Amber and Clay Read online

  Not the horse only, but beauty:

  that is the thing he seeks.

  I will give him

  the best consolation a mortal can know:

  not love, which is fickle

  as faithless Aphrodite,

  nor power, which makes a man

  first drunk,

  then thirsty.

  I will give him the power to create.

  I will make him like myself:

  a maker of beautiful things.

  I slipped into the house on silent feet.

  I went to Hestia’s altar;

  I prayed:

  Help me, O Goddess,

  and I will remember you.

  I filled a lamp with oil and lit the wick.

  I sheltered the flame with my hand;

  my fingers glowed red.

  I passed through the shadows step by step,

  listening,

  holding my breath:

  Everyone slept.

  There was the horse in the andron.

  Each time I saw it

  I ached to make a horse like that:

  vigorous, mettlesome, his muscles rippling like water,

  I stood on the couch

  wonderstruck.

  How long did I stand looking? I heard someone behind me.

  I turned so fast I almost slipped —

  I should have blown out the lamp.

  Instead I lifted it high.

  He stood in the doorway.

  Not a grown-up: a boy.

  The master’s second son: Lykos.

  How many years since we played in the courtyard?

  Often he came to the stable to ride.

  I’d bring his horse in from the pasture.

  He never looked at me.

  I’d hand him the rope and slink off.

  When someone doesn’t see you,

  you want to get away.

  “Rhaskos?”

  He remembered my name.

  “Is that you? What are you doing here?”

  I stepped down from the couch.

  To be caught in the andron

  in the middle of the night —

  There wasn’t a lie I could tell.

  I hung my head.

  “I heard a noise. I thought it was a thief.

  Then I saw the light.

  For a moment, I thought the house was on fire!”

  I stole a glance, sideways. He was older, thinner,

  but that look of mischief —

  the corners of his mouth puckered,

  his eyebrows lifted —

  “Whew, you stink! I can smell you from here!

  Sometimes Father says the andron

  stinks like the stable.

  Is that because of you?

  Have you come here before?”

  My mouth was dry.

  “You’re supposed to answer when I speak to you.

  I’m your master, you know.”

  He sat down on the couch,

  and pulled up his feet, sitting cross-legged.

  He rubbed the sole of his foot with his thumb,

  as if he had a callus there,

  and spoke without lifting his head.

  “I think about you sometimes.”

  When he said that, I stared at the floor:

  Rows of flat pebbles, black and white,

  cunningly arranged,

  but that wasn’t why I stared.

  I didn’t know anyone thought about me.

  “We used to have good times together, didn’t we?

  All we had to do was play. And fight.

  You were the best one to fight with.”

  “You were stronger.”

  His head came up.

  He grinned at me.

  “I was, wasn’t I? Even then! But you put up a fight.

  I’m learning wrestling now. I bet you’d be good at it.

  But I guess you don’t learn wrestling.”

  “I don’t learn anything.”

  “You should thank the gods for your good luck!

  All they ever do is teach me things, and half the time, I can’t learn them.

  Sometimes I think I’d rather be you, working with the horses.

  You were always crazy about horses. Remember how

  we used to take sticks,

  and switch our legs,

  and gallop?

  You could whinny just like a horse.

  I remember your mother made you a little horse out of clay,

  and I broke it.

  Do you remember that?”

  I’d forgotten.

  The memory came back to me: a rough little figure,

  sun-dried, short-necked;

  more like a dog than a horse.

  It was my only toy.

  “I remember,

  because your mother smacked my bottom so hard,

  I howled like a wolf.

  That seemed like a regular whipping, back then.

  We used to have good times, didn’t we?”

  He sounded like Georgios and Demetrios.

  Whenever they were drunk, they liked to talk

  about how good things were

  when they were young.

  “Then your mother was sold

  and I got to be seven years old.

  After that, we never spoke.”

  “I’m not supposed to talk unless someone talks to me first.”

  He nodded briskly.

  “I’ve got a slave of my own now, old Zotikos.

  He takes me to school every day.

  If I don’t learn fast enough, he beats me.”

  “A slave? A slave beats you?”

  He threw up his hands.

  “All boys have slaves to make us learn.

  Zotikos is old, but he uses a cane, and he can hit hard.

  He says I’m bone-lazy and good for nothing. It’s not fair,

  because I’m not so bad at wrestling,

  and I win all the footraces.

  I just hate memorizing all that Homer.

  Hesiod and Homer, they’re poets,

  and I have to learn them by heart.

  Homer tells stories, so he’s interesting once in a while —

  but Hesiod’s boring.

  Then I have to play the lyre.

  Zotikos is always yelling at me

  because he says the lyre’s out of tune.

  I don’t see how he can tell. It sounds all right to me.

  Does old Georgios beat you?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “It’s worse for you.

  When I grow up, I’ll be a soldier,

  and nobody will dare lay a hand on me,

  but you’ll always be whipped.

  At least no one makes you learn poetry.

  You ought to be grateful for that.”

