Amber and Clay

by Laura Amy Schlitz

  I punched her with all my strength,

  I kicked her shins.

  She sank down on her knees

  and covered her head. She stayed like that

  while I hit her

  over and over

  her whole body drawn together

  like a closed fist.

  When I stopped hitting her

  I wept. It sounded like a baby crying —

  I remember the shame of that.

  She held out her arms

  her hands were fouled with ashes and blood.

  I remember her rocking me to sleep.

  There was thunder in the night

  glaring white

  but the rain never came.

  The next morning, they took my mother away.

  They put her on a grain ship, headed for Athens.

  I never saw her after that.

  EXHIBIT 2

  Necklace of twelve gold palm leaves with amber head of sphinx (?) or goddess, circa 450–400 BCE.

  This unusually fine necklace was found on the Athenian Akropolis, near the ruins of the Sanctuary of Artemis Brauronia. Since the palm tree was sacred to Artemis, the necklace may have been a gift to the goddess. The sphinx head and the twelve palmettes were threaded together on a linen cord, which fell apart when the necklace was removed from the site. The necklace measures thirty centimeters, or twelve and a half inches, an average size for a Greek necklace of this period.

  The sphinx pendant is of an earlier date, perhaps 500 BCE, and may be of Etruscan workmanship. The facial features show signs of rubbing and wear. Amber was sometimes worn as an amulet, especially by pregnant women; it was thought to ensure a safe childbirth. Amber is also found in the tombs of women and young girls, perhaps as a magic charm to ease the passage into the underworld.

  “The gods sent that child to punish me!”

  Melisto, who had just been soundly slapped, stopped bellowing, her mouth wide open. Her short life had taught her that slaves and children were often beaten; the idea that the gods might punish her mother attracted her strongly. She wiped her nose on the back of her hand and spoke directly to Lysandra. “What bad thing did you do?”

  Lysandra clapped her hands to her ears. “Didn’t I tell you to be silent?” she demanded. “Do I have to smack you again?”

  “No,” said Melisto, answering the second question. She bottom-scuttled across the floor, ducking under the loom, setting the loom weights clanking. Once safe, she peered around the frame. “What bad thing did you do?” she persisted. “Why did the gods — ”

  Lysandra lost her temper. She darted forward and caught her daughter by the elbow, almost upsetting the loom. Melisto felt her feet leave the floor. She reached out blindly, her fingers crooked like claws. Her hand closed over the necklace around her mother’s throat.

  The cord snapped. Gold palm leaves fell with a sharp tinkle; the amber pendant dropped with a solid thud and rolled across the floor. Lysandra released her daughter and knelt to scoop up the pieces. Melisto retreated, her teeth bared.

  Lysandra passed from fury to bafflement. She looked at the amber sphinx head in her palm; she touched the sore place on her neck, where the cord had broken. Two slave women stepped forward to calm her. They gathered the gold palmettes, showing Lysandra that none were damaged. Another cord, and the necklace would be as good as new. Melisto retreated behind the largest loom and shut her eyes to make herself invisible.

  The weaving room where the women spent their days was a large space, crowded with oversized baskets, four looms, and three chairs. The windows faced south, and the light was strong. To Melisto, the yellow room was a prison. She hated the smell of new-dyed cloth, of lanolin and women’s sweat. The work she was taught there — picking through the wool for burrs, rolling it against her thigh — was the same thing over and over again. She could not bear it.

  Someone was coming upstairs. Melisto pricked up her ears. Sosias, the head slave of the household, appeared in the doorway. Behind him was a tall woman with cropped hair: a slave.

  Melisto stepped around the loom to see the slave woman. Under her head wrap, her hair was orange. Her pale eyes were red-rimmed, and her face was a blank.

  Sosias addressed Lysandra. “I’ve found you the woman you wanted. One hundred and eighty drachmas.” He opened his fingers to convey that this was a bargain. “She’s used to looking after children; she has a firm hand. The trader assured me she’s skillful with wool work.”

