friends of the Spartans,
rule over the city.
Athens the valorous, Athens the free,
is now the home of torture and terror,
and trumped-up charges. Hundreds of citizens
arrested,
questioned,
put to death.
Hundreds more killed in secret.
And Melisto? What does she make of her city in ruins?
What does the child of Arkadios know?
Nothing. She’s stuck in the weaving room.
Wool is the business of women.
War is the business of men.
Whether there are Spartans at the gate
or Athenians killing Athenians,
the wool must be washed and picked
and carded and spun;
the web on the loom
must be strung.
Melisto strums her loom,
her arms above her head
aching —
she counts the patterns under her breath
and beats the weft threads upward.
When the city was besieged, she did not hunger.
Now murder’s afoot, and she doesn’t know.
Except, of course, that she does know.
When something’s deeply wrong, children know.
As fog creeps into a shuttered room,
so does the poison of terror. Melisto smells it.
No one tells her what it is.
Melisto has nightmares. Sometimes she dreams
of the Spartans, her old enemies,
killing her father.
More often she dreams of the weaving room
where the yellow walls are shrinking —
there’s the smell of wool,
and women’s sweat,
and her mother’s voice
sharp with dislike.
Every day, all day,
they spend together.
They are enemies still.
Melisto’s nightmares
come and go. Far worse
are the nights
when she can’t sleep. She lies awake
and frets about dying. Melisto knows what death is.
She’s seen animals sacrificed.
Now she breathes in poison
and imagines death.
The horror of it,
having to be still,
forever
having to lie in the dark
with the damp earth pressing her down
unable to scream.
In her room at night,
she clenches her teeth
and jerks her legs,
kicking away death.
EXHIBIT 7
Fragment of red-figure hydria (water jar) bearing the inscription POLYGNOTOS EGRAPSEN (“Polygnotos painted it”).
Polygnotos was among the greatest of Greek vase painters and most active in Athens between the years 450 and 420 BCE. He seems to have preferred working on large vessels, such as water jars. His paintings are large in scale: the figures are formal, rhythmic, and dynamic.
Only a few pieces of this water jar survive. The artist’s signature is on one of the larger fragments. Two other fragments show the legs of horses and warriors, suggesting that the original painting was a battle scene.
Melisto stood at the foot of the stairs, listening. It was not yet dawn, and the house was dark. She had been awakened by the clink of water jars in the storeroom. Until recently, she had been in the habit of going with Thratta to the fountain house. A month ago, her mother had forbidden it.
Melisto missed the daily outing. Before daybreak, the fountain house was crowded with women: young and old, rich and poor, slave and free. Melisto eavesdropped as they filled their jars and chattered together. She liked the noise of the splashing water and marveled at the lions’ heads on the stone walls: how did the water get into the lions’ mouths, and what made it gush out? She pestered Thratta with questions, but Thratta said that plumbing was the work of men and gods, beyond the understanding of women.
Now Melisto crept to the silent kitchen, brushing the walls with her fingers. Forbidden or not, she would shadow Thratta and visit the fountain house. She swung around the door frame and groped for the three-handled shape of a water jar. Snatching one up, she headed for the courtyard. She shoved open the gate and took to her heels.
When she stopped, she was panting, but her lips stretched in a grin of triumph. She was free, all by herself, out in the city. The birds of Athens were singing the dawn chorus. Melisto wanted to sing with them. She skipped and pranced. The world around her was fresh and vast.
She hooked a right-hand turn, passing between houses so crowded that she had to hug the water jug to her chest. One prosperous-looking house had been daubed with red paint, black in the dimness. Melisto knew the markings were letters, but she could not read. It crossed her mind that there was something angry about the way the paint had been laid on, but the ugly message in the graffiti was hidden from her. She zigzagged into another street.
There was something white and small blowing over the ground — no, running: a Maltese dog. Melisto raced after him. She would have given everything she owned for a dog like that. She pursued him for ten minutes before he squeezed under the gate of his own yard.