  I didn’t argue with him.

  I didn’t know what poetry was,

  and it had been so long since anyone spoke to me —

  not giving orders, but talking.

  And he was a boy. Like me.

  I hadn’t talked to another boy in years.

  He heaved a sigh. He sounded like a horse:

  a long breath and a brief snort.

  “Sometimes it seems to me that nobody ever gets out of anything.

  I mean, you’ve got to be a slave,

  and I’ve got to go to school,

  and be a soldier, like my big brother, Menon —

  only I won’t be like Menon, because he’s awful.

  But you know what I mean.

  You have to work for old Georgios,

  and I have to learn to play the stupid lyre.”

  He frowned.

  “But why are you here in the middle of the night?”

  I had been standing that whole time.

  I went to him and knelt down, setting the lamp on the floor.

  It was the pose of a suppliant. If I had to,

  I would kneel up,

  and cup my hand around his chin,<
br />
  and beg for mercy.

  “Don’t tell on me, Lykos!

  I came to look at the horse on the wall.

  I always liked that horse. Remember that day — ?

  We were playing Do-What-I-Do,

  and you led us in here?

  I saw that horse, and I couldn’t see how anyone could do that:

  make a horse out of paint.

  That man must have been like a god.”

  “Like a god!

  He was just a workman,

  dirtying his hands to make a living!

  His name was Parrhasius,

  and he charged a pretty penny, Father says.

  Is that really why you’re here?

  You’d risk a beating to look at that horse?”

  “Yes. But the beating’s up to you.

  Are you going to tell on me?”

  “No. I’m not a sneak!

  But you’re lucky it was me that found you.

  What do you want to do now?”

  “Do?”

  “Oh, come on, Rhaskos!

  We’re both awake, and there aren’t any grown-ups.

  We could sneak out of the house and go swimming.

  No one would know!

  There’s a bend in the river where the water’s deep.

  Menon goes there with his friends —

  We’d have fun.”

  He was offering me his friendship,

  treating me as an equal, almost.

  I leapt to my feet. I was afraid he’d change his mind.

  “I can’t swim, but I know the place.”

  I blew out the lamp.

  We rushed out of the andron

  and into the courtyard.

  We’d forgotten to whisper. All at once, I heard her voice:

  Galene, his mother,

  and mistress of the house,

  Galene, who’d slapped me

  and called me slave brat.

  Her voice was a croak; she was half asleep.

  “Lykos! What are you doing out of bed?

  Come back to the house!”

  I backed into the shadows.

  Lykos shrugged, giving in.

  He whispered: “Tomorrow?”

  I nodded in the dark. I don’t know if he saw.

  I went back to the courtyard the next night

  and the next.

  The third night, I didn’t go.

  I don’t know whether Lykos changed his mind

  or fell asleep.

  I never spoke to him again.

  A week later, the master was back.

  There was fearful news: Apollo was angry,

  and was shooting his arrows of plague

  at the city of Larissa.

  In a few days, Lykos was struck down.

  He was buried by a nearby shrine.

  Sometimes at dawn, I saw Galene,

  bowed with grief,

  coming from his grave.

  Alexidemus was left with only one son:

  Menon.

  EXHIBIT 4

  Red-figure oil jar (lekythos) found near Pharsalos, Thessaly, circa 400 BCE. Lekythoi are commonly found in graves and were often given as gifts to the dead.

  The scene shown is Hermes leading a boy toward a boat. Hermes wears his characteristic traveler’s cloak and winged sandals. The youth behind him was originally labeled, but the inscription has been rubbed away; only the final two letters, ος (os), remain. Because Hermes was Guide of Souls, the scene may depict a voyage to the underworld. The man holding the oar is probably Charon, who ferries the dead over the river Styx.

  TURN: LYKOS

  I thought I had more time.

  I thought I’d grow up

  and be an athlete

  crowned with olive leaves.

  I wanted to grow strong

  so I could pound Menon;

  I wanted to go swimming with Rhaskos.

  Instead I’ve come here —

  this steep and crooked canyon,

  darkening

  forcing me forward

  closing in.

  It reminds me of something.

  A sound in the dark:

  the splash of rushing water.

  There’s the boat for the dead

  and that monster of nightmare:

  Charon

  the boatman — so hideous

  with his red and feverish eyes,

  I want to run. My feet

  are rooted to the ground.

  Music? Someone is whistling:

  a god, boyish and radiant,

  light-footed as a goat.

  His skin sheds fragrance

  and flakes of dazzling light.

  I’m afraid of them both.

  I’ve come to the land of gods and ghosts

  and I don’t like either one.

  I’m afraid of where they’re taking me.

  And I’m afraid of the dark.

  COUNTERTURN: HERMES

  This is the fate of man:

  to run out of time,

  to pass from the earth

  to the House of Death.

  It’s time to say farewell

  to everything you’ve known.

  Now Rhaskos must go swimming by himself.

  Keep on straight ahead;

  follow the vanishing path,

  narrowing,

  squeezing you onward:

  birth passage

  into Persephone’s realm.

  Listen! the river!

  white water chattering —

  Here’s your boat! The pilot

  is that sour gondolier,

  Charon.

  I admit he’s not pretty —

  rotten teeth and halitosis.

  No style. And no manners.

  And no conversation.

  Buck up! I’m coming with you.

  I am Hermes, the luck bringer,

  giant killer, jaunty,

  your friend and companion,

  god of the golden wand!

  I’ve come to show the way.

  I’ll introduce you to gods and ghosts,

  and keep you from getting lost.

  There is no night that does not end.

  And I can see in the dark.

  EXHIBIT 5

  Terra-cotta doll found in Kerameikos district of Athens, late fourth century BCE.

  This finely crafted doll may have been part of a child’s grave goods. Unlike dolls from earlier periods, the doll is unclothed, and the legs are jointed at the knee instead of the thigh. The movable arms attach to the shoulders with twine. Traces of pigment show that the doll was brightly painted. One foot is missing and was not recovered during the excavation.

  Though many toys were created in the home, Greek potters also made children’s playthings: dolls, tops, yo-yos, rattles, and pull-toys. The beauty of this doll suggests that it must have been a special gift for a much-cherished child.

  Athena, goddess of war and defender of cities, stood on the Akropolis, surveying the city below. It was the third day of the month, a time set aside to honor her, and the smoke of sacrificial fire billowed in the air. The people of Athens were beseeching her for victory over the Spartans.

  Sunlight flashed against her golden helmet as the goddess shook her head. Athena relished glory, and Athens had been glorious: an aggressive sea power, sublime in its arts, unmatched in genius. Now its glory was in decline. Athena had seen cities fall, and she recognized the signs: the scarcity of fighting men, the dread, the disease.

  Her sea-grey eyes followed the city walls down to the harbor. Spartan ships prowled back and forth across the narrow bay, depriving the people of timber and grain. The Spartans had achieved a navy, funded by Greece’s old enemies, the Persians. Without wood, the Athenians could not replace the ships they had lost; without bread, they would starve.

  For an instant, the goddess’s face was shadowed by an expression of regret. Then she launched herself into the wind like a bird of prey, wheeling north to Mount Olym
pus.

  Melisto was drunk. The taste of wine was sour in her mouth, and her bandaged head pounded. The world was no longer spinning, but she felt sick and hot. She kicked off the blanket Thratta had spread over her and glared at the raftered ceiling.

  There was something she couldn’t remember. She knew she had tumbled down the stairs and cut her head; she recalled that vividly. There had been so much blood that she had panicked, and her mother cried. Only Thratta remained calm, wrestling Melisto to the floor as she staunched the wound and bandaged her head.

  One of the slaves was sent for a doctor. Another ran to the storeroom for a cup of wine to ease the pain. The doctor said that the upper bone in Melisto’s arm was broken. At that, Melisto became frantic. To her, broken meant that part of her arm was about to fall off. As the doctor set the bone, she became half-crazed. She tried to bite him until Thratta held her down. The doctor encased her arm in bandages, stiffening them with a mixture of lard and wax.

  Once the bandage was finished, Melisto stopped screaming. It dawned on her that the bandage was meant to hold her arm together. She submitted to having a sling tied around her neck and drank the last of the wine. The room spun. She closed her eyes and slept.

  Now she was awake, and it was late afternoon. Melisto shifted onto her left side. Thratta stood by the window, spinning. The slave woman put down her distaff and came to the bed.

  A glowing figure appeared in the doorway: Lysandra in her yellow gown. “Is she awake? Is she better?”

  “She has a fever,” Thratta answered. “Her arm’s swollen. The doctor said it would swell.”

  “I sent Sosias to the market to buy her a present.” Lysandra held up the doll in her arms. “Look, Melisto! Have you ever seen a more beautiful doll?”

  Melisto stretched out her hand. She loved dolls, but she was hard on them, battering them to bits. Her mother had threatened never to give her another one.

  The new doll was made of hard clay. Her painted face was serene, with chalk-white skin and lips as red as apples. The arms and knees were jointed. It would be possible to pose her and make her dance.

  “You can weave her a little dress when your arm heals,” Lysandra suggested.

  Melisto made a sour face. She was six years old now; her wool work was improving, but she had yet to develop a taste for it. She averted her head as Lysandra felt her forehead.

  Lysandra spoke to Thratta. “I don’t think she’s very feverish. It’s hot this afternoon.” All at once she spoke sharply. “You saw what happened, Thratta! She stepped on the hem of my gown and tripped! It was an accident — it happened so fast, I couldn’t catch her! I nearly fell myself!”

  The ugly thing was back in Melisto’s head again: the thing she didn’t want to remember. She had followed her mother up the stairs. The hem of her mother’s gown brushed the top of each step, rippling, almost floating, tempting her to step on it. The gown was new, the product of skillful and painstaking work. She remembered the sound it made when it tore: skritch!