Amber and Clay

by Laura Amy Schlitz

and me. There was a woman next to me,

  with a crying baby,

  sobbing herself:

  “Buy us both. Look, she’s little. She doesn’t eat much.

  And she’s pretty, so pretty! In a few years

  she’ll be worth more,

  you can sell her at a profit!

  Just let me keep her now. I’ll share my food with her.

  I’ll work hard. I’ll do anything. Almighty Zeus,

  who pities those who beg,

  hear my plea!”

  She was shameless.

  I wondered if my mother ever begged for me like that.

  All that endless day, the woman carried on.

  Her baby was livid and snot-nosed;

  it grizzled and whined

  till I wanted to wring its neck.

  I couldn’t. My hands were shackled.

  My swollen face was a brand:

  This boy’s no good. I beat him, and I’m getting rid of him.

  Let the buyer beware.

  There’s a place near Athens called Lavrion

  where they dig for lead and silver,

  narrow tunnels leading to Hades’s realm,

  dark and close, the air foul

  poisonous.

  No slave lives long at Lavrion. During the war,

  the Spartans promised the slaves

  they’d set them free

  if they’d turn traitor. Every slave at Lavrion

  agreed. They fought for the Spartans.

  Every single one.

  I would have, too.

  I tried to pray

  that I wouldn’t be sent there,

  but I couldn’t think of prayerful words.

  My mind flopped and panicked, like a fish in air.

  From time to time I raised my head

  to look for Menon. He might change his mind.

  There was the marketplace

  crowded with strangers,

  booths and awnings,

  jars and baskets,

  donkeys and goats and chickens

  but few horses. There’s no pastureland in Athens.

  I was a stable boy

  in a land without stables.

  One man looked at me,

  gripped my swollen face, tilting it up.

  “The swelling won’t last, but the nose — ”

  He shook his head. “And the tattoos. Pity.

  Except for that, he’s a good-looking boy.”

  He didn’t buy me.

  An old man asked how much I cost.

  He had a quiet voice, a mild manner;

  I hoped he would buy me,

  but he was losing his eyesight,

  and he wanted a slave who could read.

  Another man came by. He was short,

  swarthy

  with powerful arms. His cloak was rough-woven.

  He moved briskly, head bent,

  as if he were used to waiting on people

  almost like a slave himself.

  He wanted a Syrian boy, maybe an Egyptian. “A sharp-witted boy,

  around twelve years old. Old enough to do a man’s work,

  but clever,

  good with his hands.”

  The trader said, “No Syrians today.

  I’ve got a Thracian, now. Thracians are strong.

  Barbaric, but you could tame him.

  You’d better have him.”

  The man looked at me. “Someone used his fists on you.

  Your master?”

  I hung my head.

  “What d’you do to deserve it?”

  I thought how yesterday

  I’d stood at the White Dog, with the stick in my hand,

  joyful because I had a soul.

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why’d your master beat you?”

  “He was drunk.”

  He accepted that. Nodded.

  “What work are you used to?”

  “Back in Thessaly, I was a stable hand.

  The master’s son chose me to wait on him.

  I did what he told me to do.”

  “Ever work with your hands?”

  “With a pitchfork and a bucket.”

  “Ever tend a donkey?”

  “Yes.”

  (I forgot to tell you that.

  My master had donkeys and teams of mules.

  I like horses better, but I’ve worked with donkeys.)

  “Let me ask you something. I’ve a donkey —

  I sent my last boy out to haul clay.

  There’s a spot on the path

  where the donkey balks, day after day.

  The boy beat that donkey sore,

  but he couldn’t get her past that spot.

  What would you do, if it were your job to dig clay

  and you couldn’t drive the donkey down the path?”

  I lifted my head and looked him full in the face.

  Disrespectful. What got into me? I think it was that donkey

  being beaten every day, on the same path,

  by some stupid boy who didn’t know better.

  Or maybe it was my soul.

  “Your last boy was a fool.

  Donkeys are smart. When they balk,

  it’s because they think something’s wrong. When a horse is afraid,

  it shies and runs away. But a donkey’s different.

  A donkey stops to take a look.

  A donkey wants to see what’s wrong.

  Your boy beat her, and the donkey knew what was wrong.

  That path was a bad path,

  a path where she was beaten every day.

  No wonder she didn’t want to go there.”

  He didn’t like the way I spoke.

  “You’re right — the boy was a fool —

  but it’s not for you to say so.

  You’ve a mouth on you, boy, and a savage eye.

  You’re not for me.”

  He turned away, and the slave trader sang out,

  “A hundred and twenty drachmas!”

  — but it was too late. The man was walking away.

  There was a girl in the marketplace —

  when I thought about that later

  it didn’t make sense. Athenian girls don’t go to the market,

  and she wasn’t a slave, that girl.

