He could see that. Menedemos could see it, too. He wondered why the Athenians couldn’t see it for themselves. They’d gone without democracy for only about fifteen years all told. Was that long enough to turn them into blind men and fools? Evidently.
Euxenides said, “I owe you and your cousin a good turn. You could have turned me over to Ptolemaios’ men when you stopped in Kos. You likely would have picked up a nice little reward, but you didn’t do it. So what can I do for you?”
“Can you put our names in Demetrios’ ear?” Menedemos asked. “We still have some luxury goods he might fancy—truffles from Mytilene, Lesbian and Byblian wine, things of that sort. If he gets any truffle-flavored olive oil from Demetrios of Phaleron’s house, the other Demetrios bought that from us.”
“I’ll do it,” Euxenides said at once. “My pleasure. Where are you staying?”
“At the house of Protomakhos, the Rhodian proxenos, a little south of the theater. It’s not hard to find—at least not by the standards of this place.”
“Oh, yes.” Euxenides dipped his head. “Phaselis isn’t easy for strangers, either, but Phaselis is a little town. You get lost here, you can stay lost for days. Good thing my sense of direction works.” He turned to go. “Farewell, Rhodian. I won’t forget to mention you to the big boss.”
“Thanks.” Menedemos hoped the soldier meant it. Too many people promised to do something like that and then forgot about it as soon as they turned a comer. Menedemos shrugged. He’d made the effort. If Euxenides delivered, splendid. If he didn’t. . . Well, Menedemos and Sostratos were no worse off.
After crying his perfume in the agora till close to sundown—and selling two jars to a greasy fellow who wouldn’t say what he did, but who looked like a brothelkeeper—Menedemos made his way back to Protomakhos’ house. The proxenos wasn’t there, which raised Menedemos’ hopes of sneaking up to Xenokleia’s room after dark. But Sostratos returned a few minutes after he did, and Protomakhos a few minutes after his cousin. Oh, well, Menedemos thought.
Sostratos looked pleased with himself. “I’ve been going through the polis talking with physicians,” he said. “Sold a lot of balsam of Engedi today.”
“Euge,”Protomakhos said.
“Euge, indeed,” Menedemos added. “How much more could you have sold if you didn’t fritter away time talking shop with the physicians?”
Reddening, Sostratos said, “I learn things talking with them. It doesn’t cost a lot of time, and one day I might help a sailor who gets sick or hurts himself.” He enjoyed playing the role of a physician aboard the Aphrodite. How much good he did was a different question. But then, how much good any physician did was often a matter of opinion. Fortunately, most of the rowers were young and healthy, and didn’t need much in the way of medical care.
“Nothing wrong with talking shop,” Protomakhos said. “I’ve picked up enough chatting with builders and sculptors that I sometimes think I could run up a temple or carve the cult statue to go inside it. Odds are I’m wrong, but I do think so.”
“Menedemos would sooner talk shop with hetairai,” Sostratos said slyly.
“I’d rather talk about their business than about the best cure for chilblains or hammertoes, yes,” Menedemos said. “If you don’t think the one is more interesting than the other, that’s your affair.”
“There’s a time and a place for everything,” Sostratos said. “I don’t think about piggies every moment of every day.”
Protomakhos wagged a finger at him. “I’d say you’re too hard on your cousin, O best one. From what I’ve seen of Menedemos, he doesn’t chase women every hour of the day and night like some men I’ve known.”
A long, long silence followed. Sostratos looked at the ceiling. Menedemos looked at the floor. At last, several heartbeats later than he should have, Sostratos said, “Well, you may be right.”
“I’m sure I am.” Protomakhos, to Menedemos’ vast relief, seemed to notice nothing amiss. He went on, “I know how kinsfolk can be. My brother and I still quarrel whenever we set eyes on each other, and as for one of my brothers-in-law. ...” He rolled his eyes.
“Brothers-in-law! Oimoi! By the dog, yes!” Sostratos exclaimed, and started telling the proxenos about some of the things Damonax had done and had wanted him to do. Protomakhos listened sympathetically, and the awkward moment passed. Menedemos had never before been praised for his moderation with women by a man he was cuckolding. He’d thought he was hardened to most of the things that could happen, but this embarrassed him. It was like being praised for honesty by a man whose house you’d just robbed.
