by Mary Renault
I did not pretend to mourn; I had too much to remember. While everyone was talking, I was thinking my own thoughts. Presently I said to Theas, “Will this have reached Athens yet?”
He looked round sharply. He saw what I was at. “I doubt it. The ship that brought it from Miletos was going on to Rhodes, to take word to young Polykrates; and no other shipmaster was ready to put out. What do you say, Sim? Shall we go and tell your Archons?”
“It could do neither of us harm. How soon could you sail?”
“Now, if I make it worth my fellows’ while. A good moon; the wind’s right; and my pilot knows that passage as well as he knows his wife’s. If he’s drunk by now, I can take the helm myself.”
He went over to his own wife, who was sitting among the women, and hoping no doubt for a night with him. But she was used to such things by now; and he’d brought her some earrings set with Arabian pearls. Kean dress laws were getting dented, since Laertes and Theas went into trade.
Down in Koressia we found the pilot nearly sober, only two seamen helpless, and two Keans on the dock ready to take their places. The cargo had been off-loaded, and we sailed at once. For some time Theas had no time to spare for me; but after a while he came aft and said, “It must be chaos and old night by now in Samos. I hope you have no friends there.”
As if a snake had bitten me, I cried out, “Anakreon!” Being with the family, I suppose, had put it out of my mind. “He must be there.”
“Who?” Theas went to the side to peer at the steeps of Sounion, black against a shimmering sea. Its fickle winds were quiet; he spoke to the pilot and came back. “Is that the poet fellow, the Tyrant’s sycophant?”
“Poet yes, sycophant no. He is Anakreon … Well, never mind. I’m his guest-friend, Theas. He was good to me when I was poor and unknown, and he a great man already.”
“Oh,” said Theas at once, “that’s different. Then you must do whatever you can for him. Let’s see when you get to Athens.”
Between oars and sail, we made Piraeus by noon, and rode straight to Athens on the fastest beasts we could hire. Hippias saw us without delay (I had never wasted his time with trivialities) and sent at once for Hipparchos.
Theas told his tale. He was quite at ease before the Pisistratids. As Lyra had said, he was well known in many cities. At the outset I could see them comparing his looks with mine, and wondering which of us was the bastard; but we were used to that, and they soon had other things to think about. It was even plainer to them than it had been to us that the whole of Hellas, its balance and counterpoise with the Great King’s empire, would be changed if Samos fell.
All over Greece, the Pisistratids had allies, guest-friends, envoys and secret agents, who must be advised or warned; enemies too, who must be kept in the dark. This early news was worth gold to them; and with gold they paid for it. They were never cheese-parers. From what they gave Theas, he built himself a warehouse on Piraeus. He thanked them with unfeigned warmth—he had hugely enjoyed the whole adventure—saying with his open smile, “All this good fortune I owe to my young brother, who dragged me from a feast when I had only downed one cupful, telling me you must be the first to know.”
At this they turned to me and started all over again. But now Theas was taken care of, there was no more time to waste. The first time they paused for breath, I turned to Hipparchos. “Sir, as always you are too kind. But first let me say that when my brother left Samos, Anakreon was still there. What will become of him?”
Hipparchos started, much as I had done before. “What? By Herakles, Anakreon! Even that had been driven from my mind! Hippias, did you hear? Anakreon is still in Samos. We must get him out. Hippias, we must send a warship.”
“Let me go,” Theas said. “A small return to such princely givers. It will be a pleasure.” Hippias looked inclined to accept; chiefly I think to get the business out of the way; but Hipparchos cried out that Persians would be everywhere, if Samos no longer held the straits, and he would not repay Simonides’ gallant brother by making him their prey. Besides, a trader would be too slow. Without getting consent from Hippias, a thing never seen before, he summoned an officer of his guard, and sealed an order to take command of a naval pentekonter; let it be the fastest in the fleet, with the strongest rowers.
“Sir,” I said, “may I ask a favor? Let me go with the ship. I should be honored to fetch Anakreon here.”
