The Sacred Land

12

Menedemos walked with Sostratos through a poor, quarter of Rhodes: the southwestern part of the polis, not far from the wall and not far from the cemetery south of it. With a sigh, Menedemos said, “This is the sort of duty I wish we didn’t have.”

“I know,” Sostratos answered. “I feel the same way. But that only makes it more important we do a good job.”

“I suppose so.” Menedemos sighed again.

Skinny naked children played in the street. Even skinnier dogs squabbled over garbage. They eyed the children warily. Maybe they were afraid the children would throw rocks at them. Maybe they were afraid they would get caught and killed and thrown into a pot. In this part of town, they probably had reason to worry. A drunk staggered out of a wineshop. He stared at Menedemos and Sostratos, then turned his back on them, hiked up his tunic, and pissed against a wall.

“O pat!” Menedemos called, pointing to one of the children. He would have said, Boy! to a slave just the same way.

“What do you want?” the boy, who was about eight, asked suspiciously.

“Where is the house of Aristaion son of Aristeas?”

The boy assumed a look of congenital imbecility. Not knowing whether to sigh one more time or burst out laughing, Menedemos took an obolos from between his cheek and his teeth and held out the small, wet silver coin in the palm of his hand. The boy rushed up and snatched it. He popped it into his own mouth. His friends howled with rage and jealousy. “Me! Me!” they clamored. “You should have asked me!”

“You’ve got your money now,” Menedemos said in a friendly voice. “Tell me what I want to know, or I’ll wallop the stuffing out of you.”

There was language the youngster understood. “Go over two blocks, then turn right. It’ll be on the left-hand side of the street, next door to the dyer’s place.”

“Good. Thanks.” Menedemos turned to Sostratos. “Come on, my dear.

And mind the dog turd there. We don’t want to step in it barefoot.”

“No, indeed,” Sostratos agreed.

They had no trouble identifying the dyer’s: the reek of stale urine gave it away. Next to it stood a small, neat house that, like a lot of homes in a neighborhood such as this, doubled as a shop. Several pots, nothing especially fancy but all sturdy and well shaped, stood on a counter. Menedemos wondered how much the stink from the dyeworks hurt the potter’s trade. It couldn’t help.

“Help you gents?” the potter asked. He was a man of about fifty, balding, with what was left of his hair and his beard quite gray. Except for the beard, he looked like an older version of Aristeidas.

To be sure, Menedemos asked, “Are you Aristaion son of Aristeas?”

“That’s me,” the man replied. “I’m afraid you’ve got the edge on me, though, best one, for I don’t know you or your friend.” Menedemos and Sostratos introduced themselves. Aristaion’s work-worn face lit up. “Oh, of course! Aristeidas’ captain and toikharkhos! By the gods, my boy tells me more stories about the two of you and your doings! I didn’t know the Aphrodite ’d got home this year, for you’ve beaten him back here.”

Menedemos winced. This was going to be even harder than he’d feared. He said, “I’m afraid that’s why we’ve come now, most noble one.” Sostratos dipped his head.

“I don’t understand,” Aristaion said. But then, suddenly, his eyes filled with fear. He flinched, as if Menedemos had threatened him with a weapon. “Or are you going to tell me something’s happened to Aristeidas?”

“I’m sorry,” Menedemos said miserably. “He was killed by robbers in Ioudaia. My cousin was with him when it happened. He’ll tell you more.”

Sostratos told the story of the fight with the Ioudaian bandits. For the benefit of Aristeidas’ father, he changed it a little, saying the sailor had taken a spear in the chest, not the belly, and died at once: “I’m sure he felt no pain.” He said not a word about cutting Aristeidas’ throat, but finished, “We all miss him very much, both for his keen eyes-he was the man who spotted the bandits coming after us-and for the fine man he was. I wish with all my heart it could have been otherwise. He fought bravely, and his wound was at the front.” That was undoubtedly true.

Aristaion listened without a word. He blinked a couple of times. He heard what Sostratos said, but as yet it meant nothing. Menedemos set a leather sack on the counter. “Here is his pay, sir, for the whole journey he took with us. I know it can never replace Aristeidas, but it is what we can do.”

Like a man still half in a dream, Aristaion tossed his head. “No, that’s not right,” he said. “You must take out whatever silver he’d already drawn-otherwise you unjustly deprive yourselves.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Menedemos said. “For one thing, he drew very little-as you’ll know, he saved his silver. And, for another, this is the least we can do to show what we thought of your son.”

“When he died, everyone on the Aphrodite was heartbroken,” Sostratos added, and that was nothing but the truth, too.

When he died. Aristaion finally seemed not only to hear but to believe. He let out a low-voiced moan, then reached under the counter and brought out a knife. Grunting with effort and with pain, he used it to haggle off a mourning lock. The gray hair lay on the counter. Menedemos took the knife and added a lock of his own hair. So did Sostratos; the lock he’d cut off in loudaia was beginning to grow out again. He sacrificed another without hesitation.

“He was my only boy that lived,” Aristaion said in a faraway voice. “I had two others, but they both died young. I hoped he’d take this place after me. Maybe he would have in the end, but he always wanted to go to sea. What am I going to do now? By the gods, O best ones, what am I going to do now?”

Menedemos had no answer for that. He looked to Sostratos. His cousin stood there biting his lip, not far from tears. Plainly, he had no answer, either. For some things, there were no answers.

“I mourned my father,” Aristaion said. “That was hard, but it’s part of the natural order of things when a son mourns a father. When a father has to mourn a son, though… I would rather have died myself, you know.” The sun glinted off the tears sliding down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” Menedemos whispered, and Sostratos dipped his head. No, for some things there were no answers at all.

“Thank you, gentlemen, for bringing me the news,” Aristaion said with haggard dignity. “Will you drink wine with me?”

“Of course,” said Menedemos, who wanted nothing more than to get away. Again, Sostratos dipped his head without speaking. If anything, he probably wanted to escape even more than Menedemos did. But this was part of what needed doing.

“Wait, then,” Aristaion said, and ducked back into the part of the building where he lived. He came out a moment later with a tray with water, wine, a mixing bowl, and three cups. He must have made the bowl and the cups himself, for they looked very much like the pots he was selling. After mixing the wine, he poured for Menedemos and Sostratos, then poured a small libation onto the ground at his feet. The two cousins imitated him. Aristaion lifted his cup. “For Aristeidas,” he said.

“For Aristeidas,” Menedemos echoed.

“For Aristeidas,” Sostratos said. “If he hadn’t spotted the bandits coming, we all might have died there in Ioudaia-and other times before that, out on the sea. He was a good man to have on our ship, and I’ll miss him. Everyone who sailed with him will miss him.”

“Thank you kindly, young sir. You’re generous, to say such a thing.” Aristaion raised the cup to his lips and drank. Menedemos and Sostratos also drank to their shipmate’s memory. The wine was better than Menedemos would have expected it to be. Like the ware Aristaion made, it suggested the best taste not a great deal of money could buy.

“I wonder why these things happen,” Sostratos said, “why good men die young while those who are not so good live on and on.” Menedemos knew he was thinking about Teleutas. His cousin took another sip of wine, then continued, “Men who love wisdom have always wondered such things.”

