Over the Wine Dark Sea

That'd be all we need.'   Menedemos made as if to spit into his bosom again, but refrained. 'Go on in,' he said. 'We'll eat, then we'll drink, and we'll have fun with the flutegirls and the acrobat. And tomorrow is another day, and we'll drink our morning wine fast and eat raw cabbage to ease our sore heads.'   To Sostratos' way of thinking, the best way to ease back into things after a night of excess was to drink well-watered wine the next day. That didn't seem to cross Menedemos' mind. Sostratos' cousin had never been one to do things by halves.   'Go on in, boys, go on in,' Telephos said. 'If you stand in the doorway, a hefty fellow like me can't squeeze by.' He patted his paunch and wheezed laughter.   If you spent more time at the gymnasion and less with a bowl of sweetmeats beside you, you'd have no trouble fitting through a doorway, Sostratos thought. But he and Menedemos went into the andron, and Telephos followed. Menedemos' father, bustling about like a goose trying to keep track of all her goslings at once, escorted the plump merchant to the couch he'd chosen for him.   Cushions rested on all the couches. Sostratos took his place beside his father on the couch next to that of their hosts. Lysistratos, being the elder, leaned on his elbow at the head of the couch. Sostratos reclined farther down, so that his feet hung off the edge.   He prodded his cushion, trying to get comfortable. It wasn't easy. In a low voice, he told his father, 'I'm not what you'd call fond of fancy dinners. My arm goes to sleep, and I always spill food on my clothes.'   Lysistratos shrugged. 'It's the custom, and custom - '   'Is king of all,' Sostratos finished, quoting Herodotos quoting Pindaros. His father dipped his head in agreement.   'All right, where's Kleagoras?' Menedemos said when only one space on one of the seven couches remained unfilled. 'Late again, I see.'   'Kleagoras would be late to his own funeral,' Philodemos said sourly.   'Well, there are worse things,' Sostratos' father remarked. 'I wouldn't mind being late to mine, to tell you the truth.' That drew chuckles from the three sides of the open-frontect rectangle in which the couches were arranged.   'Yes, Uncle, but at your funeral you wouldn't be waiting to eat Sikon's good fish and hoping it didn't burn,' Menedemos said.   Kleagoras came bustling in just then. He always moved as if in a hurry, but somehow never got anywhere on time. 'A thousand pardons, best ones,' he said, wiping sweat from his forehead. 'Very good to be here, very good indeed.' He was panting as he slid down onto his couch. He might have run all the way from his house to this one, but running hadn't done him much good.   'You made it at last, Kleagoras, and I'm glad you did.' Philodemos sounded welcoming and annoyed at the same time. Kleagoras' answering smile was sheepish. Philodemos turned to a slave who hovered by his couch. 'Go to the kitchen and tell Sikon we can begin.' The young man trotted away.