At first he did not like it. (Hippias had gone, to attend to more important matters.) Putting out all his charm, he said, “We should all be poorer for Anakreon’s loss; but he at least is not an old and dear friend, as you are. To lose you would be insupportable.”
“I don’t think, sir, I shall be in danger. I’ve never taken part in Samian faction. But I do know a great many people there; and even if Anakreon has left already, I might be able to learn things that you would find useful.” This tempted him; and he let me go, ordering the captain not to put me ashore if he found the city in stasis, for no one was safe in a civil war. We sailed from Munychia at dawn next day.
I had never before traveled by warship, or guessed what speed is like on those long snaky galleys with twenty-five oars a side, helping the sail. The wind had changed, and again was in our favor. The rising sun glittered laughing along the sea; the plash and creak of the oars kept time to the chanty-man’s bawdy song (these were crack rowers, not to be spoiled with the whip); and I felt a new song of my own twining around the beat, like a vine upon a trellis.
I was glad to be going; even though, with all these soldiers, Anakreon would have no need of me to save his life. I had other reasons. He and I were friends, and sharing a patron would not alter it—not that in itself. Athens had room for both of us; we could only gain from each other’s company and the lift of each other’s art. What I feared were the fools about the court and city who, measuring us by their own mean minds, would from the first expect us to be rivals. In my life here and there, I’ve seen poets who would never have wished each other harm, or envied each other’s honor, set almost at each other’s throats through base men’s expectations. So I was resolved his first welcome should come from me, to cut such things at the root.
We met no Persians; the soldiers played knucklebones in the waist. As we neared Samos, trade looked to be much as usual. The harbor, when we rowed in, was full of men gathered to talk; which, as I have found in my many travels, means trouble, but not the worst; then there will be men in arms, or nobody in sight. There could be no stasis yet. But the captain had been so hammered with orders to keep me safe, he’d have bound me to a thwart if I’d tried to go ashore before news had come back to him. This was brought at last by the pilot, who had not hurried, having found some old friends to drink with. They had all told him there was still law in Samos, no Persian fleet in sight; the city was being governed by the regent whom the Tyrant had left behind when he crossed the strait, one Maiandrios. I demanded my freedom, went ashore, and, avoiding any place where people might keep me talking, made straight for Anakreon’s house.
The door stood open; but when I tapped with my stick, nobody came. He must have fled already, I thought; I should find the place forsaken; so, without ceremony, I walked in.
The room was in confusion; stuffs thrown about, vases and scrolls tumbled upon the table; an open chest with a blanket half out of it, and the wall-hanging inside. Had he been murdered, then? But the place would have been looted. The street was noisy outside; and it was only now that I heard a moan, or a whimper, from the room beyond. I ran in. It was a dog that had been crying, a little white one, the kind they breed in Melita. It was standing on tiptoe to paw the knees of Anakreon, who sat on the bed with his head clasped in his hands, his fingers buried in his uncombed hair. As I looked, he picked the dog up blindly into his arms, like a distraught mother with a wailing baby. He was weeping himself.
“Anakreon!” I cried. He sat up looking desperate, as if the entrance of any stranger must portend something dreadful; yet not as if frightened for himself. When
he saw who it was, he cried out my name, even then remembering to put the dog down gently, and came running to me. While I tried to soothe him, the first words I could hear from him were, “So horrible! Oh, horrible, horrible! Is he dead, Simonides? Tell me he is dead!”
I guided him to a chair in the outer room, found wine—it was plain the disorder had been no one’s work but his own—and gave him some. He threw it down like water, and, starting to command himself, begged me to drink too. The little dog, beseeching with its dark child’s eyes, jumped into his lap and licked his tear-stained face.