Three days later, the Rhodians and Protomakhos were about to sit down to supper when someone pounded on the door. “Who’s that?” Protomakhos said in annoyance. “Whoever it is, why did he have to pick now, when I can smell the fish cooking?”
“Some people have no consideration,” agreed Menedemos, who’d been able to indulge his passion for opson no less than other passions, and far more openly.
But instead of some bore who wanted to gossip with Protomakhos— Menedemos thought of the Athenian equivalent of his father’s long-winded friend, Xanthos—it was Euxenides of Phaselis. “Hail, Rhodians,” he said. “Are those the best tunics you’ve got? They’ll have to do, I suppose. Demetrios bids you to supper, and I’m to take you there. Come along with me, the both of you.”
“You kept your word!” Menedemos blurted.
“Sure I did,” Euxenides said. “You did right by me, so the least I can do is right by you. Come on. We don’t want to keep him waiting.”
“Let’s go,” Sostratos said. “Just let me grab the truffles I still have. ...”
Euxenides impatiently shifted from foot to foot while Sostratos did. Protomakhos said, “All that lovely opson, and only my wife and me to eat it.” He didn’t sound disappointed; he sounded like a man with a gods-given excuse to make an opsophagos of himself.
Out the door Euxenides of Phaselis went, the two Rhodians in tow behind him. Though Euxenides had been in Athens only a few days, he moved confidently through its labyrinth of streets. When Menedemos remarked on that, the soldier shrugged and said, “I told you, I’ve always had a good sense of direction.”
After that, Menedemos waited for him to get lost. But he didn’t. He brought the Rhodians to a large house north of the akropolis. Hulking Macedonians in full armor stood guard in front of the door. One of them said something to Euxenides. Menedemos couldn’t follow it. Euxenides of Phaselis not only did, he answered in the same dialect. The bodyguards stood aside.
As Euxenides led the Rhodians inside, he remarked, “This is where Demetrios of Phaleron lived before he, ah, decided to move elsewhere.”
“Wait here just a moment, best ones,” a slave said in the entry hall. He hurried away, then returned. “All right, come ahead.” As Menedemos entered the courtyard, he got a fleeting glimpse of a very pretty girl hurrying to the stairway. He wondered just what she and Demetrios had been doing. Beside him, Sostratos let out a warning cough, Menedemos sent his cousin a hurt look. Killing himself by jumping from a high place would end quicker and hurt less than letting the son of a Macedonian marshal catch him sniffing after a mistress.
Demetrios son of Antigonos lounged on a couch in the andron with a cup of wine. “Hail, Rhodians,” he said when Euxenides presented Menedemos and Sostratos to him. He was very large and very strong and, up close, perhaps the handsomest man Menedemos—a handsome fellow himself—had ever seen. As the Rhodian had noted in the theater, he had a man of action’s thrusting chin. With it went a voluptuary’s wide-lipped, sensual mouth; a long, straight nose and prominent cheekbones; a mane of light brown hair; and eyes green as marble. “Forgive me for not rising,” he went on, “but I’m getting over a fever.”
“Yes, I saw her just now as she was going away,” Menedemos said blandly.
Sostratos coughed again, this time in horror. But Demetrios threw back his head and laughed, “Very neat,” he said, “That’s the sort of
crack my father would make,” His voice, when he wasn’t using it to fill the theater of Dionysos, was extraordinarily smooth and musical. The gods had blessed him with all they could give a man. He waved Menedemos and Sostratos to couches on either side of his own, and Euxenides to another. A slave brought them wine. “I found several amphorai of Thasian in Demetrios of Phaleron’s cellars,” Antigonos’ son told them. “Coming from the north myself, I’m partial to northern vintages.”
The wine was sweet as honey—so sweet, in fact, that Menedemos wondered if it had honey mixed into it. The vintners of Thasos sometimes did that. It was also neat. Sostratos said, “Most noble one, could we please have a mixing bowl and some water? Otherwise, your men may have to carry us back to our host’s house.”
Demetrios laughed again. “As you wish, though mixing wine seems as silly to me as drinking it neat does to you. If I want water, I’ll drink water; if wine—wine. Some of one, some of the other? Who needs that?”