She looked up to the Akropolis to get her bearings. Even in the semidarkness, she could see the opaque shape of the high city, and the sight of it thrilled her. Arkadios had told her that there was no more beautiful city in the world than Athens, and no buildings lovelier than the temples on the Akropolis. Melisto believed him. Captive and female though she was, the city was in her blood: the worship of the goddess, the gray guardian mountains, the steep profile of the rock against the sky.
A crossroads lay before her. Melisto paused. A fluttering ribbon caught her eye, and she turned left. If she had turned right, she would have come across a man lying faceup with his throat cut.
Instead she went left and came to a roadside shrine.
The statue was only a little smaller than she was: a maiden holding a bow, black-haired, red-lipped and smiling. Melisto recognized her: it was Artemis, the only Olympian goddess who had ever been a little girl. Melisto set down her jug by the goddess’s feet and went in search of wildflowers. As the sky brightened, she gathered a fistful: some were weedy, and many were closed, but Melisto was pleased with them. She bound them with a thread from her belt and left them at the goddess’s feet. Halfway down the street, she remembered the water jug, and ran back for it.
The sun was almost up. Between the tallest slopes of the mountains, the sky was pearl, tinged with orange and rose-color. Men were coming out into the streets now, slaves sent on errands and horsemen exercising their mounts. The city gates were open, and farmers passed through, taking their wares to the market. The last of the women hurried home, their faces veiled.
Melisto followed the flow of the crowd. In one narrow street, she found herself an arm’s length from a red-haired boy who was carrying two snared hares to market. The hares hung limp, their legs dangling. Melisto edged closer so that she could stroke the soft fur. The boy turned, startled. When he saw her, he smiled shyly and Melisto smiled back.
In the marketplace, the shopkeepers were putting up their tattered awnings, preparing for the fierce heat of the day. Melisto gazed around the stalls with delight. The richness of the Agora was overwhelming. There were clay pots and chickens, sandals and spices, trinkets and weapons and new-dyed wool. There were smells, too: the sulfurous wind from the metalworkers’ quarter, the stink of dung and leather and pigs. Melisto loved smells. She liked best the smell of roasting meat, but rank smells did not disgust her. She inhaled deeply, drawing in the life of the city.
Still hugging her jar, she passed from stall to stall. She wished she had a coin to spend; she would have liked to buy a ribbon or a toy, something to remind her of her adventure. If she had known more about money, she might have observed that food was scarce and luxuries were selling cheap; if she had lo
oked at the adults around her, she might have noticed the strain in their faces. But Melisto had little interest in people. She preferred watching the animals: the foraging goats, the wandering pigs, the rare and costly horses.
As the morning wore on, the day grew warmer and the sun reddened her cheeks. She circled the crowded space, determined to extract every drop of amusement the city had to offer. A bronze helmet at a metalworker’s stall caught her eye. It was child-sized: made for a boy, Melisto knew, but she reached for it to try it on.
“There you are!” Thratta seized her from behind. “I’ve been searching for you for hours! What are you doing out of the house?”
Melisto’s heart plummeted. Thratta’s grip was rough. A fierce beating lay in store for her, though not a public one; Thratta never shamed her by punishing her in front of other people. “I’m sick of staying in the house! You used to let me come and get the water. You said I was a help. Why can’t I come with you anymore?”
“You must not say why.” The words were tinged with weariness: Thratta spoke them several times a day. “You know you’re supposed to stay indoors. You’re sunburned, did you know that? Your mother will be furious. I’m going to switch you hard when we get home.” Her eyes lit on the jug in Melisto’s arms. “Why did you take that jar? That’s your father’s best water jar, the one he uses when he has guests.”
Melisto held the jar away from herself to look at it. She had meant to pick up a plain jar, but this one had a picture on it: armored men and spears and cantering horses. Even to Melisto’s ignorant eyes, it was beautiful. She quailed when she recalled how she’d left it by the shrine. “I didn’t know it was good. I took it in the dark.”