“Poor Blossom,” he said, and looked about him as if seeing the place for the first time. “Simonides, what are you doing here?” Without giving me time to answer, he ran on like a man in fever, “I am ashamed of the house. I am packing, you see, Simonides, that’s what it is. I would put you up, my dear, but it’s better not to stop here, if I were you I should go away at once. We might find a ship together. Let me get you something to eat; I know where everything is, it won’t take a moment. The cakes were here …” He went scurrying about, picking things up and putting them down, rather like some flustered dame whose daughter is giving birth before the time. Blossom ran busily to and fro behind him. “I don’t even know where I shall be going. Ah, here they are.” He brought the crock, and started looking for a place on the littered table.
I took it from him and put it down, and laid my hands on his shoulders. “I can tell you, my dear friend, where you are going. You’re coming with me to Athens, where the Archons will beg you to he their guest for life. Our ship is in harbor, waiting just for you. It’s true, Anakreon. I’m telling you, you are the first poet for whom a king ever sent a warship. I don’t think even for Orpheus anyone did that.”
He quietened and looked at me. There crossed his face, drawn though it was with sleeplessness, the shadow of his charming smile. The life he knew had come in sight on the skyline, and he began to be Anakreon once again. He even said something pretty about my coming to fetch him, and the pleasure he would have in being my neighbor.
“But,” I said, “didn’t you know all along you could come to Athens? We tried hard enough to get you there.”
“I know. I know. It has been like the whole world ending … horrible! I can’t tell you now. You don’t know yet, do you? I’ll tell you, but not now. I must put a few things together.”
I began to help him wrap his precious vases, and asked where his servant was. “I let him go. He came to me scared to death, saying the Samians would tear any Persian they saw to pieces. Poor boy. I daresay some would. I gave him some journey money; I suppose he has found a ship. Oh, don’t trouble with all that, this is all I need, and a change of clothes, that’s all. Then we can be going. Blossom, be quiet.”
“No, take your time. You can’t throw such good things away. The streets are quiet, so far as I could see. Presently I’ll find some porters.”
“I only want to be gone from here. When you come back I’ll be ready.”
I did not protest; the bitch’s shrill yelping hurt my ears, as she jumped from one to the other; she had the nose of her kind for catastrophe and change. I left them together, and found porters without trouble at the harbor; already ships were avoiding it. When I came with them, Anakreon had strapped up his baggage. He put Blossom under his arm, and we went down to the ship.
Meantime, some of the soldiers had been let ashore to the taverns and came back with the latest news; by the time we cast off, I knew what had been done to Polykrates. They would have liked Anakreon to fill out the tale for them, and were disappointed that he sat silent, muffled in his cloak, in the darkest part of the deckhouse.
As it happened, the wind turned contrary, and the nearest harbor was Koressia. So I brought him up, the two of us soaked with spray, to Theas’ house. It was plain, before we reached the door, that he’d asked in some friends to celebrate his good fortune. I saw Anakreon wince when he heard the singing. It could not be helped that Theas greeted us with a shout of pleasure, and bade us change our wet clothes quickly, and drink level with the rest. However, he had never been thick-headed. When he’d heard Anakreon’s name, and taken a second look at him, he said he must be tired out with the journey and the gale, and would want to eat supper in quiet.
It was a big house now, our father’s old place run together with Theas’ new one; Anakreon’s room had the women’s quarters between it and the feast. I left him awhile to meet my brother’s friends, all eager to hear the news. Few were much moved at Polykrates’ fate; such things happened in Persia. As soon as I could, I went back to Anakreon. He had fed Blossom, but scarcely touched food himself. I’d brought him a warm posset with a little poppy, which one of the women had brewed for him, and begged him to eat something with it, to help him sleep. He picked up a morsel, but put it back on the plate. “Did they know down there, did anyone tell you, whether he is dead?”
“No. Nobody here knew that.”
The little dog crept into his lap, and nestled there softly, gazing up with its liquid eyes. I remembered hearing somewhere that these lamblike dogs of Melita have the power to take away pain.
He said, “Did you ever see it, Simonides?”
“No. My old master saw it once. I think it was in Karia.” I put the lid on the posset-bowl. It was time he talked, if he was to get any sleep that night. “Have you seen it, then?”
