Amber and Clay

by Laura Amy Schlitz

  I didn’t know what to say.

  Then some god spoke in me. I looked up,

  into his face. Not like a slave,

  but eye to eye,

  like Penthesilea gazing at Akhilleus.

  “I’m not as bad as you think I am.

  I’m not. I’m not!”

  He heard me. He got up.

  “Come!”

  I followed. He didn’t head back to the house.

  I thought he was taking me to the slave market.

  My stomach clenched. I saw myself back there:

  humiliated, shackled, for sale.

  I thought of the silver mines at Lavrion.

  He led me to the Temple of Hephaistos.

  There’s a wood fence to one side,

  covered with carvings and graffiti.

  The master knelt down. He traced the carving with one hand.

  “Do you see this, Pyrrhos?”

  “Yes. But I can’t read.”

  “I should teach you.

  A pot’s worth more with an inscription.”

  He touched the words again and read aloud:

  “Iason, son of Zenon, sells his slave Phaistus, a Theban,

  to the god Hephaistos

  for the price of four hundred drachmas,

  on these conditions:

  that Phaistus shall serve Iason blamelessly

  and perform the burial rites for Iason when he dies.

  Once his master is buried with honor,

  Phaistus will inherit the property of Iason:

  his tools and his stock in trade.

  Markos, son of Linos, will serve as his Protector

  and guard him from insult, and from being reenslaved.”

  His voice grew stronger.

  “And Phaistus will be free and untouchable.”

  “You see, Pyrrhos, I was a slave.

  I saved money for years, and I gave it to the god.

  I bought and earned my freedom.

  I can never own land or a house —

  I am not a citizen, and I’m bound to a protector,

  but I am no longer a slave.”

  “That day in the marketplace, when I bought you,

  you were all beat up. I asked why your master beat you,

  and you said, ‘He was drunk.’

  Only one man in ten would have understood,

  but I was that man. I watch you with the donkey.

  You don’t beat her, because you know too well

  what it is to be beaten.

  It’s the same with me. I should beat you for your own good;

  I should take a stick to you —

  but I have no stomach for it. Iason was a hard master.

  When I was your age, I had more stripes than a tabby cat.

  No matter how hot it gets, I don’t strip down;

  I wear my tunic when I work.

  I don’t want anyone to see the marks.

  Iason was a hard master, but I treat you justly,

  for all the good it does me.”

  We sat there in silence.

  My knees ached. I thought he would say more,

  but he didn’t.

  He got to his feet, and I followed him home.

  Let’s take a break. Allow me to kick off the winged sandals,

  wiggle my toes,

  and put my feet up. It’s Dullsville in Athens:

  Kranaos is napping. Phaistus is worrying about money.

  Zosima, poor thing,

  is weaving ribbons for the shrine of Artemis,

  hoping that the goddess of childbirth

  will grant her a baby. She’s not good at ribbons.

  She needs spectacles,

  but they won’t be invented

  for sixteen hundred years. Melisto’s doing

  . . . whatever ghosts do, don’t ask me,

  and Meda’s a dolphin.

  Rhaskos is on his knees in the Temple of Hephaistos.

  He’s begging the god for his freedom.

  Someone ought to tell him about manumission. Come to think of it,

  someone ought to tell you about manumission.

  Pull up a chair. Get comfortable.

  I’d offer you a cup of nectar,

  but it’s against the rules.

  Manumission is what they call it

  when you free a slave. Manumitted is what they call you

  once you’re freed. Rhaskos can’t stop thinking about it:

  Phaistus used to be a slave, and now he’s not.

  Poor Rhaskos! He didn’t really grasp what Phaistus told him;

  but he heard the name Hephaistos,

  so Hephaistos is his new favorite god. Oh, I’m not jealous!

  He’ll come back to me! Everyone does.

  Sooner or later everyone needs to take a journey,

  get hold of a little money,

  enjoy a good night’s sleep,

  come up with a watertight lie

  (not to mention going to hell with any kind of style).

  Once they do, I’m their god. Hephaistos is good at crafts,

  but I’m crafty. All fish come to my nets.

  What were we talking about? Ah, yes, manumission. Let me ask you,

  Why would anyone free a slave? . . .

  What’s that, you say?

  Because it’s the right thing to do?

  Bless your heart!

  Maybe. Or —

  Let’s say your slave is getting old and can’t work hard;

  he’s just another mouth to feed,

  and you’re tired of him: You set him free.

  (Kranaos worries himself sick over this.

  If Phaistus sets him free, he’ll starve.)

  Here’s another reason: Sometimes fathers free their slave children,

  if they have no other sons.

  Neither of these scenarios will work for Rhaskos.

  His father had free-born sons. He didn’t need a spare.

  Moreover, Rhaskos is strong and young and bright;

  there are years of work to be got out of him.

