Salamis, p.24
Salamis, page 24
Sostratos’ father said, “You don’t even know if the Ptolemaios got away safe?”
“No, sir. I have no idea,” Menedemos answered. “I wish I did, but I don’t. We were back with the transports, you understand, behind the warships, and at the rear of the transports at that. When the transport skippers realized Demetrios’ war galleys had beaten Ptolemaios’, we all scattered, every ship on its own.”
“It will be as it is.” Komanos’ voice still sounded uncommonly heavy, as well it might. “Before long, we’ll find out what did happen to Ptolemaios, and we’ll go on from there.”
“Yes, sir. But if he’s sunk and drowned, or mewed up in chains on Demetrios’ flagship—” Menedemos broke off. He saw no way to go on.
Komanos did. “If we have to make the best terms we can with Demetrios and his father, then we do that, and hope the future repeats the past.”
Rhodes had briefly had a Macedonian garrison while Alexander was alive, but got free of it shortly after he died. Menedemos had been a youth then, not involved in the polis’ affairs. Things were different now.
Underscoring that, Komanos said, “As I told you, the polis is in your debt for bringing us the news as quickly as you did, and for bringing these … other things as well.” His eyes flicked to the armaments stowed under most of the rowing benches and everywhere else there was room on the ship. “We do try to remember what we owe.”
“We’re citizens, sir. We try to remember that, too,” Menedemos said. “If you’d care to tell off some men to carry the weapons to the armory ….”
“I will do that very thing.” Komanos’ voice rose as he addressed the men who’d been watching and listening. “Who’ll fetch and carry for his polis? Three oboloi to any man who bears a bundle to the armory.” A few hands went up, but only a few. Komanos chuckled. “Everything costs more than you wish it would. All right, O gentlemen of Rhodes—I’ll not play the niggard today. A drakhma for every bundle. Now who’s game?”
Doubling the wage produced many more willing workers. That surprised Menedemos not at all. Sostratos got the sailors to start handing sheaves of catapult bolts, stacks of shields, and other military gear up the gangplank to the loungers, which had the added benefit of keeping would-be thieves off the akatos. Sostratos had let Menedemos do the talking; that wasn’t his strength. But when it came to making sure things ran smoothly, he was hard to beat.
As the last of the weapons headed into the polis, Menedemos came up onto the pier and spoke to his father and Sostratos’: “We have silver aboard, too, and some other things that will want securing.”
“I hoped you might,” Philodemos said. Lysistratos dipped his head.
Sostratos spoke up then: “I’ll need some of that silver to pay off the rowers. They had easy times in Alexandria, but gods know they worked hard taking us there and back. And they all pulled like heroes when we were getting away from Demetrios’ monster of a galley.”
“True. Too true!” Menedemos said. “I felt like a sprat with a tuna after me. But we did get away.”
“Fine. I’ll get some people we can count on to bring those things back to our house and Lysistratos’,” his father said. “And Sostratos can bring the rest of the silver back with him when he finishes paying the men. I’ll send a couple of beefy fellows to walk back with him, too, so no one knocks him over the head between here and the houses.”
“Thanks, Uncle Philodemos,” Sostratos said. Menedemos wondered if his father would have done the same for him had he been the one doling out drakhmai to the rowers. Probably, he admitted to himself. The silver was important, even if his own carcass wasn’t.
He was back in Rhodes. He let himself believe it. He had a baby half-brother—or maybe a baby son. And the woman he loved, the woman with whom he might have fathered the baby, had come through the birth, and hadn’t given him away. Taken all in all, life might have been much worse in spite of what Demetrios did to Ptolemaios.
“Tonight,” he said, “I’m going to get drunk.” No one, not even his father, tried to tell him no.
The sun was setting in the west, over the far side of the polis of Rhodes. Sostratos sat on the Aphrodite’s steps leading up to the stern platform. He had a leather sack of drakhmai to his right and his notes on which man was owed how much to his left. He’d paid off the rowers one by one. Some of them grumbled a little at what they got. But he had the written records, and they didn’t. Nobody kicked up a big fuss.
