“Ah, well,” Protomakhos said with a shrug. “You Rhodians have been luckier in your government lately than we have. I can see how an Athenian might want to write a play about a clever, devious politician who stops at nothing to get what he wants.”

“Oh!” Sostratos’ eyes widened. “You’re telling me this isn’t just about Odysseus. It’s about Demet-”

Menedemos stepped on his foot. “If it is about Demetrios of Phaleron,” he hissed, “how big an idiot are you for shouting it to the housetops? Do you want Macedonians breaking down Protomakhos’ door in the middle of the night to haul you away and see how many interesting things they can do to you-and to our host-and to me?” To him, plainly, the last was most important.

But he was just as plainly right. Sostratos admitted as much, adding, “Even so, it does make me more inclined to forgive Dolon.”

“Well… maybe,” Menedemos said grudgingly. “I still don’t care for what it did, but our kind host has shown a reason why.”

“Comedies tomorrow,” Sostratos said. “You won’t have to worry about ferreting out nasty political messages there.”

“I wouldn’t have had to worry about ferreting them out in Aristophanes’ day, either,” Menedemos said. “He came right out and shouted them in people’s faces.”

“We can’t get away now with what he did then,” Protomakhos said. “He couldn’t get away with it, either, by the end of his career. Look at Ploutos. It’s about wealth, but it’s not about, or not very much about, the people of the time. It looks forward to the kinds of comedies poets write nowadays, in fact.”

“The kinds of comedies people write nowadays…” Menedemos muttered.

“He’s not much for them,” Sostratos told Protomakhos. “I told him to wait till he’d heard one by Menandros. I certainly hope he’s finished the piece you said he was working on.”

“I don’t know one way or the other,” the Rhodian proxenos replied. “We’ll find out tomorrow.”

“So we will.” Sostratos sounded cheerful.

“So we will.” Menedemos sounded anything but.

At supper that evening, Protomakhos made no remarks about going out to celebrate the Dionysia. Menedemos didn’t urge him to go out or ask questions about whether he would. Sostratos hoped that meant his cousin really hadn’t seduced or tried to seduce the proxenos’ wife. Menedemos enjoyed making him nervous almost as much as he enjoyed adultery.

The next day dawned chilly, with a nasty wind whipping down from the north. Protomakhos wrapped himself in a himation before heading for the theater. It was cold enough to tempt Sostratos to do the same, but he didn’t. Menedemos acted as if the weather had nothing to do with him. “Aren’t you fellows going to freeze?” Protomakhos said.

“We’re sailors,” Sostratos replied. “When was the last time you saw a seafaring man in anything but his chiton?”

“Have it your way,” Protomakhos said. “But if your teeth chatter too loud to let me hear the lines, I’ll be annoyed at you.”

They got splendid seats. The cold weather kept lots of people indoors till after sunup. Sostratos’ teeth did chatter. He clamped his jaw tight as he could to keep Protomakhos from noticing.

Out swaggered the actors for the first comedy. They didn’t wear big phalloi strapped to their waists, as they would have done a couple of generations before. Their masks were more realistic, less burlesqued, than they would have been in earlier times, too. Indeed, little except the play itself distinguished them from tragic actors, and some performers worked in both types of drama.

Their play, unfortunately, did not distinguish itself. The verse limped-a couple of times, badly enough to make Sostratos wince. Even by the loose standards of comedy, the plot was stupid. And the jokes fell flat. As the dancers of the chorus twirled out to separate one act from another-they didn’t also sing, as they would have in Aristophanes’ time-Menedemos turned to Sostratos and said, “How does a play this bad ever get produced?”

“I don’t know,” Sostratos answered. “But I’ll give you an even more frightening thought, if you like.”

“What’s that?” Menedemos sounded as if he doubted Sostratos could come up with one.

But Sostratos did: “Just remember, only Dionysos knows how many worse comedies were written, comedies not even a maniac would want to bring to the stage.”

His cousin shuddered. “You’re right. That is frightening.”

As the play dragged on, the audience grew more and more restless. People shouted at the actors. They threw onions and squash and cabbages. One of the actors, after nimbly dodging a squash, turned to face the crowd. In smoother verse than the comic poet had given him, he said,

“If you think these lines are hard to listen to,

Remember-we have to bring them out.”

He got a bigger laugh for his own words than he had for the poet’s. The vegetables stopped flying.

“So much for this comic poet’s reputation,” Sostratos murmured.

“Yes, but the other question is, how much has the actor hurt himself with his quick tongue?” Protomakhos said. “Some people won’t want to hire him now, afraid he’ll step out of character again.”

At last, mercifully, the comedy ended. The one that followed was better-but then, bad wine was better than vinegar. Menedemos said, “I don’t think Aristophanes has much to worry about this year.”

Sostratos would have liked to argue with him. He knew he couldn’t, not by what they’d seen so far. But then the herald announced the third and final comedy: “Kolax, by Menandros!”

“Now you’ll see something worth seeing,” Sostratos said.

“Not a bad title: The Flatterer,” Menedemos said. “But what will he do with it? If he makes a hash of it the way these last two fellows did…” He leaned back and folded his arms across his chest, as if challenging Menandros to impress him.

To Sostratos’ vast relief, the poet did not disappoint. His portrait of a flatterer was alarmingly realistic; the strutting soldier against whom the title character played came from a breed all too common since Alexander’s time. And his cook might have been Sikon, straight from Menedemos’ household.

He certainly sounded as full of himself as Sikon did:

“A libation! You-the one following me-give me the sacrificer’s portion.

Where are you looking?

A libation! Come along, my slave Sosias. A libation!… Good.

Pour! Let us pray to the Olympian gods

and Olympian goddesses: to them all, male and female.

Take the tongue! On account of this, let them give salvation,

Health, enjoyment of our present good things,

And good fortune to us all. Let us pray for that.”

Everything ended happily, as it was supposed to in comedy, with the flatterer arranging for the soldier to share the girl’s favors with her neighbor. The play got more applause than the other two put together. Turning to Menedemos, Sostratos asked, “What did you think?”

“That… wasn’t bad.” Menedemos sounded oddly reluctant, as if he didn’t want to admit it but couldn’t help himself. “No, that wasn’t bad at all. It wasn’t Aristophanes -”

“It’s not supposed to be Aristophanes,” Sostratos broke in.

“I was going to say that very thing, if you’d given me the chance,” his cousin said with some irritation. “It’s not Aristophanes, but I enjoyed it. You were right. There. Are you happy now?”

“Yes,” Sostratos said, which disarmed Menedemos. He went on, “I was pretty sure I would like it-I’ve always enjoyed Menandros’ comedies. But I could only hope you would. I’m glad you do.”

“If it doesn’t win the prize for comedy, someone’s been spreading silver amongst the judges again,” Protomakhos said.

“We’ve had that happen a few times at Rhodes, too,” Sostratos said. Menedemos made a nasty face to show what he thought of it. Sostratos asked, “How common is it here? I remember rumors in my student days.”