“I didn't say Homer was the only thing I read,” Menedemos answered. “If Diogenes wanted to take it that way, though”—he shrugged—”I wouldn't argue with him.” “He's not so careful as he thinks he is,” Sostratos said in a low voice. “Plenty of Athenian owls and turtles from Aigina and other coins a lot heavier than Ptolemaios' standard in among the ones his son gave us. By weight, we made more than we did by price alone.” “Good,” Menedemos said. “I was hoping that would happen. To some people, especially people who don't travel, one drakhma's the same as another. You can do pretty well for yourself if you know better.” He strode into the tavern. Sostratos followed. “How d'you do, friends?” the tavern-keeper said, his Doric drawl so strong that even Menedemos, who used a similar dialect himself, had to smile. The fellow pointed to the cloth in which Sostratos carried the meat. “If you boys ain't been sacrificin', I'm downright crazy. Want me to cook that there stuff up for you?” “If you please,” Menedemos answered. He looked around. The barmaids were plain. He sighed to himself. “I'd be right glad to,” the taverner said, and then, with hardly any drawl at all, he added, “Two oboloi.” Sostratos set the meat on the counter. He spat a couple of small coins into the palm of his hand and put them beside the cloth-covered gobbets. “Here you are.” “Thank you kindly.” The taverner dropped the money into a cash-box. He unwrapped the meat and dipped his head. “That'll roast just as nice as you please. You don't want to eat it all by its lonesome, now do you? You'll want to wash it down with some wine, eh? You boys look like you fancy the best. I've got some fine Khian—can't get better this side of the gods' ambrosia, and that's a fact.” What that was, without a doubt, was a lie. In a tavern like this one, the proprietor would charge strangers and the naive three times as much for a local wine as he could hope to get if they knew what it really was. Menedemos tossed his head. “Just a cup of your ordinary, if you please,” he said. “Same for me,” Sostratos said. “Whatever you like, friends,” the taverner told them, and dipped out two cups of some of the nastiest wine Menedemos had ever drunk. It was, to begin with, shamelessly watered, but it would have tasted worse if it were stronger, as it was well on the way to becoming vinegar. He couldn't even throw it in the taverner's face and walk out, because the man had skewered the meat and set it over his fire. The savory smell helped make Menedemos forget the sour tang of the stuff in the cup. “Don't leave it on the flames too long,” Sostratos told the taverner, “The gods may like their portion burned black, but I don't.” “I reckon I know how to cook up a piece of meat, I do/ the fellow said. “He's going to get it too done,” Sostratos grumbled. “I know he will.” “Even if he does, you're still ahead of the game,” Menedemos answered. “It wasn't our sacrifice.” The tavernkeeper took the meat off the fire and put the chunks on a couple of plates, which he set in front of the Rhodians. “There you go, friends. Enjoy it, now.”
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