Amber and Clay

by Laura Amy Schlitz

  He looked like his sister: broad-shouldered, sturdy,

  bushy-haired, owl eyes.

  A man came after him. He was like the boy,

  like Melisto,

  barrel-chested, battle-scarred.

  The little boy whirled round,

  raced over the grass,

  and hurled himself at his father. Arkadios caught him up,

  tossed him in the air,

  flipped him and juggled him from hand to hand.

  He grabbed the boy’s wrists and swung him around,

  horizontal. The child screamed for joy.

  Arkadios tossed him again,

  higher

  higher

  caught him under the armpits,

  and set him back on his feet.

  I wondered if he ever tossed Melisto like that.

  “Off you go, Takis!

  Your papa has work to do!”

  The boy circled the courtyard,

  running full tilt and barking like a dog.

  He made a beeline for the tortoise.

  He squatted down, plucked a handful of grass,

  and tickled the animal’s mouth.

  The tortoise drew in its head.

  Arkadios would have passed me;

  he was headed for the gate.

  I blocked his path.

  He frowned.

  “Oh, you! Sosias said there was someone.

  Who are you and why have you come?”

  I gabbled,

  “I’m Pyrrhos, slave to Phaistus, a potter.

  His shop is near the shrine of Hermes the Trader,

  inside the city wall. I come on my master’s behalf.

  He’s a freeman, an honest man and a good potter.

  His protector, Markos, is dead.

  He needs a new protector.”

  Arkadios’s eyes were deep-set,

  not wide, like Melisto’s;

  sharp but not cruel. He wanted to be off. “No doubt.

  But I don’t know the man.

  If your master wants a favor, he should come himself.

  Tell him that.”

  He started toward the gate.

  “He wouldn’t dare.

  He doesn’t know I’m here.

  He wasn’t the one who sent me. Melisto told me to come.”

  He stopped. His body stiffened.

  “My daughter Melisto is dead.

  If someone told you to use her name,

  that was a mistake. Take yourself off.

  You’ll get nothing from me.”

  I started to go;

  he was used to being obeyed;

  I was used to following orders.

  Then I planted my feet.

  “I know your daughter’s dead,

  but she spoke to me. You won’t believe me,

  but I saw her shade. She told me to come to you.

  She wanted me to show you this.” I unknotted my cloak:

  against the rough wool, the gleam of gold,

  the twelve palmettes,

  the riddling smile of the amber sphinx.

  I held the necklace out to him.

  I watched his face.

  Astonishment.

  Fear.

  Suspicion.

  Rage.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “From a meadow near Brauron.

  Melisto took me there and showed me where she left it.

  It’s proof. Her mother told her to give it to Artemis,

  but she lost it on the journey.

  Now it’s found. She bade me bring it back to you.

  It’s proof that I saw her,

  proof that she spoke to me.”

  Three strides.

  He stood over me, blotting out the morning sun.

  He snatched the necklace. It was in his hands,

  and so was my fate:

  he could have seized me then and there.

  There was time to imagine myself in a pit

  close to the cell where Sokrates died.

  I saw myself lashed to a plank, begging for water.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “I told you. From Brauron. Your daughter, Melisto —

  she wants you to give it to Artemis.

  She said you would help me, for her sake.

  I know you don’t believe me, but I saw her.

  She has freckles,

  and one of her bottom teeth is crooked —

  so it overlaps the tooth beside it;

  when she was puzzled —

  she used to stick out her bottom jaw

  and chew her upper lip.

  She has two cowlicks on the back of her head,

  so her hair always looks mussed.

  I saw her. I saw her.”

  “You saw her when she was alive.

  Or someone told you what she was like.”

  “No. No one told me.

  Don’t you believe in ghosts?”

  He did. Everyone does.

  But no one expects to see one, or wants to.

  He was too swarthy to turn pale,

  but there was a gray cast to his face,

  as if his blood had turned to lead.

  “My daughter’s dead and buried.

  There’s no reason why she should appear to you.

  She was buried with honor. My wife tends her grave.

  Everything has been done — ”

  I saw the pain in his face.

  He’d believed his daughter was at peace,

  not one of the restless dead.

  I hadn’t foreseen that. I hadn’t thought.

  I’d been rash —

  “You’re a liar and a thief.”

  I felt my face get red,

  but I steadied myself.

  Be your own master, Rhaskos!

  “If I were a thief, would I come to you? No.

  If I were a thief, I’d sell the gold in the marketplace,

  piece by piece.

  Instead I’ve brought it back to you. It’s yours.”

  He turned the sphinx head in his palm,

  stroking the carved face.

  I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

  I pressed him. “I’m telling you the truth.

  What I’m asking won’t cost you any money.

  My master needs a protector. It was Melisto’s will

  that I should be set free. It was her idea.

  Tell Phaistus that you’ll serve as his protector

  if he sets me free.

  It doesn’t cost anything, being a protector.

