“Better I should catch you than your father,” Sostratos said, at which his cousin looked as sour as the linen-seller had a little while before. He went on, “Let’s see if we can find out about wine merchants and people who sell truffles, shall we? That’s why we’re here, after all.”
They had to spend a drakhma and a half, an obolos at a time, to find out what they needed to know. That bothered Sostratos less than it might have, for he’d expected nothing different. They also spent a few oboloi for fried octopus: a fellow with a brazier emitting an irresistible smell strolled through the agora.
Collecting names wasn’t hard. Two Sostratos heard often were those of Onesimos and his brother, Onetor. From that he concluded the longshoreman at the quay probably had been doing his best to talk about men who might actually help. That left him relieved and a little surprised. He’d spent far more than two oboloi other places and achieved far less.
The Rhodians also got one more name: that of Phainias son of Poseides, the Rhodian proxenos at Mytilene. Sostratos gave a youth an obolos to go tell Phainias they would like to call on him and to bring back his reply. A quarter of an hour later, the youngster found him and Menedemos in the agora. Panting a little, he said, “Best ones, he already knew your ship was here. He invites you to supper this evening, and says you may sleep at his home if you care to.”
Beaming, Sostratos gave him another coin. Beaming, the youth ran off. Beaming, Menedemos said, “He knows how to sound like a proxenos, by Zeus. Now we’ll see what sort of table he sets.”
When one of his house slaves led Menedemos and Sostratos into his courtyard, Phainias bowed himself almost double. “Welcome, welcome, three simes welcome, most noble ones!” he exclaimed. He was about forty, his hair thinning at the temples, though his smooth-shaved face helped him look younger. He’d probably been a striking youth; now a double chin and the beginnings of a pot belly said he didn’t get to the gymnasion often enough. Bowing again, he went on, “You’re intrepid, the two of you. I didn’t expect to see Rhodians so early in the sailing season.”
“If we go out first, we’re more likely to reap the profit,” Menedemos said. Politely, he added, “Is there anything of yours we can take on to Athens?”
Phainias tossed his head. “Thank you. That’s most kindly meant, but no. I deal in olive oil, after all, and there’s not much point shipping that there.”
Menedemos shot Sostratos a glance that said, This fellow can see that. Why can’t your polluted brother-in-law? By Sostratos’ expression, he was thinking the same thing. Menedemos looked around the courtyard. “Handsome place you have here,” he said. Bees buzzed above flowers and herbs in the garden. A fountain splashed gently. A bronze Artemis, half life size, stood on a column drawing a bow.
“You’re too kind, best one,” Phainias said. As he spoke, a slave woman came out of the kitchen and picked some chervil from the garden. Menedemos smiled at her. Maybe Phainias would tell her to keep his bed warm tonight.
Sostratos didn’t seem to notice the woman. His mind still on business, he said, “Another reason we’re out early is to get to Athens before the Greater Dionysia.”
“Ah, you want to go to the theater, do you?” Phainias smiled. “I don’t blame you a bit. As long as you’re bound for Athens, you may as well have a good sime.” As Sostratos spoke a Doric flavored with Attic, so Phainias’ Aiolic dialect had the same overlay: he was plainly an educated man. Every so often, though, his own speech pattern showed through. He went on, “I’ll do everything I can to send you on your way quickly.”
“You’re a prince of proxenoi, O best one,” Menedemos said— flattery, yes, but flattery with a lot of truth in it. Like any proxenos, Phainias represented and helped another polis’ citizens in his native city. That could entail considerable effort and expense. Some men took on the job for the sake of its prestige and then scanted it. Phainias looked to want to do it right.
He bowed again at Menedemos’ compliment. “You’re very kind, most noble one, as I told you a moment ago. Come into the andron, if you please. We’ll have some wine, some supper, some more wine—not a real symposion, mind you, but you can go to bed happy if that’s what you’re looking for. Does it please you?”
“It pleases very much.” Menedemos answered quickly, before Sostratos could. His cousin’s shoulders went up and down in a tiny shrug. Sostratos seldom cared to go to bed happy with wine. Well, too bad, Menedemos thought. I feel like it, and he can go along.