“It was the will of the gods,” Aristaion said. “In front of Troy, Akhilleus had a short life, too, but people still sing about him even now.” He murmured the opening of the Iliad: “‘Rage!-Sing, goddess, of Akhilleus’…’“

Sostratos had often wrangled with Menedemos about whether the Iliad and Odyssey deserved to hold their central place in Hellenic life. He wasn’t always the most tactful of men; there were times, especially in what he saw as pursuit of the truth, when he was among the least tactful. Menedemos got ready to kick him in the ankle if he wanted to argue philosophy today. But he only dipped his head once more and murmured, “Just so, most noble one. Nor will Aristeidas be forgotten, so long as any one of us who knew him still lives.”

Menedemos took a long pull at his own wine. He silently mouthed, “Euge,” at Sostratos. His cousin only shrugged a tiny shrug, as if to say he hadn’t done anything worth praise. He’d remembered the occasion. To Menedemos, that was plenty. Only later did he wonder whether that was unfair to Sostratos.

The two of them let Aristaion fill their cups again. Then they made their farewells. “Thank you both again, young sirs, for coming and telling me… telling me what had to be told,” Aristeidas’ father said.

“It was the least we could do,” Menedemos said. “We wish we didn’t have to do it, that’s all.”

“Yes,” Sostratos said softly. By the distant look in his eyes, he was back among those Ioudaian boulders again. “Oh, yes.”

They gave Aristaion their sympathies one last time and left the potter’s shop. They hadn’t gone far before a woman started to shriek behind them. Wincing, Menedemos said, “Aristaion must have told his wife.”

“Yes,” Sostratos agreed. They walked on for a few more paces before he went on, “Let’s go back to your house or mine and get drunk, shall we? There’s nothing more we really have to do today, is there?”

“Nothing that won’t keep.” Menedemos put an arm around Sostratos’ shoulder. “That’s a good idea-the best one you’ve had all day, I’m sure.”

“Will we think so in the morning?” Sostratos asked.

Menedemos shrugged. “That will be in the morning. We’ll worry about it then.”

Sostratos opened his eyes and wished he hadn’t. The early-morning sunlight leaking in through the shutters pained him. His head hurt. His bladder seemed about to burst. He reached under the bed and found the chamber pot. After easing himself, he went to the window, opened the shutters, called, “Coming out!” to warn anyone walking by below, and flung the contents of the pot into the street.

Then, still moving slowly, he went downstairs and sat down in the cool, shadowed courtyard. A few minutes later, Threissa, the family’s redheaded Thracian slave girl, poked her snub nose into the courtyard. Sostratos waved to her. He saw her wondering if she could get away with pretending not to see and deciding she couldn’t. She came over to him. “What do you want, young master?” she asked in accented Greek.

Every so often, he took her to bed. She put up with that rather than enjoying it, one reason he didn’t do it more. It wasn’t what he had in mind now. He said, “Fetch me a cup of well-watered wine and a chunk of bread to go with it.”

Relief flowered on her face. “I do that,” she said, and hurried away. Some requests she minded much less than others. Sostratos didn’t even eye her backside as she went off to the kitchen, proof he’d drunk too much the day before. She soon returned with the wine and a barley roll. “Here you is. Roll just baked.”

Sure enough, it was still warm from the oven. “Thanks,” Sostratos said. He made as if to push her away. “Go on. I’m sure you’ve got plenty to do.” She nodded and left him by himself. He took a bite from the roll. It was nice and bland, just what his stomach needed. He sipped the wine, a little at a time. Bit by bit, his headache eased.

He’d almost finished breakfast when his father came downstairs. “Hail,” Lysistratos called. “How are you?”

“Better now than when I first got up,” Sostratos answered. “The wine helped.”

“Pity it’s not springtime,” Lysistratos said. “Raw cabbage is good for a thick head, but this is the wrong season.” He walked over and sat down beside his son. “I understand why you and Menedemos did what you did. Losing a man is hard. Sometimes telling his family he’s gone is even harder.”

“Yes.” Sostratos dipped his head. “His father was such a gentleman- and then, as we were leaving, his mother began to wail…” He grabbed the winecup and gulped the last couple of swallows.

“A bad business. A very bad business.” Lysistratos hesitated, then went on, “I hear you made something of a hero of yourself in the same fight.”

With a shrug, Sostratos said, “My archery isn’t hopeless. I should have shot more of the bandits, though. If I had, we wouldn’t have had to pay a call on Aristaion yesterday.” He wished he had more wine. What he’d already drunk had taken the edge off his headache, but another cup might take the edge off his thoughts. He looked around for Threissa, then decided it was just as well he didn’t see her. A man who started pouring it down early in the morning wouldn’t be worth much as the day wore along.

Lysistratos said, “What do you plan on doing today?”

“I’ll go over to see Damonax and settle accounts with him,” Sostratos answered. “The olive oil worked out better than I expected, but I’m not going to fill the Aphrodite up with it if we go to Athens next spring. That would be like taking crimson dye to Phoenicia. If he can’t see as much for himself, I’ll make it as plain as I have to.”

“I understand.” His father smiled. “I don’t think you’ll have to beat him about the head and shoulders, or anything of the sort. Uncle Philodemos and I made it plain to him that he pushed his luck this past spring. We let him get away with it once because of his own family’s debts, but we’re not going to let him be a permanent anchor weighing down our family’s profits.”

“Euge!” Sostratos said. “How did he take that?”

“Pretty well,” Lysistratos replied. “He is a charming fellow, no two ways about it.”

“Yes, but especially when he’s getting his way,” Sostratos said, which made his father laugh. He went on, “I hope I see Erinna when I’m there. Is she happy with Damonax?”

“She seems to be,” Lysistratos said. “And did you hear last night? She’s going to have a baby in a few months.”

Sostratos tossed his head. “No, I didn’t. That’s wonderful news! I know how much she wants a family.” He hesitated, then asked, “If it happens to be a girl, will they keep it or expose it?”

“I don’t know,” his father said. “I hope they’d keep it, but that’s Damonax’s choice, not mine.” He looked troubled. “It would be hard, very hard, for your sister finally to give birth and then to lose the baby.”

“I know. That’s just what I was thinking,” Sostratos said. But his father was right. That wasn’t anything where the two of them had a say. He ate the last bit of barley roll, then got to his feet. “I’ll head over there now. I’ve got the figures written down on a scrap of papyrus. With a little luck, I’ll catch Damonax before he’s gone to the agora or the gymnasion. Farewell, Father.”

“Farewell.” Lysistratos got up, too, and clapped him on the back. “You did very well in Phoenicia-on the whole voyage, from all I’ve heard. Don’t be too hard on yourself because you weren’t perfect. Perfection is for the gods.”

Everyone told Sostratos the same thing. He’d told it to himself a good many times, too. That he had to keep telling it to himself showed he still didn’t believe it. He wondered if he ever would. Shrugging, he headed for the door.

Damonax’s house lay in the western part of Rhodes, not far from the gymnasion. It was far larger and finer than Aristaion’s, and presented only a whitewashed wall and doorway to the outside world. Damonax, who made his money from lands outside the polis, didn’t need a shop at the front.

Munching on some raisins he’d bought from a street peddler, Sostratos knocked on the door. He remembered coming here during Erinna’s wedding celebration and, before that, when he’d shown Damonax the gryphon’s skull. He sighed. If he’d taken six minai of silver from the man who would become his brother-in-law, the pirates in the strait between Euboia and Andros wouldn’t have had the chance to steal the skull.

He knocked again. “I’m coming!” a slave shouted in good Greek. A moment later, the fellow opened a little barred shutter set into the door at eye level and peered out. “Oh, hail, Master Sostratos,” he said, and opened the door itself. “Come in, sir. The master will be glad to see you.”

