could wash their fingers, then carried the tables out of the andron. They returned to sweep away the shells and fish bones and scraps of bread that littered the floor. When they came back, they brought garlands and ribbons for the feasters to put on their heads. And they brought shallow, long-handled, two-eared drinking cups, along with jars of wine, jars of water, a great mixing bowl, a pouring jug, and a ladle. Sostratos eyed the preparations for the symposion with an odd mixture of anticipation and dread. Dionysos' ocean of wine could be as stormy as Poseidon's watery sea. The first cup of wine at a symposion was always drunk neat, and the last bit of it poured out as a libation for Dionysos. Menedemos savored the sweet, rich, potent goodness of the golden Khian vintage. Letting the god have any seemed a shame and a waste, but he poured his libation onto the floor along with everyone else and sang Dionysos' hymn. 'Now,' his father said, 'we'll need a symposiarch, to guide us through our night together. Who will lead us over the wine-dark sea?' Everybody smiled at the allusion to the Iliad. Xanthos promptly put up his hand. Everyone pretended not to see him; he was even less interesting drunk than sober. Sostratos also raised his hand. That was what made Menedemos decide to put up his. He liked his cousin, but he felt like getting properly drunk tonight, and he knew Sostratos would order the wine well-watered and drunk from shallow cups all night long. 'Let it be Menedemos,' Telephos said. 'We've all seen he knows how to have a good time.' Amid laughter and clapping, he was elected. Sostratos leaned toward him and said, 'My father and I are close enough to get home clinging to the wall like that gecko we saw this morning, but the gods help our friends who live farther away.' Before Menedemos could answer that, his father tapped him on the shoulder. 'There are better reputations to have than that of a roisterer,' Philodemos said. 'Everything in its place,' Menedemos replied, as philosophically as if he were Sostratos. 'When it's time for business, business. When it's time for a symposion, wine.' He waved to a slave. 'Are the flutegirls and the acrobat here?' 'Yes, sir,' the man answered. 'They got here a little while ago.' 'All right, good. We can bring them on after we've had a couple of rounds.' Menedemos felt like a general arraying his army as he reckoned best. He clapped his hands together. All the feasters - the symposiasts, now - and the slaves looked his way. 'Let the wine be mixed.' Everybody leaned forward. As symposiarch, he set the strength. 'Let it be . . . three parts water and two of wine.' 'I thought you were going to say even measures, and have us as drunk as Macedonians in nothing flat,' his father said. 'Even three to two is a strong mix.' Menedemos grinned. 'The symposiarch has spoken.' No one but Philodemos was complaining. Even Sostratos just leaned on his elbow, watching a slave mix wine and water in the big krater in the center of the andron. Maybe he'd expected Menedemos to order equal measures, too. I should have called for neat wine, Menedemos thought. But he tossed his head, rejecting the idea. That would make everyone fall asleep too soon. He wanted to feel the wine, yes, but he wanted to enjoy himself other ways while he was doing it, too.
Вы читаете Over the Wine Dark Sea