“This is a very fine andron,” Sostratos said when they stepped up into it—like most, it was raised half a cubit or so above the level of the courtyard and the other rooms. Slaves were taking away stools and setting out couches for a more formal supper. A mosaic of colored pebbles decorated the floor. The walls were painted red up to the height of a man’s shoulder, and ocher above that. Several lamps—some pottery, others bronze—hung from bronze chains fixed to the beams of the ceiling. Menedemos didn’t think he’d seen anything fancier this side of Taras, and the Italiote Hellenes indulged themselves far more extravagantly than did their cousins who lived round the Aegean.
“Stretch out. Relax. Make yourselves at home,” Phainias said, and leaned on his left elbow on one of the couches.
Again, Menedemos and Sostratos exchanged glances. At home, they almost always ate sitting on stools. So did most Hellenes. So did Phainias himself, or he wouldn’t have had to move couches into the andron for the supposed pleasure of the Rhodians.
The wicker frame of Menedemos’ couch creaked under his weight as he settled himself on it. For a moment, he thought he would go right through it and end up on the floor with a bump. That would have been a lovely way to ingratiate himself with his host. But the couch held. He smiled at the Rhodian proxenos. “Very nice.”
“Very nice indeed,” Sostratos echoed. He sounded a little too hearty, like a usually prim man paying inexpert court to a hetaira. As he leaned on his elbow, he looked out of place, too.
Two slaves brought in wine, water, a mixing bowl, and cups. Phainias asked, “Well, gentlemen, does one of wine to two of water suit you, or would you like some other mix?”
“That’s fine,” Menedemos said. Sostratos dipped his head. Menedemos added, “We thank you again for your kindness.” One of wine to two of water was a little on the strong side, but only a little— not even Sostratos could possibly object to it, as he might have if Phainias had proposed a one-to-one mixture.
Phainias and the two Rhodians poured out small libations before drinking. Sostratos raised his cup in salute. “To our host!” he said, and drank. So did Menedemos. Sostratos took another, more thoughtful, sip. “This is very fine. Is it Lesbian?”
“It is indeed,” Phainias answered. “You’re in the market for wine, aren’t you?”
“We sure are,” Menedemos said. “From whom did you get it?”
“Why, from Onesimos son of Diothemis,” the proxenos said. “He lives two doors down from me.”
“He’s the Onesimos whose brother sells truffles?” Menedemos asked, and Phainias dipped his head. The Rhodian asked, “Does One-tor also live close by here?”
“On the next street north,” Phainias said.
“Would it put you to too much trouble to invite them here so we could get to meet them?” Menedemos asked. “If it would be difficult, best one, just tell me no. I don’t want to impose on your kind hospitality.”
“No bother to me,” Phainias said. “I like Onesimos fine. I don’t know Onetor so well, but he seems a good enough fellow. Let me go ask my cook if he can add a couple of guests at the last minute. You know how it is, I’m sure: the man who runs the kitchen thinks he runs the house, too.”
“Oh, yes.” Menedemos dipped his head, thinking of Sikon. So did Sostratos, though his family’s cook wasn’t such a domineering tyrant.
The proxenos got to his feet and left the andron. A moment later, a shriek came from the direction of the kitchen. Menedemos and Sostratos grinned at each other. Phainias returned a coup
le of minutes later, looking somewhat the worse for wear. “It’s all settled,” he declared. “I’ve sent slaves out to invite the two brothers.” He dipped a fresh cup of wine from the mixing bowl. “Now what will happen is, neither of them will be able to come on such short nosice, and Kandaules will brain me for making him cook too much.”
“My experience is, there’s no such thing as too much opson,” Menedemos said.
Sostratos looked alarmed at that forthright announcement of gluttony, but Phainias only smiled. “Yes, I’ve seen that myself,” he said. “Here, would you like some more wine?”
“Thanks, best one.” Menedemos held out his cup.
So did Sostratos. Phainias was dipping wine out of the bowl for him when a slave hurried to the front door. “Master, Onesimos is here,” he called.
“Good, good,” Phainias said. “Bring two more couches into the andron—quick, quick, quick. His brother’s coming, too, or I hope he is.”