“Thank you,” Sostratos said. “I hope Damonax is well? And my sister, too? I hear from my father she’s expecting a baby?”

“Yes, that’s right,” the slave answered. “They’re both as well as anyone could hope. Here, sir, it’s a nice day. Why don’t you sit down on this bench in the courtyard? I’ll let Damonax know you’re here.” He raised his voice to a shout: “Master! Erinna’s brother is back from overseas!”

Erinna’s brother, Sostratos thought with wry amusement. That was probably how he’d be known here for the rest of his life. Well, fair enough. He perched on the bench the slave had suggested and looked around. The first things his eye lit upon were the flowerbed and herb garden in the courtyard. He smiled. They looked much more like those back at his family’s house than they had the last time he was here. Erinna was an enthusiastic gardener and was making her mark felt.

The slave came back to him. “He’ll be here in just a bit. Would you like some wine, sir, and some almonds or olives?”

“Almonds, please,” Sostratos answered. “Thanks very much.”

Damonax and the slave returning with the snack came into the courtyard at the same time. Sostratos rose and clasped his brother-in-law’s hand. “Hail,” Damonax said with a smile that showed off his white teeth. He was as handsome and well groomed as ever; he’d rubbed a scented oil into his skin so that he smelled sweet. Had it been a little stronger, it would have been annoying. As things were, it just marked him as a man who enjoyed fine things.

“Hail,” Sostratos echoed. “And congratulations.”

“I thank you very much.” Damonax’s smile got broader. He sounded pleased and reasonably contented with life and with his marriage. Sostratos hoped he was. That would be likely to mean Erinna was contented, too. “Do sit down again, best one. Make yourself at home.”

“Kind of you,” Sostratos said. The slave served the two of them and withdrew. Sostratos ate an almond. He inclined his head to Damonax. “Roasted with garlic. Tasty.”

“I’m fond of them that way. Glad you like them, too,” his brother-in-law replied. He made polite small talk; his manners had always been almost too perfect. Only after a quarter hour of chitchat and gossip about what had gone on in Rhodes while Sostratos was away did Damonax begin to come to the point: “I hope your voyage was successful and profitable?”

“We’ll end up doing quite well for ourselves, I think,” Sostratos said, “though much of what we bought-balsam and crimson dye and the Byblian, especially-we’ll have to resell before we can realize the profit I’m sure we’ll make.”

“I understand,” Damonax said. “I trust my oil was well received?” He was tense but trying hard not to show it. Here was the meat of the business, sure enough.

“The quality was good,” Sostratos answered. “We sold most of it in Sidon. Here is what we made for it.” He took out the scrap of papyrus on which he’d worked out just how much silver the olive oil had earned.

When Damonax saw the number at the bottom, his face lit up. “But this is wonderful!” he exclaimed. “It’s quite a bit more than I expected. I’ll be able to pay off a good many debts.”

“I’m glad to hear it, best one,” Sostratos said. “Even so, though, as I hear my father and uncle told you, I don’t expect we’ll want another cargo of olive oil when we go out next spring. I’m letting you know now, so you can’t say we’re pulling a surprise on you then.”

“But why not, when you did so well?” his brother-in-law said. “You made money with it.”

“Yes, but not so much money as with other goods that have more value and less bulk,” Sostratos replied. “And I must say I think we were lucky to do as well as we did this past sailing season. I doubt we could come close to matching what we made if we go to Athens, as looks likely. Athens exports oil; you don’t bring it there.”

Damonax whistled, a low, unhappy note. “You’re very frank, aren’t you?”

“I have to be, wouldn’t you say?” Sostratos replied. “You’re part of my family now. I did business for you, and I’m glad it went so well. You need to understand why I don’t believe it would go that well again. I have nothing against you or your oil. In bulk, on a round ship without the great cost of paying an akatos’ crew every day, it would do splendidly. But the Aphrodite truly isn’t the right ship to carry it. Menedemos feels the same, even more strongly than I do.”

“Does he?” Damonax said. Sostratos dipped his head. Damonax grunted. “And he’s the captain, and he’s not married to your sister.”

“Both those things are also true,” Sostratos agreed. Trying to soften the disagreement, he went on, “This isn’t malice, most noble one-only business. Silver doesn’t spring from the ground like soldiers after Kadmos sowed the dragon’s teeth.”

“Oh, yes. I do understand that.” His brother-in-law managed a wry grin. “My own reverses these past couple of years have made me all too painfully aware of it.”

How angry was he? Not too, or he would have shown it more openly. Hellenes looked down their noses at men who felt one thing but feigned another. How could you trust anyone like that? Simple-you couldn’t. Sostratos said, “May I see my sister for a few minutes? I’d like to congratulate her myself.”

As Erinna’s husband, Damonax could say yes or no as he chose. “Certainly nothing scandalous about it, not when you’re her brother,” he murmured. “Well, why not?” He called for a slave woman to bring her down from the women’s quarters.

By the haste with which Erinna appeared in the courtyard, she must have hoped Sostratos would ask after her. “Hail,” she said, taking his hands in his. “It’s good to see you.”

“Good to see you, my dear,” he answered. “You look well. I’m glad. And I’m very glad you’re going to have a child. I was happier than I can say when Father told me.”

Her eyes glowed when she smiled. She freed her right hand, setting it on her belly. When she did that, Sostratos could see the beginning of a bulge there under her long chiton. “So far, everything seems to be well,” she said. “You’ll have a nephew before you sail next spring.” She didn’t even mention the possibility of a girl.

“That’ll be fine,” Sostratos said, and then stuck fast as he cast about, wondering what to say next. He and Erinna couldn’t talk the way they had back at his family’s house, not with Damonax standing there listening to every word. He’d been foolish to imagine they could. By his sister’s expression, she was realizing the same thing. He sighed. “I’d better be going. It’s wonderful you’re going to have a baby. I’ll help spoil him for the two of you.”

Damonax chuckled at that in an indulgent, husbandly way. Erinna smiled but looked disappointed as Sostratos turned and headed for the doorway. For a moment, he wondered why. He could tell she too knew they couldn’t talk the way they had in the old days. What point to pretending they could?

Then he thought, You can go out that door. You can do what you please in the city. Erinna’s a respectable wife. That means she has to stay here. Such restrictions had chafed at her back when she was living in her father’s house. They were even stronger, even harsher, for a married woman.

“Take care of yourself,” Erinna called after him.

“And you, my dear,” Sostratos answered. “And you.” He hurried away then, not wanting to look back.

Philodemos sat in the andron, drinking wine and eating olives. When Menedemos started out of the house, he wanted to pretend he didn’t see his father’s wave. He wanted to, yes, but he didn’t have the nerve. He stopped and waved back. “Hail, Father,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“Come here.” Philodemos sounded as peremptory as usual. “You don’t need to go drinking or whoring right this minute, do you?”

Menedemos’ hackles rose. His father always assumed he was in the wrong. Sometimes he was, of course, but not always. “I’m coming,” he replied with what dignity he could. “As a matter of fact, though, I was going to the agora, not out drinking or whoring.”

“That’s easy enough for you to say.” Philodemos rolled his eyes up to the heavens. “I can’t prove you’re wrong.” By his tone, the matter of proof was just a detail.

After helping himself to an olive from the bowl on the table in front of his father, Menedemos tried a thrust of his own: “You’re the one with the wine cup here.”

“Yes, and it’s properly watered, too,” his father snapped. “Do you want a taste, so you can tell for yourself?”

