Over the Wine Dark Sea

he doing? Selling wine and silk and peafowl and papyrus and perfume.   You're traveling, he told himself. Herodotos traveled all over the world so he could learn things at first hand, and Thoukydides went all over Hellas and got to know men on both sides of the Peloponnesian War. If you don't see things and come to know about people, your history can't possibly be any good.   That was some consolation, but only some. To keep Menedemos from knowing what was in his mind -  and perhaps to keep himself from dwelling on it, too -  Sostratos said, 'I'm going over to the market square myself.'   'You just want to make me keep an eye on the peafowl for a while,' Menedemos said, which also held some truth. But Sostratos' cousin slapped him on the back. 'Go on, then. I don't blame you. You had charge of them all the way from Rhodes to here.'   Taras' agora lay a few blocks south of the rented house, close by the Ionian Sea -  the Tarentines called it the Big Sea, in contrast to the Little Sea that was their sheltered harbor lagoon. Fishermen sold their wares there. So did potters and weavers and cobblers and netmakers and all the other sorts of craftsmen who worked in the city. And so did merchants from other Hellenic poleis and Italians from the interior with wool and tanned hides and honey and other products of the countryside.   Some of the customers were Italians, too. A good many of them wore tunics and mantles like Hellenes, and couldn't be told from Tarentines till they opened their mouths and spoke Greek with an accent. Others, though . . . In the midst of calling out the wares the Aphrodite had brought from Rhodes, Sostratos broke off and asked one of them, 'Excuse me, sir, but what do you call that garment you're wearing over your chiton?'   'It is called a toga,' the Italian answered in good Greek. 'I am a freeborn citizen, so I have the right to wear it.'   'I see. Thank you,' Sostratos said. 'Do you mind my asking how you wear it?'   'You Hellenes are always curious, and about the strangest things, too.' The Italian's eyes twinkled. 'Well, why not? You ask politely enough, I must say.' He pulled off the toga and displayed it for Sostratos in his outstretched arms.   'What an unusual shape for a piece of cloth,' Sostratos exclaimed. 'We Hellenes just use rectangles, which are simple. This is . . . a broad octagon, except that two of the sides are curved instead of straight. Now I have another question: why do you wear such an oddly shaped mantle?'   'It's our custom,' the stranger replied with a shrug. 'Many people here in Italy wear the toga. We Samnites do, and so do the Lucanians, and even our enemies the Romans farther north. As for how we wear it . . .'   He folded the toga in half at its broadest point, then draped it over his left shoulder so that one corner was level with his left foot. He wrapped the rest of the garment over his back under his right arm, and back over his left shoulder again, then slowly turned so Sostratos could see how the enormous mantle covered him.   'Thank you very much,' Sostratos told him. 'I hope you will not mind if I say a himation seems much less . . . cumbersome.'   'No, I don't mind,' the Samnite answered. 'I often wear a himation myself. But I am Herennius Egnatius, a man of some importance among my people, and so I sometimes wear the toga to show who and what I am.'