Oars bit into the sea. The Aphrodite ’s steady pitching motion changed to a roll as she turned and presented her flank to the waves. Sostratos gulped and turned green as a leek; he didn’t like that so well. The rowers handled it with untroubled aplomb. In one ship or another, they’d done such things before.

Diokles began calling out the stroke as well as using his bronze square and little mallet. “Rhyppapai!” he boomed. “Rhyppapai! Steady boys. You can do it. “Rhyppapai!”

Pushed on by the wind blowing the squall line toward the ship, the waves got bigger. They crashed against the Aphrodite ’s ram, throwing up plumes of spray. As the akatos turned into the wind, she began pitching again, but harder; Menedemos felt as if he were aboard a half-broken horse that was doing Its best to throw him off.

The ship groaned as she rode up over one of those waves. Being long and lean helped her slide swiftly across the sea. But, in a storm like this, it left her vulnerable. In heavy waves, part of her was supported by nothing but air for long heartbeats, till she rode down into the next trough. If she broke her back, everyone aboard would drown in short order.

One of those waves threw water into her bow. Everyone aboard her might drown even if she held together.

“Here comes the squall!” Sostratos shouted, as if Menedemos couldn’t see that only too well for himself.

Black, roiling clouds blotted out blue sky overhead. The sun vanished. Rain poured down in buckets. Zeus hurled a thunderbolt, not far away. The noise, even through the pounding of the rain and the wind’s shrill, furious shriek, seemed like the end of the world. If one of those thunderbolts struck the Aphrodite, that would take her down to the bottom of Poseidon’s watery realm, too, and all the men aboard her down to the house of Hades.

Howling like a bloodthirsty wild beast, the wind tore at Menedemos. He clung to the steering-oar tillers with all his strength, to keep from being picked up and flung into the Aegean. The steering oars fought in his hands, the ferocious sea giving them a life of their own.

A stay parted with a twang like that of an enormous lyre string. The mast sagged. If another stay went, the mast would likely go with it. In its fall, it might capsize the merchant galley. “Fix that line!” Menedemos screamed. He didn’t think the sailors could hear him. He could hardly hear himself. But they knew what needed doing without being told. They rushed to seize the flapping stay, to bind it to another line, and to secure it to a belaying pin. More men stood by with hatchets, ready to try to chop the mast and yard free if they did come down.

And then, as suddenly as the squall line had engulfed the Aphrodite , it was past. The wind eased. The rain slackened, then stopped. The sea remained high, but the waves became less furious without that gale to drive them, A few minutes later, as the clouds roared off toward the south, the sun came out again.

Water dripped from Sostratos’ beard. It was dripping from the end of Menedemos’ nose, too, and from the point of his chin. Now he wiped his face with his forearm; he’d seen no point in bothering before.

“Just another day,” Sostratos remarked, just as if that were true.

Menedemos tried on a grin. It felt good. Being alive felt good. Knowing he’d probably stay alive a while longer felt best of all. He dipped his head, admiring his cousin’s coolness and doing his best to match it. “Yes,” he said. “Just another day.”

A sailor at an oar near the stern grinned, too. He took a hand off the oar to wave to Menedemos. “One thing about a storm like that,” he said. “If you piss yourself, who’ll know?”

“Not a soul.” Menedemos laughed out loud. The harried little men who filled Aristophanes ’ comedies might have said something like that.

“Came through pretty well,” Diokles said.

“Is everyone hale?” Sostratos asked.

One of the men at the oars was groaning and clutching his left shoulder. “Did you break it, Naukrates?” Menedemos called.

“I don’t know, skipper,” the man answered through clenched teeth. “When the sea started going crazy there, it gave my oar a wrench I wasn’t expecting, and I got yanked pretty good.”

“I’ll have a look at it, if you like.” Sostratos sounded eager. He wasn’t a physician, but he’d read something about the art of medicine. Sometimes that made him useful. Sometimes, as far as Menedemos was concerned, it made him a menace. But then, sometimes physicians were menaces, too.

Naukrates dipped his head. “Sure, come on. If you can do anything at all, I won’t be sorry.”

You hope you won’t be sorry, Menedemos thought as his cousin made his way forward. Sostratos felt of the rower’s shoulder. “It’s not broken,” he said. “It’s out of its socket. I can put it back in, I think, but it will hurt.”

“Go ahead,” Naukrates told him. “It hurts now.”

Before beginning, Sostratos had the sense to get a couple of other men to hold on to Naukrates. Then he took hold of the injured man’s arm and twisted it at an angle that made Menedemos queasy to see. Naukrates howled like a wolf. Menedemos started to ask his cousin if he was sure he knew what he was doing; it seemed more like torture than therapy. But then the joint went back into place with a click Menedemos heard all the way back at the poop.

Naukrates let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you kindly, young sir. It’s easier now.”

“Good.” Sostratos sounded relieved, too. How much confidence bad he had in what he was doing? Less than he’d shown, Menedemos suspected. “Here, leave it like this,” his cousin said to Naukrates, setting his left hand on his right shoulder. “I’m going to put it in a sling for a while, to make sure it stays where it belongs and heals.”

He haggled off some sailcloth with a knife and bound up the rower’s arm. Like everything else aboard the Aphrodite , the cloth was soaking wet. Naukrates didn’t seem to care. “That is better,” he said. “It still hurts, but I can bear it now.”

“I’ve got some Egyptian poppy juice mixed into wine,” Sostratos said. “I’ll give you a draught of it. It will do you some good-I don’t know how much.”

“I’ll try it,” Naukrates said without hesitation. Now that Sostratos had helped him once, he seemed to think Menedemos^’ cousin could do no wrong. Menedemos had a different opinion, but kept it to himself. When Naukrates drank the poppy juice, he made a horrible face. “By the gods, that’s nasty stuff!” he exclaimed. Before long, though, a dreamy smile spread across his face. He murmured, “It does help.”

“Good.” Sostratos started to slap him on the back, then visibly thought better of it. He came back up onto the poop deck.

“Nice job,” Menedemos said.

“Thanks.” Sostratos looked pleased with himself. “First time I ever actually tried that.”

“Well, don’t tell Naukrates. He thinks it was skill, not luck.”

“There was some skill involved, you know.”

“Oh, don’t get stuffy with me, my dear,” Menedemos said. “There was some luck involved, too, and you know that.” He looked a challenge at his cousin. “Or are you going to try to tell me otherwise?”

He was ready to call Sostratos a liar if his cousin tried any such thing. But Sostratos only gave him a sheepish smile. “By no means, O best one. And I suppose you’re right-I won’t tell Naukrates.”

“Won’t tell me what?” Naukrates had sharp ears.

But his voice was as blurry as if he’d drunk too much wine. “Never mind,” Menedemos and Sostratos said together. Normally, that would have made the sailor want to dig more, as it would have with anyone. Now, though, Naukrates just dipped his head and smiled that drugged smile. “How much poppy juice did you give him?” Menedemos asked.

“Enough to take away his pain, I hope,” Sostratos answered. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he goes to sleep in a while.”