His father sniffed. 'That's why I left those details to you. I was sure you would know all about them.' 'And why not?' Menedemos said with a smile. 'I'd rather laugh at Aristophanes and drink some wine and boff a flutegirl than sit around moping and wishing I'd get sent into exile so I could have the time to write history, the way my cousin does.' He snapped his fingers. 'Where was I? Oh, the acrobat. Her name is Phylainis, and I saw her perform before I told Gyllis to send her. She can twist herself up like a braided loaf of bread. You could probably find ways to do it with her that'd break a regular woman in half.' 'Gods preserve an estate from a cockproud son,' Philodemos said. 'You'll spend it all on flutegirls and acrobats, and leave your son nothing but debts to call his own.' 'May you live many years, Father,' Menedemos said. 'I'm in no hurry to inherit anything. And I'm still years younger than you were when you married the first time, so I'm going to enjoy myself a little.' Philodemos raised his eyes to the heavens. 'What is this new generation coming to? It's not worth half of mine.' His generation included Alexander the Great. He was, no doubt, about to say as much. Menedemos forestalled him: 'Nestor complained about the new generation in the Iliad, too, but they were heroes even so.' 'The older I get, the more sense I think Nestor makes,' his father answered. 'And as for you, it's a wonder you're not singing the praises of Thersites.' 'Homer makes Thersites a loudmouthed fool,' Menedemos said. Then, seeing the gleam in his father's eye, he retreated in a hurry. Sostratos wrapped his himation around himself and over his left shoulder. He peered down, trying to study the effect. He was hoping for philosophical; his beard would help there. But a true philosopher wouldn't have worn a tunic under the himation, or else wouldn't have put the wrap on over a chiton. Sokrates had gone about in nothing but his tunic in all kinds of weather. Sostratos shrugged. He wasn't Sokrates. He felt the chill. Someone knocked on the door. His father: Lysistratos said, 'Are you ready?' 'Yes, Father.' Sostratos opened the door. His father inspected him like an officer looking over a soldier in his phalanx. Sostratos flushed. 'I won't disgrace us.' 'No, of course not,' Lysistratos said, though he didn't sound completely convinced. 'Come on, it's sundown. Let's grab a torch and go on over to my brother's.' They needed the torch; this late in the month, the moon wouldn't rise until a little before sunup. More guests, also carrying torches, were rapping on Philodemos' door as they walked up. One of the men turned to Sostratos and Lysistratos and said, 'Hail, best ones. Is it you that bought peafowl from Himilkon the Phoenician?' 'I didn't, Lykon,' Lysistratos answered. 'My son made the bargain, along with his cousin Menedemos.'
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