The Sacred Land

The strings-four in a lyre, more in the other instruments-were attached to the sound box at the bottom by a string bar and bridge. Things were more complicated at the other end. The strings were wound around the crosspiece and held in place by a piece of hide cut from the neck of a cow or goat and rubbed with sticky grease to make them adhere to it. Menedemos remembered endless plucking, endless adjustments- and the schoolmaster’s stick coming down on his back when he couldn’t get the tone right no matter what. And even when he managed to persuade the strings to yield notes somewhere close to what they should have been, a little playing would put them out again. It was enough-more than enough-to drive anybody mad.

Here, though, the tones weren’t close to what they should have been. They were exactly right and seemed to pierce Menedemos’ very soul. “Pure as water from a mountain spring,” Sostratos whispered. Menedemos dipped his head, and then waved his cousin to silence. He didn’t want to hear anything but the music.

Areios played a little bit of everything, from the lyric poetry of the generations following Homer to the latest love songs out of Alexandria. Everything he did play had a slight sardonic edge to it. He chose Arkhilokhos’ old poem about throwing away his shield and leaving it for some Thracian to find. And the Alexandrian song was about a woman trying to bewitch her lover away from her rival-a boy.

At last, the kitharist struck one more perfect chord, bowed very low, said, “I thank you, most noble ones,” and left the stage.

Menedemos clapped till his palms were sore. He wasn’t the only one, either; a tremendous din of applause filled the tavern, enough to make his head ring. Cries of “Euge!” rang out from all sides.

“How is he next to Stratonikos?” Menedemos asked as they left the building.

“It’s been a while since I heard Stratonikos,” Sostratos replied, judicious as usual. “I think Areios is at least as good with the kithara itself-and I’ve never heard one better tuned-

“Yes, I thought the same thing myself,” Menedemos said.

Diokles dipped his head. “Me, too.”

“But Stratonikos, if I remember rightly, had a better voice,” Sostratos finished.

“I’m glad we went,” Menedemos said. He clapped the keleustes on the back. “Good thing you heard he was playing, Diokles-and I hope Nikokreon’s shade got himself an earful tonight.”

Sostratos wasn’t sorry to see Cyprus recede behind the Aphrodite ’s goose-headed sternpost and the boat the akatos towed in her wake. He also was not eager to face Phoenicia or the land of the Ioudaioi. What he was was coldly furious at his brother-in-law. “When we get back to Rhodes,” he said, “I’m going to pour melted cheese and garlic over Damonax and fry him in his own olive oil. We’ll have plenty left to do the job, with some left over for the barley rolls we’ll serve with his polluted carcass.”

“You must be angry, if you’ve got the whole menu pla

“Herodotos puts the Androphagoi far to the north of the Skythian plains, beyond a great desert,” Sostratos replied. “I wonder what he would have thought if he’d heard a Rhodian wanted to become a man-eater. “

“He’d probably wonder what wine went best with brother-in-law,” Menedemos said. “Something sweet and thick, I’d say.”

“Gods bless you, my dear,” Sostratos said, “for you’re the best man I’ve ever known when it comes to helping someone along with his mood, whatever it happens to be. I’m not surprised men often choose you symposiarch when they throw a drinking party-you’re the one to take them where they want to go.”

“Well, thank you, () best one,” Menedemos answered, raising his right hand from the steering-oar tiller to give Sostratos a salute. “I don’t know that anyone’s ever said anything kinder of me.”

“Now that I think about it,” Sostratos went on in musing tones, “that’s probably the same sort of knack that gets you so many girls, isn’t it?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” Menedemos said.

“Papai!” Sostratos exclaimed, now dismayed. He stared at his cousin, hardly believing what he’d heard. “Why not? Don’t you know what Sokrates said?-’The unexamined life is not worth living.’ He’s right.”

“I don’t know about that,” Menedemos said. “I’m usually too busy living my life to step back and take a look at it.”

“Then how do you know if you’re living well or not?”

Menedemos frowned. “If we go down this road, I’m going to get all tangled up. I can see that coming already.” He wagged a finger at Sostratos. “I can see you looking forward to it, too.”

“Who, me?” Sostratos said, not quite i

“How do I know if I’m living well?” Menedemos echoed. Sostratos dipped his head. His cousin frowned in thought. “By whether I’m happy or not, I suppose.”

“Amazing, O marvelous one!” Sostratos said. Menedemos shot him a dirty look. Sostratos went on, “Could a dog or a goat speak, it would give the same answer. For a dog or a goat, it would be good enough, too. But for a man? No. Artaxerxes Okhos, the Great King of Persia, was happiest when he was killing people, and he killed a lot of them. Does that mean he lived well?”

“No, but killing people doesn’t make me happy.” Menedemos fixed Sostratos with a mild and speculative stare. “For certain people, I might make an exception.”

“You’re still talking around the question,” Sostratos said. “Just think, too: if you knew why you were so charming, you might get more women yet.”

That made Menedemos look sharply at him. Sostratos had thought it might. “Do you think so?” his cousin asked.

“I don’t see why it wouldn’t,” Sostratos replied. “An archer who knows what he’s doing is more likely to hit the target than one who just picks up the bow and lets fly, isn’t he?”

“Well, yes, I suppose so.” But Menedemos sounded suspicious. A moment later, he explained why: “I still think you’re trying to turn me into a philosopher behind my back.”

“Would I do such a thing?” Again, Sostratos sounded as i

He sounded so very i

“What I’d like to know,” Sostratos said with more than a little heat, “is what’s so dreadful about the notion that one man should want to persuade another to love wisdom and look for it, instead of just stumbling over it when he chances upon it or turning his back on it altogether. Can you tell me that?”

“Philosophy’s too much like work,” Menedemos said. “I’ve got real work to do, and I haven’t got the time to worry about becomingness or essences or any of that other philosophical nonsense that makes my head ache.”

“Do you have time to think about whether you’re doing the right thing, and why?” Sostratos asked. “Is anything more important than that?”

“Getting the Aphrodite to Phoenicia and not sinking on the way,” his cousin suggested.

“You’re being troublesome on purpose,” Sostratos said. Menedemos gri

“Good to my friends, evil to my enemies,” Menedemos replied at once.

Any Hellene who answered without thinking was likely to say something much like that. Sostratos tossed his head. “I’m sorry, my dear, but what was good enough for Homer ’s heroes isn’t any more.”

“And why not?” Menedemos demanded. “If anybody does me a bad turn, I’ll give him a knee in the balls first chance I get.”

“What happens then? He’ll give you one back, or his friends will.”

“And then I’ll get my own back, or I’ll have a friend help me against his friend,” Menedemos said.