  Lysandra had regained her dignity. She stood gracefully, and spoke in a soft voice. “Bring her forward. I want to look at her.”

  Sosias stepped aside. The slave woman was a full head taller than Lysandra, and broader in the shoulders. Lysandra pursed her delicate lips. “What is she, Sosias? Thracian? Skythian? I don’t want a barbarian. Does she speak Greek?”

  “She’s Thracian. There’s a slight accent, but she speaks Greek.”

  “She doesn’t look well.”

  “She comes from Thessaly; she was seasick on the boat.” Sosias shrugged. “Maybe she hasn’t eaten. She comes from a good household; her master was son to Menon of Pharsalos. She’s never been sick a day. The trader swore by the gods.”

  Lysandra’s eyes narrowed; she scrutinized the slave woman closely. Then she whirled round and caught Melisto by the arm. “This is the child you’ll have to tend. My daughter. She’s four years old and she’s a wild animal. As you can see, her hair is matted — it’s all cowlicks. I can’t get her to stand still so that I can comb it. Just now she tore my necklace off my neck — you see the mark on my throat! Do you think you can manage her?”

  “I can manage her.”

  “Good.” Lysandra clapped her hands lightly. “We’ll have the ceremony. After it’s over, you’ll take charge of Melisto. See if you can comb her hair.” She made a fluid and commanding gesture. Sosias stepped back to allow her to pass. Lysandra headed down the stairs, followed by the slaves.

  Melisto knew how a new slave was made part of the household. She edged past her mother and arrived at the altar of Hestia before the adults did. The Thracian woman knelt before the altar while a bowl of dried fruit and nuts was poured over her head. This act would please Hestia, goddess of the hearth, who would make the new servant fruitful in her service.

  Melisto kept her eyes on the dried fruit. She was especially fond of figs. These belonged to the goddess, but she could palm one or two and eat them when no one was looking.

  “We will call you Thratta,” Lysandra told the slave woman, “because you are a Thracian woman.”

  The slave woman said nothing.

  “You’ll go to the fountain house in the morning and fetch water. You’ll help with the wool work and take charge of the child.” Lysandra nodded toward Melisto. “Her father makes a pet of her, and she’s been badly spoiled.”

  At the mention of her father, Melisto glowed. She adored her father. Arkadios was a busy man, a citizen and a soldier; he was away during the day and went to banquets in the evening. Melisto seldom saw him. But when she did, he tossed her in the air and swung her in circles; he let her climb on him and listened when she chattered. Melisto knew, because her mother complained of it, that few men loved their daughters as Arkadios doted on her.

  “You’ll sleep upstairs,” Lysandra told the slave woman. “Come. I’ll show you.”

  She led the way up the stairs. The other two slaves turned to watch them go. Melisto snatched up two fistfuls of dried fruit, darted to the open door, and trotted out into the courtyard. Freedom! She loved the courtyard, where there were animals to watch: birds and insects and a tortoise as big as her father’s bronze helmet. In one shady corner of the courtyard, she was digging a hole. When it was deep enough, she would fill it with water and make a pool.

  In an instant she was down on her knees, grubbing in the dirt. She worked energetically, patting the excavated earth into a mound and pounding it hard. The hole was wide and deep: a little more work, and she would be able to sit in it. When the slav
e woman emerged from the house, Melisto scowled and shrank back into the shadows.

  The slave woman saw her. She was carrying a comb, a sponge, and a large water jar. But to Melisto’s surprise, she made no approach. She sat down on a block of stone and lifted the water jug to her mouth. It was a pitcher made for pouring, not drinking, and as the woman drank, the water splashed down her face, wetting her neck and the front of her gown.

  Melisto watched intently. She had never seen anyone drink so much. It struck her that the woman must be very thirsty. She remembered that Sosias had said she hadn’t eaten. Melisto picked up her last fig. It was coated with dirt from the hole, but she would not have hesitated to eat it herself.

