"That's what we thought, too," Sostratos said. "It's one of the reasons we were able to beat Himilkon down as far as we did."
"He's a man to be reckoned with in a dicker." Lysistratos stroked his beard again. "Tell me . . . Is the peacock as splendid as everyone imagines?"
"He's more splendid than I imagined," Sostratos answered, almost stammering in his relief that things had gone so much smoother than he'd expected. "When he spread his tail to show off for the peahen, I'd never seen anything like it."
"All right," his father said. "When we go next door to supper tonight, we'll find out what your uncle Philodemos has to say about it."
"Yes, that will tell the tale," Sostratos agreed. Philodemos was Lysistratos' older brother, and the senior partner in their trading operation. He was also a man of less certain temper than Lysistratos, just as Menedemos was touchier than Sostratos. Now Sostratos dipped his head to his father. "If you'll excuse me . . ."
He went up the wooden stairs to his bedroom on the second story. One of the house slaves, a redheaded girl about Erinna's age called Threissa, was coming downstairs. By her looks and the name she'd been given - it simply meant the Thracian - she'd probably been captured not too far from Amphipolis. Sostratos smiled at her. He'd summoned her to his bed a couple of times. As a bachelor, he could get away with such things, where his father would have had trouble: keeping a wife and a mistress under the same roof was a recipe for trouble and scandal.
Threissa nodded back, polite but no more than that. She'd pleased him; he feared the reverse wasn't so true. Of course, he had to worry about her opinion only if he chose to.
The bedroom was sparsely furnished: a bedstead with a woolstuffed mattress, a chamber pot under it, a chair beside it, and two cypresswood chests, a smaller atop a larger. The larger one held Sostratos' tunics and mantles. The smaller held his books. While in Athens, he'd had complete sets of Herodotos and Thoukydides copied out for him.
When he opened the smaller chest, he smiled at the spicy scent of cypress. Like the more expensive cedar, it helped keep insects away from wool and linen and papyrus. He went through the rolls of papyrus till he found the one that held the fifth book of Thoukydides' masterful narrative of the Peloponnesian War. The battle of Amphipolis began the book.
Like most literate Hellenes, Sostratos murmured the words on the papyrus to himself as he read. Halfway through the account of the battle, he paused, shaking his head in wonder. No matter how often he read Thoukydides, his admiration never flagged. Father Zeus, if you are kind, one day let me write half as well as that man did. Let me think half as well as that man did. It was, he supposed, a peculiar sort of prayer, but no less sincere for that.
Menedemos hurried into the kitchen. "I trust we'll have something specially luscious tonight, Sikon," he said.
"Well, I hope so, young master," the cook answered. "I do my best, no matter how hard things are." He complained all the time.
From everything Menedemos had seen, that and petty thievery were diseases of cooks. Even the comic poets agreed with him. Trying to soothe Sikon's ruffled feathers, he said, "I know the sitos will be splendid. It always is. Nobody in Rhodes bakes better bread with wheat or barley than you do. But what have you got for the opson?" The relish course of a supper wasn't so thoroughly under the cook's control as the staple. If the fishermen had had an unlucky day, the opson would suffer.
"Well, there's always salt-fish. We've got plenty of that, on account of it keeps," Sikon said. "And I did manage to get my hands on some sprats - a few, anyhow. I'll fry 'em in olive oil and serve 'em slathered with cheese. Add in some pickled olives, and it shouldn't be too bad."
"Salt-fish? Sprats? Olives?" Menedemos' voice grew more horrified at every word. "For opson? For a proper supper? With guests?" He clapped a hand to his forehead. "We're ruined. Father will kill me, and then I'll kill you." Sostratos would have pointed out the logical flaw in that; Menedemos was sure of it. He didn't care. This was disaster, nothing less.
Only when the cook brought a hand up to his mouth to try to stifle laugher did Menedemos realize he'd been had. Sikon said, "Well, maybe these will do better, then," and swept the damp cloth off the seafood lying on the slate countertop.
