That was a legitimate question; Menedemos could hardly deny as much. He said, “We can, sir, but I don’t think we’d be wise. It’s not just pirates. The war between Antigonos and Ptolemaios looks to be heating up. Any ship at all heading for Phoenicia is taking a chance these days.”
Philodemos grunted. “If you talk that way, we never should have sent the Aphrodite .”
“Perhaps we shouldn’t have,” Menedemos agreed.
His father didn’t just grunt this time. He blinked in astonishment. “You really do say that? You, the fellow who took the ship through a Carthaginian siege into Syracuse a couple of years ago?”
Ears heating, Menedemos dipped his head. “Yes, Father, I do say that. Taking the Aphrodite to Syracuse was one risk. As soon as we got past the Carthaginian fleet, we were fine. But there’s risk every digit of the way between here and Phoenicia, from pirates and from the Macedonian marshals. We got into trouble, and I think almost any ship heading that way would. We came out the other side all right. Whether another ship would… Well, who knows?”
“Maybe you really are starting to grow up a little,” Philodemos muttered, more to himself than to Menedemos. “Who would have believed that?”
“Father-” Menedemos broke off. He didn’t want to quarrel if he could help it. That being so, he kept talking about the struggle between the marshals: “Did Alexander the Great’s sister ever get out of Sardis? When we headed east, there was talk she wanted to get away from Antigonos and go over to Ptolemaios. Did old One-Eye let Kleopatra get away with it? We never heard anything after that, going to Sidon or coming back.”
“Kleopatra’s dead. Does that answer your question?” Philodemos replied.
“Oimoi!” Menedemos exclaimed, though he wasn’t really much surprised. “So Antigonos did her in?”
“He says not,” Philodemos answered. “But when she tried to leave Sardis, his governor there wouldn’t let her go. Later on, some of her serving women murdered her. They wouldn’t have done it if the governor hadn’t told them to, and he wouldn’t have told them to if Antigonos hadn’t told him to. He made a show of putting them to death afterwards, but then, he would.”
“Yes.” Menedemos clicked his tongue between his teeth. “Sostratos called that one when we first heard Kleopatra wanted to get away from Antigonos. She wouldn’t marry him, and she was too valuable a prize for him to let any of the other marshals have her.” He sighed. “So now none of Alexander ’s kin is left alive. These Macedonians are bloodthirsty bastards, aren’t they?”
“That they are.” Philodemos dipped his head. “And your cousin is a clever fellow.” Which means you aren’t. Menedemos heard the addition even though his father didn’t say it. It stung. It always did. And then Philodemos quivered, like a dog taking a scent. “Or are you telling me we shouldn’t go back to Sidon because you made it impossible for any ship from our family to go back to Sidon? Whose wife did you debauch while you were there? The garrison commander’s, maybe?”
“Nobody’s, by the gods,” Menedemos said.
“Is that the truth?” But Philodemos checked himself before Menedemos became really angry. “You don’t lie about your adulteries; I will say that. If anything, you revel in them. All right, then. That’s good news.”
“I didn’t have any adulteries to revel in, as I say,” Menedemos replied. “Sostratos did-an innkeeper’s wife down in Ioudaia-but not me.”
“Sostratos… your cousin… seduced another man’s wife?” his father said. Menedemos dipped his head. Philodemos clapped a hand to his forehead. “Papai! What is the younger generation coming to?”
“Probably about the same as yours did, and the one before yours, and the one before that, and the one before that,” Menedemos said with a cheerful grin. “ Aristophanes complained about the younger generation a hundred years ago.”
“Well, what if he did?” Philodemos retorted. “He was an Athenian, and everybody knows about them. You and your cousin are Rhodians. Good people. Sensible people.”
“What about Nestor, in the Iliad?” Menedemos said. “He complained about the younger generation, too.”
That gave Philodemos pause. He loved Homer no less than Menedemos did; Menedemos had got his fondness for the Iliad and Odyssey from his father. Philodemos returned the best answer he could: “You can’t tell me we Hellenes haven’t gone downhill since the days of the heroes.”
“Maybe,” Menedemos said. “Speaking of going downhill, how many speeches did Xanthos give in the Assembly while I was away? “
His father sent him a sour stare. Xanthos was a man of Philodemos’ generation: was, in fact, a friend of Philodemos’. He was also a great and crashing bore. Philodemos could hardly deny that. To his credit, he didn’t try. “Probably too many,” he answered. Then, to forestall Menedemos, he added, “And yes, he gave them all over again, first chance he got, whenever he saw me.”
“And how’s Sikon?” Menedemos asked. “I’ve hardly had the chance to say good day to him, but those were some very nice eels last night, don’t you think?”
“I’ve always liked eels,” Philodemos said. “And Sikon is as well as a cook can be.” He rolled his eyes again. Cooks had-and deserved-a reputation for tyrannizing the households in which they lived.
“Is he still quarreling with your wife?” Menedemos asked cautiously. The less he spoke about Baukis around his father, the better. He was sure of that. But he couldn’t ignore her feud with Sikon. The way the two of them stormed at each other, the whole neighborhood had trouble ignoring it.
“They… still don’t get along as well as they might,” Philodemos said.
“You really ought to do something about that, Father.” Menedemos again seized the chance to take the offensive.
“Wait till you have a wife. Wait till you’re running a household with a temperamental cook-and there’s no other kind,” Philodemos said. “Better they should yell at each other than that they should both yell at me.”
To Menedemos, that seemed a coward’s counsel. He said, “Better they shouldn’t yell. You ought to put your foot down.”
“Ha!” his father said. “How many times have I put my foot down with you? How much good has it done me?”
“I wasn’t the one who chased women this summer,” Menedemos said. His father snorted at the qualification, but he pressed on: “And I wasn’t the one who loaded so much olive oil onto the Aphrodite , either. No-I was the one who not only sold it but got a cursed good price for it, too.”
“I told you before-we won’t have to worry about that again,” Philodemos said. “Damonax and his family needed the silver that oil brought. Sometimes there’s no help for something. Sometimes there’s no help for the kinsfolk one has.”
By the way he looked at Menedemos, he wasn’t thinking of Damonax alone. “If you’ll excuse me, Father…,” Menedemos said, and left the andron before he found out whether Philodemos would excuse him. He stormed out of the house, too. If Philodemos tried to call him back, he made himself not hear.
Why do I bother? he wondered. Whatever I do, it will never satisfy him. And, knowing it will never satisfy him, why do I get so angry when it doesn’t? But the answer to that was all too obvious. He’s my father. If a man can’t please his own father, what sort of man is he?
Sparrows hopped around, pecking in the dirt for whatever they could find. Menedemos pointed at one of them, which fluttered off for a few cubits but then lit again and went back to pecking. Is your father angry at you because you don’t gather enough seeds to suit him? The bird bounced this way and that. Whatever worries it had-kestrels, snakes, ferrets-its father wasn’t among them. Ah, little bird, you don’t know when you’re well off.