think,' Philodemos said. 'You have no idea how greedy and grasping a woman can be.' 'What I have no idea of right now is why I bothered coming home,' Menedemos snapped. 'It seems everything I've ever done is wrong.' 'You said it. I didn't.' Philodemos stalked out of the andron, his spine stiff with triumph. Menedemos made a face at him behind his back. Then he headed off to the kitchen; satisfying one appetite in his room had left him with another unslaked. He took some olives and cheese. The cook warned him, 'If you touch one scale - even one scale, mind you - on the mullet I've got there for supper, I'll snatch you baldheaded. I mean it. This is my domain, by the gods.' Laughing, Menedemos said, 'All right, Sikon. Till you work your magic on that mullet, I don't want it anyway. Maybe a starving man would eat a raw fish, but I wouldn't.' He stood in the doorway, out of the rain, while he ate his snack. Sikon kept railing at him with the license a skilled and privileged slave enjoyed. Menedemos laughed. With Sikon yelling, he could afford to laugh. The cook's barbs didn't get under his skin and rankle, the way his father's did. He spat an olive pit out into the courtyard. It landed in a puddle with a splash. He ate another olive and spat again, seeing if he could make this pit go farther than the one before. When he spat a third pit, he wanted it to go farther than either of the other two. I wish Sostratos were here, he thought. We could bet oboloi. I'd beat him, too, even if I had to make silly faces so he'd laugh and spit badly. If he got into any kind of contest, he wanted to win it. Imagining how furious Sostratos would be if his antics ruined a spit made him smile. The next time they ate olives together . . . His good mood quite restored, he looked across the courtyard. He could probably go back to his room without running into his father. Probably. He hung around in the kitchen, enduring Sikon's insults, for a while longer. He didn't want to risk that better mood, and it wouldn't survive another meeting with Philodemos. What do I do when I get to my room? he wondered. Play the lyre, maybe? He shrugged. He was no marvelous musician. The lyre had hardly come off its pegs on the wall since his school days; the kitharist who'd taught him had been too free with the switch to give him any love for the instrument. After a while, he squelched across the courtyard and started up the stairs. At the same time, someone else started down them. He cursed under his breath. If that was his father . . . But it wasn't; the voice that said, 'Hail, Menedemos,' was thin, light, and feminine. 'Oh,' Menedemos said. 'Good day, Baukis.' He hoped his father's wife hadn't heard the curse; she might think it was aimed at her. He probably should have said, Good day, stepmother, but that seemed ridiculous when he was ten years older than she. He didn't have anything in particular against her. If she had children by his father, that might be a different story, for his own inheritance would shrink, but for now she was only a girl learning what being a wife was about. Baukis came down the stairs towards him. She was young, her figure still almost boyish though she wore a woman's long chiton. She said, 'It's not a very good day, is it?' Then she paused, as if waiting for him to contradict her. When he didn't, she went on in a rush: 'I'm awfully tired of the rain.' 'So am I,' Menedemos answered. 'I want to go out into the polis, to stroll in the agora, to exercise in the gymnasion, to see my friends and chat with them . . ..'
Вы читаете Over the Wine Dark Sea