"What have we here?" Menedemos murmured, and then answered his own question: "Prawns. Some lovely squid. Eels. And . . . a Rhodian dogfish. Oh, lovely, lovely!" He might almost have been talking about a hetaira who'd finally doffed her undertunic of silk from Kos and let him see her naked. "The gods will envy us tonight. All we feed them is thighbones wrapped in fat - and there's no telling what sort of meat people will bring home from a sacrifice, either. But fish, now - with fish, you know what you're getting ahead of time."
"And you pay for it, too," Sikon grumbled, for all the world as if he'd spent his own money and not the household's. Menedemos also had no doubt that he'd squirreled away for his own enjoyment some of the seafood he'd bought. Who in the history of the world had ever seen a skinny cook?
But all that was by the way. Menedemos clapped Sikon on the shoulder. "You have what you need. I know you'll do us proud tonight."
"I'll do me proud tonight," Sikon said. "Maybe somebody won't be happy with his own cook, and he'll hire me to do up some feast of his. Every obolos I stick in my mouth brings me that much closer to buying back my freedom."
"If you ever should, I'm afraid everyone in the house would starve," Menedemos said. He let it go at that; like most slaves, Sikon worked better in the hope of eventual liberty.
Satisfied the supper wouldn't suffer on account of the food, Menedemos went back to the andron to let his father know. "A dogfish?" Philodemos said once he'd heard the report. "Out to bankrupt us, is he? You can eat it once and die happy, but who could afford to eat it twice?" Still, he didn't sound altogether displeased. He wasn't an opsophagos, someone who ate the relish at a feast as if it were bread, but he enjoyed a fine opson as well as any man.
So did Menedemos. "And the eels . . ." His mouth watered in anticipation.
"Out to bankrupt us," Philodemos repeated. Like his son, he'd been a handsome youth, but the years had left his mouth narrow, his nose sharp, and his eyes cool and hard. When he turned that embittered gaze on Menedemos, his son braced himself for a beating, though it had been several years since his father hit him. "Sikon won't get the chance to bankrupt us," Philodemos said. "You and your cousin will beat him to the punch. Peafowl!"
"If they live, we'll make a good profit," Menedemos said.
"And if they don't, you might as well have pissed away better than three minai of silver on wine and women and . . . and dogfish," his father said. "You act as if we were made of money, not as if we had to go out and make it."
"Shall I go tell Himilkon he can keep the miserable birds, then?" Menedemos asked.
As he'd known his father would, Philodemos tossed his head. "No, no. You made the bargain. You can't go back on it." He was a canny merchant, but one of stern rectitude. "You made the bargain. I only wish you hadn't."
"Wait till you see the peacock, Father," Menedemos said. "Wait till you see him fan his tail out. Then you'll understand."
"I saw the feather you brought home. I can imagine the bird," Philodemos said. His attitude was so cut-and-dried, Menedemos was convinced he missed a lot of the juice of life. For his part, Philodemos was at least half convinced he'd raised a wastrel. He went on. "I wonder how the birds would do boiled and stuffed with olives."
"I don't know," Menedemos said. "I'll tell you this, though, sir: finding out would make dogfish look cheap."
"Heh." His father got to his feet. He was lean and leathery and still strong for a man of his years. "We'd best clear out and let the slaves get the andron ready for tonight."
Sure enough, the slaves started bringing in the couches on which Lysistratos, Sostratos, and the other guests would recline, two to a couch. They set them up around the edge of the andron. Philodemos didn't clear out; he fussed at them till they got the couches exactly as he wante
d them. Menedemos had to work to keep from scowling as he listened to those orders. His father had treated him just the same way till he finally grew to manhood - and still did, in absentminded moments or when he thought he could get away with it.
Once all seven couches were placed, Philodemos rounded on Menedemos. "You did arrange for the flutegirls and the acrobat?" he said anxiously. "It wouldn't be much of a symposion after the feast if we had no entertainers."
"Yes, Father," Menedemos assured him. "Gyllis is sending over Eunoa and Artemeis. They both play well, and they're both supposed to be lively in bed."
His father sniffed. "That's why I left those details to you. I was sure you would know all about them."
"And why not?" Menedemos said with a smile. "I'd rather laugh at Aristophanes and drink some wine and boff a flutegirl than sit around moping and wishing I'd get sent into exile so I could have the time to write history, the way my cousin does." He snapped his fingers. "Where was I? Oh, the acrobat. Her name is Phylainis, and I saw her perform before I told Gyllis to send her. She can twist herself up like a braided loaf of bread. You could probably find ways to do it with her that'd break a regular woman in half."
