But maybe that was a stupid answer.”
Sokrates smiled. He bent over and scooped up a rock
from the riverbed.
He handed it to me. It glistened.
It was a yellow rock,
bigger than a drachma, but smaller than an egg.
I have it still.
“Is this rock unchangeable, Rhaskos?”
I turned the rock over in my hand.
One side was smooth, stroked by the water;
the other side was rough.
“No. The water’s changed it.
Though it can’t change by itself. I could pound it with another rock,
chip it, maybe break it. So rocks can change . . .
The stars don’t change, but they move in circles . . .
I don’t know if moving is the same thing as changing . . .
Even the gods change. I mean, Zeus changed himself into a bull,
and a swan. They can change into anything they like!
Maybe your man was right. Everything changes.
The river and the gods and even rocks.”
I looked to see if that was the right answer.
Sokrates didn’t say anything. He was watching me,
watching me think.
I had the idea he was waiting for something.
He waded to a shady spot on the riverbank
and sat down, soaking his feet.
I could see his feet through the water.
They were wide and bony,
brown-spotted,
yellow as the rock in my hand,
horny and warped.
I splashed over and sat beside him.
I tried to find my soul
so I could remember the truth.
“I can think of one thing that can’t be changed, Sokrates,
but it doesn’t have to do with absolute goodness,
the past can’t be changed.
Maybe you meant me to think of something beautiful,
like the gods or the stars.
But they change. The only thing I can think of
that doesn’t change
is the past.”
He nodded slowly. We sat and listened to the ripple of the water.
The mud under my legs felt moist and sticky.
You notice all kinds of mud if you dig clay.
This mud was rich with it. I pressed my knuckle into it
and began to draw. Joints with spaces in between:
the leg of a scorpion. I went on talking.
“The Spartans won the war.
I bet the Athenians wish they could change that,
but they can’t. My mother was kidnapped when she was a girl,
so she became a slave,
and I was born a slave. I can’t change that.
Menon used to punish me for nothing,
just because he felt like it. He broke my nose.
Now it’s crooked. I’d like to change all that,
but the past can’t be changed.”
Sokrates was listening.
He cupped a handful of water
and splashed his arms.
“What you’re saying is that time moves
in one direction only.
But here’s another question for you:
is time real? is there such a thing as time?
I wonder if the gods have one kind of time,
which is everlasting,
and we have another,
which follows the path of the stars,
and works according to numbers . . .
“My friend?
It seems to me you’re no longer listening.
What are you drawing?”
I muttered, “It’s a scorpion,”
and stared down at the mud.
It was a good drawing;
I’d learned that shape by heart.
“Your master said you loved drawing horses.
He told me he was teaching you.”
“Not anymore.”
I flattened my hand
and wiped out the scorpion. All of the sudden
I was telling him the whole story:
how Kranaos was always tattling on me,
how I’d thought he meant to trick me,
how I flicked the scorpion at him. The strange thing was,
I told the whole truth. I wanted him to blame Kranaos,
who was a sneak,
but I didn’t slant the truth.
I spoke low, but he heard me.
“When you tossed the scorpion at Kranaos,
did you know it was wrong?
Was it a mistake, or did you do it on purpose?”
“I did it on purpose.”
“Good. It’s better to do wrong with knowledge
than to act in ignorance.
I believe no man
would ever do wrong
if he were not ignorant.
You thought Kranaos meant to hurt you. That was a mistake.
So you struck back.
You did wrong and you did it knowingly.
The next time, you might not make a mistake.
You might not do wrong at all.”
It seemed to me he was missing the point.
“Maybe. But Kranaos got me in trouble.”
I traced the scraped place on my shoulder,
the greenish bruise on my arm.
“He had no right to beat me. He’s not my master!
If he weren’t a weak old man,
he’d have half killed me. And now I’m being punished.”
“Perhaps you’re lucky, Rhaskos.
To do wrong is harmful to the soul.
The best thing is to do no harm,
but if you do wrong,
the next best thing is to be punished.
It was wrong to frighten an old man with a scorpion.
Perhaps Kranaos used his stick as the surgeon wields a knife;
there was a little tumor of injustice in your soul,
and Kranaos cut it away. Now it won’t grow,
and your soul will remain in good health.”
It wasn’t what I wanted him to say.
I felt my face get hot.
“What about when Menon beat me for nothing?
What about the damage done to my soul?
What do you know about being beaten? You’re a citizen,
and a grown-up,
and nobody can touch you!”
“Listen to me, Rhaskos!