Onesimos son of Diothemis was a tall, dour man of middle years, with a long face, a big nose, one front tooth that had gone black, and some of the hairiest ears Menedemos had ever seen. “Good to meet you both,” he told the Rhodians, his voice a rumbling bass. “If I remember right, I did business with your fathers ten or twelve years ago.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised, most noble one,” Menedemos said. “Lesbian wine is famous, and our firm has always liked to carry the best.”
A pair of harassed-looking slaves brought in couches. Onesimos had just reclined on one when somebody rapped loudly on the front door. Onetor son of Diothemis came in a minute later. He was a couple of digits shorter than his brother, and shiny bald where Onesimos’ iron-gray hair, like Phainias’, was only just beginning to recede at the temples. But for that, they looked much alike; Menedemos wouldn’t have cared to guess which was the elder.
“Nice to meet you, Rhodians,” Onetor said. His voice was deep, too, but not quite so deep as Onesimos’. He dipped his head to Phainias. “And very nice of you to invite me. We should get to know each other better.”
“Just what I was thinking,” Phainias replied. “And supper and wine and maybe some business thrown in make a pleasant excuse for doing exactly that.”
“We might do business ourselves, you know, you and I,” Onetor said. “Truffles can give olive oil their flavor if they soak in it.”
“That’s an interessing thought,” Phainias said.
“That is an interesting thought.” Menedemos and Sostratos spoke together. Menedemos wondered how much rich, jaded Athenians might pay for oil with such an exotic flavoring. Sostratos must have been thinking the same thing, for he said, “We might do business with you, too, Phainias.”
“I’d like that, best one—as long as you don’t haggle too hard.” The proxenos chuckled. The slave woman at whom Menedemos had smiled brought in a tray with loaves of wheat bread on it. He smiled again. She gave him a quick smile in return as she set a loaf on the low table in front of his couch. Phainias said, “That can wait, though. For now, we should enjoy our supper without worrying about such things.” Another slave set bowls of oil on the table to go with the sitos.
Like any Hellene with manners, Menedemos and Sostratos ate bread with their left hands. Sostratos said, “Good oil, most noble one—and I know a little about what makes good oil, for my sister’s husband exports it from Rhodes.”
But not this year, not with us, Menedemos thought.
“I wouldn’t give guests anything but my best,” Phainias said.
“Very good oil,” Onetor agreed. “If you were to steep truffles in an amphora or two of this oil, you could pour it into little lekythoi afterwards, and sell each one for a nice price.”
“So you could.” Menedemos gave the Mytilenean a thoughtful nod. “Meeting you may be a profitable pleasure for all of us.”
“You certainly know the right words to say.” Onetor seemed less intense than Onesimos, who concentrated on his food to the exclusion of everything else. “Kaloi k’agathoi look down their noses at profit, but the world would grind to a halt without it, and soon, too.”
“My cousin and I were saying the same thing not long ago,” Sostratos said.
“Just because you’ve got a fancy pedigree, that doesn’t mean you’re not a fool,” Onetor said.
“Here comes the opson,” Phainias said. If anything could distract from talk of profit, that was likely to do the trick. As a slave brought in a big tray, the proxenos went on, “Kandaules has baked belly-pieces from a lovely great tunny he bought at the fish market this afternoon.”
“Oh, Demeter.” Onesimos could speak after all—and reverently, too.
“I wish I were like that fellow from Kythera,” Menedemos said. “What’s his name, Sostratos? You know the one I mean—the chap who used to stick his hand in boiling water and drink hot things all the time so he could snatch opson from the platter and eat it when it was still too hot for anybody else to touch.”
“Philoxenos,” Sostratos said.
“Philoxenos! That’s who he was, all right,” Menedemos said. “You must be doing well for yourself, Phainias—there’s some poet or other who says belly-pieces from a fat tunny are something a poor man never sees.”
“That’s Eriphos, I think.” Sostratos came up with the name even when Menedemos hadn’t asked for it.
Phainias said, “I am doing pretty well for myself, thanks. Good of you to nosice.” Few Hellenes who were doing well hid it or failed to boast of it. The only reason Menedemos could see for modesty was fooling a tax-collector.
