"Father's got thosejars of ink in the warehouse," Menedemos agreed, "and the rolls ofpapyrus with them, and the vials of Egyptian poppy-juice, too. And we'll put inat Khios and pick up some wine." He ran his tongue over his lips."Nothing finer than Khian. It's thick as honey, and even sweeter."

"Khian's a lotstronger than honey, too," Sostratos observed. "Those are vintagesyou need to drink well-watered."

With a snort, Menedemossaid, "Those are vintages you can drink well-watered, my dear cousin. Me,I like to have some fun every so often."

Sostratos sighed."I like drinking wine. I don't like swilling it down neat like abarbarian. I don't like getting drunk and breaking things and getting intofights." He was, or at least tried to be, moderate. All the philosophersmaintained that moderation was a virtue. By the look on Menedemos' face, he reckonedit not only a vice but a nasty vice at that. Sostratos sighed again. His cousinhad all the noteworthy good traits: he was handsome, outgoing, strong, nimble.He could as easily sing a song as guide a ship through a gale without showingfear.

And what about you?Sostratos asked himself. He shrugged. Nobody'd ever written Sostratos isbeautiful on the walls when he was a youth. He wasn't a bad haggler, but he gotwhat bargains he got with reason and patience, not by making people like himand go easy or by persuading them black was white. He towered over Menedemos,but his cousin always threw him when they stripped off their clothes andwrestled in the gymnasion.

I have a good prosestyle. Theophrastos told me that himself, up in Athens, and he doles out evenless praise than Aristoteles did when he headed the Lykeion. Everyone says so.I remember what I read, too. And I've always been clever -  better than clever,really -  with numbers.

It didn't seem enough.Even with moderation and reliability thrown in, it didn't seem enough.Sostratos shrugged again. I can't be Menedemos. I am what the gods made me. Ihave to make the most of what they gave me.