Over the Wine Dark Sea

'I do,' their host said. 'No, it's not here -  it's in Akragas, on the south coast of Sicily. The symposiasts got so drunk, they thought they were in a storm at sea, and started throwing furniture out the windows to lighten ship. When people heard the racket, they came by to see what was going on and started carrying off couches and tables and chairs, and the fellow whose house it was had a nasty time getting things back once he sobered up.' He grinned. 'That's what I call a symposion.'   He didn't seem to mind Krates' ordering strong wine. Back in Hellas, the Italiotes had a reputation for debauchery. Sostratos still looked primly unhappy. Menedemos enjoyed his father's symposia, but he enjoyed the wilder kind, too. Looking back to his cousin as the slaves mixed the wine, he said, 'I don't think you'll have to remember your Euripides tonight.'   'Probably not,' Sostratos agreed, 'though his verses ransomed some of the Athenians the Syracusans captured in the Peloponnesian War.'   Instead of the long-dead past, Menedemos thought about the cup of potent wine Gylippos' slave -  a short, broad-shouldered Italian -  handed to him. Before drinking, he paused to admire the kylix. Its pure shape argued for the Athens of a hundred years before, but the yellow and purple glaze accompanying the usual red, white, and black and its obvious newness said otherwise. He nodded to Krates. 'A work from your establishment?'   'Why, yes, as a matter of fact,' the potter answered with a pleased smile. 'How good of you to guess.'   'It's nicely done,' Menedemos said. Krates hadn't bought a peahen today, but he might come back.   He smiled again. 'Thank you.' He tasted the wine. His eyebrows rose. 'Oh, this is very fine. I'm fond of the local vintages -  don't get me wrong -  but this makes them seem like vinegar by comparison. If you don't mind my asking, what did Gylippos pay?'   'Sostratos?' Menedemos said; he didn't know himself.   'I don't mind at all,' his cousin said. 'He paid forty-eight drakhmai the amphora.'   Menedemos waited for Krates to wince. And Krates did, but not too badly. 'That's steep,' he said, but then he sipped again. 'I can see why he paid it, though.' A couple of other symposiasts also made enthusiastic noises.   'You'll understand, O best one, it wasn't cheap for us at Khios,' Menedemos said, 'and the one drawback of a merchant galley, of course, is the high cost of the crew's wages. I really don't see how I can come down.' He'd sold for less at Cape Tainaron, but Tainaron was a good deal closer to Khios. And the Tarentines didn't need to know what he'd sold it for there.   Two flutegirls came in, one with a single flute, one with a double. They both wore short tunics of thin, gauzy linen. Before they began to play, Menedemos called out to them: 'Hail, girls! Who's your master? He might want to know I've got fine Koan silk for sale, so transparent the men'd be wondering if you were wearing anything at all. You'd probably get some extra tips for yourselves that way, too.'   'We belong to a man named Lamakhos, sir,' replied the girl with the double flute. 'You can find him not far from Poseidon's temple.' She sighed. 'I'd like to wear silk.'