Amber and Clay

by Laura Amy Schlitz

  such tenderness,

  you’ll want to cup the earth in your hands;

  so much mystery!

  such richness of life!

  such intricate patterns . . . Why, look at the scars

  on Melisto’s skin! Exquisite . . .

  Lightning does that.

  Heat hotter than the sun

  surges through the body,

  leaving scars shaped like fern leaves

  fractals . . .

  beautiful . . .

  but then there’s death —

  which brings us back to the Greeks. There’s death in the world,

  and the Greeks never forgot it.

  There is death in this story. Not just owl-eyed Melisto,

  but Lykos. Remember Lykos?

  A few pages,

  and you’ve forgotten him already! Let’s see, you say,

  thumbing through the pages.

  Which one was he? Oh, Lykos. The little boy.

  Menon’s little brother, Rhaskos’s friend — if he was a friend.

  He died of the plague, or something . . .

  — That’s right, that’s the one.

  Lykos: a microbe, a fever, and a tomb. Now Melisto,

  dancing her Bear Dance,

  is lit by fire from the gods.

  Was her death a sign of favor?

  or was she just too stupid to come in from the rain?

  Don’t ask my opinion.

  I’m the Sphinx; I’m asking you. Go on,

  speculate!

  Was it random, this child’s death?

  Was it better for her to die young

  than to have to go back

  to the weaving room, an early marriage,

  death, perhaps, by childbirth?

  Is it true? “Whom the gods love die young”?

  Actually, that hasn’t been said yet. That saying

  won’t be around for another fifty years;

  but it’s Greek, a Greek idea.

  Would you like to die young?

  — Ha!

  I’ll give you fair warning. There’s a third death coming,

  one that still shocks the world.

  I won’t spoil the surprise. Almost twenty-five hundred years

  the man’s been dead. He fed the worms

  and is immortal. Immortal.

  Now, there’s a concept.

  I wonder what you think?

  O you who bend these pages,

  what do you think?

  Do you believe that to die is to be over?

  Or, if something follows,

  what’s it like? what comes after?

  Don’t ask me. I told you, I’m the Sphinx.

  I only make the riddles. I don’t solve them.

  If you want truth,

  consult a philosopher.

  (There’s one in these pages. Keep reading.)

  EXHIBIT 10

  Lead tablet with inscription (“curse” tablet); late classical period.

  This insignificant-looking slab of lead is in fact a magical object. For the ancient Greeks, there was no clear line separating religion and magic: they believed that spirits of the dead could be summoned and “bound” to perform acts for the living. The details of the binding ritual are not known, but tablets with writing on them played an important role. Thousands of these curse tablets, or binding spells, have been found in streams, wells, and burial grounds. Many were made of lead, which was cheap in Athens because it was a by-product of silver mining. Small pieces of lead often served as scratch paper. Wax tablets and papyrus may also have been used for binding spells, but would not have survived.

  This early example of a curse tablet was found near the grave of a female child. In the minds of the ancient Greeks, a female’s destiny was to bear children, and a girl who died before giving birth was unlikely to rest in peace. The ghosts of young girls were prime candidates for binding spells, because they either could not or would not enter the underworld.

  This particular inscription is unusual. The dead spirit, presumably the daughter of Arkadi, is summoned by Hermes and Hekate, gods of the underworld, and commanded to locate a missing person. The creator of the spell also invokes Bendis, a Thracian moon goddess who was similar to Artemis.

  All day it had been hot, but now the wind was rising. Thratta halted in the street, adjusting her veil to make a canopy over her head. She made sure that every strand of her cropped hair was hidden. It was nearly sunset, the hour when the city gates would be locked. Anyone who knew her as the slave of Arkadios would expect her to be inside the walls by nightfall.

  She reached into the basket she carried under her cloak. The knife was there, and so was the lead tablet. The four clay bottles were corked and unbroken. The silver coins she had stolen were sewn into the hem of her dress. She felt them bang against her shins as she walked.

  The vast Dipylon gates loomed before her. She passed between them, her veil drawn over her face so that only her eyes showed. She considered slumping or stooping — her height was as distinctive as her red hair — but decided against it. Stooping was unnatural to her and might draw the guards’ attention.

  Outside the gates, there were graves on either side of the road. The tombs were crowded at odd angles, some marked with ceramic jars, others with marble posts that shone cream-color in the setting sun. Melisto’s grave was unmarked, but Thratta found it easily. She had come there for the funeral and again three days after, to tend the grave.

  The grave would not remain unmarked. Arkadios had ordered a marble slab from one of the finest craftsmen in Athens. He had spared no expense at his daughter’s funeral, and he paid no heed to those who whispered that her death was a punishment from Zeus. Lysandra had beaten her breast and torn her hair, but she shirked her maternal duty: she could not, or would not, prepare Melisto’s body for burial. It fell to Thratta to bathe the dead child and rub her skin with oil. Thratta had dressed Melisto in her white shroud, packing the cloth with sprigs of ivy and oregano.

