“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.
Once Onetor had left, Menedemos told Phainias, “I don’t think we’ll last much longer, either.” Sostratos’ yawn showed he agreed.
“Here-we’ve got beds waising for you, most noble ones,” the Rhodian proxenos said. “Come with me, and I’ll show you.” He took a lamp off its chain to light his way to the back part of the house. Menedemos and Sostratos followed. Menedemos planted his feet with care, not wanting to step in a hole he didn’t see and fall down. Phainias pointed ahead. “These two rooms here.”
Menedemos suspected they’d been storerooms till the Mytilenean’s slaves brought in the beds. That didn’t bother him. Phainias was doing the Rhodians a favor by putting them up at all. He wasn’t an innkeeper; he didn’t have guests often enough to keep rooms permanently ready for them.
Now lamplight spilled out from under the doors. Phainias said, “The night’s a little on the chilly side, my friends, so I hope you sleep warm. I’ll see you in the morning.”
He headed for the stairs. “Which room do you want?” Menedemos asked Sostratos.
“I’ll take the one on the left,” his cousin answered, and went in.
When Menedemos opened the other door, he wasn’t surprised to find a slave woman sitting on the bed. He did grin to find he’d ended up with the woman he’d noticed before. “Hail, sweetheart,” he said. “Are you supposed to help me sleep warm?”
“That’s right, sir,” she answered, her Aiolic accent flavored with something else-she wasn’t a Hellene by birth.
“What’s your name?” Menedemos asked.
“People here call me Kleis,” she said. “It will do. I’m used to it. They can’t say the one I was born with.”
She would have come from somewhere on the Anatolian mainland, Menedemos guessed. She had a round face, a strong nose, very black hair and eyes, a bit of dark down on her upper lip. He thought she was two or three years older than he-just on the other side of thirty.
“Well, Kleis,” Menedemos said, “is it all right?” Some slave women hated giving themselves to men. Menedemos knew a few men who enjoyed taking them all the more because they hated it. To him, they were more trouble than they were worth.
But Kleis nodded-another proof she was no Hellene. “Yes, it’s all right,” she said. “What else have I got to do for fun?” She stood up and pulled her long chiton off over her head. Her breasts were full and heavy, with big, dark nipples.
Menedemos took off his tunic and bent his head to them-first one, then the other. She made a small, wordless noise, down in her throat. Smiling, Menedemos straightened. “I hope it’ll be fun.” He slid an arm around her waist, which was surprisingly slim. “Let’s find out.” They lay down on the bed together.