destined for the cavalry.
They galloped back at noon, the horses lathered white.
Menon yelled for someone to hot-walk his horse.
That was often my job.
See, when a horse has been worked hard,
you can’t just let him rest,
you have to walk him out,
keep him moving
till he’s breathing soft and steady
and the fleshy pad between his front legs is cool.
So Menon called for someone — he just called “Boy!”
which could be anyone: Georgios was a boy,
old Orestes, who was toothless, was a boy.
I was the closest boy,
so I came forward. In those days
nobody looked at me much. They just handed me things,
a pitchfork, a bucket, the reins,
so it was a shock
when Tycho whistled and said:
“Look at that hair! Like firethorn berries!”
Then his voice changed.
“Menon, he looks like you!”
Menon said, “What? With that hair and that skin?”
— because Menon was dark.
“Don’t look at his hair!
I’m talking about his face!
Look at his brow and his nose and his chin!”
I ducked my head. Before my mother left,
she used to wash me,
and people noticed my red hair. After she went,
I never washed,
and I guess the red
was hidden under filth:
sweat and oil and dust.
That summer, I’d gone swimming,
and the filth got washed away;
my face was still dirty
because I swim on my back.
Menon frowned at me,
eyes narrowing. He had a gaze like a hawk’s.
Arm and scruff, he seized me,
and dragged me to the water trough.
I struggled and yelped.
He was strong as iron,
supple as a python,
and Tycho came to help him.
Then I was spluttering,
coughing, held fast
facedown in the trough
while they scrubbed me.
Hands in my hair, their fingers
poking my eyes,
I thought I would drown.
Menon’s fingers were twined in my hair;
he lifted my head —
I could breathe.
My lashes streamed water,
and snot ran out of my nose.
There was the world, seen through water:
sun and sky and grass
and Georgios walking the horses.
He must have seen everything
but Menon was the master
— so —
Menon said, “He’s not like me.”
He wasn’t laughing anymore.
“He’s like Lykos.”
The two of them looked at me
as if I were a ghost —
I’d heard how Menon bullied his brother
and wept for him after he died.
I could see it in his eyes:
his grief.
Tycho let out his breath.
“He’s probably your father’s brat. Or my father’s brat.
There was that Thracian woman, remember?
With the red hair? She must have been the mother.
The two of you together!
with those matching faces — ”
He didn’t finish. Menon wasn’t listening.
He smiled at me
and it was the first time.
Later on I loved his smile
and courted it, shameless as a girl.
“Little brother!”
After that day, he never called me that —
“Little brother, I want a boy to wait on me,
to be my personal slave. I choose you.
You’ll like waiting on me.
It’s got to be better than what you’re used to!
You’ll sleep by my bed,
and go to the gym —
You’ll watch me work out and rub me down after.
What do you think?”
He asked as if I had a choice.
I was dazzled and half drowned —
but I wasn’t stupid: I knew I had no choice.
If Menon wanted me,
I would be his slave.
I wouldn’t have to pick up turds,
but there would be other things.
Nobody ever gets out of anything.
Tycho warned him:
“Your mother won’t like it. She hated that Thracian woman.
She won’t want him in the house.”
Menon shrugged. “It’s nothing to do with her.
I’m a man now. Mother has to see that.
If I want my own slave, I’ll have one.”
That’s how my life changed.
I followed Menon like a dog.
I slept beside his bed that night.
The floor was harder than my bed in the barn —
no straw —
and I couldn’t run off to the river.
I couldn’t sleep. I missed the horses snorting
and the smell of the stable.
I thought of Menon calling me little brother.
He’d given me a new tunic to wear,
with no holes in it.
If he was my brother,
I was son to the master,
and brother to Menon
— or his cousin.
I hoped he was my brother.
3. GYMNASION
It’s hard to tell you about Menon.
I know I was stupid
— you’ll see that —
but you have to see how it was for me.
One moment, I was a stable boy,
a ghost with a bucket,
a human tool.
Then there was Menon.
At first, I was a plaything;
we roughhoused together
and he teased me. He taught me to laugh.
I never laughed so much in my life.
Half the time, I had no idea
why I was laughing. Menon would say something
— he used big words —
and the way he spoke
told me it was funny. I remember
the creases in his cheeks
deepening —
the white of his teeth —
the spark in his eyes.