Menedemos wanted to fuss at Sostratos for acting like a little old woman. He thought about continuing to drink his wine without added water. That, he feared, would only make his cousin look worse. And Demetrios was a large man, and used to neat wine. Menedemos himself was much smaller, and used to drinking it mixed. Getting hopelessly plastered while his host stayed sober would do nothing to improve him in the Macedonian’s eyes. And so, when Sostratos mixed one part wine to two of water—a little on the strong side, no doubt in deference to Demetrios, but only a little-—Menedemos sipped along with his cousin. Euxemdes of Phaselis drank his Thasian without water. He was a soldier, though, and by now surely used to Macedonian ways.
They chatted for a while. Demetrios had a lively wit, and a gift—if that was what it was-—for puns that made Menedemos cringe and even forced a couple of groans from Sostratos, who was also formidable in such sports. “If you think I’m bad, you should hear my father,” Demetrios said with a reminiscent smile. “Strong men run screaming when he gets started—you’d best believe they do.”
His affection for Antigonos seemed altogether unfeigned. He was one of the most powerful men in Hellas-—no, in the whole civilized world—yet he remained fond of and obedient to his father. To Menedemos, who’d been striking sparks with his father ever since his voice began to change, that seemed very strange,
As twilight thickened outside, a slave lit more torches and lamps in the andron, holding darkness at bay. Another slave carried in a tray piled high with some of the finest, whitest loaves of wheat bread Menedemos had ever seen. They were still warm from the oven, and so light and airy the Rhodian marveled that they didn’t float off the tray and hang in the air like dandelion fluff. The olive oil in which the diners dipped their sitos was some of the truffle-flavored stuff Menedemos and Sostratos had sold to Demetrios of Phaleron.
“Mighty fine,” Euxenides of Phaselis said, ripping another loaf to pieces so he could soak up more of the precious oil.
“It is, isn’t it?” Demetrios son of Antigonos agreed complacently. “The other Demetrios bought it, but I’m the one who gets to enjoy it.” The glow in his eyes showed how much he enjoyed it. He seemed to enjoy everything that came his way—food, wine, women, acclaim. And yet he was also a solid soldier—more than a solid soldier—and had displaced his cousin, Polemaios, at Antigonos’ right hand. He probably enjoyed soldiering, too.
Menedemos knew he was jealous. He also knew how foolish such jealousy was. A monkey could be jealous of Aphrodite s beauty, and it would do the animal no more good. Not only did Demetrios have his multifarious gifts, he also had the chance to make the most of them. Like almost all men, Menedemos needed to devote the larger part of his energy just to getting by from day to clay. What he might have done got lost in what he had to do.
Back in Ioudaia, Sostratos had despised Hekataios of Abdera for being able to travel as he pleased and having the leisure in which to write history . . . and for not knowing how lucky he was. Menedemos’ sympathy when he heard about that had been distinctly muted. Now, though, now he understood.
“Have you got more of this oil?” Demetrios asked, licking his fingers.
“Sorry, but no,” Menedemos said, while Sostratos, whose mouth was full, tossed his head. Menedemos went on, “Your, ah, predecessor bought all we brought here.”
“Demetrios of Phaleron is a man of taste; no way around that,” Demetrios son of Antigonos said. “Clever fellow, and a nice fellow, too. Pity he chose the other side and not my father’s. I wonder where he’ll turn up next, and what he’ll do there. As long as he’s not working against Father’s interests, I wish him well.”
He sounded as if he meant it. Menedemos doubted he could have been so dispassionate about an enemy. But he hadn’t heard too many Athenians who truly despised Demetrios of Phaleron. Yes, they were glad to see their ancient democracy restored (though some of the decrees they’d passed made it look as if they’d forgotten the point of ruling themselves). But the general opinion was that Kassandros’ puppet could have been worse. For a man who’d ruled as a tyrant for ten years, the verdict could have been far harsher.
Having swallowed, Sostratos said, “We have no more oil, O Demetrios, but we do have truffles from Lesbos. Your cooks can shave them, if you like, and steep the shavings in oil. Or they can cook the truffles themselves, if you’d rather,”
“If I’d rather?” Demetrios laughed another of his easy laughs. “Don’t you find, in your households, that the cooks think they’re the lords and everyone else their subjects? Mine certainly do. Myriads of soldiers jump to obey my orders, but if I tell a cook to steam a fish and he’s intent on baking it, I’ll have baked fish for supper that night.”