“No, never mind,” Menedemos said. “Why did you call me?” Except to carp at me, he added, but only to himself. That would have made things worse.

“Why did I call you?” Philodemos echoed. He took a pull from the cup himself, perhaps to disguise his confusion. Menedemos wondered if he’d called for any real reason at all, or just for the sake of exasperating him. At last, Philodemos said, “About the eastern route. Yes, that’s it- about the eastern route. Do you think we can use it every year?”

That was a legitimate question; Menedemos could hardly deny as much. He said, “We can, sir, but I don’t think we’d be wise. It’s not just pirates. The war between Antigonos and Ptolemaios looks to be heating up. Any ship at all heading for Phoenicia is taking a chance these days.”

Philodemos grunted. “If you talk that way, we never should have sent the Aphrodite .”

“Perhaps we shouldn’t have,” Menedemos agreed.

His father didn’t just grunt this time. He blinked in astonishment. “You really do say that? You, the fellow who took the ship through a Carthaginian siege into Syracuse a couple of years ago?”

Ears heating, Menedemos dipped his head. “Yes, Father, I do say that. Taking the Aphrodite to Syracuse was one risk. As soon as we got past the Carthaginian fleet, we were fine. But there’s risk every digit of the way between here and Phoenicia, from pirates and from the Macedonian marshals. We got into trouble, and I think almost any ship heading that way would. We came out the other side all right. Whether another ship would… Well, who knows?”

“Maybe you really are starting to grow up a little,” Philodemos muttered, more to himself than to Menedemos. “Who would have believed that?”

“Father-” Menedemos broke off. He didn’t want to quarrel if he could help it. That being so, he kept talking about the struggle between the marshals: “Did Alexander the Great’s sister ever get out of Sardis? When we headed east, there was talk she wanted to get away from Antigonos and go over to Ptolemaios. Did old One-Eye let Kleopatra get away with it? We never heard anything after that, going to Sidon or coming back.”

“Kleopatra’s dead. Does that answer your question?” Philodemos replied.

“Oimoi!” Menedemos exclaimed, though he wasn’t really much surprised. “So Antigonos did her in?”

“He says not,” Philodemos answered. “But when she tried to leave Sardis, his governor there wouldn’t let her go. Later on, some of her serving women murdered her. They wouldn’t have done it if the governor hadn’t told them to, and he wouldn’t have told them to if Antigonos hadn’t told him to. He made a show of putting them to death afterwards, but then, he would.”

“Yes.” Menedemos clicked his tongue between his teeth. “Sostratos called that one when we first heard Kleopatra wanted to get away from Antigonos. She wouldn’t marry him, and she was too valuable a prize for him to let any of the other marshals have her.” He sighed. “So now none of Alexander ’s kin is left alive. These Macedonians are bloodthirsty bastards, aren’t they?”

“That they are.” Philodemos dipped his head. “And your cousin is a clever fellow.” Which means you aren’t. Menedemos heard the addition even though his father didn’t say it. It stung. It always did. And then Philodemos quivered, like a dog taking a scent. “Or are you telling me we shouldn’t go back to Sidon because you made it impossible for any ship from our family to go back to Sidon? Whose wife did you debauch while you were there? The garrison commander’s, maybe?”

“Nobody’s, by the gods,” Menedemos said.

“Is that the truth?” But Philodemos checked himself before Menedemos became really angry. “You don’t lie about your adulteries; I will say that. If anything, you revel in them. All right, then. That’s good news.”

“I didn’t have any adulteries to revel in, as I say,” Menedemos replied. “Sostratos did-an innkeeper’s wife down in Ioudaia-but not me.”

“Sostratos… your cousin… seduced another man’s wife?” his father said. Menedemos dipped his head. Philodemos clapped a hand to his forehead. “Papai! What is the younger generation coming to?”

“Probably about the same as yours did, and the one before yours, and the one before that, and the one before that,” Menedemos said with a cheerful grin. “ Aristophanes complained about the younger generation a hundred years ago.”

“Well, what if he did?” Philodemos retorted. “He was an Athenian, and everybody knows about them. You and your cousin are Rhodians. Good people. Sensible people.”

“What about Nestor, in the Iliad?” Menedemos said. “He complained about the younger generation, too.”

That gave Philodemos pause. He loved Homer no less than Menedemos did; Menedemos had got his fondness for the Iliad and Odyssey from his father. Philodemos returned the best answer he could: “You can’t tell me we Hellenes haven’t gone downhill since the days of the heroes.”

“Maybe,” Menedemos said. “Speaking of going downhill, how many speeches did Xanthos give in the Assembly while I was away? “

His father sent him a sour stare. Xanthos was a man of Philodemos’ generation: was, in fact, a friend of Philodemos’. He was also a great and crashing bore. Philodemos could hardly deny that. To his credit, he didn’t try. “Probably too many,” he answered. Then, to forestall Menedemos, he added, “And yes, he gave them all over again, first chance he got, whenever he saw me.”

“And how’s Sikon?” Menedemos asked. “I’ve hardly had the chance to say good day to him, but those were some very nice eels last night, don’t you think?”

“I’ve always liked eels,” Philodemos said. “And Sikon is as well as a cook can be.” He rolled his eyes again. Cooks had-and deserved-a reputation for tyrannizing the households in which they lived.

“Is he still quarreling with your wife?” Menedemos asked cautiously. The less he spoke about Baukis around his father, the better. He was sure of that. But he couldn’t ignore her feud with Sikon. The way the two of them stormed at each other, the whole neighborhood had trouble ignoring it.

“They… still don’t get along as well as they might,” Philodemos said.

“You really ought to do something about that, Father.” Menedemos again seized the chance to take the offensive.

“Wait till you have a wife. Wait till you’re running a household with a temperamental cook-and there’s no other kind,” Philodemos said. “Better they should yell at each other than that they should both yell at me.”

To Menedemos, that seemed a coward’s counsel. He said, “Better they shouldn’t yell. You ought to put your foot down.”

“Ha!” his father said. “How many times have I put my foot down with you? How much good has it done me?”

“I wasn’t the one who chased women this summer,” Menedemos said. His father snorted at the qualification, but he pressed on: “And I wasn’t the one who loaded so much olive oil onto the Aphrodite , either. No-I was the one who not only sold it but got a cursed good price for it, too.”

“I told you before-we won’t have to worry about that again,” Philodemos said. “Damonax and his family needed the silver that oil brought. Sometimes there’s no help for something. Sometimes there’s no help for the kinsfolk one has.”

By the way he looked at Menedemos, he wasn’t thinking of Damonax alone. “If you’ll excuse me, Father…,” Menedemos said, and left the andron before he found out whether Philodemos would excuse him. He stormed out of the house, too. If Philodemos tried to call him back, he made himself not hear.

Why do I bother? he wondered. Whatever I do, it will never satisfy him. And, knowing it will never satisfy him, why do I get so angry when it doesn’t? But the answer to that was all too obvious. He’s my father. If a man can’t please his own father, what sort of man is he?

Sparrows hopped around, pecking in the dirt for whatever they could find. Menedemos pointed at one of them, which fluttered off for a few cubits but then lit again and went back to pecking. Is your father angry at you because you don’t gather enough seeds to suit him? The bird bounced this way and that. Whatever worries it had-kestrels, snakes, ferrets-its father wasn’t among them. Ah, little bird, you don’t know when you’re well off.