You say Menon treated you unjustly;
that he broke your nose and struck you without cause.
I’m sure you speak the truth,
but he didn’t touch your soul. Believe me.
There is nothing disgraceful in being beaten without cause.
What is disgraceful is to be the man who strikes unjustly.
If any man were to slap my face,
or steal my purse, or cut me with a knife,
or even put me to death some shameful way —
I would not be ashamed. My soul would be unharmed.”
I got up. Here’s what struck me: no matter who beat me,
it was all right with Sokrates!
It was all right for Kranaos to beat me,
because I deserved to be punished;
and it was all right for Menon,
because he only hurt my body
and not my soul! Either way, it was no skin off his back.
I said, “I have to go.
My master will be angry.
You’ve never had a master, so you don’t know about that.”
I started up the bank. He came after,
but I ignored him. I untied Phoibe and urged her forward —
only Phoibe’s slow. You can’t hurry her. And Sokrates —
he caught up with me.
“Rhaskos, tell me! Can a man be a good man and still suffer?”
I didn’t answer.
I’d had enough of his wisdom for one day.
Everything was wrong.
Sokrates didn’t understand me,
and now I hated him,
my only friend.
The sun was too hot. I was burning,
my skin and my temper;
I was burning alive.
“Let me ask the same question another way:
Is there such a thing as an evil pleasure?”
I whirled around to face him,
Phoibe’s rope in my hand.
I was still holding the yellow stone.
I hated him,
but I didn’t want to lose the yellow stone
because it was all I was going to have
once we stopped being friends.
“Of course there are evil pleasures!”
No one who ever saw Menon drunk
was left in doubt about that.
Beating me and watching me cry —
that was one of Menon’s pleasures.
“But don’t you see, Rhaskos? If there are evil pleasures,
then pleasure is not the same thing as goodness.
Pain is different from evil.
Menon caused you pain, but he didn’t hurt your soul.
Your soul is pure, untouched by what he did.”
There was something about the way he looked and spoke
that ate into me, sank in
like dye into cloth. That night, when I couldn’t sleep,
I remembered his words.
At the time, all I could say was
“Leave me alone!”
He sighed.
There was sadness in his smile.
“You told me your mother named you Rhaskos,
but your master calls you Pyrrhos,
which means fiery. I think Pyrrhos is the better name.
You are gripped by passion just now;
you would sting me like a scorpion.
A man who is mastered by passion
is an unlucky man. His feelings flow forth
like wine from a leaky pot.
Some men take pride in losing their tempers. But for my part,
I think it’s better when pots don’t leak.
You’re young. You’re thoughtful for your age,
so I forget how young you are.
You still have time to strive and learn.
Be your own master, Rhaskos.”
With that he turned away.
I glared after him.
We’d been having a fight, and suddenly it was over.
4. RHASKOS LISTENS
“Phaistus?”
“Zosima.”
“Are you asleep?”
“I wish I were. It’s so hot . . .
You think it’s any cooler in the courtyard?
We could carry the mats outside.”
“If we sleep outside, I’ll have to be modest
and lie under a blanket. I’d rather stay here.
There’s a breeze coming in the window . . .”
“I don’t feel it. There’s not a breath of air.”
“Phaistus, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“You’ve been silent and grim all evening,
and Pyrrhos, too.
Both of you scowling
and picking at your food!
What’s gone wrong between you?”
“It’s nothing to do with the boy.
I saw Markos in the marketplace today.”
“What did he want?”
“Nothing. We didn’t speak.
He’s lost weight. He’s a sick old man.
When he dies, I’ll need a new protector.”
“Is that what’s worrying you?
You’ve never liked him.”
“No, but he doesn’t rob me blind. He’s a just man.
The rent he charges for the shop is fair.
If he dies, and I can’t find another protector,
I could be sued; I could lose everything.
If worse comes to worst, I could be sold.
I think I’d rather die than go through that.”
“Phaistus. Stop.
That’s not going to happen.”
“How do you know it won’t?
What does a woman know about the law?”
“If Markos dies, you’ll find a new protector.
You’re respected. Any man of sense would be proud to help you.
You won’t lose your freedom.”
“I’ve come so far.”
“I know.”
“It’s not just me. If I lose the business,
what becomes of you?
And Kranaos? Even the boy — ”
“Phaistus, what’s happened to Pyrrhos?
He’s scarcely spoken for a week,
and tonight —
I never saw him look so wretched.”
“Don’t know. He was hauling brushwood all day.
Ask the donkey what’s wrong with him.”
“You’re not teaching him anymore.”