Savory steam rose from the tunny. Menedemos didn’t—quite— burn his hand when he took a piece from the platter. He didn’t— quite—burn his mouth when he tasted it. When he said, “Mm, that’s good,” he did talk with his mouth full. All the other compliments that rose were similarly muffled, so he knew not the least embarrassment. The only complaint he might have made was that he got a little less tunny than he would have liked. But he understood that, too: Kandaules suddenly had to feed more guests than he’d expected.
But then a slave came in with a bowl of stewed eels wrapped in beet leaves, and he stopped worrying about getting enough opson. Sostratos said, “Surely Rhodes has no finer proxenos in any polis around the Inner Sea!” He was talking with his mouth full again, but nobody seemed to mind.
A honey cake sprinkled with walnuts finished the supper. Onetor said, “You’re a prince of hospitality, Phainias. You can put me in a cart and roll me home, because I’ve eaten too much to walk.”
“Glad you enjoyed it, my friends,” Phainias said as the slaves cleared away what little hadn’t been eaten. They brought in wine and water and the mixing bowl once more.
“Did you get that jar from me?” Onesimos asked.
“Of course, best one,” Phainias said. “Would I serve anything else? Before supper, the Rhodians and I were drinking one-to-two. Does that please you?”
Onesimos dipped his head. Onetor said, “Anything stronger and rolling me home wouldn’t do. You’d have to carry me instead.”
Since it wasn’t a formal symposion, they didn’t bother with the small taste of neat wine first or the prayer to Dionysos that went with it. There were no flute-girls or other entertainers. The Rhodians and Mytileneans just drank and talked and drank and talked. Phainias’ slaves poured wine for them, kept the mixing bowl full, and added oil to the lamps.
Much of the talk, not surprisingly, revolved around politics. Phainias and Onetor admired Antigonos, whose garrison held Lesbos. Onesimos, by his occasional comments, despised all the Macedonian marshals. “Unfortunately, they won’t go away,” Sostratos said.
“Maybe they’ll all kill each other off, with not one of them left alive,” Onesimos said. “Gods grant it be so.”
“Even if it is, some cousin or lieutenant general will rally their armies, and the wheel will start to turn again,” Sostratos predicted. “Such things will go on as long as there are men and battles.” That made Onesimos look more dour than ever.
It didn’t make Menedemos particularly happy, either, but he thought his cousin was right. He said, “I wish I could like Antigonos more than I do.”
“He’s the best of the Macedonians, far and away,” Phainias said.
“It could be, most noble one, and I would not quarrel with my host even if his kindness were far less than you’ve shown Sostratos and me,” Menedemos said. “Still, I’d be lying if I said I was altogether happy with old One-Eye. He’s too friendly with pirates to let a seaman be comfortable praising him.”
“They don’t trouble us,” Onetor said.
That was the answer, right there in a nutshell. Menedemos knew as much. The Mytileneans overlooked evil that didn’t touch them. But then he realized he and Sostratos did the same thing. He hadn’t worried much about brigands on land till his cousin had to cross Phoenicia and Ioudaia to get to Engedi by the Lake of Asphalt. Thinking about troubles that didn’t usually touch one was more trouble than it was worth for most people.
After a while, Onesimos got to his feet, saying, “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Rhodians. I hope we can do some business. I’d better head on home now.” Gait a little unsteady, he made his way toward the front door.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Phainias spoke in a low voice: “His wife nags him if he stays out too late.”
Onetor chuckled. “My brother’s wife nags him even if he doesn’t stay out too late. From what he says, that’s all she ever does.”
“I wonder what she would say,” Sostratos remarked.
“Who cares?” Onetor said. “She’s only a woman, after all.” He drained his cup. “I’d better go home, too, though, while I sill remember the way.”
“Shall I send a slave along with a torch?” Phainias asked.
“Not when I’m just going around the block. Thanks for the kind offer, though, best one, and thanks for invising me over,” Onetor said. “You and the Rhodians should think about truffle-flavored oil.”
“We will,” Phainias said, and Menedemos and Sostratos both dipped their heads.
Owl to Athens Page 10