"Gods preserve an estate from a cockproud son," Philodemos said. "You'll spend it all on flutegirls and acrobats, and leave your son nothing but debts to call his own."
"May you live many years, Father," Menedemos said. "I'm in no hurry to inherit anything. And I'm still years younger than you were when you married the first time, so I'm going to enjoy myself a little."
Philodemos raised his eyes to the heavens. "What is this new generation coming to? It's not worth half of mine."
His generation included Alexander the Great. He was, no doubt, about to say as much. Menedemos forestalled him: "Nestor complained about the new generation in the Iliad, too, but they were heroes even so."
"The older I get, the more sense I think Nestor makes," his father answered. "And as for you, it's a wonder you're not singing the praises of Thersites."
"Homer makes Thersites a loudmouthed fool," Menedemos said. Then, seeing the gleam in his father's eye, he retreated in a hurry.
Sostratos wrapped his himation around himself and over his left shoulder. He peered down, trying to study the effect. He was hoping for philosophical; his beard would help there. But a true philosopher wouldn't have worn a tunic under the himation, or else wouldn't have put the wrap on over a chiton. Sokrates had gone about in nothing but his tunic in all kinds of weather. Sostratos shrugged. He wasn't Sokrates. He felt the chill.
Someone knocked on the door. His father: Lysistratos said, "Are you ready?"
"Yes, Father." Sostratos opened the door. His father inspected him like an officer looking over a soldier in his phalanx. Sostratos flushed. "I won't disgrace us."
"No, of course not," Lysistratos said, though he didn't sound completely convinced. "Come on, it's sundown. Let's grab a torch and go on over to my brother's."
They needed the torch; this late in the month, the moon wouldn't rise until a little before sunup. More guests, also carrying torches, were rapping on Philodemos' door as they walked up. One of the men turned to Sostratos and Lysistratos and said, "Hail, best ones. Is it you that bought peafowl from Himilkon the Phoenician?"
"I didn't, Lykon," Lysistratos answered. "My son made the bargain, along with his cousin Menedemos."
Lykon shot questions at Sostratos as if he were a slinger shooting lead bullets. As Sostratos was answering them, another merchant, a plump fellow named Telephos, came up to the doorway and started asking some of the same ones over again.
To Sostratos' relief, he didn't have to answer them twice, for the door opened and Philodemos said, "Welcome, my friends. Hail, Lysistratos. Hail, Sostratos. Come in, all of you." He sniffed. "By all means, come in. You can already smell the opson cooking, and it will be ready soon."
The odor of frying seafood came wafting out through the doorway. The guests jostled one another, each more eager than the next to get inside. Sostratos dipped his head in greeting to Philodemos. "Hail, Uncle," he said.
"Hail," Philodemos said again, his voice more sour than not. "I thought, when you went down to the Aphrodite, you would keep Menedemos out of mischief. Instead, I find you joining in. Three hundred twenty-five drakhmai. Pheu!"
"Three hundred twenty-four and three oboloi, actually," Sostratos replied. "And we'll bring back more from Italy. I truly think we will." He was also truly annoyed Philodemos should reckon him hardly better than a pedagogue, a slave who took a boy to and from his teacher's and kept an eye on him to make sure he stayed out of mischief on the way.
"I hope you do." By the way his uncle said it, he might hope, but he didn't expect.
Menedemos stood in the entranceway to the andron, silhouetted by the torches and lamps within. "Hail," he said as Sostratos came up.
Sostratos sniffed again. The ambrosial aromas from the kitchen weren't all he smelled. "Roses?" he asked.
"And why not?" Menedemos replied. He'd always been something of a dandy. "Rhodes is the city of the rose. There's a rose stamped onto the port side of the Aphrodite's ram, along with far-shooting Apollo on the other. I thought I'd deck myself out with scented oil tonight." He lowered his voice: "I hoped it would help sweeten Father, too, but no luck there. What did he say to you on the way in?"