“Listen, Zosima. Last week —
I didn’t want to tell you. I knew you’d take his side —
the boy threw a scorpion at Kranaos,
hoping it would sting him. An ugly thing.
A child should treat an old man with respect. Zosima!
It wasn’t funny.”
“Was Kranaos hurt?”
“No.”
“Then it’s a little bit funny. Oh, come on, Phaistus!
All boys are mischievous,
and Kranaos is an old misery!”
“Listen, it wasn’t a boyish prank.
And it wasn’t mischief, it was malice.
A scorpion could kill an old man like Kranaos. He’s not strong.
The boy broke two good pots
and knocked over a jar of slip.
Kranaos went after him, and Pyrrhos deserved it.”
“That’s where he got those bruises!
Kranaos is always finding fault with Pyrrhos.
He nags.”
“He’s trying to teach him. The boy should pay attention.
He could learn something. There’s no man in Athens — ”
“ — who knows more about the kiln! I know.
Blessed be the gods who gave us Kranaos!
All the same, he hawks up phlegm every morning
and spits on my clean-swept floor.
Can’t he spit outside?
I stepped in it yesterday, in my bare feet!”
“I’ll talk to him — Shhh!”
“Why are you hushing me?”
“I thought I heard something. Right outside the window —
He could be listening.”
“Who, Kranaos? He’s as deaf as any stone.”
“No, the boy. I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“I wish you’d stop calling him the boy.
He’s our son. He has a name.”
“He’s not our son. I know you’ve grown attached to him;
I haven’t. I’m doing my best.
I’m not going to sell him if I don’t have to — ”
“Phaistus, you can’t sell him! We agreed!
You promised me you’d buy a child,
and that we’d raise him as our son!”
“I said, if we have no children of our own.
We may still have children.”
“Don’t.”
“Older women than you — ”
“Don’t. It’s been eight years.
Eight years married, and I’m still not a woman.
I’m a freak, a failure, unfinished.
I wouldn’t blame you if you divorced me.”
“Zosima, you were kind to me when I was still a slave.
I remember our wedding night, when I lifted your veil,
and looked into your eyes, and saw you loved me.
I will never divorce you.
I just wish I’d waited before I bought the boy.
I wanted a Syrian, or an Egyptian boy.
A Thracian’s t
rouble. It’s the strangest thing . . .
The day I bought him, I’d made up my mind not to.
I’d turned my back on him. I was headed home
and then — it was as if some god
seized me by the arm and towed me back.”
“What if it were a god?”
“What?”
“What if he’s meant to be our son?
You said yourself: you’ve never known a boy who can draw like that.
I wish you’d go back to teaching him
He was happier when you taught him.”
“You’re a fool about that boy, Zosima.
He doesn’t care two figs for you. He’s ungrateful.”
“He’s not. He doesn’t show it,
but he’s aware of every kindness.
No matter what happens, you can’t sell him.
I forbid it.”
“What kind of wife says I forbid to her husband?”
“You know what kind of wife I am.
You knew when you married me.”
“I suspected — ”
“A vixen! A she-wolf!
With a squint, too! Don’t forget the squint.”
“You only squint when you smile,
and I’m happy when you smile, Zosima.
. . . your lips are sweet,
but it’s too hot to kiss.
“Pyrrhos is our son.
In time, he’ll understand that.
And so will you.”
“He’s a Thracian barbarian.
And even if he were Greek —
I wish I felt like his father, but I don’t.”
“Phaistus, you need to sleep.
Change places with me. It’s cooler near the window.
You’ll rest easier there. Just try to go to sleep.
We have one another, and we have enough.
I’ll stop talking now. Sleep.”
EXHIBIT 14
Clay figurines, terra-cotta, Athens, fourth and fifth century BCE.
These charming miniature figures were probably playthings. Though rattles were used for music and religious rituals, this pig was probably created to entertain an Athenian baby. Both horses have pierced legs, which suggest that they were mounted on wheels and used as pull-toys. Traces of pigment show that the figurines were once painted with bright colors.
That night I couldn’t sleep. It was too hot:
the grating of cicadas,
the airless shed, and the smell of sweaty donkey.
I got up, left the shed,
and went out in the courtyard.
Not much cooler there. Street noises,
far-off laughter from drunken men,
nighttime murmurs
from Phaistus and Zosima.
I listened. On purpose. I strained to hear.
I seemed to see Sokrates
standing at my elbow, questioning me.
He thought it wasn’t ἀρετή to listen.
Thinking about him made me clench my fists.
What right had he to judge me? I wanted to punch him.
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