The day was warm and bright. The shutters to the upstairs windows were open, to let in air and light. They let out music: Baukis was softly singing to herself as she spun wool into thread. The song was one any girl might have sung to help make time go by while she did a job that needed doing but wasn’t very interesting. Her voice, though true enough, was nothing out of the ordinary.

Listening to her, though, made Menedemos wish his ears were plugged with wax, as Odysseus’ had been when he sailed past the sweetly singing Sirens. He clenched his fists till his nails bit into his palms. It’s always worse when I’m angry at Father… and I’m angry at him so much of the time. He fled his own house as if the Furies pursued him. And so, maybe, they did.

Sostratos bowed to Himilkon in the Phoenician’s crowded harborside warehouse. “Peace be unto you, my master,” he said in Aramaic.

“And to you also peace,” the merchant replied in the same language, returning his bow. “Your slave hopes the poor teaching he gave to you proved of some small use on your journey.”

“Indeed.” Deliberately, Sostratos nodded instead of dipping his head. “Your servant came here to give his thanks for your generous assistance.”

Himilkon raised a thick, dark eyebrow. “You speak better, much better, now than you did when you sailed for Phoenicia. Not only are you more fluent, but your accent has improved.”

“I suppose that comes from hearing and speaking the language so much,” Sostratos said, still in Aramaic. “I could not have done it, though, if you had not started me down the road.”

“You are kind, my master, more kind than you need be.” Himilkon’s face still wore that measuring expression. He scratched at his curly black beard. “Most men could not have done it at all, I think. This is especially true of Ionians, who expect everyone to know Greek and do not take kindly to the idea of learning a foreign language.”

“That is not altogether true,” Sostratos said, though he knew it was to a large degree. “Even Menedemos learned a few words while he was in Sidon.”

“Truly?” Himilkon raised that eyebrow again. “He must have met a pretty woman there, eh?”

“Well, no, or I don’t think so.” Sostratos was too honest to lie to the Phoenician. “As a matter of fact, I was the one who met a pretty woman there-in Jerusalem, not Sidon.”

“Did you? That surprises me,” Himilkon said. “I would not have guessed the Ioudaioi had any pretty women.” He didn’t bother hiding his scorn. “Did you see how strange and silly their customs are?”

“They are wild for their god, no doubt of that,” Sostratos said. “But still, my master, why worry about them? They will never amount to anything, not when they are trapped away from the sea in a small stretch of land no one else wants.”

“You can say this-you are an Ionian,” Himilkon answered. “Your people have never had much trouble with them. We Phoenicians have.”

“Tell me more, my master,” Sostratos said.

“There was the time, for instance, when a petty king among the Ioudaioi wed the daughter of the king of Sidon-Iezebel, her name was,” Himilkon said. “She wanted to keep on giving reverence to her own gods whilst she lived amongst the Ioudaioi. Did they let her? No! When she kept on trying, they killed her and fed her to their dogs. Her, the daughter of a king and the wife of a king! They fed her to the dogs! Can you imagine such a people?”

“Shocking,” Sostratos said. But it didn’t much surprise him. He could easily picture the Ioudaioi doing such a thing. He went on, “I think, though, that they will become more civilized as they deal with us Ionians.”

“Maybe,” Himilkon said: the maybe of a man too polite to say, Nonsense! to someone he liked. “I for one, though, will believe it when I see it.”

Sostratos didn’t care to argue, either, not when he’d come to thank the Phoenician for his Aramaic lessons. Bowing again, he said, “Your slave is grateful for your hearkening unto him and now must depart.”

“May the gods keep you safe,” Himilkon said, bowing back to him. Sostratos made his way out of the warehouse, past shelves piled high with treasures and others piled even higher with trash. Himilkon, no doubt, would be as passionate about selling the trash as he would the treasure. He was a merchant down to the very tips of his toes.

After the gloom inside Himilkon’s lair, the bright morning sun sparkling off the water of the Great Harbor made Sostratos blink and rub his eyes till he got used to it. He saw Menedemos talking with a carpenter over at the base of a quay a plethron or so away. Waving, he walked over toward them.

His cousin clapped the carpenter on the back, saying, “I’ll see you later, Khremes,” and came toward him. “Hail. How are you?”

“Not bad,” Sostratos answered. “Yourself?”

“I could be worse,” Menedemos said. “I could be better, but I could be worse. Were you making horrible growling and hissing noises with Himilkon?”

“I was speaking Aramaic, yes. You can’t say my learning it didn’t come in handy.”

“No, I don’t suppose I can,” Menedemos agreed. “After all, you never would have been able to seduce that innkeeper’s wife if you hadn’t been able to speak her language.”

“That isn’t what I meant,” Sostratos said. “I was talking about the beeswax and the balsam and the embroidered cloth and the help I gave you in Sidon. I think of those things, and what do you talk about? What else but a woman?”

“I’m entitled to talk about her. I didn’t go to bed with her,” Menedemos said. “I didn’t go to bed with anybody this sailing season, unless you count whores-and I wouldn’t, believe me. You were the one who had the good time.”

“It wasn’t that good a time,” Sostratos said. “It was strange and sad.”

His cousin started to sing a melancholy love song. The object of the lover’s affection in the song was a pretty boy, but that didn’t stop Menedemos. “Oh, go howl!” Sostratos said. “It wasn’t like that, either.” The lovemaking itself had been fine. He would have remembered it fondly if Zilpah hadn’t changed her mind about him the moment the two of them finished. But she had, and he couldn’t do anything about it now.

“Well, what was it like?” Menedemos asked with a leer.

To keep from having to answer, Sostratos looked out to sea. He pointed. “Hello!” he said. “What ship is that?”

Such a question would always draw a merchant skipper’s attention. Menedemos turned and looked out to sea, too, shading his eyes with the palm of his hand. “To the crows with me if that’s not the Dikaiosyne, coming back from her cruise,” he replied. “Shall we go over to the naval harbor and get a good close look at her?”

“Why not, best one?” Sostratos said, though he couldn’t help adding, “We almost got a closer look at her than we wanted while we were coming back to Rhodes.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Menedemos said. “A trihemiolia’s made to hunt pirates-that’s the whole point of the type. Of course she’s going to come up to any galley she spots and sniff around like a dog at another dog’s backside.”

“You always did have a gift for the pungent figure of speech,” Sostratos said, whereupon his cousin held his nose.

Chuckling, they walked up to the naval harbor, which lay just to the north of the Great Harbor. Like the latter, it had long moles protecting its waters from wind and weather. Shipsheds lined it, so the Rhodian naval vessels could be hauled up out of the sea, keeping their timbers dry and them light and swift. The narrower sheds sheltered pirate-hunting triremes; the wider ones warded the fives that would fight against any navy presuming to move against Rhodes.

Pointing to the Dikaiosyne, which had entered the harbor by way of the north-facing entrance, Menedemos said, “They won’t have had to build anything special for her: she’ll fit into the same shed as any trireme.”

“True.” Sostratos dipped his head. The trihemiolia put him in mind of a trireme stripped of everything that added even a drakhma’s worth of extra weight. Triremes, these days, had their projecting oarboxes, through which the upper, or thranite, oarsmen rowed, covered over with planking to protect them from arrows. Not the Dikaiosyne: hers was open. Nor was she fully decked, to let her post a maximum complement of marines. Only a narrow stretch of decking ran down her midline from foredeck to poop.