“Give it to me. You’ll smash it. We’ll fill it on our way home.”
Melisto brightened. The trip to the fountain house would postpone her punishment a little longer.
The fountain house was empty of women. While Thratta filled the jar, Melisto scooped up handfuls of water and drank. Thratta adjusted her head wrap, making a pad for the jar to rest upon. “Come,” she said shortly.
On the way home, Melisto dragged her feet. Just outside the marketplace, she stopped, her eye caught by a flash of copper. “There’s that red-haired boy!” she exclaimed. “I saw him a little while ago, and he smiled at me! He must have sold his hares — ”
Thratta spun around so abruptly that the jar pitched sideways and smashed to the rocky ground. The clay shattered. Thratta ran toward the boy. When she reached him, she caught hold of his arm and fell to her knees.
The boy was startled. He tried to escape, but Thratta’s grip was strong. She grabbed his other hand and spoke to him urgently. He shook his head. She drew him closer, gazing down at his left arm. When she released him, he stumbled, regained his footing, and ran.
Thratta bowed her head. Still kneeling, she lifted her hands as if to mask her face. Shakily she got to her feet. She came back to where Melisto stood and stared in shock at the broken jar and the wet earth.
Melisto shifted uneasily. “You can say I broke it,” she offered. She could not have said why she made so rash an offer. “I won’t tell.”
Thratta’s eyes were blank, like the eyes of the dead hares. “I must get you home.”
Melisto fell in step behind her. They walked in silence until they came to a cluster of sycamore trees. Thratta turned aside, leading a surprised Melisto into the grove.
It was a different world among the trees. The sounds of the city were muted. There were tufts of green grass between the rocks, and a woodpecker flew to a high branch, flashing his scarlet crown. Thratta sank down on the grass. Melisto followed suit, sitting with her arms clasped around her knees.
“Listen to me.” Thratta’s voice was low and fierce. “You’re eight years old, and I’m going to tell you the truth, though your father told me not to. The city’s dangerous. There’ve been child snatchings — people stealing children and taking them away from their homes. That’s why you can’t help with the water anymore.”
Melisto puzzled over the words. “But why — ” She bit back the word, remembering Thratta’s dislike of it. “I mean, who does it? Who steals the children?”
“I don’t know.” Thratta pulled up a blade of grass and tore it down the midrib. “I only know what the other slaves tell me, and they only know what they overhear. There are thirty men in charge of Athens now, men who were friendly with the Spartans. They want to get rid of their enemies. So there have been deaths — ”
“Children?” interrupted Melisto.
“No. It’s mostly men who’ve died. Citizens — some of them rich men, like your father. They’ve been arrested and put to death.”
“Men like my father?” echoed Melisto.
Thratta put out her hand, silencing her. “There’s a list of men the Thirty have agreed not to harm. Your father’s on that list. At least, that’s what Sosias says. But other men have been killed by the Thirty. Hundreds of them. Perhaps more.”
“How do they kill them?”
Thratta averted her eyes. “Your father wouldn’t want me to say.”
Melisto jabbed her fingers against Thratta’s knee. “I want to know.”
“The Thirty give them hemlock to drink. That’s poison. It’s not an easy death, but it’s easier than the other. Sometimes they’ll strap a man to a board with an iron collar around his neck, and choke him to death. Some men are never arrested or charged; they’re killed at night, murdered with a club or a sword.” Thratta dug her fingers into the earth and ripped up a handful of grass. “Are you satisfied? You like the answer to your why? The city’s still at war. The Thirty are on one side, and the rest of the people on the other. Everyone knows how much your father loves you. Don’t give his enemies the chance to hurt him.”
Melisto nodded slowly. She imagined an iron collar around her neck and touched her throat. “What happens to the children?”