  Now, Phaistus —

  Phaistus was set free on condition

  that he perform the burial rites for his master, Iason.

  By now, I hope you’ve grasped

  that funeral rites are important. It’s a ghoul-eat-ghoul world

  in the House of Hades. If no one looks after you —

  no coins for the ferryman,

  no cakes for the three-headed dog,

  no wine, no oil, no prayers —

  things aren’t going to go well.

  When you die, you need to make sure

  there’s someone left behind

  who’ll dot every i and cross every t.

  Iason was childless. He knew he was dying.

  He put Phaistus in charge of his funeral;

  afterward, Phaistus was freed.

  Worked out nicely. Freeing a slave is pleasing to the gods,

  who — you may have noticed this — don’t have slaves.

  We Olympians are accused of behaving badly;

  our tempers are hasty;

  we tend to hold a grudge;

  we run pell-mell after other men’s wives —

  once in a while, we chop a few bits off each other —

  but we don’t keep slaves. That’s where we draw the line.

  If you, my mortal friend, are dying,

  and a teensy bit unsure

  about what might happen to you next,

  you might want to free your slave. Give the gods a thrill!

  What have you got to lose?

  You won’t need slaves in the House of Hades!

  Where was I? Ah, yes; manumission.

  Few slaves are set free with no strings attached.

  Most slaves, like Phaistus, are freed on condition . . .

  What kind of condition? I thought you’d never ask.

  If you’re the slave owner,

  you get to spell out the terms.

 
Suppose you tell your slave, “Here’s the deal.

  I’ll set you free, but

  you have to live next door

  so you’re handy to come and wait on me.

  You have to do

  whatever I tell you,

  as long as I live.

  I claim the right to punish you any way I choose,

  which means I can strike you, starve you,

  brand you with an iron,

  tie you to a tree and whip you senseless —

  anything short of death.”

  (It’s against the law to kill a slave.)

  “If you want to be free, you have to pay me for your freedom,

  or buy me a slave to replace you;

  you can give me one of your children —

  if I let you have children.

  If at any time you fail to please me,

  the deal is off. I get to keep your money,

  and you’re back to being my slave.”

  Who would take such a deal?

  I’ll tell you who: the man whose life is worse.

  A man would rather seize a slender hope

  than have no hope at all.

  If you’re freed, even on condition, you can’t be sold to a new master,

  and you’re safe from the mines at Lavrion.

  You might be able to have a family,

  eat a little better,

  own a little property,

  make a little money,

  but be careful! If you earn more than your old master,

  that’s considered rude,

  and you have to give the surplus cash to him.

  Luckily — or unluckily,

  depending on how you see it —

  Phaistus

  is not the kind of man to dangle freedom

  in front of Rhaskos’s nose

  and yank it back.

  He knows too much. But he’s not going to free Rhaskos.

  He can’t afford it. What if he could?

  What if Rhaskos were to go free

  without condition? What would that look like?

  To begin with, it would cost money. Rhaskos

  would have to get permission

  to earn money

  and keep it for himself.

  He’d need to save . . .

  . . . let me see . . .

  Phaistus bought him for a hundred drachmas,

  but he’s worth more now; he’s older

  and learning a trade.

  Still, Thracians are cheap . . . Let’s say he’s worth one twenty;

  he’d need two hundred and forty drachmas

  to buy his freedom. That’s about the price

  of a cheap cavalry horse,

  or six and a half months’ salary

  for a skilled worker,

  or one thousand four hundred and forty loaves of bread

  and enough wine to wash them all down.

  Once he’s saved the money,

  that’s where Hephaistos comes in.

  It doesn’t have to be Hephaistos;

  any god could help out.

  I could do it.

  You see, Rhaskos isn’t a person —

  Ooh, don’t pull that face with me!

  You know he’s a person.

  I know he’s a person!

  As Sokrates pointed out, he has a soul.

  He’s a person, all right. But according to Athenian law,

  he’s someone’s property:

  like a pruning knife, or a battle helmet.

  You can’t draw up a contract

  between a person and a helmet!

  Manumission is a contract,

  and a piece of property cannot set itself free.

  It’s against the law.

  But there’s a way around it. Here we go:

  Rhaskos gives his savings

  to the priest

  at the Temple of Hephaistos;

  the priest gives the money to the god.

  Now Hephaistos is rich,

  and can buy himself a slave.

  You can have a contract between a person and a god:

  The priest (a stand-in for the god) handles the cash.

  Phaistus gets the money.

  Hephaistos gets the slave.

  Since the gods don’t have slaves —

  Rhaskos is free.

  If he’s free without condition,

  he can go where he wants

  and do as he pleases.

  His new status will be announced at the theatre

  or carved in wood or stone.

