Phainias tossed his head. “Thank you. That’s most kindly meant, but no. I deal in olive oil, after all, and there’s not much point shipping that there.”

Menedemos shot Sostratos a glance that said, This fellow can see that. Why can’t your polluted brother-in-law? By Sostratos’ expression, he was thinking the same thing. Menedemos looked around the courtyard. “Handsome place you have here,” he said. Bees buzzed above flowers and herbs in the garden. A fountain splashed gently. A bronze Artemis, half life size, stood on a column drawing a bow.

“You’re too kind, best one,” Phainias said. As he spoke, a slave woman came out of the kitchen and picked some chervil from the garden. Menedemos smiled at her. Maybe Phainias would tell her to keep his bed warm tonight.

Sostratos didn’t seem to notice the woman. His mind still on business, he said, “Another reason we’re out early is to get to Athens before the Greater Dionysia.”

“Ah, you want to go to the theater, do you?” Phainias smiled. “I don’t blame you a bit. As long as you’re bound for Athens, you may as well have a good sime.” As Sostratos spoke a Doric flavored with Attic, so Phainias’ Aiolic dialect had the same overlay: he was plainly an educated man. Every so often, though, his own speech pattern showed through. He went on, “I’ll do everything I can to send you on your way quickly.”

“You’re a prince of proxenoi, O best one,” Menedemos said- flattery, yes, but flattery with a lot of truth in it. Like any proxenos, Phainias represented and helped another polis’ citizens in his native city. That could entail considerable effort and expense. Some men took on the job for the sake of its prestige and then scanted it. Phainias looked to want to do it right.

He bowed again at Menedemos’ compliment. “You’re very kind, most noble one, as I told you a moment ago. Come into the andron, if you please. We’ll have some wine, some supper, some more wine-not a real symposion, mind you, but you can go to bed happy if that’s what you’re looking for. Does it please you?”

“It pleases very much.” Menedemos answered quickly, before Sostratos could. His cousin’s shoulders went up and down in a tiny shrug. Sostratos seldom cared to go to bed happy with wine. Well, too bad, Menedemos thought. I feel like it, and he can go along.

“This is a very fine andron,” Sostratos said when they stepped up into it-like most, it was raised half a cubit or so above the level of the courtyard and the other rooms. Slaves were taking away stools and setting out couches for a more formal supper. A mosaic of colored pebbles decorated the floor. The walls were painted red up to the height of a man’s shoulder, and ocher above that. Several lamps-some pottery, others bronze-hung from bronze chains fixed to the beams of the ceiling. Menedemos didn’t think he’d seen anything fancier this side of Taras, and the Italiote Hellenes indulged themselves far more extravagantly than did their cousins who lived round the Aegean.

“Stretch out. Relax. Make yourselves at home,” Phainias said, and leaned on his left elbow on one of the couches.

Again, Menedemos and Sostratos exchanged glances. At home, they almost always ate sitting on stools. So did most Hellenes. So did Phainias himself, or he wouldn’t have had to move couches into the andron for the supposed pleasure of the Rhodians.

The wicker frame of Menedemos’ couch creaked under his weight as he settled himself on it. For a moment, he thought he would go right through it and end up on the floor with a bump. That would have been a lovely way to ingratiate himself with his host. But the couch held. He smiled at the Rhodian proxenos. “Very nice.”

“Very nice indeed,” Sostratos echoed. He sounded a little too hearty, like a usually prim man paying inexpert court to a hetaira. As he leaned on his elbow, he looked out of place, too.

Two slaves brought in wine, water, a mixing bowl, and cups. Phainias asked, “Well, gentlemen, does one of wine to two of water suit you, or would you like some other mix?”

“That’s fine,” Menedemos said. Sostratos dipped his head. Menedemos added, “We thank you again for your kindness.” One of wine to two of water was a little on the strong side, but only a little- not even Sostratos could possibly object to it, as he might have if Phainias had proposed a one-to-one mixture.

Phainias and the two Rhodians poured out small libations before drinking. Sostratos raised his cup in salute. “To our host!” he said, and drank. So did Menedemos. Sostratos took another, more thoughtful, sip. “This is very fine. Is it Lesbian?”

“It is indeed,” Phainias answered. “You’re in the market for wine, aren’t you?”

“We sure are,” Menedemos said. “From whom did you get it?”

“Why, from Onesimos son of Diothemis,” the proxenos said. “He lives two doors down from me.”

“He’s the Onesimos whose brother sells truffles?” Menedemos asked, and Phainias dipped his head. The Rhodian asked, “Does One-tor also live close by here?”

“On the next street north,” Phainias said.

“Would it put you to too much trouble to invite them here so we could get to meet them?” Menedemos asked. “If it would be difficult, best one, just tell me no. I don’t want to impose on your kind hospitality.”

“No bother to me,” Phainias said. “I like Onesimos fine. I don’t know Onetor so well, but he seems a good enough fellow. Let me go ask my cook if he can add a couple of guests at the last minute. You know how it is, I’m sure: the man who runs the kitchen thinks he runs the house, too.”

“Oh, yes.” Menedemos dipped his head, thinking of Sikon. So did Sostratos, though his family’s cook wasn’t such a domineering tyrant.

The proxenos got to his feet and left the andron. A moment later, a shriek came from the direction of the kitchen. Menedemos and Sostratos grinned at each other. Phainias returned a couple of minutes later, looking somewhat the worse for wear. “It’s all settled,” he declared. “I’ve sent slaves out to invite the two brothers.” He dipped a fresh cup of wine from the mixing bowl. “Now what will happen is, neither of them will be able to come on such short nosice, and Kandaules will brain me for making him cook too much.”

“My experience is, there’s no such thing as too much opson,” Menedemos said.

Sostratos looked alarmed at that forthright announcement of gluttony, but Phainias only smiled. “Yes, I’ve seen that myself,” he said. “Here, would you like some more wine?”

“Thanks, best one.” Menedemos held out his cup.

So did Sostratos. Phainias was dipping wine out of the bowl for him when a slave hurried to the front door. “Master, Onesimos is here,” he called.

“Good, good,” Phainias said. “Bring two more couches into the andron-quick, quick, quick. His brother’s coming, too, or I hope he is.”

Onesimos son of Diothemis was a tall, dour man of middle years, with a long face, a big nose, one front tooth that had gone black, and some of the hairiest ears Menedemos had ever seen. “Good to meet you both,” he told the Rhodians, his voice a rumbling bass. “If I remember right, I did business with your fathers ten or twelve years ago.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised, most noble one,” Menedemos said. “Lesbian wine is famous, and our firm has always liked to carry the best.”

A pair of harassed-looking slaves brought in couches. Onesimos had just reclined on one when somebody rapped loudly on the front door. Onetor son of Diothemis came in a minute later. He was a couple of digits shorter than his brother, and shiny bald where Onesimos’ iron-gray hair, like Phainias’, was only just beginning to recede at the temples. But for that, they looked much alike; Menedemos wouldn’t have cared to guess which was the elder.

“Nice to meet you, Rhodians,” Onetor said. His voice was deep, too, but not quite so deep as Onesimos’. He dipped his head to Phainias. “And very nice of you to invite me. We should get to know each other better.”