“Nobody knows. Maybe they’re sold as slaves. Whatever happens to them, your father doesn’t want it to happen to you. That’s why you must stay indoors where it’s safe. Your father will be safe, too, as long as he doesn’t go against the Thirty.” She paused to let the words sink in. “So for once in your life, you’re going to do as you’re told and stay indoors. If you run away again, I’ll beat you black and blue, and tell your father that you’re bad. Do you understand?”
“Yes, but — ” Melisto stopped. The silence was so fraught with questions that Thratta snapped, “But what?”
“But why did you run after that boy?”
Thratta tensed. She answered in a voice so low that Melisto scarcely caught the words. “I thought he was my son.”
Melisto’s mouth opened in a silent O. A wave of emotion swept over her: astonishment, pity, jealousy. “Was he?”
“No.”
“Where is he? Your son.”
“Thessaly.”
“Where’s Thessaly?”
“North. Over the mountains. By sea it took three days.”
“What’s his name?”
“Rhaskos.”
“Why didn’t you bring him with you?”
“My old master wouldn’t allow it. Rhaskos is his son, too.”
Melisto worked this out in her head. First and foremost she was her father’s daughter; she knew that. It was the male parent who gave life; she belonged to Lysandra in a lesser way. She supposed it must be the same way for Rhaskos.
“What was he like?”
Thratta was silent. Overhead, the leaves shifted, and the woodpecker attacked the tree trunk: a brittle staccato in the stillness. Melisto shifted, peeling her bottom away from the damp grass. She hoped this would not be one of those times when Thratta didn’t answer.
When Thratta spoke, her voice was full of longing.
“He was quick. I named him well. Rhaskos means quick, brisk as a bird. He was quick like that — like a bird or a little colt, or like a flame — his hair was so red . . . But then he could be still, when there was something he wanted to l
ook at. I’ve never seen anyone look the way my son did. He’d see a bird crossing the sky; he’d lean back his head and follow it with his eyes as if he could fly . . . He was fierce and brave; he fought with boys bigger than he was. He was a warrior, my little Thracian.” A long shiver ran through the slave woman. “I hurt him when I left. He was too little to understand. He fought me. He was a little older than you, and different from you, but . . . he was beautiful, all lightness, and you’re heavy; he was bright and you’re dark, but both of you — you fight. You don’t give in.”
Melisto was silent, willing Thratta to say more. The image of a boy took shape in her mind, a boy who shone like a flame, who gazed into the sky as if he could take flight. She wished she were like him: bright and swift and beautiful. The wave of jealousy crested and broke. “You love him more than you love me.”
Thratta turned her head, incredulous. “He’s my son.” Her tone left no doubt in Melisto’s mind. Compared to Rhaskos, Melisto was nothing.
Melisto scowled. She hugged her knees to her chest and bent her head to hide her face. Next to her father, she loved Thratta. “I don’t care,” she said, between clenched teeth. Then the words did a somersault inside of her. She spoke them again in a soft voice. “I don’t care. If you want to love him best, you may. I’ll still love you.”
Thratta picked up a twig and broke it in half. “You won’t always.”
“Why won’t I?”
Thratta rose and shook out her dress. “You just won’t. You’ll grow up.” She held out her hand to Melisto. “It’s time to go back.”
Melisto took Thratta’s hand. “Are you going to beat me when we get home?”
Thratta sighed. There was indecision in her sigh: Melisto pressed her advantage. “If you don’t beat me, I’ll say I broke the jar. You can say you found me in the market, and the jar was already broken, and you beat me then.”
“That’s a lie. A citizen’s daughter shouldn’t tell lies.”
“You’re not a citizen’s daughter,” Melisto pointed out.
“Aren’t you ashamed to tell a lie?”
Melisto shrugged: she was not.
“Very well. We’ll lie. I’ll tell your mother you’ve already been punished. You always have plenty of bruises to show. Keep your head down, as if you’re sulking. And don’t tell anyone about my son. That’s my business. Do you understand me?”
Amber and Clay Page 7