"Nothing too good," Sostratos said, and his cousin winced. He went on, "But the bargain stands. We still have the chance for the last laugh - as long as the birds don't take sick." Menedemos spat into the bosom of his chiton to avert the evil omen. Sostratos asked, "Where will you have us reclining?"
"Almost all the way over to the right, of course, on the couch next to Father and me," Menedemos said. "Why? Did you think we would slight you?"
"Not really," Sostratos said.
He must have sounded hesitant. His cousin said, "Father may be angry at you and me, but he'd never insult Uncle Lysistratos by moving him, and he can't very well move you alone and give your father a new couchmate. As far as the outside world knows, all's well - mm, well enough - among us."
"The outside world certainly knows about the peafowl," Sostratos said. "I hope Himilkon hasn't been going through the wineshops boasting of getting the better of us. That'd be all we need."
Menedemos made as if to spit into his bosom again, but refrained. "Go on in," he said. "We'll eat, then we'll drink, and we'll have fun with the flutegirls and the acrobat. And tomorrow is another day, and we'll drink our morning wine fast and eat raw cabbage to ease our sore heads."
To Sostratos' way of thinking, the best way to ease back into things after a night of excess was to drink well-watered wine the next day. That didn't seem to cross Menedemos' mind. Sostratos' cousin had never been one to do things by halves.
"Go on in, boys, go on in," Telephos said. "If you stand in the doorway, a hefty fellow like me can't squeeze by." He patted his paunch and wheezed laughter.
If you spent more time at the gymnasion and less with a bowl of sweetmeats beside you, you'd have no trouble fitting through a doorway, Sostratos thought. But he and Menedemos went into the andron, and Telephos followed. Menedemos' father, bustling about like a goose trying to keep track of all her goslings at once, escorted the plump merchant to the couch he'd chosen for him.
Cushions rested on all the couches. Sostratos took his place beside his father on the couch next to that of their hosts. Lysistratos, being the elder, leaned on his elbow at the head of the couch. Sostratos reclined farther down, so that his feet hung off the edge.
He prodded his cushion, trying to get comfortable. It wasn't easy. In a low voice, he told his father, "I'm not what you'd call fond of fancy dinners. My arm goes to sleep, and I always spill food on my clothes."
Lysistratos shrugged. "It's the custom, and custom - "
"Is king of all," Sostratos finished, quoting Herodotos quoting Pindaros. His father dipped his head in agreement.
"All right, where's Kleagoras?" Menedemos said when only one sp
ace on one of the seven couches remained unfilled. "Late again, I see."
"Kleagoras would be late to his own funeral," Philodemos said sourly.
"Well, there are worse things," Sostratos' father remarked. "I wouldn't mind being late to mine, to tell you the truth." That drew chuckles from the three sides of the open-frontect rectangle in which the couches were arranged.
"Yes, Uncle, but at your funeral you wouldn't be waiting to eat Sikon's good fish and hoping it didn't burn," Menedemos said.
Kleagoras came bustling in just then. He always moved as if in a hurry, but somehow never got anywhere on time. "A thousand pardons, best ones," he said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Very good to be here, very good indeed." He was panting as he slid down onto his couch. He might have run all the way from his house to this one, but running hadn't done him much good.
"You made it at last, Kleagoras, and I'm glad you did." Philodemos sounded welcoming and annoyed at the same time. Kleagoras' answering smile was sheepish. Philodemos turned to a slave who hovered by his couch. "Go to the kitchen and tell Sikon we can begin." The young man trotted away.
A moment later, more slaves came into the andron, setting a low, small table in front of each couch. They brought out bowls of pickled olives and onions to start the meal. Sostratos took an olive with his right hand and popped it into his mouth. When he'd worked off all the tart flesh, he spat the pit on the floor. After the feast was over and before the symposion began, the house slaves would clear away the debris.
Bread came next, with olive oil for dipping. Like everyone else, Sostratos ate the bread with his left hand. From his couch over on the far side of the andron, the long-winded merchant named Xanthos said, "Did you know - I have it for a fact, certain sure - that Kassandros murdered Alexandros and Roxane? Killed them both, I tell you, sent their souls down to the house of Hades. They're dead. Both of them are dead, dead as salt-fish, no doubt about it."
Over the Wine-Dark Sea Page 3