“In Phrygia. Fifteen, twenty years back. One could travel about in those days. The man had offended the Satrap, I don’t know how. I didn’t see it being done. We came by two days after. Two days he had been sitting there, on that iron ring, at the top of the mast. The vultures were coming; one lighted on his head, you know they go first for the eyes; then it squarked and flapped off again, and I saw that his hand had moved. And the bird came back …” He was shaking all over; the dog in his lap gave a little whine, and patted him with one paw. I too put a hand on his shoulder; he seemed glad of a living touch. Presently he said, “They used to set them up beside the road. There would be one every stade or so, the old skeleton sitting on the iron wheel, up in the air. And when the birds had picked them clean, you could see the spike up the middle. It’s the spike, you see, that holds them there so long.”
I could hear his teeth chattering, and pulled up the blanket round his shoulders. “You can be sure,” I said, “that by this time he is dead.”
“He was strong.” He rubbed the dog’s ears to quiet it. “He never exercised, but he was as strong as an ox. Nothing ever ailed him.”
“It’s the lean man lives long. Believe me, he is dead.”
He sat looking before him, like a sick man weak from a fever that is leaving him. “Come, eat,” I said, “or my brother’s wife will be on at me. What was wrong with the supper, Sim, that the great Anakreon wouldn’t touch it?”
A smile flickered on his face. “Sim? Do they truly call you that at home? Do they truly dare?” After that he picked at the food; before long I got most of it into him, and the posset too. In the end he grew quite garrulous, as men do sometimes after a shock.
“His fate, Simonides, what an implacable fate! It was resolved to have him. It had marked him down, as the hunter marks the deer with the longest horns, because he has the shell for a lyre and is impatient to finish it. What drove him? What madness, to trust that man. He had even insulted him already; I know, I was there. He had sent an envoy to Samos, some business about ships. The man behaved like an envoy from king to king. Well, Polykrates had done things in his day, we all know that; but he looked as pure as lilies, anywhere near Oroites. The man stank, and had done for years. The greed of a crocodile, murder for any whim, oppression; cruelty most of all. Well, he may pay for it yet, now that Kambyses is dying.”
“What?” I cried, jumping nearly out of my skin. “The Great King, dying? No one has heard a word of it. Is it true?”
He passed a hand across his forehead. “I am sorry. Didn’t I tell you? I’ve hardly known what I’m saying these last two days. I daresay it’s tr
ue. Sikinnos told me before he left. My gracious Persian, you used to call him. He always knew everything, I don’t know how. ‘The Great King’s wound has mortified,’ he said.”
“What wound?” This news would have made the day for Theas and his friends, and only now I heard it.
“I don’t know.” He pushed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “He didn’t say, or perhaps I wasn’t attending. I’d only just heard the other thing. What were we talking about just now?”
“Oroites’ insolent envoy.”
“Oh, yes. It happened we were on our own that evening. I’d been singing something he wanted to hear again. Bathyllos had been playing for me—you remember him? His flute-playing improved as his looks went off. When this envoy was announced, and we could hear him outside, demanding audience at once, Polykrates said … What’s that noise?”
He had gone paler, if that could be. Poor man, he was at the end of his tether. “It’s some dog out there,” I said. “It’s nothing, the house must have a dozen.”
It did seem, as I listened, that there were four or five outside. I could hear snufflings from tenor down to bass. So could Blossom. She had leaped from her master’s lap, and, squeaking softly, was pressing her pitch-black nose to the crack under the door. Now that I thought of it, some Samian dogs had trailed us down to the harbor.
“Anakreon,” I said, “you don’t think that bitch of yours …?”
“Oh, no!” He sounded quite like himself again. “It can’t be half a year … Oh, Herakles!”
“Not Herakles, I fear, but Aphrodite.” A huge deep bark sounded outside. Kean shepherd dogs are as big as wolfhounds. Blossom scrabbled eagerly at the door; she had done her duty faithfully, and thought she had a right to something for herself. Two dogs started snapping at each other; Kean watchdogs are fierce. “If I open this door,” I said, “we shall have them all in here. Can’t you pick her up?”