Backing oars, the Dikaiosyne’s crew positioned her just in front of a shipshed. A couple of naked slaves came out of the shed and fitted a stout cable to the ship’s sternpost. One of them turned his head and shouted back toward the shed. More slaves inside hauled at an enormous capstan. The line went taut. Little by little, the work gang hauled the trihemiolia out of the sea and up the sloping ramp inside the shipshed. The beech planking of her protective false keel scraped on the timbers of the ramp.

As soon as the ship’s stern came out of the water, the slaves at the capstan paused. Sailors and marines began leaving the Dikaiosyne, lightening her so the haulers would have an easier time. Easier, though, was a relative term; Sostratos wouldn’t have cared to bend his back and push against one of the great bars of the capstan.

He and Menedemos waved to the trihemiolia’s crew. “Hail, best ones!” Menedemos called. “How was the hunting?”

“Good,” answered a sailor who wore only a loincloth. He laughed. “As we were heading away from Rhodes, we scared the piss out of one of our own merchant galleys coming home. She looked like a pirate till we got up close. We were all set to sink her and let her crew try and swim back to Rhodes, but they had the right answers, so we let ‘em go.” He spoke with a certain rough regret.

Sostratos could laugh about it, too-now. He bowed to the sailor. “At your service, sir. We’re the toikharkhos and captain from the Aphrodite .”

“Is that so?” The fellow laughed some more as he returned the bow. “Well, I bet you’re glad we did stop and ask questions, then.”

“Oh, you might say so,” Menedemos allowed. “Yes, you just might say so. How did things go once you got to the Lykian coast?”

“Pretty well,” the sailor from the Dikaiosyne replied. “She’s fast as a galloping horse, the Justice is. We went after one hemiolia that couldn’t have been anything but a pirate. Most of the time, those bastards’ll show their heels to anything, even a trireme. But we didn’t just keep up-we gained on her. Finally, the fellow in charge beached her. The pirates aboard her ran for the woods and got away, but we sent men ashore and burned the ship.”

“Euge!” Sostratos said. “To the crows-to the cross-with pirates.”

“Pity you couldn’t have burned them, too,” Menedemos added.

“We sank a couple of others, and many goodbyes to the whipworthy rogues they carried,” the sailor said. “Whoever came up with the notion for the Dikaiosyne was a pretty clever fellow, let me tell you. And now farewell, friends-I’m off for some wine and a go or two at a boy brothel.” With a wave and a smile, he hurried away.

“Well, you pretty clever fellow, what do you think of that?” Sostratos asked.

“I like it,” Menedemos said. “Let the pirates beware, by the gods. Here’s a ship they can’t hope to fight, and one that can hunt them down even when they try to run. I hope we build a fleet of trihemioliai, a big fleet. It’d make things a lot safer for merchant skippers. What do you think, my dear?”

“I’m with you,” Sostratos answered. “With any luck at all, your name will live forever-and deserve to.”

He expected his cousin to strut even more after that. He didn’t praise Menedemos every day. When he did, Menedemos had to know he meant it, and to be sure such praise was well deserved. But Menedemos, as it happened, wasn’t thinking about him just then. With a sigh, he said, “I could be as famous as Alexander, and it wouldn’t be enough to suit my father. He’d stay convinced nobody’d ever heard of me.”

“You must exaggerate,” Sostratos said. “It can’t be so bad as that.”

“As a matter of fact, it can be worse than that. It can be-and it is,” Menedemos said.

“That’s… unfortunate,” Sostratos said. “And you didn’t give him anything to complain about this sailing season. See what a handy thing your oath was?”

“Oh, yes.” But that was sarcasm from his cousin, not agreement. “He started railing at the whole younger generation, not just at me.”

“Why did he start railing at the-?” Sostratos broke off. “You told him about Zilpah?” he asked in dismay.

“I’m afraid I did, O best one. I’m sorry. Part of me is sorry, anyhow. He was holding you up for a paragon, and I wanted to show him you were made of flesh and blood, too, not cast from bronze or carved in marble. But that wasn’t the lesson he drew. I suppose I should have known it wouldn’t be.”

“Yes, you should have.” For a moment, Sostratos was furious. He discovered he couldn’t hold on to his anger, though. “Never mind. It can’t be helped, and it’s not as if you told him about anything I didn’t do.” He kicked at a pebble with the side of his foot. “I understand the temptation now, where I never did before. To have a woman want you enough to give herself to you regardless of the risk-that’s a powerful lure. No wonder you enjoy fishing in those waters.”

“No wonder at all,” Menedemos agreed. “In fishing, though, you eat what you catch. With women, if you like, what you catch eats you.”

Sostratos made a face at him. “I should have known better. Here I was trying to tell you I’d found some sympathy for what you’ve been doing, and what do I get for it? A lewd pun, that’s what. I think all your Aristophanes has gone to your head-or somewhere.”

“Why, whatever can you mean, my dear?” Menedemos asked archly. Sostratos made another face. Menedemos went on in a more serious vein: “You’re right, though. That’s what makes wives more fun than whores- they really want it. Anybody can buy a whore’s twat. Wives are different. Some wives are, anyhow.”

“True enough. Some wives stay loyal to their husbands.”

“Well, yes, but those aren’t the ones I meant,” Menedemos said. “Some wives’ll give it away to just about anybody, too. They aren’t worth having. That horrid Harpy of an Emashtart…” He shuddered. “You had the luck with women this trip, believe me.”

“Mine wasn’t all good,” Sostratos said.

“Mine was just about all bad,” Menedemos said. “I could make it better, but-” He tossed his head.

“What do you mean?” Sostratos asked.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Not a thing,” Menedemos answered quickly.

He was lying. Sostratos had no doubt of that. But, whatever the truth was, his cousin wouldn’t give it to him.

A delicious smell came from the kitchen. Menedemos drifted toward it, sniffing like a hunting dog on the trail of a hare. He stuck his nose in the door. “What is that?” he asked the cook. “Whatever it is, you’ve outdone yourself.”

“Thanks, young master,” Sikon answered. “Nothing fancy-just prawns baked with a little oil and cumin and some leeks.”

“ ‘Nothing fancy,’ he says.” Menedemos came all the way in. “If the gods had you for a cook, they’d be better-natured than they are.”

“That’s kind of you-mighty kind.” Sikon scooped a prawn, still in its shell, off the clay baking dish and handed it to Menedemos. “Here. Why don’t you try one? Supper won’t be for a little while yet, and I expect you’re hungry.”

“Starving,” Menedemos agreed. As it often did, flattery had its reward. Holding the prawn by the tail, he left the kitchen. He paused just outside to peel off the shell and take a big bite, then sighed ecstatically. It tasted as good as it smelled. He could imagine no higher praise. Another bite got him down to the tail. He took the prawn by the very end, bit gently, and pulled it away from his mouth. The flesh stuck in the tail came free. Savoring the last delicious morsel, he tossed the empty tail to the ground next to the rest of the shell.

“I hope you enjoyed that.”

By the way Baukis sounded, she hoped Menedemos would have choked on the prawn. “Oh. Hail,” he told his father’s young wife. All of a sudden, the treat didn’t seem nearly so sweet and succulent. He went on, “I didn’t notice you come into the courtyard.”

“I’m sure of that.” She sounded chillier yet. “You had your eyes closed while you slobbered over your seafood.”

That stung. “I don’t slobber,” Menedemos said. “And it was good. You’ll see for yourself-supper won’t be long.”

“I’m sure Sikon gave you that prawn from the goodness of his heart.”

Menedemos wondered where Baukis, who was very young and who, like any woman of good family, had led a sheltered life, had learned such irony. “Well, why else?” he asked.