  She hadn’t wept. It was a point of pride for Thratta to shed no tears, and her hands did not tremble as she touched the patterned scars. She felt as if someone had struck her heart with a fist. She had lost a second child. She told herself that Melisto had not been hers to lose. She had not been fool enough to love her master’s child. But she had been forced to tend Melisto, to dodge her questions and try to drum some manners into her. She had come to respect the little girl’s toughness and to value her affection.

  Now Melisto was dead. She would ask no more questions and carry no more water. She would never marry or bear children. With that thought came another: it was the restless dead who could be bound to serve the living.

  Now Thratta knelt down and unpacked the jars from the basket, sniffing each one to learn what was inside. Mouthing a prayer, she poured the contents on the grave. First milk and honey, then wine, then water. Grasping the knife, she slid back her veil and sawed a lock of hair from her head. She scattered the hair over the puddle of liquid offerings.

  Last of all, she removed the lead tablet from the basket. It was palm-sized, but heavy and cold against her skin. The scratches on the surface were faint, and the darkening air made them hard to read — Thratta could not read in any case — but she ran her fingers over them. She had told a scribe in the marketplace what to write and paid him with a coin she’d stolen from her master. She hoped the scribe hadn’t cheated her. It seemed to her that she’d spoken more words than the ones he wrote down.

  She licked her lips, remembering the spell. “Hekate, torchbearer, mistress of the dead. And Hermes, Guide of Souls. I bring you milk and honey and water and wine. Find the child Melisto, daughter of Arkadios. Bind her to do my will. Bring her here to serve me.”

  The words sounded flat. Perhaps she ought to have sung them. She closed her eyes. “I call you, Melisto, daughter of Arkadios. By Hekate the torchbearer, mistress of the dead, and Hermes, Guide of Souls. And Bendis, goddess of the moon and the hunt; gracious Bendis, re
member how I worshipped you when I was a child. Remember the sacrifices my father gave you: the goats, the heifers. Find the girl Melisto and bring her here. Bind her to serve me and set my son free.”

  She scraped aside a little of the loose earth, making a hollow for the curse tablet. She spoke the spell a third time, crooning as she covered the lead. “Search for my son. Search for him and find a way to set him free.”

  There were no more steps to the ritual. Thratta opened her eyes, put the jars back in the basket, and got up. Now she must make her way to Piraeus, a journey of seven miles, and from there, if the gods favored her, to Thrace. Down in the harbor city, she would find a ship. All she needed was a ship captain who would take her money and ask no questions. There were many Thracians who worked in Piraeus, not all of them slaves. She might find someone who knew her kinfolk. Once she reached her own people, she could prove her rank. She had the tattoos on her arms, the marks of her clan.

  She wondered whether Arkadios would hire a slave-catcher to pursue her. If she were recaptured, she would be beaten, perhaps branded and starved. She was gambling on the hope that Arkadios might not have the stomach for revenge. He was deep in grief; he would remember that Melisto had loved her. And she had been careful not to steal too much money. A man of Arkadios’s fortune might not even notice the loss.

  She looked her last on Melisto’s grave, picturing the child who lay under the earth. She felt a pang. She remembered the day Melisto broke her arm. She thought of all the times she’d stood by, powerless, as Lysandra vented her spite against her daughter. Thratta picked up her basket and turned to go.

  She had not taken three steps when a gust of cold air whirled around her, yanking the veil from between her fingers. Thratta’s skin prickled. Against her will she turned to face the thing behind her.

  The girl Melisto stood atop the newly dug grave. She was no longer dressed in her burial shroud, but in the yellow tunic of a Little Bear. The glowing tint of her dress seemed to light up the dusk. Thratta could see every detail of the child’s face. She had always heard that the shades of the dead were either black and decayed, or ghastly white, but Melisto looked like herself: compact, stocky, brown-skinned, with a flush of healthy rose on her cheeks. There were scratches on her arms and legs. The hair Thratta had braided so often was loose and windblown.

  Thratta realized that she had never expected her spell to work. Horror and hope seized her in the same instant. If Melisto stood before her, the spell was cast. If the spell was cast, Rhaskos might be freed.

  Thratta ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth. “Find my son. My son, Rhaskos. I told you about him long ago — do you remember? They took me from him. He had red hair — I marked him with blood and ashes — his left arm.” She bared her arms, showing her own tattoos. “Find where he is. Set him free. I bind you to do this; by Hekate and Hermes, I command you. You will never rest until my son is free. By Hekate and Hermes and Bendis, by your own Artemis, I bind you.”

  Melisto’s lips parted as if to ask a question. Then her face changed; it was no longer solid, but grainy; no longer grainy, but translucent. She vanished. Nothing was left but an orange glow where her tunic had been.

  Thratta waited until her knees felt strong. Then she turned her back on the city and began her journey to Piraeus.

  EXHIBIT 11

  Kylix (drinking cup), mid-fifth century BCE.

  This black-figure kylix was found at Kolonos. Though the outside of the cup has been damaged, enough painting remains to show that it was decorated with dancing satyrs, followers of the god of wine, Dionysus. A cup like this one was probably used at a symposium, or drinking party.

