“Nice to meet you, Rhodians,” Onetor said. His voice was deep, too, but not quite so deep as Onesimos’. He dipped his head to Phainias. “And very nice of you to invite me. We should get to know each other better.”
“Just what I was thinking,” Phainias replied. “And supper and wine and maybe some business thrown in make a pleasant excuse for doing exactly that.”
“We might do business ourselves, you know, you and I,” Onetor said. “Truffles can give olive oil their flavor if they soak in it.”
“That’s an interessing thought,” Phainias said.
“That is an interesting thought.” Menedemos and Sostratos spoke together. Menedemos wondered how much rich, jaded Athenians might pay for oil with such an exotic flavoring. Sostratos must have been thinking the same thing, for he said, “We might do business with you, too, Phainias.”
“I’d like that, best one-as long as you don’t haggle too hard.” The proxenos chuckled. The slave woman at whom Menedemos had smiled brought in a tray with loaves of wheat bread on it. He smiled again. She gave him a quick smile in return as she set a loaf on the low table in front of his couch. Phainias said, “That can wait, though. For now, we should enjoy our supper without worrying about such things.” Another slave set bowls of oil on the table to go with the sitos.
Like any Hellene with manners, Menedemos and Sostratos ate bread with their left hands. Sostratos said, “Good oil, most noble one-and I know a little about what makes good oil, for my sister’s husband exports it from Rhodes.”
But not this year, not with us, Menedemos thought.
“I wouldn’t give guests anything but my best,” Phainias said.
“Very good oil,” Onetor agreed. “If you were to steep truffles in an amphora or two of this oil, you could pour it into little lekythoi afterwards, and sell each one for a nice price.”
“So you could.” Menedemos gave the Mytilenean a thoughtful nod. “Meeting you may be a profitable pleasure for all of us.”
“You certainly know the right words to say.” Onetor seemed less intense than Onesimos, who concentrated on his food to the exclusion of everything else. “Kaloi k’agathoi look down their noses at profit, but the world would grind to a halt without it, and soon, too.”
“My cousin and I were saying the same thing not long ago,” Sostratos said.
“Just because you’ve got a fancy pedigree, that doesn’t mean you’re not a fool,” Onetor said.
“Here comes the opson,” Phainias said. If anything could distract from talk of profit, that was likely to do the trick. As a slave brought in a big tray, the proxenos went on, “Kandaules has baked belly-pieces from a lovely great tunny he bought at the fish market this afternoon.”
“Oh, Demeter.” Onesimos could speak after all-and reverently, too.
“I wish I were like that fellow from Kythera,” Menedemos said. “What’s his name, Sostratos? You know the one I mean-the chap who used to stick his hand in boiling water and drink hot things all the time so he could snatch opson from the platter and eat it when it was still too hot for anybody else to touch.”
“Philoxenos,” Sostratos said.
“Philoxenos! That’s who he was, all right,” Menedemos said. “You must be doing well for yourself, Phainias-there’s some poet or other who says belly-pieces from a fat tunny are something a poor man never sees.”
“That’s Eriphos, I think.” Sostratos came up with the name even when Menedemos hadn’t asked for it.
Phainias said, “I am doing pretty well for myself, thanks. Good of you to nosice.” Few Hellenes who were doing well hid it or failed to boast of it. The only reason Menedemos could see for modesty was fooling a tax-collector.
Savory steam rose from the tunny. Menedemos didn’t-quite- burn his hand when he took a piece from the platter. He didn’t- quite-burn his mouth when he tasted it. When he said, “Mm, that’s good,” he did talk with his mouth full. All the other compliments that rose were similarly muffled, so he knew not the least embarrassment. The only complaint he might have made was that he got a little less tunny than he would have liked. But he understood that, too: Kandaules suddenly had to feed more guests than he’d expected.
But then a slave came in with a bowl of stewed eels wrapped in beet leaves, and he stopped worrying about getting enough opson. Sostratos said, “Surely Rhodes has no finer proxenos in any polis around the Inner Sea!” He was talking with his mouth full again, but nobody seemed to mind.
A honey cake sprinkled with walnuts finished the supper. Onetor said, “You’re a prince of hospitality, Phainias. You can put me in a cart and roll me home, because I’ve eaten too much to walk.”
“Glad you enjoyed it, my friends,” Phainias said as the slaves cleared away what little hadn’t been eaten. They brought in wine and water and the mixing bowl once more.
“Did you get that jar from me?” Onesimos asked.
“Of course, best one,” Phainias said. “Would I serve anything else? Before supper, the Rhodians and I were drinking one-to-two. Does that please you?”
Onesimos dipped his head. Onetor said, “Anything stronger and rolling me home wouldn’t do. You’d have to carry me instead.”
Since it wasn’t a formal symposion, they didn’t bother with the small taste of neat wine first or the prayer to Dionysos that went with it. There were no flute-girls or other entertainers. The Rhodians and Mytileneans just drank and talked and drank and talked. Phainias’ slaves poured wine for them, kept the mixing bowl full, and added oil to the lamps.
Much of the talk, not surprisingly, revolved around politics. Phainias and Onetor admired Antigonos, whose garrison held Lesbos. Onesimos, by his occasional comments, despised all the Macedonian marshals. “Unfortunately, they won’t go away,” Sostratos said.
“Maybe they’ll all kill each other off, with not one of them left alive,” Onesimos said. “Gods grant it be so.”
“Even if it is, some cousin or lieutenant general will rally their armies, and the wheel will start to turn again,” Sostratos predicted. “Such things will go on as long as there are men and battles.” That made Onesimos look more dour than ever.
It didn’t make Menedemos particularly happy, either, but he thought his cousin was right. He said, “I wish I could like Antigonos more than I do.”
“He’s the best of the Macedonians, far and away,” Phainias said.
“It could be, most noble one, and I would not quarrel with my host even if his kindness were far less than you’ve shown Sostratos and me,” Menedemos said. “Still, I’d be lying if I said I was altogether happy with old One-Eye. He’s too friendly with pirates to let a seaman be comfortable praising him.”
“They don’t trouble us,” Onetor said.
That was the answer, right there in a nutshell. Menedemos knew as much. The Mytileneans overlooked evil that didn’t touch them. But then he realized he and Sostratos did the same thing. He hadn’t worried much about brigands on land till his cousin had to cross Phoenicia and Ioudaia to get to Engedi by the Lake of Asphalt. Thinking about troubles that didn’t usually touch one was more trouble than it was worth for most people.
After a while, Onesimos got to his feet, saying, “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Rhodians. I hope we can do some business. I’d better head on home now.” Gait a little unsteady, he made his way toward the front door.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Phainias spoke in a low voice: “His wife nags him if he stays out too late.”
Onetor chuckled. “My brother’s wife nags him even if he doesn’t stay out too late. From what he says, that’s all she ever does.”
“I wonder what she would say,” Sostratos remarked.
“Who cares?” Onetor said. “She’s only a woman, after all.” He drained his cup. “I’d better go home, too, though, while I sill remember the way.”
“Shall I send a slave along with a torch?” Phainias asked.