Last in line came Attinos. The Egyptian who spoke profane Greek didn’t complain about his pay. Sostratos said, “I’m sorry, but I have no idea when you’ll be able to go back to Alexandria.”
“Me, neither. Ahh, futter it,” Attinos said with a shrug. “You know where maybe I find some work here?”
“Let me think.” Sostratos plucked at his beard. He switched languages to ask, “Do you speak Aramaic?”
“Little fucking bit,” Attinos said in that language. What he knew, he must have learned from the kind of people from whom he’d picked up his Greek. Or maybe he spoke Egyptian the same way, too. Some men cursed as readily as they breathed. He went on, “Talk Greek better.”
“All right. Even a little will help you,” Sostratos said. “I don’t know a whole lot myself. But there’s a Phoenician merchant named Himilkon who might take you on. His warehouses are that way, three piers down and one street inland.” He pointed. “Tell him he can ask me about you.”
Attinos grinned crookedly. “So you tell him what a big son of a whore I is?”
Sostratos laughed. “If I thought you were, I wouldn’t give you his name. It’s starting to get dark, so I don’t know if he’s still there now, but he will be in the morning.”
“I try him,” Attinos said. “Most Hellenes, they wide-arses who don’t even think Egyptians and other foreigners is people. You, you different. How come you is?”
As usual, Sostratos took the question seriously. “I don’t know. I’ve done business with Hellenes and with barbarians, and I haven’t seen a whole lot of differences. Good men and bad, honest men and thieves? Some everywhere.”
“Truth. Fornicating truth.” Attinos stowed his pay in a belt pouch. He sketched Sostratos a salute, then went up the gangplank, down the pier, and off toward Himilkon’s warehouse.
Sostratos still had a few coins in his hand. He slid them back into the leather sack from which they’d come and tied it shut with a rawhide thong. After carefully noting that he’d paid the last rower, he turned to the pair of bruisers Uncle Philodemos had hired; they were lolling on the stern platform, waiting for him to finish his business.
“Very good, best ones,” he said. “If you’ll be kind enough to escort me back to my father’s house ….”
They climbed to their feet. One was taller, the other wider. “Right you are, sir,” the wider man said. “You just come with us.”
As soon as they got off the pier, the taller one ducked into a tavern and came out with a sputtering torch. “Getting dark,” he remarked. “This’ll maybe keep us from stepping in something nasty.” He and his friend wore sandals. Sostratos, as usual, went barefoot. He held his peace.
No one did step in anything too vile. The guard’s torch was guttering by the time they got to Lysistratos’ house. When his father let him in, Sostratos brought the man a fresh light. He also gave him and his friend a couple of oboloi apiece.
“You don’t have to do that, sir,” the torchbearer said. “Philodemos, he already paid us.”
“I know. You’re a good man for saying so, though,” Sostratos replied. “This isn’t from my uncle. This is from me.”
Across the street, the squalls of a baby floated out from Philodemos’ house. The tough fellow who didn’t have a torch made a face. “You’ll have fun sleeping tonight with a brat so close and all,” he said.
“I won’t mind too much. I hope not, anyhow. That’s my new little first cousin,” Sostratos said.
“That’s Philodemos’ son?” asked the man with the torch. Sostratos dipped his head. The guard went on, “How about that? Philodemos, he’s not too young, but I guess he’s not too old, neither.”
Lysistratos stuck his head out into the street. “He’s my brother. My older brother, mind you. I’ll tell him you said that.”
Everyone laughed. The guards headed off to their own homes, or maybe to a wineshop. After Sostratos went back inside, his father closed and barred the door. “Is anything left to eat?” Sostratos asked. “It’s been a long time since breakfast.”
“Go on into the andron,” Lysistratos replied. “Threissa will bring you some supper.”
Lamps already lit the men’s room. A jar of wine, one of water, a dipper, and some cups sat on a small table by Sostratos’ usual couch. His father came in with him. “Will you drink wine with me, sir?” Sostratos asked him. “How strong would you like it?”
“A little less than half wine, I think,” Lysistratos said. “You’re coming home tonight—we can have it stronger than usual.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” Sostratos watered the wine for his father and himself. He raised his cup. “Your health!”
