"Well, neither do I," the Tarentine admitted. "Unless Agathokles does something extraordinary, I don't see how he can keep Carthage from taking his city. And he's been ruling Syracuse for seven years now, so I don't know what he can do that he hasn't already done."
"You see my problem, then," Menedemos said. "I'm not going to turn around and go straight back to Hellas when I leave Taras, so what else can I do?"
"Believe me, I'm glad it's not my worry." Makrobios leaned forward. "Tell me, what price are you asking for peafowl eggs?"
"Thirty drakhmai," Menedemos answered at once; he and Sostratos had been over that ground, and had sold a couple of eggs at that price. "From their size, I'd also say you'd do better to have a duck or a goose brood them than a hen."
"And suppose I spend thirty drakhmai and the egg doesn't hatch? What then?" Makrobios demanded.
It was Menedemos' turn to shrug. "I'm afraid that's the chance you take. I'm not a god, to look inside an egg and tell whether it's good or bad."
"We'll soon have chicks for sale - for a good deal more," Sostratos added. "You can save some money if you want to gamble a little."
"You'll ask something outrageous, I'm sure," Makrobios muttered.
Menedemos smiled his suavest smile. "You have some fellow citizens who don't think so. You even have a barbarian neighbor who didn't think so. If you want to be among the first, O best one, you have to pay the price. If we had the second shipload of peafowl into Taras, we couldn't charge nearly so much - because the first ship would have."
Makrobios looked so unhappy, he might have been a hooked fish. But he said, "The house you're renting is north of the market, isn't it? Maybe I'll see you tomorrow." Before Menedemos could answer, Makrobios pointed to the doorway. "Ah, here come Gylippos' slaves with the wine."
Menedemos pointed in surprise. "Those are jars of our Ariousian."
"I sold them to his majordomo this afternoon," Sostratos said, a little smugly. "You were dickering with somebody over a peahen."
"Krates the potter," Menedemos answered in a low voice: the man in question reclined a few couches away. "He wouldn't meet our price."
"Well, Gylippos' majordomo did. He talks so strangely, he may be one of these Romans." Sostratos leaned forward to whisper in Menedemos' ear: "And now we get to drink some of the wine we just sold. I quite like that."
"So do I." Menedemos chuckled.
Gylippos' slave poured some of the Ariousian into the metaniptron from which they drank the first, neat, toast of the symposion and poured the libation to Dionysos. The guests murmured appreciatively. Menedemos wondered if they would be appreciative enough to elect him symposiarch, but they chose Krates instead. Menedemos wasn't surprised or offended; the potter was one of their circle, while he was a guest.
Krates was a solid man in his late thirties or early forties, handsome enough that he'd probably been much pursued as a youth. "Ariousian, eh?" he said, and Gylippos dipped his head and waved to Menedemos and Sostratos to remind the men in the andron where it had come from. Krates stood up and declared, "Since the wine is so very fine, let it be mixed one to one with water."
Everyone clapped. Menedemos laughed out loud. Turning to Sostratos, he said, "It's not his wine, so why shouldn't he mix it lavishly?"
"We're all going to get very, very drunk." Sostratos sounded disapproving. "I don't remember the last symposion I went to where they mixed it one to one. That's too strong."
"No wonder you don't remember, then." Menedemos laughed again. His cousin looked annoyed at him for deliberately misunderstanding. Menedemos had been at a good many symposia where the wine went around evenly mixed with water. They weren't like the ones at his father's house, or his uncle's, but they were fun in their own right. He asked Gylippos, "Where's that house called 'the trireme'? I know it's somewhere in Great Hellas. Is it here?"
" 'The trireme'?" Sostratos echoed. "I don't know that one."
"I do," their host said. "No, it's not here - it's in Akragas, on the south coast of Sicily. The symposiasts got so drunk, they thought they were in a storm at sea, and started throwing furniture out the windows to lighten ship. When people heard the racket, they came by to see what was going on and started carrying off couches and tables and chairs, and the fellow whose house it was had a nasty time getting things back once he sobered up." He grinned. "That's what I call a symposion."
He didn't seem to mind Krates' ordering strong wine. Back in Hellas, the Italiotes had a reputation for debauchery. Sostratos still looked primly unhappy. Menedemos enjoyed his father's symposia, but he enjoyed the wilder kind, too. Looking back to his cousin as the slaves mixed the wine, he said, "I don't think you'll have to remember your Euripides tonight."
"Probably not," Sostratos agreed, "though his verses ransomed some of the Athenians the Syracusans captured in the Peloponnesian War."
