Sostratos tossed his head. “No, not even a little bit. But I don't want to have to count on an interpreter, either.” He sighed. “We'll see.” Menedemos felt trapped in the andron. For once, that had nothing to do with Baukis. She was upstairs, in the women's quarters. But Philodemos' friend Xanthos shared with Medusa the ability to turn anyone close by to stone: he was petrifyingly boring. “My grandson is beginning to learn his alpha-beta,” he said now. “He's a likely little lad—looks like my wife's mother. My father-in-law liked string beans more than any man I've ever known, except maybe my great uncle. 'Give me a mess of beans and I'll be happy,' my great uncle would say. He lived to be almost eighty, though he was all blind and bent toward the end.” “Isn't that interesting?” Menedemos lied. He glanced over toward his father, hoping the older man would rescue both of them from their predicament. Xanthos was his friend, after all. But Philodemos just pointed to the krater in which the watered wine waited and said, “Would you like some more, best one?” “I don't mind if I do.” Xanthos used the dipper to refill his cup. Oh, no, Menedemos thought. That will only make him talk more. Of course, by everything he'd ever seen, Xanthos needed no help in talking as much as any three ordinary men put together. After a couple of sips of wine, he turned to Philodemos and said, “Were you in the Assembly when I spoke on the need to keep good relations with Antigonos and Ptolemaios both—and with Lysimakhos and Kassandros, too, for that matter?” “Yes, as a matter of fact, I was,” Philodemos said quickly. Menedemos' father, a man of stern rectitude, seldom told lies, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and he didn't hesitate here. That did him little good. “I believe your son was still at sea, though,” Xanthos said. “I'm sure he'd be interested in hearing my remarks.” Menedemos had no idea why he was sure of any such thing. Philodemos said, “My son's met Ptolemaios. You might be interested in hearing his views.” He might as well have saved his breath; Xanthos was interested in no one's views but his own. He took a deep breath, getting ready to launch into his speech. Menedemos tried a different tack: “What about Seleukos, O marvelous one? You say we should stay friendly toward all the other Macedonian marshals”—which struck him as much easier to advocate than to do—”but what about Seleukos, out in the east?” “A very good question, young man, and you may be sure I'll address it in great detail when next the Assembly convenes,” Xanthos said. “Meanwhile—” Out came the speech. Resistance was futile; it only delayed the inevitable. A man can close his eyes, Menedemos thought. Why can't he close his ears, too? Being unable to do so struck him as most unfair, and ever more so as time dragged on. The worst part was, Xanthos expected praise once he finished. He always did, and pouted when he didn't get it. “That was . . . quite something, sir,” Menedemos managed, which saved him the trouble of saying just what. “Yes, well, I have some rather urgent business to attend to,” Philodemos said. For a bad moment, Menedemos feared his father would go off and leave him alone with Xanthos. He'd known he annoyed his father, but hadn't thought Philodemos hated him that much. But then Philodemos added, “And I need my boy with me.” Xanthos had trouble taking a hint. After another quarter-hour of platitudes, though, he did make his farewells.
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