“And yours,” Lysistratos answered. They both poured libations on the floor.
Threissa carried in a wooden tray with a loaf of barley bread, a small bowl of olive oil, a larger bowl of olives, and a platter of fried smelts—fried just now, Sostratos’ nose told him, not sitting on a counter in the kitchen since the rest of the family ate.
“Thank you, my dear,” Sostratos told the slave. “You’ve saved my life with this.”
“Is not’ing,” she said in her accented Greek. Like a lot of barbarians—and, indeed, like some Ionians—she had trouble with aspirated consonants. And she looked as if she wanted to hide while standing in plain sight. She was not enamored of Sostratos, but if he told her to come up to bed with him she had to go. He hadn’t told her that for a long time, but it didn’t mean he wouldn’t, especially when he was just back from a long stretch at sea.
At the moment, he had other appetites that wanted slaking. He tore off a chunk of bread, dipped it in the oil, and popped it into his mouth. “That’s good oil!” he exclaimed.
“It’s Damonax’s,” his father replied. “The same kind of stuff you were flogging in Egypt. You must have got rid of it, too. I didn’t see our work gang hauling any back here.”
“I sold a lot of it to the fellow who cooks for Ptolemaios’ nomarch in Memphis. He’s a Rhodian himself, from the same village as Damonax’s family. It tasted like old times to him, so he bought quite a bit,” Sostratos said.
“Euge!” Lysistratos said. “Did you get a good price?”
“Father, I got a terrific price. He was playing with the nomarch’s silver, after all, not his own. He didn’t care how much he spent.”
“Egypt is as rich as they say, then?”
“Richer!” Sostratos paused to sip wine, eat a couple of olives, and pop first one smelt and then another into his mouth. As he chewed, he went on, “No one who hasn’t been there can imagine how rich it is. No one in Hellas, no one even in old Sybaris or in Syracuse, lives the way that nomarch does. And he was just a nomarch! Ptolemaios’ place in Alexandria ….” He tossed his head in disbelief, then took more smelts from the platter. After he ate them, he said, “I can’t finish all of this, Father. I’ll burst if I try. Have some with me, please.”
“Maybe one or two,” Lysistratos said. Then he held the platter out to Threissa. “Would you like some?” Sostratos wished he’d thought to do that.
“T’ank you, Master!” she said, and ate. The family didn’t keep its slaves hungry, but they seldom got anything so nice.
“Get yourself a cup and have a little wine, too,” Sostratos said, trying to make amends. She scurried away, returning a moment later with a cup like his and his father’s. Sostratos watered her wine the same as he had for himself and Lysistratos. She made a face at him. Like Egyptians and many other barbarians, Thracians drank neat wine when in their native land.
But she smiled as she poured it down. “Is tasty!” she said.
“Good,” Sostratos replied. He poured more for his father, then more for himself. Before long, the slave woman’s cup was empty, too. Thracians had a name for drunkenness; Hellenes said Macedonians had learned their bad habits from them.
When he offered her a refill, though, she shook her head. Then she remembered to toss it like a Hellene. “No, young master, t’ank you,” she said. “I will fall down taking t’ings back to the kitc’en for was’ing.”
He shrugged. “However you please.” Had he been thinking that, if she got tiddly, she might put up with him better? He knew perfectly well that he had.
His father asked, “Do I need to know anything your cousin didn’t tell people at the harbor?”
“Only that we made a lot of silver down in Egypt, sir. If you’re a Hellene, you have to work hard not to make silver in Egypt, I think,” Sostratos replied. “The question is whether we’ll be able to keep it.”
“The polis has been strengthening the walls and the forts ever since Demetrios called on us this spring,” his father said. “Our men are training with weapons, too—you know about that.”
“Yes, sir. I was training myself, before the Aphrodite sailed.”
“Everyone’s doing it. Even oldsters like your uncle and I have been practicing with spear and shield and sword.”
Sostratos smiled. “How much good do you think you’d do against a veteran mercenary half your age?”