  The woman poured water on the sponge and washed her face. She squeezed the sponge so that water squirted down her arms. Once she had dried her hands on her dress, she turned her eyes on Melisto.

  Prompted by an impulse she didn’t understand, Melisto went forward and held out the fig.

  The woman accepted it mechanically. She brushed off the dirt and put it in her mouth. She chewed slowly; Melisto could hear the grit against her teeth. After she swallowed, the woman picked up the comb.

  Melisto shifted her weight to her back foot, poised to flee. But she was not quick enough. The woman caught her hands.

  “I’m going to comb the knots out of your hair. I’m going to hold your hair in clumps, very tight, and comb out the ends. That way, it won’t hurt. Do you understand?”

  “No,” said Melisto. She lowered her head like a bull about to charge.

  “Now,” said the woman. She swung Melisto around, pinning her between her knees. She took a handful of Melisto’s matted hair.

  Melisto flinched. She thought of shrieking — she could scream loud enough to make everyone in the house put their hands over their ears — but something in the woman’s silence dumbfounded her. She submitted, shifting her weight from foot to foot as the woman eased the mats out of her hair. The slave woman’s hands were deft and sure, lifting the damp locks away from her hot neck. Melisto hunched one shoulder in pleasure. When the braids were finished, she allowed Thratta to turn her around and wipe her face with the sponge.

  Melisto spoke boldly. “I want to sit in your lap.”

  The slave woman moved her head: No.

  Melisto paid no attention. She crawled up on the woman’s knees, leaned back, and stuck her thumb in her mouth.

  The Thracian woman smelled bad. There were the ordinary smells of sweat and wool, but beyond that was another odor that the animal in Melisto found disturbing. She shifted, wrinkling her nose. Her eyes fell to the woman’s arms. “What’s that?” she asked, rubbing the row of Vs with one finger. “How did you get them on your arm?”

  The slave woman shuddered. Her mouth opened in an ugly grimace, releasing a cry of agony. She wept, her tears striking Melisto’s face.

  Melisto trembled. That terrible smell was suffering. She squirmed, but now the woman’s arms were clutching her, rocking her back and forth. Melisto hid her face against the woman’s breast and cried along with her. She was as frightened as if she were out in a thunderstorm.

  The storm subsided. The slave woman gulped and sniffed. Melisto could feel her pulling the grief back inside. In a moment, she found herself pushed out of the lap. The woman took the dirty sponge out of the water jar and lifted the jug to her lips. Once again she drank as if she were dying of thirst.

  Melisto stuck out her hand. “I want some, too.”

  Thratta’s eyes met Melisto’s. She handed over the jug of dirty water and let Melisto drink.

  TURN: LYSANDRA

  Of all the children!

  That bad-tempered, owl-eyed, snot-nosed

  Brat of a child!

  Rough and rude and disobedient!

  What did I do to deserve her?

  Even before she was born

  she was a curse. Day after day

  I vomited; I could eat nothing.

  She sickened me, even then.

  I had one comfort: I said to myself,

  It must be a boy. I know it’s a boy.

  It has to be a boy.

  Only a boy could be so robust,

  could kick so hard, like a hammer

  striking my womb.

  I promised my husband: I’ll give you a son.

  I was in love. I boasted:

  It’s a boy. I can feel it. A woman knows.

  I was fourteen.

  She tore me when I gave birth to her;

  I labored a night and a day,

  yet one more endless night

  I screamed till my throat was raw —

  only to hear: “It’s a girl!”

  My mother-in-law — she laughed at me.

  And so did the slaves.

  I ought to have had them beaten.

  But even after all I suffered,

  I might have loved her,

  if only she had slept, or bloomed with beauty.

  A child like a flower, clinging to my skirts . . .

  I could have loved a child like that.

  Instead I’m stuck with Melisto!

  She pierces me with those black eyes,

  glaring like Medusa.

  And she defies me!

  She won’t spin, she won’t work wool.

