“I should hope so, my dear,” Sostratos replied, understanding him perfectly. “If they weren’t, the Lykians wouldn’t be half so much trouble. Those heights hide bandits the way river mouths and little capes and promontories hide pirate ships.” His face clouded. “I’d never had trouble with bandits before this trip.”

“That’s because you never did a lot of traveling on land,” Menedemos replied. “Who does, if he can help it?”

“Travel by sea’s not safe, either,” Sostratos said. “We found that out last year, when the pirates stole the gryphon’s skull.”

“They didn’t intend to steal the skull. It just happened to be something they got away with,” Menedemos pointed out. “I know the loss pains you, but it wasn’t what they had in mind. Let me remind you what they did have in mind-stealing our money and our valuables, and killing us or selling us into slavery or holding us for ransom. Losing the gryphon’s skull is a fleabite next to what might have been.”

His cousin had the grace to look shamefaced. “Yes, that’s true, of course,” he said. “I don’t believe I’ve ever claimed otherwise; if I have, I’m sorry for it. But I will say it’s a fleabite that rankles.”

“I know you will-you will at any excuse, or none,” Menedemos said. “After a while, hearing about it over and over rankles, too.”

He wondered if that was too blunt. Sostratos could be sensitive and could also sulk for days after having his feathers ruffled. Now he said, “I’m so sorry, my dear. I won’t bore you with my presence anymore,” and stalked off the poop deck like an indignant Egyptian cat. Menedemos sighed. Sure enough, he’d hit too hard. Now he’d have to figure out a way to jolly Sostratos back into a good mood.

Meanwhile, he had the ship and the sea and the approaching Lykian coast to worry about, which meant his cousin got short shrift for a while. Sostratos had been right about one thing: just as no army had ever cleared brigands from the Lykian hills, no navy had ever cleared pirates from the coastline. Menedemos wished the Aphrodite were a trihemiolia. Let the Lykians beware then!

In a merchant galley, though, he was the one who went with caution. By the end of the day, the highlands had bulked their way out of the sea, tall and dark with forest. He might have tried to make a town. He might have, but he didn’t. He had enough food. He’d taken on as much water as the Aphrodite would carry in Paphos. He could afford to spend one more night at sea. He could afford to, and he did.

Not a sailor grumbled, not off this coast. Maybe the men would have put up with striking straight across from Cyprus to Rhodes after all. If the other choice was running the gauntlet of Lykian pirates… He wondered whether the akatos could have carried enough bread and cheese and olives and wine and water for so long a journey. Maybe. But maybe not. There would be risks. He chuckled under his breath. At sea, there were always risks.

As the sun went down, anchors splashed into the Inner Sea. Sailors ate their suppers and washed them down with watered wine. A waxing gibbous moon glowed in the southeastern sky. As twilight deepened, the stars came out. Zeus ’ wandering star hung low in the southwest. A little to the east of it shone Ares’ wandering star, now entering the Scorpion and thus close to its ruddy rival, Antares. Kronos’ wandering star, yellow as olive oil, beamed down from the south, a little west of the moon.

Snores began to rise in the quiet darkness. Sostratos came back from the poop deck to wrap himself in his himation and stretch out beside Menedemos. He wasn’t quite ready for sleep, though. Pointing up toward Ares’ wandering star, he spoke in a low voice: “I wonder why it’s so much dimmer now than it was this spring. Then it would have easily outshone Antares. Now…” He tossed his head.

Menedemos was sleepy. “How can we know why?” he asked, his voice grumpy. “It does what it does, that’s all. Do you expect to go up into the heavens and look?”

“If I could, I’d like to,” Sostratos said.

“Yes. If. But since you can’t, won’t you settle for going to sleep instead?”

“Oh, all right. Good night.”

“Good night,” Menedemos said.

When he woke the next morning, twilight streaked the eastern sky behind the Aphrodite . “Rosy-fingered dawn,” he murmured, and smiled. He yawned, stretched, and got to his feet. Shivering a little, he picked up the crumpled chiton he’d used for a pillow and put it back on. The day would soon warm up, but the night had been on the chilly side. He walked to the rail and pissed into the Inner Sea.

Sostratos still snored. He hardly seemed to have moved from where he’d lain down the night before. Diokles was awake; he looked back from the rower’s bench where he’d curled up for the night and dipped his head at Menedemos. As the day brightened, more and more sailors woke. Finally, just before the sun came up over the horizon, Menedemos waved to the men who’d already roused, and they set about waking the rest.

He woke Sostratos himself, stirring him with his foot. His cousin muttered something, then jerked in alarm. His eyes flew open. For a moment, they held nothing but animal fear. Then reason returned, and anger with it. “Why didn’t you just stick a spear in me?” Sostratos demanded indignantly.

“Maybe next time, my dear.” Menedemos made his voice as sunny as he could, the better to annoy his cousin. By Sostratos’ scowl, it worked.

Barley cakes and oil and more watered wine served for breakfast. Grunting with effort, sailors hauled on the capstans to bring up the anchors. They hauled them out of the sea and stowed them near the bow. Menedemos gauged the wind. It was easy to gauge: there was none to speak of. He sighed. The rowers would earn their pay today.

At his orders, Diokles put eight men a side on the oars: plenty to keep the merchant galley going, yet few enough to keep the crew fresh in case they needed everyone rowing to escape pirates or fight them off. Menedemos spat into the bosom of his tunic to avert the unwelcome omen.

As often happened, fishing boats fled from the Aphrodite . They took one look at a galley centipede-striding across the waters of the Inner Sea and assumed they saw a pirate ship. That always saddened Menedemos. Still, had he skippered one of those little boats, he would have run from the Aphrodite , too. Anyone who took chances with his crew’s freedom and lives was a fool.

The wind did blow up, fitfully, as the morning wore along. Menedemos ordered the sail lowered from the yard. He wondered why he’d bothered. Now it would fill and shove the akatos forward, and then a moment later, when the breeze died again, it would hang as loose and empty as the skin on a formerly fat man’s belly after his polis was besieged and starved into surrender.

“A pestilence!” he muttered when the wind failed for the fourth time in half an hour. “Might as well be a girl who teases but doesn’t intend to put out.”

Sostratos stood close enough to hear him. “Trust you to come up with that figure of speech,” he said.

“I wouldn’t dream of disappointing you,” Menedemos said.

He would have gone on in that vein, but Moskhion, who was taking a turn as lookout, shouted from the foredeck: “Ship coming out from behind that headland! No, two ships, by the gods! Two ships off the starboard bow!” He pointed.

Menedemos’ eyes swung in the direction Moskhion gave. Even so, he needed several heartbeats to spy the ships. They were galleys, their masts down, their hulls and even their oars painted a greenish blue that made them hard to spot against sea and sky. No honest skipper painted his ship a color like that.

Sostratos saw the same thing at the same time. “Pirates,” he said, as if remarking on the weather.

“I’m afraid you’re right, my dear.” Menedemos dipped his head. He gauged the speed at which those long, lean galleys were approaching, gauged it and didn’t like it a bit. “I’m afraid we can’t very well run, either, not with the hull as soaked as it is. They’d catch us quick, and this polluted fitful breeze won’t let us sail away, either.”