“Sounds fair,” the oarmaster said. “Except that once over in Aigina, you had yourself a pretty quiet run this year.” “We were talking about pankratiasts a minute ago,” Menedemos said. “I didn't realize everyone was keeping score on me.” Diokles and Sostratos solemnly dipped their heads at the same time. Menedemos made faces at both of them. Diokles laughed. And Sostratos said, “Well, my dear, even if you do go out drinking and wenching tonight, I'm glad you sound as though you want to go home. When we set out this past spring, you didn't seem to care if you ever saw Rhodes again.” Menedemos' face froze—and the expression on which it froze was one not far from hatred. Sostratos took a startled, altogether involuntary step away from him. After a moment, his cousin's bleak look faded ... a little. Menedemos said, “I'd almost forgotten about that, and you went and made me remember.” He sighed and shrugged. “I don't suppose I can blame you much. It would have come back to me when we got into the great harbor.” “What would have?” Sostratos had known something was bothering Menedemos, but he'd had no idea what. And he still didn't; Menedemos had been unusually close-mouthed—astoundingly so, for him—all through this season's sailing. He still was. He smiled at Sostratos and said, “However strange and sorrowful you may feel about it, O marvelous one, there are some things you aren't going to find out, no matter how much research you do.” “No, eh?” Sostratos almost made a crack about going on with his investigations, but the memory of the look his cousin had given him a moment before made him hold his tongue. Whatever reasons Menedemos had for wanting to stay away from Rhodes, he was serious about them. “No,” he said firmly. Maybe he'd expected a crack from Sostratos and was relieved not to get it, for his manner lightened again. He went on, “Why don't you come drinking and wenching tonight, too? It'd do you good.” “Me?” Sostratos tossed his head. “Going around with a thick head the next day isn't my idea of fun.” He held up a hand before Menedemos could say anything. “Oh, once in a while—in a symposion, say. But getting drunk in a tavern isn't my idea of fun.” “Well, don't get drunk in a tavern, then. Get laid in a brothel instead.” Menedemos smiled once more—or was that a leer? Whatever it was, his good humor seemed restored. “You can't tell me that's not your idea of fun, not after that girl in Taras last year, the one with hair like new copper.” “Every now and then,” Sostratos admitted, “but not tonight.” “Wet blanket.” “I am not,” Sostratos said irately. “No such thing, by Zeus! You can do whatever you want. Do I complain about it?” “Only when you talk,” Menedemos assured him. Since he was right, or at least partly right, Sostratos tried a different tack: “Did I tell you not to go drinking tonight? Did I tell you not to go to a brothel tonight?”
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