  He’ll never be a citizen

  or own land. He can’t buy a house,

  and he’ll need a protector.

  His status will be low,

  but he’ll be free: a manumitted slave,

  not to be insulted,

  not to be seized and beaten.

  That’s why Rhaskos is praying in the Temple of Hephaistos.

  While we were talking, Melisto followed him in:

  there are torches burning in the temple

  and shadows moving. She’s one more shadow,

  one more flame.

  She stands at his elbow, listening to his prayers.

  She wishes he would turn his head to see her —

  but he won’t. His mind is caught up

  with the thing he desires,

  the thing she is bound to help him find.

  There they are:

  the girl as electric as amber,

  and the boy, indestructible as clay.

  1. SCORPION

  Six days after I learned about Phaistus,

  I was sweeping up.

  I found the scorpion behind a stack of pots.

  I poked it with the broom —

  it didn’t stir. The tail was stretched out straight.

  I picked it up. Cautiously —

  I don’t know why,

  but I wanted to draw it.

  Later I scratched it on a broken pot. It was complicated,

  unexpected. The legs were thin near the body;

  then they flared out, elbow-like and muscular:

  easy to draw

  and impossible. So many segments —

  but I liked how the pincers hugged the curves of the pot;

  I curled the tail like a crescent moon;

  I pressed the dead scorpion into wet clay

  and examined the imprint.

  I wanted to show my work to Phaistus,

  but I didn’t want to remind him.

  2. SILENCE

  I kept thinking about Phaistus.

  He’d been a slave, like me,

  but now he was free.

  I wanted to ask a hundred questions

  but my tongue was as still

  as the dead scorpion. I thought of him saying

  Kindness is wasted on you.

  He’d stopped teaching me to draw.

  When he first bought me, he tried to shut me up.

  After a while, I shut myself up.

  Something about the way I did it

  drove him crazy,

  so I shut up even more.

  Now I wanted to talk, and I couldn’t.

  I was like a boy trying to play catch

  with his hands tied behind his back.

  Then Sokrates came and my mouth was opened.

  3. SOKRATES

  I saw him often,

  but mostly from a distance. Even at a distance:

  that same hairy cloak,

  the goose-like strut,

  and always, he was talking.

  He’d talk to anyone. Women, even slaves.

  He was friends with Simon,

  the cobbler who fixed Zosima’s sandal.

  He loved the Agora. He’d ask the potters how trade was

  and stoop to read the pictures on the jars.

  Mostly he was surrounded by young men —

  aristocrats, and some of them were beautiful.

  Fresh from the gymnasion, their skins gleamed with oil;<
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  graceful, taut-muscled,

  they strolled and lingered,

  showing off how they were free to waste time.

  I tried to eavesdrop. I’d find some excuse

  to cross the market square and listen.

  Once I heard him talking about a group of men

  who were chained up, prisoners in a dark cave —

  I wondered if they were slaves at Lavrion.

  I wanted to hear if they got free.

  Before I could find out

  Phaistus called me back to spin the wheel.

  There came a day — I was gathering brushwood;

  it was scorching, the dog days of summer.

  I felt like a pot in the kiln,

  my skin blazing red, darkening —

  I was close to the river —

  I heard someone humming. A glimpse through the trees:

  an old man wading.

  My heart leapt. “Sokrates?”

  He tented his eyes with his hand,

  squinting against the sun.

  “Rhaskos! Is that you?

  Come join me in the water! I want someone to talk to!

  I’ve been remembering a wise man named Herakleitos —

  He said that that no man ever wades twice in the same river.

  What do you think of that?”

  That was Sokrates. That was the kind of thing he thought about.

  I loved how he asked me what I thought.

  I’d never heard of Herakleitos,

  and what he said didn’t make sense.

  You can wade in the same river any time you want.

  I’d dipped into the Kefissos all summer.

  I tethered Phoibe so she could graze

  and waded into the river by Sokrates. It was so cold

  it made me grit my teeth and grin.

  Water brown and yellow with silt,

  foaming white around my knees;

  it came to me what Herakleitos meant:

  water changes.

  The river keeps moving. You can step in the same river,

  but the water swooshes past you

  and runs into the sea.

  “I think maybe he’s right, Sokrates.

  Not about the river,

  but about the water.”

  “Do you think all things are like that, Rhaskos?

  Are all things moving and changing, all the time?

  Is there anything everlasting, unchangeable,

  any absolute beauty or goodness?

  I wonder about this. I even dream about it.”

  The water stung my legs with cold.

  I squatted down to let it soak my tunic.

  “I don’t know, Sokrates.

  I went to a drinking party once,

  and they asked that same question:

  does everything change?

  Or does everything stay the same?

  I have to tell you, I thought it was a stupid question.

  I thought: some things change, like eggs,

  and others don’t, like rocks.