Over the Wine-Dark Sea

"Why, so I may." Amyntas sounded surprised, as if that hadn't crossed his mind. Maybe it hadn't. Menedemos sighed. Amyntas didn't notice, as he hadn't noticed Menedemos holding back. Sostratos did, and contrived to look amused without smiling.

Having paid what he owed, Amyntas hurried away, as if afraid Menedemos would inveigle him into some other contest he was bound to lose. Menedemos turned back to Sostratos. "Want to wrestle?"

"Not especially," Sostratos answered. Menedemos' face must have fallen, for his cousin went on, "But I will, at least for a little while."

They dusted their arms and torsos with sand, to aid in getting a grip. Then they stood face to face, waiting. "Ready?" Sostratos asked. Menedemos dipped his head. Sostratos sprang at him. They grappled, grunting and heaving, each straining to throw the other off his feet. Sostratos' height did him no good in wrestling. If anything, the compact Menedemos had the advantage there, being closer to the ground. He got Sostratos on his hip, twisted lithely, and threw him down.

"Oof!" Sostratos said; he'd landed pretty hard. He was rubbing his right buttock as he rose. "I'm going to be sore about sitting down for the next couple of days."

"You made me work for it," Menedemos said. He did mean it; he often won a fall from Sostratos much more easily than he had there. And he wanted to keep him wrestling, too.

Before he could ask for another fall, his cousin said, "Shall we try it again?"

"Yes, if you like." Menedemos tried to hide his surprise. He couldn't remember the last time Sostratos had proposed such a thing. They squared off and grabbed each other, as they had before. Indeed, the second bout went very much as the first one had, right up to Sostratos' mistake. As Menedemos slid in to take advantage of it, he wondered if his cousin would ever learn.

He got his answer sooner than he expected. Instead of going up on his hip and then down in the dirt, Sostratos kept one of his long legs on the ground. Before Menedemos quite realized what had happened, his cousin had got round behind him, slipped an ankle in front, and shoved hard. Next thing he knew, he sprawled in the dirt himself.

He spat some out of his mouth, then said, "Well, well," as he got to his feet. Sostratos' face wore a grin as wide as that of a child with a toy chariot or a hetaira with a new gold necklace. He didn't throw Menedemos very often. Menedemos bowed, giving him credit for it. "Very nice. I thought I had you again, but I was wrong."

"I was hoping you would make the same move twice," Sostratos said. "I tried to steer you into it, the way you held back with that fellow who thought he was fast."

"Did you?" Menedemos said, and Sostratos delightedly dipped his head. Menedemos clicked his tongue between his teeth. He tasted more dirt, and spat again. "I'm never going to be able to trust you any more, am I?"

"I hope not," Sostratos told him.

They wrestled twice more. Menedemos won both times, but neither win came easily. He felt himself slower than he should have been. Instead of just wrestling, he was thinking about his moves before he made them, wondering, If I do this, what does Sostratos have waiting for me? Against an opponent who was skilled as well as clever, he probably would have lost both falls.

Sostratos noticed. As they rubbed themselves down with olive oil and scraped if off with curved bronze strigils, he said, "I had you looking over your shoulder there, didn't I?"

"As a matter of fact, you did." Menedemos mimed sorrow verging on despair. "A terrible thing, when I can't trust my own cousin."

"Trust me to go down like a sacrifice after its throat is cut, you mean," Sostratos said. "Maybe I'll be able to give you a real contest now."

"Maybe," Menedemos said. "Or maybe I'll find more tricks of my own." To his relief, Sostratos didn't look so happy about that. They finished cleaning themselves off and went back to reclaim their chitons. Then they left the gymnasion and headed up toward their homes in the northern part of the city.

Sostratos said, "Remember, my father's symposion is evening after next."

"I'm not likely to forget." Menedemos rolled his eyes. "And even if I did, you don't suppose my father would?" He didn't bother trying to hide his annoyance.

"If you looked on your father a little more tolerantly, he might do the same for you, you know," Sostratos said.

"Ha! Not likely," Menedemos answered. "If he looked on me a little more tolerantly, I might do the same for him. I'm not saying I would, mind you, but I might." His cousin sighed and said no more about it. That suited Menedemos fine.

Garlanded for a symposion, Sostratos always felt like something of an impostor. Most men donned gaiety with the wreaths and ribbons, as if it naturally accompanied them. He'd never been able to do that. And yet, a man who wasn't jolly at a symposion was an object of suspicion. There were times when he had to pretend to what he didn't feel, which did make him feel like a hypocrite.