  The interior of the cup is better preserved and depicts a ship surrounded by leaping dolphins. As the drinker held the cup by the handles and emptied it, the ship would appear to float on waves of wine. The symposium was often compared to an ocean voyage: the drinker was adrift in a sea of poetry, philosophy, and drunkenness.

  The Greek historian Timaios tells the story of a symposium where the guests were so drunk and dizzy that they thought they were on a ship about to capsize. In an effort to avoid shipwreck, the drunkards gathered up all the furniture and flung it outdoors. They remained “seasick” for some time, and the house where the party took place was thereafter called the House of the Ship.

  1. PIRAEUS

  The winter after the Petraios festival,

  Menon went to Athens to recruit soldiers.

  Long ago his grandfather helped Athens fight the Persian Wars.

  Menon thought it was high time

  Athens returned the favor.

  He shipped off to Athens, and he took me.

  By then, I’d served him two or three years.

  He took it for granted I looked up to him. He owned me,

  so I wasn’t about to tell him the truth. Truth was, after the Petraios festival

  we were enemies. We were like two curs,

  circling each other,

  hackles raised,

  sniffing out ways to thwart and hurt.

  He was better at hurting.

  I was better at hating.

  He’d been made a general.

  For weeks at a time, he’d go off to war,

  come back and greet me,

  punching my shoulder,

  knuckling my hair.

  We both pretended that it didn’t hurt.

  He hated me in ignorance.

  I hated him in secret.

  He wanted the Athenians to see his wealth:

  his retinue of slaves. So off we went.

  I’d never been on a ship before,

  and I was seasick. Menon was scornful

  and pleased. By the time we reached the harbor at Piraeus,

  it was starting to sleet:

  a strange harbor, a foreign city —

  a five-mile walk to Athens,

  the wind finding holes in my cloak,

  my stomach uneasy,

  and Menon on horseback.

  I’d never seen such crowds —

  men and donkeys and pigs,

  mud and sleet and miracles:

  gods and heroes cut from stone,

  cloud-white goddesses

  and slim boy-gods;

  patterned tunics painted

  turquoise —

  honey-color —

  terra-cotta pink —

  and every blue:

  sky or sea or Poseidon’s beard.

  They were everywhere, those statues:

  measuring me with their eyes.

  I don’t know when I first looked up

  but halfway to the sky,

  there it was, the city’s crown

  encircled by purple mountains

  steeper than any hill in Thessaly — the Akropolis.

  By then I’d found my land legs, and I wanted to see —

  My teeth were chattering,

  my belly empty as a broken jar,

  but there were wonders on every side,

  and I wanted to stop and see —

  but Menon was on horseback,

  and I had to keep up.

  2. SYMPOSIUM

  That night we went to a symposium.

  I guess you’ve never been to one. They’re for grown men.

  Free men.

  Athenian men, if you hear them talk,

  are the freest of the free,

  and free men need entertainment.

  At the beginning

  there’s music,

  pretty slave girls;

  flute players and acrobat-dancers. Astonishing!

  Girls are weak, everyone knows that,

  but I couldn’t do the things they did:

  flip through the air backward

  or walk on my hands —

  I tried. I fell down.

  They didn’t wear too much, those girls,

  I liked watching them.

  I didn’t know any girls, so I was curious.

  The rooms where the symposi
a were held

  were always the best rooms. Paintings on the walls,

  patterned stone underfoot. At the beginning,

  the air was fragrant with garlands and incense

  and tempting food;

  sometimes — by the end —

  the stink of piss and vomit.

  The point of the party is to drink.

  And talk. How much you drink,

  and what you talk about,

  is up to the man in charge for the night: the symposiarch.

  He decides

  how much water to mix with the wine

  and when the men should drain their cups.

  There were couches lining the walls

  — so the men could lie down and drink.

  I wasn’t supposed to stand in front of anyone,

  so I kept moving,

  trying not to take up space.

  The men drank and argued —

  the things they argued about!

  Menon called me stupid,

  a thickhead Thracian, but even I knew

  better than those men.

  They liked to ponder: what was first?

  the first chicken, or the first egg?

  How could anybody find that out?

  And what’s more, who cares?

  Here’s another thing: they said it was impossible to cross the street,

  because before you walked the whole way across,

  you’d have to walk half the way across,

  and before you walked half the way across,

  you’d have to walk a quarter way across,

  and before that, half the quarter,

  half of that,

  and half of that. You could never get across,

  because of all those bits of street you’d have to cross

  before you could cross —

  but I’ve crossed hundreds of streets,

  and my legs make short work of it.

  Then they’d ask, with puckered brows:

  does everything in the world change?

  or does everything stay the same?

  Even I know

  it’s not one way or the other.

  Some things change, like eggs,

  and others don’t. Like rocks.

  The talking was a contest. I saw that.

  The man who talked best was the winner.

  That first symposium, Menon was very quick

  and made the others laugh. Everyone admired him —