  Her hair wasn’t cropped, and she walked erect,

  Her tunic was short and bright as flame. I’d heard Spartan girls

  wear short tunics — thigh-flashers, they call them,

  so I thought she was a Spartan girl.

  She crossed paths with the man who hadn’t bought me.

  She laid her hand on his forearm

  and looked into his face. She seemed to speak.

  I couldn’t hear her. She was too far away.

  The man stopped

  as if he’d lost his way. He changed direction,

  but she pursued him, matching his stride. She lifted her palms,

  touched him, made him look at her.

  He came back to the slave trader.

  “A hundred drachmas.”

  “You’ll beggar me,” complained the trader,

  but they went on from there.

  “One twenty.”

  “One hundred.”

  “One fifteen.”

  “One hundred.”

  “Forget it. He’s strong and he’s healthy, this boy.

  They pay more than that at the mines.”

  “I’ll pay you one hundred.”

  “You’re wasting my time.”

  “One hundred. I tell you, I won’t pay more.”

  “Are you deaf? I said no!

  How can I live if I don’t make a profit?

  I’ve children to feed! One hundred and five.”

  “One hundred drachmas.”

  The trader gave up. One hundred drachmas.

  The stranger led me away.

  He was a potter and his name was Phaistus.

  He spoke in sharp jerks, warning me:


  “There’s a proverb. To make pots is to work hard.

  I’ll teach you my trade. It takes strength

  and it takes skill.

  If I tell you to do something and you don’t understand,

  you tell me you don’t understand; d’you hear me?

  Don’t risk ruining a pot

  because you’re too scared to ask a question.

  You have to learn.

  You’ll treat me with respect. My last boy was lazy,

  a fool and a cheat.

  I couldn’t turn my back on him. If you’re idle

  or you lie to me,

  I’ll beat you,

  and I’ve a strong arm.

  I’m not a rich man. I’ve worked for everything I own.

  I’ve a shop and a wife and a slave. Two slaves, now.

  As far as my wife goes,

  you’ll treat her with respect, too.

  If she asks you to help in the kitchen

  or weed the garden,

  you’ll do it. You’ll tend the donkey,

  dig the clay,

  do what you’re told, and show me respect.

  Do you understand?”

  “I understand.”

  He led me down a zigzag street

  and then another. We came to a shop with a striped awning,

  rows of pots on planks,

  and a door almost hidden. He took me into the courtyard:

  two round pits for clay,

  a small house, only one story,

  a shed on one side for the donkey.

  His wife appeared, a small woman,

  thick-waisted, but quick and light on her feet.

  I didn’t like her. She clapped her hands at the sight of me.

  She smiled so broadly

  that one eye squinted and almost vanished.

  She scurried forward, led me to the kitchen altar,

  and made me kneel down. “Oh, Phaistus, look at his hair!

  He’ll be beautiful once he’s healed.

  We’ll call him Pyrrhos!” As if I were a dog.

  Pyrrhos means fiery.

  Half the red-haired slaves in Athens are called Pyrrhos.

  I was a new member of the household,

  so they poured dried fruit and nuts over my head

  and prayed to Hestia that I would prove

  fruitful, hardworking, and loyal.

  After the ceremony,

  the master’s wife — she was called Zosima —

  went to the kitchen and tore off a chunk of bread.

  She spread soft cheese on it. I felt a dull surprise

  that she should give me cheese. The crust was hard.

  I was afraid to bite down —

  lest my teeth fall out. I asked for a cup of water

  and she gave me one. I was so thirsty my hand shook.

  They had an old slave, Kranaos,

  a man so worn and silent and dry

  he was like a dead insect —

  he had cheese, too. She wasn’t a good housewife, this Zosima;

  she was wasteful. Whatever she and her husband ate,

  she gave the same thing to the slaves.

  I wasn’t sorry, but it showed she had no sense.

  Kranaos slept in the house. When night fell

  I went to donkey’s shed.

  I made a bed of straw

  and pulled my cloak over myself,

  but I couldn’t get warm. I was thirsty again,

  and everything hurt.

  Then she came to the shed: Zosima —

  with another blanket, a cup,

  and a jar of water. “There’s a sponge inside the jar.

  If your face hurts, you can sponge cold water on it.

  There’s wine in the cup to help you sleep.”

  I stared at her. I couldn’t imagine

  why she was trying to take care of me.

  There was something pleading about her.

  I didn’t understand it. I took the blanket —

  it was heavy, thicker than my cloak.

  With the straw, I would be warm enough.

  “Thank you.”

  Her face lit up,

  and her eye crinkled shut;

  she reached out and patted my shoulder —

  as if she were patting a dog.

  I gulped down the wine

  and felt my head spin.

  I wrapped myself up and I slept.

  Let him sleep. He thinks he’s alone

  except for the donkey. There are mice in the shed,

  and a cat on the prowl.

  Then there’s you

  invisible

  following the story,

  and me

  Hermes, bringer of dreams.