He was like a horse, Menon.
He made me want to look at him.
His eyebrows double-slant
like the wings of a pelican,
his dark hair
falling in waves,
which were beautiful.
He knew that and wore his hair long.
Sometimes he’d stick out his hand, not to hurt me
but to rest his palm on my head.
I’d stand proud
still
as if I’d been crowned with laurel.
Then he would push me away. We’d roughhouse
as if he were my brother.
He called me his wild Thracian.
He told his friends he meant to tame me.
Some of them said I was beautiful. A beautiful boy. I never knew that.
I stared into water, trying to see
if it were true. I couldn’t tell.
Menon taught me to stand straight,
only bowing my head.
He wouldn’t let me fidget or scratch myself.
He slapped me if I picked my nose.
He gave me a sponge
and made me wash myself. Every morning:
first my face,
arms and hands,
chest and legs,
groin and feet.
I followed him to places I’d never seen:
taverns and temples,
and the market.
He gave me his coins to c
arry in my mouth.
Once I swallowed one. It was an obol,
the size of a pea. I thought he’d beat me —
you can buy two loaves of bread for that —
but he only laughed.
Almost every day, we went to the gymnasion.
I carried his weights, his oil flask,
his lucky discus. Slaves weren’t allowed to work out there,
to mingle with boys who were free.
But Menon wanted me to wait on him,
to scrape him clean,
to watch him win.
He made the gymnasiarch let me in.
We passed through the groves of sycamore trees,
the leaves yellow-green or brown as leather.
We walked past the track, which was pounded hard
by rapid-running feet.
At the entrance there was a shrine with three gods;
Menon told me who they were:
Herakles for strength,
Hermes for swiftness,
and Eros, god of love.
Inside was a punching bag
and wrestling pits,
everywhere the smell
of sweat
and olive oil
and naked boys.
There was a din of flutes playing —
the boys exercised to music —
and the voices of men and boys
laughing and jeering,
panting and grunting.
The older men were teachers,
citizens and warriors,
scholars and poets.
They watched the boys at sport and chose their favorites,
predicted the winners;
I saw how they watched Menon.
He stood out. There were athletes
as strong and some were beautiful,
but they weren’t like Menon. They shifted from foot to foot,
awkward and bashful.
But Menon stood like a god,
almost posing, tossing back his head;
he knew the men were choosing him.
I took off his tunic and folded it,
anointed him with oil,
and watched him stretch:
muscles working under the glossy skin.
I watched him sprint, his fists tight,
his head up, his stride boundless.
No one else ran like that —
as if it were pure joy.
I sprinkled him with sand for the wrestling pit.
He gripped his opponent by the arms,
and they stood forehead to forehead.
Like rams, like stags battling,
their sinews straining, their breath loud and hoarse.
Menon was often the shorter man,
but the stronger man: when he threw the other,
I shouted his name:
“Menon, Menon, Menon!”
He liked that.
When he cast the javelin,
the black spear arced,
splitting the blue of the sky.
I shuttled back and forth,
setting sticks in the earth
to mark his distance.
What I liked best was to watch him throw the discus:
Crafted of shining bronze, smooth as an apple peel:
moon-round, pressed flat, heavier than it looked;
He clasped it with his knuckles,
steadied it with his thumb,
Rocked and swung back his arm —
then! he wheeled around,
that swift-circling spin,
the arm upthrust —
and the discus leaping
flashing with sun-fire!
I wanted to grab a stick
and try to draw
that spiral in the air
but it happened too fast
and besides, I had to run
and mark the ground
and bring the discus back.
Afterward I scraped him clean.
The strigil scooped against his skin.
He stank worse than a horse. The inner curve of the blade
gathered brine and silt,
dark, gritty, reeking;
his scraped skin gleamed like honey.
Like a horse, he trusted my touch,
and liked the grooming. After I scraped him,
he sponged himself with water,
and I rubbed him with oil again.
Sometimes, in the evening, there were banquets
or drinking parties. He liked to see me tipsy
and forced me to drink.
He’d take a morsel of meat from his plate,
lamb with the fatty edge burnt crisp.
He’d smile at me,
and my mouth would water. Then —
“Catch!”
and he tossed it. He’d show me a ripe fig,
lift his hand, elbow angled, ready to throw;
I’d ready myself, hands cupped for the catch —
Then he’d eat it himself.
