They wrestled twice more. Menedemos won both times, but neither win came easily. He felt himself slower than he should have been. Instead of just wrestling, he was thinking about his moves before he made them, wondering, If I do this, what does Sostratos have waiting for me? Against an opponent who was skilled as well as clever, he probably would have lost both falls. Sostratos noticed. As they rubbed themselves down with olive oil and scraped if off with curved bronze strigils, he said, 'I had you looking over your shoulder there, didn't I?' 'As a matter of fact, you did.' Menedemos mimed sorrow verging on despair. 'A terrible thing, when I can't trust my own cousin.' 'Trust me to go down like a sacrifice after its throat is cut, you mean,' Sostratos said. 'Maybe I'll be able to give you a real contest now.' 'Maybe,' Menedemos said. 'Or maybe I'll find more tricks of my own.' To his relief, Sostratos didn't look so happy about that. They finished cleaning themselves off and went back to reclaim their chitons. Then they left the gymnasion and headed up toward their homes in the northern part of the city. Sostratos said, 'Remember, my father's symposion is evening after next.' 'I'm not likely to forget.' Menedemos rolled his eyes. 'And even if I did, you don't suppose my father would?' He didn't bother trying to hide his annoyance. 'If you looked on your father a little more tolerantly, he might do the same for you, you know,' Sostratos said. 'Ha! Not likely,' Menedemos answered. 'If he looked on me a little more tolerantly, I might do the same for him. I'm not saying I would, mind you, but I might.' His cousin sighed and said no more about it. That suited Menedemos fine. Garlanded for a symposion, Sostratos always felt like something of an impostor. Most men donned gaiety with the wreaths and ribbons, as if it naturally accompanied them. He'd never been able to do that. And yet, a man who wasn't jolly at a symposion was an object of suspicion. There were times when he had to pretend to what he didn't feel, which did make him feel like a hypocrite. Still, he might have been more at ease than Diokles. The oarmaster didn't come from a circle where symposia came along very often, if at all. His chiton and himation were good enough, but, a seaman to the core, he'd arrived at Sostratos' house barefoot. And he kept fidgeting on his couch, trying to find a comfortable position in which to recline. To Sostratos' relief, the symposiasts had chosen his father as symposiarch. 'Let it be five parts of water to two of wine,' Lysistratos declared. No one could possibly complain about that, and no one did: it was the perfect mixture, not too strong, not too weak. On the couch next to Sostratos and Menedemos reclined an olive farmer named Damophon. Like any prosperous landowner, he took symposia for granted. He didn't grumble at the mixture, but did chuckle and say, 'I'll bet you boys drank stronger than that in Great Hellas. When the Italiotes put on a revel, they don't do it by halves. That's what everybody says, so I expect it must be true.'
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