  I flick my golden wand,

  and his bruised face softens.

  He dreams that he’s close to his mother —

  but it’s only a dream. She’s far away

  dancing off the coast of Skyros.

  I’ve been meaning to tell you about that. Now, while the boy sleeps,

  is as good a time as any.

  You remember Thratta, don’t you?

  She was called Meda when she was a girl.

  I like to think of her as Meda. Last time you saw her

  she cast her spell, binding

  the girl she kept from loving

  to the boy she loved.

  Then she hightailed it to the harbor,

  with a fistful of stolen money. As god of thieves,

  who am I to judge? She had a plan:

  board a ship to the Black Sea,

  bribe the captain,

  home to Thrace and freedom!

  Unlucky Meda!

  A storm blew up and the ship went down;

  she was bound for a watery grave.

  I was on call; I am Hermes

  who succors the dying. High on Olympus

  I tied on my sandals, adjusted my cloak;

  Downward I plunged with my wand in my hand,

  dodging the lightning:

  Thunderbolt, sea spittle, silvery froth on the wine-dark sea.

  There she was: waterlogged, gulping down salt water, drowning.

  I caught up her hand — and I yelped:

  Yeeeowwww!

  Gripping her hand was electric, like grabbing a stingray!

  All of the wrongs she had suffered —

  tingling, crawling under my skin!

  What kind of life had she led,

  this ill-fated Thracian woman?

  Kidnapped, enslaved and dishonored,

  robbed of her five-year-old son? . . .

  I knew my mission: to usher her down to the House of Hades.

  Show her the way

  and gentle her pain

  with the touch of my golden rod —

  But I’d had a shock.

  And I had an idea.

  And I’m not a predictable god.

  So —

  Deftly I parted her fingers. Then fused them:

  tendon and knuckle,

  tissue and bone;

  Magicked and molded the pliable flesh,

  like a pastry cook rolling out dough.

  Fastened my palm to her face —

  strong as an octopus sucker;

  Dragged her jaw forward, creating the beak —

  multiplying the teeth.

  Stabbed with my thumbnail the crown of her head —

  air sac! and blowhole!

  and echolocation . . . !

  All of this time she was watching me

  glassy-eyed

  fearless and wonderstruck.

  Memory was drifting away from her:

  anger

  and anguish

  and loss.

  Next: underwater. I sleeked my hands over her muscular sides

  (O gloss of obsidian!)

  Fashioned her innards: adjustable rib cage,

  a three-chambered stomach,

  collapsible lungs.

  I sculpted her
belly —

  it shone like an opal,

  taut as a tooth, and pale as a cloud,

  gray/pink/iridescent —

  Magnificent craftsmanship!

  Even Hephaistos

  that gloomy perfectionist,

  Even Praxiteles

  would have been proud!

  Next was her back —

  the storm was receding.

  I ran my hand over her salt-crusted skin,

  shifted the vertebrae,

  fashioned a flap out of cartilage,

  sculpted it

  — not like a sickle, but more like a sail —

  triangle, signal and fin.

  After the fin, the peduncle; tapered and powerful,

  flattened her feet and spread them out wide

  w i d e

  like the sticks of a fan,

  bone into cartilage: fleshier

  flashier

  O, what a fluke!

  Flicking her tail, she rose to the surface, seeking the sunlight.

  Bowing and bobbing her head, an additional curve

  in the infinite sea.

  Whistling and hooting, she went on her way:

  a free thing, seeking her playmates.

  That’s how she left me:

  arching and frolicking,

  thankless!

  finding her place in the pod;

  No one but me would have thought of it —

  I am a genius as well as a god!

  1. PHOIBE

  The only one I liked was the donkey.

  She was the only one

  I didn’t have to respect. They called her Grau,

  which is what you call a slave woman

  who’s too old to call girl.

  Grau means hag.

  She wasn’t such a hag. That first night in the shed,

  I heard her shifting and snorting. Once she brayed

  and I almost jumped out of my skin. Once she pissed:

  a sound like rain.

  The whole shed stank. Old urine

  half-rotted manure

  and moldy straw.

  A little before dawn, I thought I’d better get up

  before the master woke me

  with a kick, maybe.

  I went to the donkey’s head and spoke to her.

  Her ears swiveled; she was listening.

  I untied her halter

  and led her out into the dawn.

  I’d feared the worst.

  I feared she might be old or broken-down

  and it would be my job

  to flog the last years of work out of her.

  She wasn’t such a hag. She had supple knees,

  clean bones. She was dark gray,

  but the fur around her eyes was pale,

  and the inner corner of her eyes was black

  as if she’d been weeping black tears.

  Her eyes were clear and patient.

  She had sores all over her back —

  mats of fur and dried clay.

  Her feet weren’t clean. There’s a smell

  when a horse’s hooves are sickly.