The Gryphon's Skull

“Yes, well, I have some rather urgent business to attend to,” Philodemos said. For a bad moment, Menedemos feared his father would go off and leave him alone with Xanthos. He'd known he annoyed his father, but hadn't thought Philodemos hated him that much. But then Philodemos added, “And I need my boy with me.”

Xanthos had trouble taking a hint. After another quarter-hour of platitudes, though, he did make his farewells. “Oh, by the dog of Egypt!” Menedemos exclaimed. “Doesn't he ever shut up?”

“When he goes to bed, perhaps,” his father said.

“I'll bet he talks in his sleep,” Menedemos said savagely. “It'd be just like him.”

Philodemos clucked in mild reproof: “That's not a kind thing to say.” He paused, then sighed. “I'm not saying you're wrong, mind you, but it's not kind.”

“Too bad.” Menedemos stood up and stretched. Something in his back crackled. He sighed, too, with relief. “The saddest part is, he's got no idea how dull he is.”

“No, and don't tell him,” his father said. “He has a good heart. He's just boring. He can't help that, any more than a man can help having a taste for cabbage stew. I don't want him insulted, do you hear me?”

“I won't be the one to do it,” Menedemos said with another sigh.

“You'd better not.” But Philodemos sighed again, too. “He's dreadfully dull, isn't he?”

Baukis walked purposefully across the courtyard—now that Xanthos was gone, she could come forth from the women's quarters. Menedemos followed her with his eyes, but didn't turn his head. He wanted to give his father no reason for suspicion, especially when he was doing his best not to deserve any. But he couldn't help noting that she disappeared into the kitchen. Uh-oh, he thought.

Sure enough, a moment later her voice and Sikon's rose in passionate argument. “There they go again,” Menedemos said—that seemed a safe enough remark.

“So they do.” His father dipped out a fresh cup of watered wine, which seemed to express his view of the situation.

“You really ought to do something about that,” Menedemos said.

“And what do you suggest?” his father retorted. “A wife is supposed to manage the household, and a cook is supposed to come up with the best suppers he can, and to the crows with money. If I side with either one of them, the other will think I'm wrong, and that will just cause more trouble. No, I'll stay off to the side. Let them settle it between themselves.”

That made good sense. Menedemos wasn't altogether happy about admitting as much to himself. He wondered why his father couldn't give him as long a leash as he let his wife and the cook have. Whenever he thinks I'm the least little bit out of line, he slaps me down hard, he thought resentfully.

In the kitchen, the yelling got louder. “—think you're King Midas, with all the gold in the world around you!” Baukis said.

Sikon's reply came to Menedemos' ears in impassioned fragments: “... cheapskate . . . barley mush . . . salted fish!” The cook slammed his fist down on a counter. Baukis let out a rage-filled, wordless squeal.

“Oh, dear,” Menedemos said. Philodemos drained that cup of wine and got himself another. He was starting to look a little bleary, which he seldom did in the afternoon. First Xanthos and now this, Menedemos thought, not without sympathy.

A moment later, Baukis stormed back across the courtyard, her back stiff with fury. She went up the stairs. The door to the women's quarters slammed. This time, Philodemos was the one who said, “Oh, dear.”

And, a moment after that, Sikon rushed into the andron shouting, “I can't stand it any more! Tell that woman to keep her nose out of my kitchen from here on out, or I quit!”

“That woman happens to be my wife,” Philodemos pointed out.

“And you can't quit,” Menedemos added. “You're a slave, in case you've forgotten.”

By Sikon's comically astonished expression, he had forgotten. With reason, too: in the kitchen, a good cook was king. And Sikon was more than a merely good cook. He said, “The way she goes on, you'd think we were trying to scrape by on five oboloi a day. How am I supposed to do anything interesting if I'm looking over my shoulder all the time for fear I spend a khalkos too much?”

“You've managed so far,” Philodemos said. “I'm sure you can keep right on doing it. Naturally, my wife worries about expenses. That's what wives do. You'll find a way to go on making your delicious suppers, come what may. That's what cooks do.”

No, he never took so soft a line with me, Menedemos thought. Maybe I should have been a cook, not a trader.

But Sikon wasn't satisfied, either. “Cooks cook, that's what they do. How can I cook when she's driving me mad?” He threw his hands in the air and stomped out of the andron. When he got back to the kitchen, he showed what he thought of the whole business by slamming the door as hard as Baukis had upstairs.