“Oh, yes,” Menedemos said. “My father’s cook has been squabbling with my stepmother ever since Father remarried a few years ago.”
“My family’s cook isn’t quite so temperamental as Menedemos’,” Sostratos said. “But there are times when he has a whim of iron; no doubt about it.”
“After supper, talk to my servants. I’ll buy whatever truffles you have left,” Demetrios said, “Let the men know I want them. You’ll get a fair price, I promise.”
Now Menedemos didn’t look at Sostratos. Still, he was sure his cousin was as delighted as he was. Demetrios’ servants would have to buy after orders Like that, and would have to pay a price better than just fair. Demetrios was one of the richest men in the world. To him, a silver drakhma counted for less than a bronze khalkos did for most mere mortals—hardly even small change.
More slaves brought in course after course of opson; stewed eels, steaks cut from the belly of a tuna, roast dogfish. There were also smoking beef ribs. They obviously came from an animal butchered on purpose; they weren’t the gobbets handed out at random after a sacrifice. Menedemos occasionally ate pork, but he didn’t think he’d had deliberately butchered beef before.
Maybe his surprise showed on his face, for Demetrios said, “We Macedonians live lives closer to those of Homer’s heroes than most Hellenes do. We’re meat-eaters, for we have broader lands on which to pasture cattle.”
“I wasn’t complaining, most noble one,” Menedemos replied. “Is that cumin in the sauce?” He smacked his lips. “Tasty.”
“I do believe it is, and black pepper from Arabia, too,” Demetrios said.
After the ribs came fruit candied in honey and a cheesecake similarly sweetened. “A splendid supper,” Sostratos said. “We thank you for your kindness.”
“My pleasure.” Demetrios’ smile fairly glowed. He had charm; no doubt of that. After a sip from his cup of wine, he went on, “And where does Rhodes stand amidst all the confusions of the world that’s taken shape since Alexander died?”
It seemed nothing but a casual, friendly question. Menedemos answered it the same way: “We’re neutrals, and happy to be neutral. We have no quarrel with anyone.”
Euxenides of Phaselis spoke up: “The Rhodian certainly speaks the truth for himself and his cousin, Demetrios. They carried me the same as th
ey would have carried one of Ptolemaios’ men a couple of years ago.
“Good. That’s good.” Demetrios’ smile remained charming. But he went on, “What was true a couple of years ago could be less true now, though. And it isn’t easy to stay neutral when one is a small polls in a world of large . . . powers.” What had he almost said? Kingdoms? None of Alexander’s squabbling marshals claimed a crown for himself, though all of them were kings in everything but name.
“So long as we do business with everyone, and so long as we stay free and autonomous, we’ll hold on to our neutrality,” Sostratos said.
“Oh, yes. So long as.” Demetrios’ voice also stayed silky-smooth. “But when you do the bulk of your business with one fellow, well, naturally your other neighbors wonder just how free and autonomous you truly are. Athens, after all, claimed to be free and autonomous before I liberated her.”
Rhodes did much more business with Ptolemaios’ Egypt than with the lands of any other marshal... including Antigonos. And Antigonos’ lands were near neighbors to Rhodes. Menedemos didn’t care for the turn the conversation had taken, especially since he doubted whether Athens was any freer or more autonomous now than before her “liberation.”
Sostratos said, “Surely, most noble one, you can’t be thinking of Rhodes. Why, we’ve built ships for your father’s fleets. If that isn’t how a proper neutral behaves, I don’t know what would be.”
“Just so.” Menedemos beamed across Demetrios’ couch toward his cousin. Nobody could match Sostratos when it came to bolstering arguments with good, solid facts. His cousin was so logical, so rational, disagreeing with him seemed impossible.
And Demetrios didn’t disagree with him. Smiling still, Antigonos’ son said, “I do hope you can see, my friends, that free and autonomous poleis like Athens and Rhodes can sometimes need protection against those who would try to force them into leaning in an ... unfortunate direction.”
“Not being an Athenian, I would not presume to speak for Athens,” Sostratos said. “As far as Rhodes goes, since only we Rhodians choose how we lean or if we lean, the question doesn’t arise.”
Owls to Athens Page 30