  All Phaistus needs is the shelter of your name.

  I’ll work for him, but as a servant, or a son —

  He’ll teach me how to make beautiful things.”

  I had thought to assume the pose of a suppliant —

  to kneel before him and clasp his knees —

  but my knees had turned to water,

  and my words rushed fast, and faltered.

  I could see the rancor in his eyes,

  and the confusion:

  my freedom? Phaistus?

  none of that had any meaning for him.

  All he cared about was Melisto,

  and her death was an unclean wound.

  “Even if my daughter haunts this earth,

  why would she appear to you, a stranger?”

  I took a deep breath.

  “We were linked together by the gods.”

  He snorted with disbelief;

  His eyes raked me from head to foot;

  they lingered on my arms. His skin darkened,

  the blood rushing to his head.

  “I know who you are!

  There was a Thracian woman who used to work here —

  a runaway! She told you about my daughter!

  She was tattooed, the same way you are! You’re her son!”

  I stood confounded. I’d never thought —

  neither had Melisto

  — he’d see the resemblance to my mother.


  “I’m her son. But I haven’t seen her for years.”

  “Do you expect me to believe that?

  I don’t know what kind of swindle you have in mind,

  but I remember her —

  Hardworking and silent, like a decent woman —

  but what slave was ever loyal to her master?

  She slunk away under cover of night

  after my child was buried. She stole from me.

  The household was in grief, and she chose that time to run,

  the shameless bitch!”

  At that word bitch my blood boiled;

  a red mist rose before my eyes.

  I lifted my head, like a free man,

  and stepped forward. “My mother was no bitch!

  She was kidnapped when she was a girl,

  dishonored, and sold into slavery.

  If you were a slave, and saw your chance to be free,

  wouldn’t you take it? You tell me she stole —

  What about what was stolen from her?

  She was robbed of her freedom and her son!”

  His fists were clenched. So were mine.

  I knew he wanted to hit me. I wouldn’t step back.

  I scowled at him to show I wasn’t scared.

  “My mother was wellborn.

  The scars on my arms are the marks of our clan.

  She made them with a knife.

  I think she cut me

  so she would know me,

  if she ever saw me again.

  It never happened. I lost her. You bought her.

  She was your slave, and Melisto’s nurse.

  She prepared your daughter’s body for the grave.

  Your wife was afraid to do it.”

  He was the one who stepped back;

  the color of his

  skin was ghastly.

  “No one knows that.

  Only the members of this household.

  Your mother must have told you.”

  “No! Melisto told me!

  She loved my mother,

  but not her own.

  She told me everything —

  how my mother took care of her

  the time she was knocked down and broke her arm —

  She loved my mother, and she loved you —

  but not your wife. If it weren’t for my mother — ”

  “Get out, or I’ll have you whipped.”

  I’d said too much. Gambled too much,

  told too many truths. Lost my temper. Lost.

  I was at the gate, and I turned.

  He stood like a statue, not weeping.

  I know what it is not to cry.

  “She had ἀρετή, your daughter.

  She was brave, and she loved freedom.

  She was happy at Brauron. The night she died,

  she set a bear cub free.

  That’s what she loved: the bear cub,

  my mother, freedom,

  and you. She told me about you.

  “The night she was born, you had a headache;

  your wife shrieked with pain because the child wouldn’t come.

  You felt as if your head would split in two —

  like Zeus, when his skull was hewn in half

  and Athena sprang forth.

  Then Melisto was born, and you held her by the window —

  it was a moonlit night.

  And your pain went away. You remembered the story of Zeus,

  and you said to yourself,

  This child will be my Athena.

  That’s how you loved her.

  That’s what she told me.

  It was her favorite story,

  a secret between you two.”

  He raised his head and I met his eyes.

  We remembered Melisto.

  He unclenched his fist

  and stared at the sphinx in his hand.

  “Come back!”

  EXHIBIT 17

  Fragment of marble with manumission inscription, circa 400 BCE.

  Stone-carved manumission inscriptions, detailing the terms under which an enslaved person was set free, are abundant in Delphi and Thessaly, but rare in Athens. This does not mean that enslaved people in Athens were never set free, only that physical evidence is lacking. It may be that most Athenian slaves were freed orally, through public announcements at the theatre. The terms of the freedom contract would have been widely known, as the Theatre of Dionysus can seat an audience of seventeen thousand people.

  Inscriptions may also have been painted or carved on wooden boards, which have not survived. This unique example of an Athenian inscription was found on a piece of stone (perhaps a stele) that was used to construct an early Christian church.

  EXHIBIT 18

  Red-figure pyxis (type A), circa 400–375 BCE; attributed to the Horse Painter. Height with lid: 17.2 cm (6¾ inches)

  Art historians are generally agreed that this pyxis is the earliest known work of the anonymous artist known as the Horse Painter. The liveliness of the figures, the sharply incised lines, and the dramatic vigor of the scene are typical of this artist, who is best known for his paintings of horses. If this pyxis is indeed his, it is the only surviving example of his work that does not include a horse.