“To keep you sweet, that’s why!” Baukis flared. “As long as you get little tidbits every now and then, you don’t care how much they cost. Your tongue is happy, your tummy’s happy, and to the crows with everything else.”

“That’s not fair,” he said uncomfortably. Was Sikon devious enough to do such a thing? Easily. The next question Menedemos asked himself was harder. Am I foolish enough to fall for a ploy like that? He sighed. The answer to that looked to be the same as the one before: easily.

“You’re right-that’s not fair, but what can I do about it?” Baukis looked and sounded on the edge of tears. “If the slaves in my own house won’t obey me, am I a wife or just a child? And if no one else in the family will back me against a slave, am I even a child, or only a slave myself?”

Her words held a painful amount of truth-certainly painful to her. But Menedemos said, “My dear, you’ll find yourself without allies if you pick the wrong fight. I’m afraid that’s what’s happened here. We really can afford to eat well, so why shouldn’t we?”

She stared at him, then did start to cry. “Oh! You hate me! Everyone hates me!” she stormed. She spun away from him and rushed toward the stairs. Up she went. A moment later, the door to the women’s quarters slammed.

“Oh, a pestilence,” Menedemos muttered. Now he was liable to end up with not only Baukis but also his father angry at him. Philodemos could find any excuse for getting in a temper against him, but Baukis… He muttered some more. Having her dash away from him was the last thing he wanted-even if it may be the best and safest thing for you, he told himself.

That slamming door brought his father out into the courtyard. “By the gods, what now?” Philodemos asked, scowling.

Despite that scowl, Menedemos knew a certain amount of relief that he could be the first to tell his father what had happened. If Philodemos listened to Baukis first, he probably wouldn’t heed anyone else afterwards. Menedemos summarized what had led to Baukis’ abrupt departure. When he finished, he waited for Philodemos to start railing at him.

But all Philodemos did was slowly dip his head. “Well, maybe it’s for the best,” he said.

“Sir?” Menedemos gaped, hardly believing his ears.

“Maybe it’s for the best,” Philodemos repeated. “Her quarrel with Sikon’s been going on far too long. I didn’t want to stick my nose into it; one or the other of them would have bitten it off. But maybe she’ll pay attention to you. She takes you seriously, though I’m sure I can’t imagine why.”

“Thank you so much,” Menedemos murmured. His father couldn’t possibly praise him without stirring some vinegar in with the honey. Even so, he was glad to learn Baukis did take him seriously.

She didn’t come downstairs for supper. Sikon sent some of the prawns up to her, along with fine white barley rolls for sitos and a cup of wine. When the slave woman brought back the dish without a prawn left on it, the cook looked almost unbearably smug. Menedemos was tempted to smack him. Even Philodemos noticed, and said, “Gloating isn’t a good idea.”

However harsh he was with his own son, he was usually mild to the cook. Sikon got the point. “All right, master-I’ll remember,” he promised.

“See that you do,” Philodemos said.

Clouds drifting down from the north not only warned of the beginning of the autumn rains but also brought darkness sooner than it would have come with good weather. Menedemos was just as glad to be back in Rhodes. He wouldn’t have wanted to try steering the Aphrodite through rain and fog and light murky at best. He tossed his head. No, he wouldn’t have wanted that at all. Too easy to end up aground before you even knew you were in trouble.

Yawning, he went upstairs to bed. These longer nights made him want to curl up like a dormouse and sleep and sleep. But he hadn’t drifted off when his father came upstairs, too. Philodemos went into the women’s quarters. A few minutes later, the bed there started creaking rhythmically.

Menedemos pulled his himation up over his head to smother the noise. No good. After a while, it stopped. After a much longer while, he slept.

He woke before sunrise the next morning and tiptoed down to the kitchen for some barley rolls, olive oil, and wine to break his fast, then sat down on a bench in the courtyard to eat. He managed a wry chuckle when his gaze went to the stairs. After the exertions of the night before, how late would his father sleep?

That thought had hardly occurred to him when he heard footsteps on the stairs. But it wasn’t his father coming down; it was Baukis. She paused in the doorway when she saw Menedemos up before her. For a moment, he thought she would withdraw. After a brief pause, though, she came out. “Hail,” she said, and, after gathering herself, “Good day.”

“Good day,” he answered gravely. “How are you?”

“Well.” Baukis thought about that, then made a slight correction: “Well enough.”

“I’m glad,” Menedemos said, as if he hadn’t heard the correction. He didn’t want to keep up a fight with her. “The rolls from yesterday’s baking are still very good,” he offered. No matter what she thought about Sikon’s choices for opson, she couldn’t very well complain about the sitos… could she?

She came close. “Are they?” she said tonelessly. Menedemos dipped his head. She let out a small sigh. “All right,” she murmured, and went into the kitchen to get her own breakfast.

When she came out again, Menedemos shifted on the bench to give her more room to sit down. She hesitated but did. She poured out a small libation from her cup of wine before tearing off a chunk from a barley roll, dipping it in oil, and eating it.

Sikon came out of his little downstairs room just then. “Good day, young master,” he said, “Good day, mistress.” Whatever he thought about Baukis, he remembered Philodemos’ warning and kept it to himself.

“Hail,” Menedemos said. He wondered if Baukis would scold the cook for not being up before her and hard at work. She seldom missed a chance to fuel their feud.

But all she said this morning was, “Good day, Sikon.” Looking both surprised and relieved-he’d evidently expected a snarl from her, too- Sikon hurried into the kitchen. Pots clattered. Firewood thumped. Baukis let out what was unmistakably a snort of laughter. “He’s showing off how busy he is.”

“Well, yes,” Menedemos agreed. The cook didn’t have to make half that much noise.

Baukis thought the same thing. “He really is an old fraud, you know.”

“Well-yes,” Menedemos said again. “But he really is a good cook, too, you know.”

“I suppose so,” Baukis said grudgingly. She sipped from her wine. “I don’t like quarreling with you.”

“I’ve never like quarreling with you,” Menedemos said, which was nothing but the truth.

“Good.” Baukis ate some more of her barley roll. “This is good, too,” she admitted, licking crumbs and a smear of oil from her fingertips with a couple of quick strokes from the tip of her tongue.

Menedemos watched, entranced. “Yes, it is, isn’t it?” he said, a heartbeat slower than he should have. He might have been talking about the barley roll. On the other hand, he might not have been.

Baukis, to his relief, chose to answer as if he was: “Sikon is almost as good with sitos as he is with opson.”

“You shouldn’t tell me that,” Menedemos said. She raised an eyebrow in surprise. “By the gods, Baukis, you shouldn’t,” he insisted. “You should go right into the kitchen and tell Sikon to his face.”

She didn’t have to think about that, but dipped her head at once. “You’re right-I should. I should, and I will.” She got to her feet and strode into the kitchen as a hoplite might have gone into battle. Menedemos, though, wouldn’t have watched a hoplite striding into battle in anything like the same way.

He had trouble reading her expression when she came out again. “Well?” he asked.

“He asked me how much wine I’d had, and if I’d bothered putting any water in it at all. That man!” Baukis looked as if she didn’t know whether to be furious or to burst out laughing. After a moment, laughter won.

“What’s so funny?” Philodemos called from the bottom of the stairs.

Menedemos got to his feet. “Hail, Father.”

“Good day, sir,” Baukis added, prim as a young wife should have been.