  She’s plain and squat and savage.

  She’s a child who asks why.

  She’s a child who says no.

  I fear that some day

  I’ll hurt her, really hurt her.

  Not a pinch or a slap —

  or a whipping . . .

  I’m afraid I’ll crack her skull,

  or black her eye, or shake her

  so hard I break her neck. I am ashamed.

  I lose control.

  I cry to the gods,

  Why have I no son?

  Why am I stuck with this curse, Melisto?

  COUNTERTURN: ARTEMIS

  I gave you that child.

  I, Artemis, goddess of childbirth,

  gave you that child.

  Strong and wild and disobedient!

  What did you do to deserve her?

  You have neglected my shrine

  since you were born. Where were my gifts?

  You owed me the toys of your childhood —

  miserly child — you kept them!

  When you were pregnant, your husband gave you

  the necklace you wear: gleaming, resplendent,

  a wonder to behold:

  Twelve gold palmettes — my favorite plant —

  and carved with marvelous cunning:

  the amber sphinx.

  A trinket even a goddess could desire.

  You prayed to me, Lysandra:

  Let me live, and I’ll give you the amber sphinx.

  Remember that?

  Oh, how you hedged your bets, Lysandra!

  Goddess, grant me a healthy child.

  If I survive the birth,

  I’ll give you the amber sphinx;

  I swear by the deathless gods.

  A woman who loves and fears the gods

  would give the gift first

  and save the requests for later.

  You never worshipped me, Lysandra.

  You broke your promise.

  You prefer Hera, the goddess of marriage,

  or laughing Aphrodite, the man-pleaser.

  You are too tame to worship me

  and so I give you Melisto!

  A child as wild as you are tame —

  and if you don’t like her

  that’s your misfortune!

  I like her. She’s a bear cub,

  born to follow the goddess.

  I will make her ask why.

  I will make her say no.

  One day, Lysandra,

  she’ll make you keep your promise.

  She will stir you, sting you

  until you do.

  She will judge you with her eyes

  and she will find you wanting.

  S
he will never love you. Aren’t you ashamed?

  That is my curse.

  Don’t cry to the gods!

  If you want a son,

  thank the gods for your firstborn, Melisto!

  And give me the amber sphinx!

  EXHIBIT 3

  Horse bits made of iron, found near Kolonos Hippios (Horse Hill).

  The ancient Greeks revered horses and gloried in their strength and beauty. Horses symbolized power, nobility, and wealth, and as such they were greatly cherished. Horses were sacred to Poseidon, and the goddess Athena was credited with the invention of the bridle.

  The Greek horseman and historian Xenophon stressed the importance of gentle handling for horses. At the same time, Xenophon recommended the use of two bits: a “smooth bit,” which was similar to a modern snaffle, and a rough “hedgehog” bit, which was used for training and may have been barbed or spiked. The smooth bit could be used once the horse had learned to submit to the painful influence of the hedgehog bit.

  THRAX

  After my mother was sold,

  I was sent away from the courtyard.

  So was Lykos. We were too old to play all the time.

  He was seven, old enough to be educated.

  I was five, old enough to work, Georgios said.

  Georgios was the slave in charge of the stables.

  After my mother went, he told me what to do.

  I was too small to be much use,

  but I was big enough to pick up turds.

  The pitchfork was taller than I was,

  so Georgios gave me a leather bucket

  and I picked up turds with my hands.

  At first, I was squeamish —

  they were wet and they stank.

  Flies buzzed around my head

  and sucked my eyelids.

  I sulked. I cried. I wasn’t thorough.

  Georgios gave me a good beating.

  I heard a fable once:

  An eagle from out of the sky

  caught a nightingale in his talons.

  She cried and fluttered in pain.

  The eagle said, “What’s wrong with you?

  Only a fool fights against a stronger force.”

  And that’s the way it is.

  Georgios said a boy

  is like a warped plank.

  You have to pound it until it’s straight.