"Mary Renault - Greece 4 - The Last Of The Wine" - читать интересную книгу автора (Renault Mary)

whip-round among the rest.

Where are you off to? my mother asked me.— Only to see Xenophon. His father's given him a colt to
train for himself, to ride when he joins the Guard. I want to see how it's coming on. He says you must
never train a horse with a whip; it's like beating a dancer and expecting grace, and a horse ought to move
well out of pride in itself. Mother, isn't it time that Father got a new horse? Korax is too old for anything
but hacking: what am I going to ride, when I'm ready for the Guard? — You? she cried, silly child, that's
a world away. — Only three years, Mother. — It depends on next year's harvest. Don't stay late at
Xenophon's. Your father wants you in tonight. — Not tonight, Mother; it's club night. — I'm aware of it,
Alexias. And your father's order is that you are to go after supper, and serve the wine. — Who, I? I was
much affronted; I had never been asked to serve tables, except at public dinners where lads of good
family do it by custom. Are the slaves sick, or what? — Don't show your father that sulky face; you
ought to feel complimented. Run away, I have work to do.

When I went to the bath that evening I found my father just finishing, with old Sostias rinsing him down. I
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looked at his fine shoulders, flat and wide without being too heavy, and resolved to spend more time with
the disk and javelin. Even now, though the rising generation seems to think nothing of it, I cannot bear to
see a runner gone all to legs, looking as if he would be fit for nothing, when off the track, except to get
away from a battlefield faster than anyone else.

When Sostias had gone my father said, You will serve us the wine tonight, Alexias. — Yes, Father. —
Whatever you may hear in the guest-room, nothing goes out. You understand? — Yes, Father. This put
another colour on it. I went off to make myself a garland; I chose hyacinths, I believe.

They finished their business concerns early; while they were still eating my father commanded me to fetch
my lyre and sing. I gave them the ballad of Harmodios and Aristogeiton. Afterwards my father said, You
must forgive the boy's hackneyed choice; but it is while these old songs come fresh to them, that they can
learn something from them. — Don't beg our pardon, Myron, Kritias said. I fancy I am not the only one
here who felt, on hearing it tonight, that he understood it for the first time. The slaves were clearing the
tables, which gave me an excuse to pretend I had not heard.

After mixing the wine, I went round the couches, quietly as I had been taught, without drawing attention
to myself; but one or two of my father's old friends held me back for a few words. Theramenes, who had
given me my first set of knucklebones, remarked how I was growing, and told me that if I did not idle my
time in the bath-house or scent-shop, but remembered the Choice of Herakles, I might be as handsome
as my father. One or two other guests had a word for me, but when I got to Kritias, I took care to be as
brief as if it were a mess-table in Sparta.

He was not much above thirty then, but already affected the philosopher in mantle and beard. He had a
hungry-looking face, with the skin stretched tight on the cheekbones, but was not bad looking apart from
his thinness, except that his eyes were too light, the skin being dark around them. He had not belonged to
the club very long, and was considered something of a prize to it, for he was extremely well-born,
wealthy, and a wit. No one, as you may suppose, had asked for my opinion. As it happened, I had met
him rather earlier than my father had. I had noticed him first in Sokrates' company; which had disposed
me so well to him, that when he came up afterwards while Midas' back was turned, I let him speak to