“What’s so funny?” Menedemos’ father asked again. Baukis explained. Philodemos listened, then chuckled. “Let me understand you, my dear,” he said after a moment. “You went in to Sikon and told him this? And then he said that to you?”

“That’s right, sir,” Baukis answered. “It was Menedemos’ idea.”

“Was it?” Menedemos’ father gave him a long look. “Well, good for you,” he said at last. “Good for both of you, in fact. High time everyone remembers we’re all living in the same house here.” He went into the kitchen to get his own breakfast.

“Thank you, Menedemos,” Baukis said quietly.

“Why?” he said. “I didn’t do anything-you did.” He smiled at her. She smiled back, looking as happy as he’d seen her since she came into the household.

Philodemos walked out munching on a roll, a cup of wine in his other hand. “Did I tell you, son, I’m going to a symposion at Xanthos’ tonight?” he said. “You’re invited, too, if you care to come along.”

“No, thanks,” Menedemos said at once, miming an enormous yawn.

Philodemos chuckled again. “I told his slave I was pretty sure you had another engagement,” he said, “but I did think I’d let you know about it. The wine and the food and the entertainers will be good.”

“No doubt, sir, but the price is listening to one of Xanthos’ windy speeches, or maybe more than one,” Menedemos replied. “That’s more than I care to pay, thank you very much. And with Sikon in the kitchen, the food here will be good, too.”

“So it will,” Baukis agreed, sounding as if she really was working hard to give the cook proper credit. Menedemos wondered how long that would last, but was willing, even eager, to enjoy it while it did.

Philodemos looked pleased, too. He’d seemed cheerful ever since he got up, unusually so. Menedemos recalled the creaking bed the night before. “All right, then,” his father said. “I’ve done my duty-I’ve told you about the symposion. Past that, it’s up to you.”

“Thank you for giving me so much sea room.” Menedemos meant it; his father more often preferred to bark orders than to let him make his own choices. Ordering him to Xanthos’ would have gone a bit far, even for Philodemos, but it wouldn’t have been out of the question. Knowing as much, Menedemos tried to be thoughtful, too: “I wish it were the season for cabbage, to help you with your headache tomorrow.”

“The only thing that really helps one of those headaches is a little more wine, if your stomach can stand it,” his father said. But then, as he seldom did, he realized he was turning down kind words from Menedemos, and checked himself. “Thanks,” he added gruffly. “Raw cabbage is better than nothing; I will say that.”

Dressed in his best chiton (but still barefoot, as befit a man who’d spent a good many years at sea himself), Philodemos went off to Xanthos’ house late that afternoon. Menedemos knew he’d come reeling home sometime in the middle of the night, a beribboned wreath on his hand, songs on his lips, and a torchbearer or two lighting his way through the dark streets of Rhodes.

And here I am staying home, Menedemos thought. Which of us, is the old man and which the young? Then he reminded himself where his father was going. He’d used the right word in describing those speeches. More winds lurked in Xanthos’ house than in the oxhide sack King Aiolos had given to Odysseus to help him make his way homeward-and they would all come out tonight, too. Menedemos laughed. Sure enough, he liked his choice better than his father’s.

He was pretty sure he had a better supper than his father’s, too, no matter what Xanthos’ cook turned out. Sikon brought a fine stingray back from the market. He baked it Sicilian style, with cheese and silphium from Kyrene. He’d also baked some light, fluffy bread of wheat flour for sitos. Replete, Menedemos said, “This is luxury the Great Kings of Persia couldn’t top.”

The cook leaned toward him and said, “And your father’s wife didn’t grumble about the fish, either. You ask me, that’s the best luxury of all.”

After supper, with night already fallen, Menedemos went up to his bedroom. But a full belly didn’t make him sleepy, as it often did. He tossed and turned for a while, then put on his chiton again and went back downstairs to the courtyard to wait for his father. He could tease him about how drunk he was and boast of the lovely ray Philodemos had missed.

Everything was dark and cool and quiet. Sikon and the other slaves had long since gone to sleep. Blowing clouds drifted past the moon, hiding it more often than not, though the rain still held off. A nightjar flew past overhead; its croaking call put Menedemos in mind of a frog. An owl hooted in the distance. Even farther off, a dog barked, and then another.

Menedemos yawned. Now that he was out of bed, he felt like getting back into it. Laughing at himself, he started toward the stairs. Then he stopped in surprise, for someone else was coming down to the courtyard.

Seeing his motion, Baukis stopped in surprise, too, right at the foot of the stairway. “Who’s there?” she called quietly, and then, as the moon came out from behind one of those clouds, “Oh. Is that you, Menedemos? I was going to wait for your father.”

“So was I,” he answered. “We can wait together, if you like. We’ll keep each other awake-I was getting sleepy out here by myself.”

“All right.” Baukis walked over to the bench in the courtyard. “Aren’t you cold in just your chiton?” she asked. “I’m chilly, and I’ve got a mantle on.”

“Not me,” he said, sitting down beside her. “You can always spot a sailor in a crowd. He’ll be the barefoot fellow who never bothers with a himation. The only reason I take a mantle aboard the Aphrodite is to use it for a blanket when I sleep aboard ship.”

“Oh,” she said. That owl hooted again. Another cloud slid in front of the moon. She looked toward the entrance. “I wonder how long it will be before Philodemos comes home.”

“Probably a good while yet,” said Menedemos, who had considerable experience of symposia. “Xanthos isn’t the type to order a strong mix to the wine, so people will have to do a lot of drinking before they get properly drunk.”

“And before he brings out the flute-girls and the dancing girls and the acrobats or whoever else he’s hired from the brothelkeeper.” Baukis’ voice stayed quiet, but she couldn’t keep a snarl from it.

“Well, yes.” Menedemos knew he sounded uncomfortable. “That’s what men do at symposia.”

“I know.” Baukis packed the two words with devastating scorn.

Any answer would have been worse than none. Menedemos didn’t even shrug. The moon came out again. Its pale light showed Baukis angrily staring down at the ground between her feet. Something small skittered, over by the andron. Her head swung toward it. So did Menedemos’. “Just a mouse,” he said.

“I suppose so,” she said, and then, hunching her shoulders a little, “I am cold.”

Before he thought, he slipped an arm around her. She sighed and slid closer to him. The next moment, they were kissing, his hands stroking her hair, her hand caressing his cheek, the soft, firm flesh of her breasts pressed maddeningly against him.

And, the moment after that, they flew apart as if each found the other red-hot. “We can’t,” Baukis gasped.

“We don’t dare,” Menedemos agreed. His heart thudded hard in his chest. “But oh, darling, how I want to!”

“So do-” Baukis tossed her head. She wasn’t going to admit that, perhaps not even to herself. She changed course: “I know you do, dear Mene-” She tossed her head again. “I know you do. But we can’t. We mustn’t. The scandal! I’m trying to be-I want to be-a proper wife to your father. And if anyone sees us… If anyone saw us…” She looked around in alarm.

“I know,” Menedemos said grimly. “Oh, by the gods, how I know. And I know it isn’t right, and I know-” He sprang to his feet and ran up the stairs, taking them two and three at a time even in the dark, careless of a stumble. He shut the door to his room and barred it, as if to lock temptation away. But it was there inside with him, inside him, and now that he knew it dwelt in his father’s wife, too…

He lay down again, but he didn’t sleep. Quite a while later, Philodemos came home. Baukis greeted him as if nothing at all were wrong. Menedemos knew he would have to do the same in the morning. It wouldn’t be easy. He also knew that, knew it all too well. From now on, nothing in the world would be easy.