. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have let him ship with us last year, let alone this year.”
“It could be,” Menedemos admitted. “Yes, it could be. But when he’s one of forty-odd men aboard the Aphrodite, that’s one thing. When he’s one of four Hellenes in the middle of nowhere, that’s something else-or it’s liable to be something else, anyhow.”
Diokles didn’t argue with him. He wished the keleustes would have. He wanted to think he was wrong, not that he was right. What Diokles did say was, “While your cousin’s traveling, what will you do?”
“The best I can,” Menedemos answered. “Gods only know how I’m going to unload the olive oil we’re carrying, but we’ll see about that. I do have hopes for the rest of the food and the perfume and the silk and especially the books. Sostratos was clever there. I wouldn’t have thought of them by myself, and we’ll make a fine profit from them-or I hope we will.”
“That’d be nice,” the oarmaster said agreeably. “How do you propose to go about selling ‘em, though? You can’t just take ‘em to the market square. Well, I suppose you could, but how much good would it do you? Mostly Phoenicians there, and they won’t care anything about our books.”
“I know. I’ve been thinking about that,” Menedemos said. “What I have in mind doing is…” He explained. “What do you think of that?”
“Not bad, skipper.” Diokles grinned and dipped his head. “Matter of fact, not half bad. I’d love to see you when you bring it off, I would.”
“Well, why don’t you come along?” Menedemos said.
“And who’d keep an eye on the ship if I did?” Diokles asked. “If your cousin were here, if Aristeidas were here, even, that’d be different. But the way things are, I think I’d better stick around when you’re away.”
Menedemos clapped him on the back. “You’re the best keleustes I’ve ever known. You ought to have a ship of your own. I’m sorry things haven’t broken the way they might have for you.”
With a shrug, Diokles said, “One of these days, maybe. I’ve had the same thought. I’d like to be a captain. I won’t say any different. But things could be a lot worse, too. If I hadn’t been lucky, I’d still be pulling an oar somewhere.” He held out his hands, palms up, to show the thick rower’s calluses they still bore.
In a way, Menedemos admired the oarmaster’s patience and willingness to make the best of things. In another way… He tossed his head. When he was unhappy about how life treated him, everybody around him knew he was unhappy. Sometimes that only succeeded in annoying everybody. More often, though (he thought it was more often, anyhow), letting people know what he wanted and that he wouldn’t be satisfied till he got it helped him get it. He wondered whether he ought to tell Diokles as much. After a moment, he tossed his head. He doubted Diokles was one who could profit from the advice.