  The subject matter of the pyxis poses a riddle. It is highly unusual to see a picture of a boy and girl walking together on a Greek vase. Athenian boys and girls occupied separate spheres and had very little contact with each other. Moreover, the girl child is winged and wears a short chiton. The winged goddess of dawn, Eos, is often figured on Greek vases, but she is drawn as an adult and robed in a long tunic. Scholars have argued at length as to whether the winged girl is Eos, a Nike, a daimon, a harpy, or even a ghost.

  The bear is also surprising. Bears are uncommon in Greek art and are seldom portrayed with accuracy. This bear is admirably lifelike: the size, stance, and anatomy suggest that the Horse Painter may have actually seen a living bear. Because of the circular nature of the pyxis, it is not clear whether the children are tracking the bear, or the bear is stalking the children.

  When I first began researching this novel, I was shocked by the hardships of Greek life, by the oppression of women and enslaved people. Greek genius has inspired much of Western culture. Why couldn’t those brilliant philosophers and playwrights, sculptors and scientists, have created a more humane society?

  Many characters in Amber and Clay voice opinions that are offensive from a twenty-first-century point of view. I let these characters have their say, not because I share their opinions, but because their beliefs and actions are an important part of the story.

  GREEK WORDS

  I tried not to use too many Greek words in this book, because it’s irksome to have to look things up. However, there were a few Greek words that I couldn’t manage without.

  AGORA: The Agora was a large public space in the city. Most of the time I refer to it simply as “the market” or “the marketplace,” but the Agora also included government buildings, temples, and shrines.

  AKROPOLIS: The akropolis was the high place in a city, frequently protected by a wall. Often when people talk about the akropolis, they’re referring to the Akropolis in Athens, where the Parthenon was built. However, most Greek cities had an akropolis, a high and fortified place that could be defended against enemies.

  ANDRON: This was the space where the males of the household entertained their guests. It was the best-decorated room in the house and located on the ground floor. Often the walls were lined with couches for banquets. Greek males banqueted half lying down, leaning on one elbow.

  ἀρετή: This word is also written arete, and is pronounced ah-reh-TEE (Greek) or AH-reh-teh (Greek leaning toward English). It is translated as excellence, virtue, or goodness. Sokrates was very interested in trying to define what ἀρετή was. In our modern Judeo-Christian world, we tend to think of goodness as being nice: kind or merciful to others. For the Greeks, being nice was less central. The idea of human ἀρετή
encompassed courage, justice, truthfulness, and self-control.

  HIMATION: A himation is an outer garment, often translated as “cloak.” I sometimes refer to himations as cloaks in this story. However, a cloak is often circular or semicircular, hanging from the shoulders. A himation is a rectangular piece of cloth and much longer. It was draped or wrapped around the body in a number of different ways. Greek women sometimes wore himations so that their bodies were completely hidden and their faces were veiled.

  I used Greek spellings in this book, because it’s a Greek book. In many cases, the Latin spellings — such as Socrates and Achilles — are more familiar. However, I wanted readers to get as close to the Greek as they could, and the Greek Akhilleus (Ak-hill-ee-us) is easier to decode than Achilles — which might have only two syllables, and begins with a sneeze!

  GREEK VERSE

  I never intended to write Amber and Clay in verse. My first drafts were all in prose, and they were bleak and stiff. One day, in an effort to shake the cobwebs from my brain, I tried writing a piece in blank verse. It was Hermes’s first speech, and it came out fluently — neither bleak nor stiff.

  I next tried using verse to tell Rhaskos’s story. Verse, even blank verse, can do things that prose can’t, and the narrative gained momentum and vitality. At that time, I was steeping myself in Greek literature. I found myself intrigued by a technique used in Greek plays called strophe-antistrophe. I decided to use the English words turn-counterturn for this technique.

  Strophe means “turn,” and Greek plays featured a chorus of dancers and singers who circled the stage, singing their point of view about what was taking place. This turn, or strophe, was followed by the counterturn, or antistrophe — a repeat of the same tune with the chorus circling in the opposite direction, often voicing a contrasting opinion. There might also be an epode, which I renamed stance. As the chorus sang the epode, they stood still in the middle of the stage.

  Because the strophe and antistrophe were sung to the same tune, the verses had to mirror each other. When I wrote my turn-counterturn pieces, I tried to achieve this effect with syllabics: for example, if character number one speaks twelve syllables in line 14, line 14 for character number two will also be twelve syllables long. The syllabic lines made the turn-counterturn pieces finicky to write, but also fascinating. Because the lines mirrored each other, the two characters tend to reach dramatic peaks at the same time.

  Homer’s two great epics, The Iliad and The Odyssey, were written in dactylic hexameter. The American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was inspired by Homer when he wrote his long poem Evangeline. His dactylic hexameter sounds like this: