by Mary Renault
Theas sailed with us; he had been chosen as an umpire in the games, and carried his stick of office. Our father’s proud eyes followed him everywhere. His wife, eight months gone, had stayed behind, but he had brought his boy. No fear there of the Cretan strain appearing.
A little fleet from Keos followed the theoria. Most of our kin and friends were carried by Laertes, who had two ships now. I saw them arrive, but had to bring my boys to the precinct and rehearse their entrance.
I was with the Kean herald, talking about this, when he pointed past me at the harbor. “Look. The Athenians.”
Yes, here was the state galley, the biggest yet. The sails were scarlet striped with blue; the whole vessel dazzled in the sun with gilding and polished bronze. The oars were painted white, so that as they rowed her in they flashed like wings. It was the grandest in the harbor, which had come to be expected; Pisistratos had seen to that.
They threw out their gangway. It was very broad, wider than a cattleship’s. I saw movement within, and it came to me what they were doing; they meant to disembark in full order of procession. It’s done now by many embassies; but that was the first time I know of. Being downwind, we could hear the flutes giving the note, and the paean beginning. At a stately pace, the procession crossed the gangway, to the admiration of the crowd. I approved whoever was getting them off so neatly from a cramped deck; but did not at once attend to the man who led the embassy, who I took it would be the priest of Apollo. Then something familiar struck my eye; it was Hippias. Standing in the prow, on the pilot’s bridge, Hipparchos was directing the procession.
Often it’s been my fortune that when I have done something to please myself, or satisfy my honor, against all seeming prudence, yet it has brought me luck. I’d left Athens when the scent of patronage hung in the air like the savor of roasting meat, rather than fail the Keans and disgrace my kin. And here was patronage, come to meet me.
The theoria marched singing to the temple; the herald cried, the offering-bearers came forward with their jars and baskets and wreathed bull; Hippias spoke the dedication, and poured on the altar a flask of precious incense, three times more costly since we lost the Asian cities. The Delian High Priest replied. Nothing could have been handsomer.
Important people would now be paying their respects. I let the brothers get to the Athenian lodge, and left them time for a rest and a drink, before I went to pay mine. I was here as a Kean, after all.
The lodge was handsome, built of stone by Pisistratos when he purified the island. There were still people about; but Hipparchos called out to me as soon as I was inside. Only he and Thessalos were there; the chair of state was empty.
“Come in, singer of heroes!” He shouted to a slave to bring another stool. Most of the guests were standing. “My brother has gone up Mount Kythnos to consult the oracle.”
I said I hoped the answer would be favorable. I could hardly ask about the question, though I longed to know.
Hipparchos waved it away. “Oh, it will be favorable. He has nothing serious to ask it. Oracles are his study. Wherever one exists, it’s the first thing he visits. They are all ready for him beforehand.” He beckoned another slave to bring me wine.
Thessalos said, “He may get a surprise one day. Oracles are known for that.”
“Not on Delos.” He smiled. Everyone knew that even rich Polykrates had not been such a benefactor of the sanctuary as Pisistratos. I had had it in mind when I composed my dithyramb, never guessing his own sons would be in the audience. It must, I thought, be my lucky day.
“Onomakritos has gone up with him,” Hipparchos said, “to write it all down, in case anything gets forgotten.”
I stared at this. “Why, Onomakritos is a poet. Does he need to write it?” I had met the man and thought him a charlatan; but Hippias put great trust in him.
Hipparchos laughed. He knew well enough what I was thinking. “Well, he has charge of all the oracles from the time of Theseus down, or so he claims for them. I daresay it’s a good deal to remember. He and Hippias go over them by the hour. They come to Father with them. Sometimes he even uses one, if it falls in pat just then.”
“Especially Athene’s,” Thessalos put in.
This was sailing near the wind. I suppose there were a few very simple peasants who still believed Athene herself had escorted Pisistratos back from exile. From curiosity, I had gone myself to the home village of the tall girl who had put on the helmet and the aegis for him and mounted the chariot at his side. I was snubbed, however, whenever I asked the way. She was treated with great respect there, and shielded from vulgar eyes. I believe she married the first man of the place (not ill-dowered, you may be sure!) and bore him four tall sons. Ever since she put on Athene’s armor, the people felt she was somehow god-touched. In Athens, of course, it had long since been a joke; people just admired its cleverness, though not as a rule out loud.
Lest I should feel awkward, Hipparchos sanctioned it this time with a smile. It was things like this that won him so many friends. I suppose it is no great wonder that men forget; but I am sorry, too.
The small guest-room of the lodge looked very festive, with its garlands and embroidered hangings, and the brothers’ fresh bright clothes, dark Thessalos in yellow, fair Hipparchos in white bordered with scarlet. Pisistratos never put on purple, nor allowed his sons to do it. He knew what the Athenians would think of that. He always knew what they thought.
Some tedious people left, and the talk grew gayer; Hipparchos never expected artists he entertained to sing each time for their supper. After a while a shadow fell on the doorway, and soberness along with it. Hippias came in, with solemn Onomakritos. He really was carrying tablets, without any shame, like any palace clerk.
Hipparchos greeted them; I saw him take a second, keener look at Hippias face. It certainly looked grave; but he was pious to the point of superstition. In any case, I took my leave almost at once, to let him talk with his brothers. I was short of time myself.
In the evening, my boys got in from rambling about the island, and crowded for their supper into the big room under the Kean lodge, where they would sleep in straw like puppies. I, like the kennel-man, would have my pallet there to keep an eye on them, and see they turned out next day without black eyes or bloodied noses.
Most of their parents were lodging at Rhenaia Island, close by, as people do when Delos is full. My own however were here, and I got up early to pay my respects before the procession began. To save time I put my robe and wreath on. As I came in, I saw the change in my father’s face as he made out who it was. For a moment he’d thought it was someone of importance.
Even when he’d realized his mistake, he looked as if he had had some new thought about me; but whether welcome or not, I could not tell. My mother complained that the lodging was badly swept, and kept telling me to pick up my skirts, or I would not be fit to be seen. Theas, whom I passed conferring deeply with other umpires on the state of the wrestling-ground, waved and wished me luck.
It was a fine calm morning, with only the gentlest breeze; no need to tie one’s wreath into one’s hair. We marched to the forecourt of the temple (Pisistratos’ gift, already looking mellow) singing our paeans, then stood in our order waiting for our turns. Mine came about halfway through.
I sang of the god’s birth as I had conceived it, and how Delos is still suffused with his pure fire, which will not bear sickness, or death, or tears. The last part should always deal with things in the world of men; so I sang of the Purification.
I was little more than a boy when Pisistratos visited Delos as First Archon of Athens, instead of a simple worshipper. For many years it had been treated carelessly; there were graveyards in full sight of the precinct and the sacred cave. He had all the old bones given decent burial, with their own tombstones, at the far end of the island, and had the cleared places beautified. On one of them he built the temple. All this was in my ode.
I’d rehearsed my boys to turn their circle at a gentle pace, to save
their breath for the song. There was no wind to carry the sound away; no one was fidgety with cold; the boys came in dead on time as my solo ended. We were well received. As we went off, I got a gracious smile from Hippias as well as from Hipparchos, and wondered if my father saw.
The Athenian choir came next. It was the first appearance of young Lasos, a most agreeable fellow whom I got to know well in later years. So far as music was concerned, his ear was better than mine; he used to say, as if it were quite natural, that he composed it first and thought later about the words. This is why none of his words have lived on after him. They were just part of the sound, like an extra flute; he took pride in never using any word that had an s in it, a sound that he thought harsh. He used all woodwinds, no strings, and took it fast, the dance as well as the singing. His choir was well trained, too. Though without any wish to copy him, I was spellbound by his mastery, and was some time in noticing that someone was pulling my robe.
Thinking that one of the boys wanted to go and relieve himself, I said without turning, “Very well, but go quietly.” Then the tug got stronger, and I looked. It was Midylos, my sister’s husband. I saw with surprise that clinging to his cloak was Theas’ little boy. Our mother had been looking after him.
Midylos whispered, “Sim, I am sorry, but I think you had better come. Your father is sick … They have taken him to Rhenaia.”
He glanced at me. There was no need to say more.
If one calls up one’s youth to answer to one’s age, one must ask the truth from it. The truth is that I thought, “Not now!”
Who would take care of the boys, and lead them in the closing procession? The flute-player? I had never shown him what to do, he had only to walk behind me. He could set the note for the paean, but it ought to be sung, not played, and he could no more sing than a frog; I did not trust the boys not to burst out laughing. How would I get word to the High Priest, now sitting in state and not to be approached, that I had to leave? Suppose the judges called for me? What would the Pisistratids think?
All this rushed through my head; while young Lasos’ choir sang about half a line. “Yes,” I said, “I will come.”
I beckoned the flute-player; gave him some hasty instructions; chose the boy with the finest voice to start the paean when the flute gave the note. I told the younger ones to behave themselves in the precinct, or I’d tell their fathers of them. I did everything as if my thoughts had been what they should.
As we edged through the press, I put my arm out to protect the kithara, still slung about my neck. How should I get it cared for? I would be crossing in a leaky ferryboat. After a salt drenching, it would never be the same again. It had been made by a master for a master; for his sake it was dear to me; it had spoken with his voice, and had come now to speak with mine; its beauty was closer to me than any woman’s. Because of the fine weather, I had left its case at the Kean lodge.
The little boy said, “Uncle Midylos, why did they take Granddad away? Why couldn’t he go to bed?”
Midylos said, “He has gone to see the doctor.”
“What happened?” I asked. “He seemed quite well this morning.”
“Yes, it was sudden; while you were singing. He leaned on me—Theas was still busy over the games—and said he felt giddy, and one of his legs was prickling. While we were leaving he fell down, and some men helped me carry him out of the crowd. He tried to speak, but the half of his face was numb. It sounded like ‘Rhenaia,’ and that seemed best. Theas has taken him over, and I came for you.
“Yes. Yes, let us go at once.”
“Look, that’s the way to the ferry. Only big ships are using the harbor now.”
“I know. But there is something I must …” The kithara seemed to cling to me, like a frightened child. I forget how far I went out of our way towards the Kean lodge, before I found a man I knew and trusted, who promised he would get its case from the warden of the lodge, and put it in safekeeping. If I had not met him, perhaps I would have gone to the lodge myself. I cannot tell.
Most of the ferryboats were idle, waiting on the Delos side to take people back to their lodgings after the festival. I had never before been over to Rhenaia. Its living is mostly fish, between the festivals. Anyone who can afford it has built a room onto his house, to make something at the Delia and the summer Apollonia. Some rent their houses out and just sleep in their boats. We crossed where the channel is narrow, alongside the Chain of Polykrates. He had the notion of offering the whole island as a dedication to Delian Apollo, by tying it, so to speak, to his feet. It was just like Polykrates. Most of the chain was under water, hidden by weed; our boatman cursed it as a danger to the ships.
The feast had emptied the island. The jetty seemed forsaken. Theas’ little boy said, “Uncle, where does the doctor live? Can I see Granddad?”
“When he is better.” Midylos murmured to me, “He thinks the world of Leo.” The child bore his name, and was Theas to the life as I first remembered him.
As we tied up, a boy got up from the shadow of a bollard, and limped towards us. “Is either of you gentlemen Simonides, Leoprepes of Iulis’ son?”
“I am; where is he?”
The lad’s face brightened. He did not look poor, just bored and lonely. “In the shelter, sir. I’ll show you the way.”
“What?” I said. He had used the word for a soldier’s bivouac or shepherd’s hut. I turned angrily to Midylos; but he laid finger on lip and shook his head. I understood. All the lodgings had been paid for, by people who would be back at night to sleep. To a sick man they might offer hospitality; not to a dead one, who would leave the place defiled. Rhenaia, it seemed, had a proper place for that.
The boy said, “Are you famous, sir? Your mother said so. And Melesias gave your father a new bed. This way, sirs, it’s not far.” He led us on at a lurching trot. He was clubfooted; I expect his kin had not cared to show him at the feast.
The death-house was past the harbor, along the shore; a stonewalled hut, with a roof of driftwood held down with stones. No one was wailing, so I knew he was still alive.
A man was sitting outside upon a boulder. He looked round at us; by the time we came up, he was grinning like a pi-dog that scents meat. He was the man who had been ready to stay away from Delos, in case anyone arrived to die. Pythagoras’ followers, as they told me when I visited their city, do things like this as an offering to the gods. This fellow was not one of them.
I suppose the plain dress of Keos had not promised well. At the sight of my robes he almost dribbled. Anything he could do for the poor old gentleman … not that it was easy with so many folk away, but hospitality to the stranger …
We walked past him. The doorway had no door. Only the family was there, but there was barely room inside. I could see my mother kneeling by my father, and hear his heavy breathing. A cold, damp stink of old sickness and death crept out. Little Leo did not ask again where Granddad was; he started to back away.
Philomache peered out. Midylos beckoned her, and she took the child by the hand. “Come, let’s look on the beach for something pretty, to give to Grandpa when he’s better.” He went with her silently, not deceived but thankful to be gone.
Her leaving made room inside. My father lay with his feet to the door, on his new bed. The boy had spoken truly; the straw was fresh.
I stood by my mother and looked down. Theas’ cloak was rolled under his head for a pillow. Half his mouth had dropped, so that he seemed to gaze at me with an angry and sour disgust. In the prison of his face his eyes had moved, and were fixed on me. I knelt and took his hand. It felt cold and dead. The straw smelled of the urine his body could not contain.
“Father.” What more? I was as dumb as the child had been. “I am sorry, Father.” The good side of his mouth moved, and it seemed that he spoke my name.
“This won’t do, Father,” I said. “We must find you something better.” Then I remembered that despite my splendid clothes, or rather because of them, I was the only man there who carr
ied no coin at all. My money was at the Kean lodge, in the warden’s keeping.
He could move his head a little. He turned his eyes towards a block of stone that served as the only table. There was a cup on it; my mother lifted it to his mouth, and raised his head. He swallowed some, though more was spilled; then he looked hard at her, and his eyes moved to me. I said, “He wants more”; but with every inch of face he could make work, he seemed to say, “You fool!” He looked at Theas, and his loose mouth mumbled again. I could not catch the words; but I saw Theas go white. He bent down and said, “You are my father. You know I cannot do it.” He turned to me, his face telling me everything. “And nor can Sim, Father. You know that.”
Indeed, I had been slow. This should have happened to him at home on Keos, where old custom met his need. He would have had no trouble there in getting what he wanted, and a friend to give it.
Theas said to me, “Sim, you know Delos. Would there be someone there?” He spoke quite simply; we were all Keans.
I shook my head. “Doctors, yes. But they’re servants of Apollo. They have to take a vow never to give such things. ‘Even if it is asked of me.’ That’s in their oath.”
My father said, “Keoth.” It was the best he could do, and clear enough.
“Yes, Father,” Theas said. “Just rest now. We will take you home.”
He shut his eyes. I expect that saying so much had been hard work. I went outside with Theas. The custodian came fawning up. I silenced Theas with a look—he had just got a buffet ready—and whispered, “You had better give him something. I came just as I was.” The man spat on the copper piece and looked at me with scorn. The lame boy, who had stayed not for gain but because he had missed the festival, sat bright-eyed on a clump of sea-grass.
Theas and I looked at each other. Men from anywhere but Keos would have found much more to say. “No ship will leave Delos before tomorrow,” he said. “But if that is too late, he will have had his wish.”