Sostratos’ stomach, though not altogether happy to be at sea, hadn’t actively rebelled. He thanked the gods in whom he indifferently believed for that. His supper—bread, salted sprats, olives, and wine worse than what they planned to sell—seemed to be sitting all right. Now he had to keep the akatos running south and a little east through the night.
Twilight hadn’t fully left the sky. Aphrodite’s wandering star and Hermes’ a little below it blazed through the paleness near the western horizon. In the east, the moon, a day past full, was just climbing out of the waves and drying itself off before it rose higher in the sky.
A handful of rowers stayed awake to tend the sail at need. Most slumbered at their benches, some as naked as when they’d rowed, others wearing chitons against the cooling night air. Snores rose here and there up and down the akatos’ length.
Menedemos and Diokles lay on the stern platform, not far from Sostratos’ feet. Menedemos had a tunic under him to soften the wood a little; Diokles didn’t bother. The keleustes took life just as it came and never worried about anything till it happened. Sostratos admired the attitude without being able to imitate it.
More and more stars came out as night took hold. Lamps and smoke made it hard to see so many when in Rhodes. No smoke here, out on the sea. No smoke stench, either, nor reek of slops and rotting garbage and people who never washed enough. You didn’t notice city stinks so much when you were in the middle of them all the time. You did notice once you’d got away from them, though.
The planets—the word meant “wanderers” in Greek—sank into the sea, first Hermes’, then Aphrodite’s. Sostratos imagined he ought to hear a hiss when their light was quenched, but of course he didn’t. The moon’s golden glow splashed from wavecrests. It seemed almost bright enough to read by, though from experience he knew it wasn’t.
Steering south as he did, he had to look back over his shoulder to find the North Pole, which lay about halfway between the two brightest stars in the Little Bear. Eyeing that constellation and the Big Bear nearby, he wondered why they both had tails. So far as he knew, no actual earthly bears did. If I ever meet an astronomer or an astrologer, I’ll ask him about that, he thought.
On through the night the Aphrodite went. Sostratos steered by the stars near the North Pole, by the moon, and by the slowly wheeling constellations. His navigation wouldn’t be perfect—navigation on the open sea never was—but it would be good enough.
The men tending the sails woke up other rowers to replace them and got some rest themselves. Every now and then, someone would rouse and ease himself into the sea. Then he’d sit down on his bench and go back to sleep.
Sostratos came close to resenting the sailors when they stirred. They didn’t say anything to him—no need—but they reminded him he wasn’t all alone on the sea with his thoughts, as he wished he were.
After a while—three hours or so behind the moon, he thought, though he knew that was guesswork—Zeus’ wandering star shouldered its way into the sky. It was brighter than Hermes’, though less so than Aphrodite’s. Unlike those two, Zeus’ star didn’t always stay close to the hem of the sun’s robe. It went all around the sky, lingering about a year in each constellation of the Zodiac.
Babylonians and Phoenicians believed they could use the planets’ motions through the heavens to foretell the future. Himilkon the merchant talked about horoscopes now and then. Over the year, quite a few Hellenes had come to believe in such things, too. Sostratos wondered if there was anything to it. How could you tell?
By the time Zeus’ star was about halfway up from its rising to the meridian, Sostratos found himself yawning at the steering oars. It was midnight, or close enough.
Like most Hellenes, he usually rose and set with the sun. Everything was different at sea, though. He yawned again, hoping he’d be able to sleep past sunup. Then he bent down and touched Menedemos’ shoulder. He made haste to get back to the steering oars; his cousin had a habit of waking quickly and completely, sometimes with a knife in his hand.
Now Menedemos looked around wildly for a moment, then relaxed as he realized where he was. In a low voice, he asked, “How’s everything?”
“Seems all right,” Sostratos said. “The breeze hasn’t been very strong, but it’s been steady. We’ve put some stadia behind us, sure enough.”
“Good.” Lithe as an Egyptian cat, Menedemos got to his feet. Sostratos envied his cousin’s grace without being able to match it. Menedemos slowly turned through a whole circle, taking in the heavens and especially the positions of the moon and Zeus’ wandering star. He dipped his head to Sostratos. “Fair enough. You’ve done your half of the night.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t?” Whispering, Sostratos couldn’t sound as indignant as he wanted to.
Menedemos chuckled softly. “No, my dear. Everyone who knows you knows you’re honest to a fault. But you do jump when somebody pokes you with a pin.”
Sostratos seldom saw the sport in that; people who’d been the butt of too much of it rarely did. Menedemos’ smile said he thought it was funny, and thought anyone who didn’t think it funny was a bit of a drip. He hadn’t gone through boyhood teased and tormented. And he would have laughed had Sostratos told him so.
Sighing, Sostratos said, “Take the steering oars, why don’t you? I wouldn’t mind shutting my eyes for a bit, and that’s the truth.”
“I’ll do it.” For a wonder, Menedemos left that there instead of teasing Sostratos about staying up past his bedtime. He was out by night quite often, drinking with friends or chasing women.
Sostratos stepped aside. His cousin took his place. Menedemos seemed made to conn a ship; it was almost as if he’d sprouted from the timbers under his bare feet. Sostratos lay down on the planking and twisted to try to find a comfortable way to sleep. Dogs curled up that way on the floor when they got tired. They …
Next thing he knew, beams from the newly risen sun were poking him in the eye. The moon rode low in the west, as Aphrodite’s wandering star and Hermes’ had when he took over the steering oars. Yawning, he sat up and stretched and tried to rub feeling back into his left hand, which wanted to stay asleep after the rest of him had awakened.
Diokles was sitting, too. He dipped his head to Sostratos. Menedemos stood at the steering oars as if he hadn’t moved a muscle since taking them back. “How do we hold?” Sostratos asked him.
“We’re going along,” his cousin answered. “We’re out on the open sea. We’re heading south. That’s about as much as I can tell you.”
“The open sea,” Sostratos echoed as he got to his feet. Sure enough, all he could see in every direction was water and sky. He’d been out of sight of land before, crossing from Hellas to Italy and from Cyprus to the coast of Phoenicia. It always felt strange, though, and reminded him how tiny men and all their works were when weighed against nature.
Then one of the rowers said, “By Aphrodite’s smooth-shaved piggy, I sure could use me some breakfast.”
Sostratos laughed. No matter how small you were when measured against nature, you had to live as best you could. His belly told him he could use some breakfast, too.
Clink! Clink! Diokles beat out a rhythm for the rowers. The wind had palled, and the men needed to work to shove the ship forward. Menedemos had twelve sailors rowing on each side, so each man worked three parts out of five. Diokles didn’t push the pace, either. If they got to Alexandria in the afternoon rather than the morning, what difference would it make? None Menedemos could see.