“Probably not a lot.” Sostratos’ father was almost as thoroughgoing a realist as he was himself. But Lysistratos continued, “I’ll have a better chance than if I hadn’t practiced, though. So will Philodemos. And fighting is like dicing. Every once in a while, you roll a triple six. Maybe we’ll be lucky.”
“May the gods hear you!” Sostratos said.
“Thanks. Maybe we won’t have to fight at all,” Lysistratos said. “We won’t do Antigonos and Demetrios any harm if they let us stay free and independent. They have to be able to see that … don’t they?” The falling note in his voice said he was trying to convince himself.
“Let’s hope the Ptolemaios got back to Alexandria. If he did, we still have a counterweight of sorts against Antigonos and his son. If he didn’t.” If Ptolemaios was captured or dead … Sostratos poured more wine, and watered it less than he had before. No, he didn’t want to think about that at all.
Neither did his father. “Let me have another cup, too, if you please,” Lysistratos said. Sostratos poured out another strong draught. After taking it with a murmur of thanks, his father asked Threissa, “Would you care for more, my dear?” He spoke to her with as much courtesy as if she were a high-born lady he happened to meet on a trading voyage. Sostratos admired the effect while knowing he couldn’t hope to imitate it.
She’d turned him down. For his father, she dipped her head. “If you please, Master. T’ank you very muc’.”
Sostratos did the honors. Again, he mixed the slave’s wine as he had for himself and his father. She noticed the difference; she looked sharply at him after her first sip. But then she smiled. It might not have been the neat wine Thracians were said to crave so much, but it came closer to that than what she usually got.
Lysistratos drained his cup fast. After finishing it, he looked a bit glassy-eyed—or maybe it was only reflections from the lamps. He let out a long sigh. “We’re sprats. You know that, son? Nothing but sprats. And the days when anchovies can make a living—can live at all—are just about gone. Pretty soon, the sea will hold nothing but tunny and sharks.”
“Menedemos and I talked about the same thing. I hope you’re wrong,” Sostratos said, fearing his father was right.
“So do I, but I wouldn’t bet on it. Only I am, aren’t I, with my life and everything I care about?” The older man got to his feet. “And I’ve drunk myself stupid, or at least tired. I’m going up to bed. Good night, both of you.” Stepping slowly and carefully, he left the andron.
“Will you come up to my room with me?” Sostratos asked Threissa as soon his he heard his father’s footsteps on the stairs.
She bit her lip. “Do I have to, young master?”
He tossed his head. “No. I won’t make you. But if you can put up with me ….” He could have beaten her, or just spent the next year making her life miserable in ways small and large. He knew he wouldn’t do anything like that. He hoped Threissa knew him well enough so she also understood he wouldn’t. The way he’d said what he’d just said should have told her he didn’t expect miracles of passion.
She thought for longer than he wished she would have. In the flickering lamplight, he had trouble reading her face. At last, she shrugged. “We can do. Why not? You don’t try to hurt me or anyt’ing.” By her tone, she understood how lucky a slave woman was to be able to say even so much.
“Come on, then.” Part of Sostratos knew he should have felt shame, but desire swamped it. He got up and walked toward the stairs, picking up a lamp to light the way. Threissa followed.
He closed and barred the door to his room, then set the lamp on a stool near the bed. He pulled his tunic off over his head. A moment later, Threissa did the same with her longer one. Even the small lampflame showed her skin milk-pale where the sun didn’t touch her. Unlike Greek or Egyptian women, she didn’t pluck or shave her bush.
They lay down together. His hands roamed her. He kissed her mouth, and kissed and caressed her breasts. He wanted to make her happy if he could. He knew he hadn’t when he’d taken her before. Pleasing her felt like a challenge.
He put her on elbows and knees and went into her from behind, as he would have done if she were a Hellene. His pleasure built and built and overflowed … and if she felt any at all, she hid it very well.
When he slid out, she squatted over the chamber pot and got rid of as much of his seed as she could. Women who didn’t want to conceive commonly did that. Maybe it helped, maybe not. They thought so. Sostratos had no idea, though he was sure it couldn’t hurt.