I remember the first time
he beat me hard. He was drunk;
I held out his wine cup
full to the brim. His hand jostled mine.
The wine lapped over the edge
and his arm lashed out
the cup cracked
the wine splattered —
He gripped my shoulder, twisted me round,
punched my back,
knocked the wind out of me.
He seized me by the hair
and slapped my cheeks.
I felt my face twist;
I was going to cry —
I couldn’t help it —
I don’t know
what god put it in my head,
or if Lykos was there,
I mean, his ghost —
I saw him. Lykos. I remembered
the way he cried
when he was little and skinned his knee.
I aped that look:
I grimaced —
I grimaced like Lykos.
Menon’s face changed.
He swayed on his feet.
He saw Lykos in my face,
and the drunkenness, the cruelty,
emptied out like spilt wine.
I learned to do that —
make another boy’s face.
I don’t know how I did it.
More than once it saved my skin.
When Menon was drunk,
I tried to keep out of his way. But he needed me then.
I held the pot for him to piss in.
I cleaned up his vomit.
I guided him home on moonless nights.
He said I could see in the dark like a cat.
I could dodge like a cat, when he hit me.
Sokrates said it’s shameful
not to speak the truth,
So here’s the truth, though it shames me.
At first,
I loved him. I was proud of him. I was Menon’s boy,
and Menon was like a god to me,
beautiful.
If sometimes he was cruel,
sometimes he wasn’t. And he talked to me.
saw me. Noticed me.
Taught me things, and told me stories.
If sometimes he was cruel,
so are the gods.
And the man who questions the gods does not live long.
Don’t listen to that boy!
The man who questions the gods does not live long —
What does he know? Everyone questions the gods!
Not a day goes by
without some mortal shaking his fist
and bawling to the sky:
Why is there suffering in the world?
Why is there death?
and — my personal favorite —
Why me?
Yes, there’s pain in the world, but don’t blame the gods —
we’re pussycats!
. . . Maybe not Hera.
Being married to Zeus is hard on the heart.
My uncle Poseidon
is moody: too much salt,
those dreary barnacles,
and all those storms at sea. Hades lives in hell,
so he’s bound to be dismal.
And Ares is worse.
. . . But then there’s laughter-loving Aphrodite!
with her sea-splashed legs
and shapely buttocks —
and look at me!
The kindly god, the bringer of good fortune,
guiding you through this story!
— That reminds me: Remember I told you
about the war?
Athens versus Sparta?
(It wasn’t just Athens versus Sparta, actually:
both sides had allies,
but the allies, like Thessaly,
kept changing sides.
I’m not going to confuse you with that.)
The point is, after twenty-seven years,
the war’s over. Let’s talk about who won:
Athens was beloved by my sister Athena,
the she-dragon, the victory giver,
goddess of wisdom, war, and craft.
She’s a perfectionist, my sister;
she cherished her pet city
and gave it genius. The Athenians are good at
architecture,
sculpture,
philosophy,
democracy,
vase painting,
theatre,
history,
and law.
The Spartans are good at war. Guess who won?
Exactly. It took a long time,
but the Spartans had the backing
of bloodthirsty Ares, father of tears.
(Plus cash from the Persians.)
The Spartans bled Athens
of money, men, and ships.
. . . Oh, those ships,
those naval battles!
The rowers
crammed below decks,
tier upon tier
sweating, doubled over,
working as one
to ram the hulls of the enemy ships,
the splintering wood, and the slaughter.
The ocean seething with blood:
O, the wine-dark sea!
I’m getting away from my point. But those naval battles
were tremendous,
spectacular. The land battles?
Even gorier. The Spartans excelled on land.
They’re not stupid, the Spartans:
Good soldiers, and good dancers.
Not all of their poetry’s bad.
— I’ve wandered off topic again. The next time I go off like that,
just stop me.
Here’s my point:
when Athena saw Athens was losing,
she left: cast off, jumped ship.
Who can blame her?
Who wants to captain the losing team?
Once she was gone,
man-slaughtering Ares
ran amok. His sons
Panic and Fear
circled like vultures
and Athens surrendered. The great Greek experiment,
democracy,
whereby men cast votes
and rule themselves —
gone. Now Thirty Tyrants,
Amber and Clay Page 6