“Anybody old One-Eye can’t beat is someone to keep an eye on, sure enough,” said the man who looked like a mercenary.

“ Alexander showed the world one man could lead the Hellenes- and the Macedonians, too,” the gray-haired fellow said. “Now that he’s proved it can be done, the marshals will keep banging away till only one’s left standing, the way pankratiasts do at the Olympic Games.”

“They’ll try-that’s certain enough,” Menedemos said. “But they don’t fight the way pankratiasts do. It’s not one against one. They make treaties with one another-they make ‘em, and then they break ‘em. For one man to win, he’d have to defeat all the others at once, and nobody’s managed it yet.”

“Which probably means it can’t be done,” said the younger man who’d first disagreed with the older one. “Don’t you see that, Xenomenes?”

“No.” The man with gray hair tossed his head. “Fifty years ago, you would have told me nobody could ever rule all the Hellenes. Then Philip of Macedon went and did it, and Alexander held on to them afterwards. So I don’t see why the same shouldn’t hold true here.”

That produced a thoughtful silence. Menedemos wondered what Sostratos would have had to say about it; his cousin was fond of such arguments, too. But he stubbornly stuck to his own view: “Maybe it can happen, but that doesn’t mean it’s likely to.”

“Ha!” Xenomenes said. “Tell it to Antigonos, not me. He’s the one the rest worry about the most-and they need to.”

“Ptolemaios stung him a couple of years ago, taking away the southern coast of Anatolia,” the man who looked like a mercenary said.

“But he’s still got Phoenicia and a lot of the Hellenic cities along the west coast of Anatolia,” Menedemos said. “That means he can still build up his navy-and he hires pirates, the same as he hires men to fight on land.”

All the Rhodians muttered at that. Their polis lived by trade. They hated pirates, and used their navy to try to keep them down. Menedemos had fought them on each of his last two voyages. He had no use for a man who abetted them.

Neither did any of the others. One of them said, “If he hires pirates, he’s liable to hire them against us one fine day, unless we do just what he tells us.”

Menedemos pulled at the neckline of his tunic and spat into his bosom to turn aside the evil omen. Three other Rhodians did the same thing. Mournfully, Xenomenes said, “All we want to do is stay free and autonomous-well, really free and autonomous.”

A lot of poleis that called themselves by those two proud names were free to do whatever the marshal controlling them said and autonomous of the rest of the marshals. Such was the level to which Hellenic independence had sunk in the past generation. Even Rhodes had briefly had a Macedonian garrison, but had expelled it after Alexander died. Now she truly was free and autonomous, able to do business with Ptolemaios and Antigonos alike-and with the other, more distant, marshals as well.

Xenomenes went on, “How can we hope to keep our freedom, though, if one of the Macedonians triumphs over the rest? He’d swallow us up, the same as he’d swallow everything and everybody else.”

“But you’re still assuming something you haven’t shown: that one marshal could beat all the rest,” Menedemos said. “Until you show that, it’s like worrying about what would happen if an elephant fell out of the sky without showing how an elephant could fly in the first place.”

The older man gave him a nasty look. Several of the other Rhodians laughed, which only made Xenomenes more irate. They argued about the marshals and whatever else came to mind for the next couple of hours. Every now and then, someone new would join the circle, as Menedemos had, or one of the men already there would wander off to do something else. Menedemos couldn’t think of a better way to pass the time-unless it was keeping company with a woman, of course.

When he finally went back to his house, his father was waiting in the andron. Menedemos politely dipped his head and walked toward the stairs. He didn’t feel like another argument now. But when Philodemos waved in a peremptory way, he had no choice but to stop and go over and ask, “What is it, Father?”

“How soon can the Aphrodite sail?” Philodemos rapped out.

Menedemos dug a finger into his ear, wondering if he’d heard straight. “How soon can she sail?” he echoed, half in disbelief.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” his father replied irritably.

“Yes, sir.” Menedemos frowned in thought. “Loading her and rounding up a crew won’t take more than a day or two. Wouldn’t even be that long if we didn’t need so many rowers. But most of them will be men who’ve pulled an oar in her before.”

“Go ahead and get ready, then,” Philodemos said. “The sooner, the better. Can’t be too soon, by Poseidon ’s beard.”

“Wait.” Menedemos held up a hand. “Just a couple of days ago, you were complaining I wanted to go out too early to suit you. Why have you changed your mind all of a sudden?”

Before Philodemos could answer, a slave brought him a cup of wine. He poured out a small libation, then drained the cup. “Ahh!” he said, wiping his mouth on his arm, and then, “I’ll tell you what made me change my mind: I just had another session with your cousin’s brother-in-law, that’s what. Zeus on Olympos!” By the way he looked around, he wished he had more wine.

“Papai!” Menedemos exclaimed. “I thought you’d persuaded him we weren’t going to load the Aphrodite up with his olive oil, and that was the end of it.”

“I thought the same thing,” his father said. “I thought so, but I was wrong. The only way to persuade Damonax of anything is to clout him in the head with a rock. Even then, you have to keep clouting him, because the first wallop doesn’t get through.”

“Why can’t he understand we won’t make enough money with his oil for it to be worth our while? We’ve told him often enough,” Menedemos said.

“I think he does understand,” Philodemos answered, peering down into his winecup as if hoping it held more. “I don’t think he cares, which isn’t the same thing. He’s convinced we owe him a living, regardless of what that does to our prospects.”

“Well, Furies take him, then,” Menedemos said.

“That’s just what I told him, when I saw I couldn’t get through to him any other way,” his father said.

“Good for you.” Menedemos dipped his head in complete agreement. He and his father might-did-quarrel about a great many things. Neither of them, though, suffered fools gladly.

“And so, you see, that’s why I want you to sail,” Philodemos said now. “If you’re gone, Damonax can’t possibly nag me about loading oil onto the merchant galley-at least, not till next sailing season rolls around.”

“I’ll take care of it. You know I’ve been eager to go for a while now,” Menedemos said. That was true. He couldn’t squabble with his father if a couple of thousand stadia separated them. He couldn’t make love to his father’s wife if a couple of thousand stadia separated them, either. Part of him regretted that. The more sensible part-and the larger part, as well-knew nothing but relief. A slow smile stole over his face. I’ll make love to other men’s wives instead, he thought.

“I know what you’re thinking,” his father growled, and pointed an accusing finger at him. “You’re thinking about adultery with all those loose Athenian women again, that’s what. I can tell.”

Menedemos hoped his father didn’t see him wince. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said with such dignity as he could muster.

“A pestilence take me if you don’t,” Philodemos said. Menedemos did his best to look innocent. He was guilty of what his father had accused him of, yes. Next to what his father didn’t know, though, that was as nothing.

The sooner he sailed for Athens, the better.