Amber and Clay by Laura Schlitz (phonics books txt) 📕

him. I was Menon’s boy,

and Menon was like a god to me,

beautiful.

If sometimes he was cruel,

sometimes he wasn’t. And he talked to me.

saw me. Noticed me.

Taught me things, and told me stories.

If sometimes he was cruel,

so are the gods.

And the man who questions the gods does not live long.

Don’t listen to that boy!

The man who questions the gods does not live long —

What does he know? Everyone questions the gods!

Not a day goes by

without some mortal shaking his fist

and bawling to the sky:

Why is there suffering in the world?

Why is there death?

and — my personal favorite —

Why me?

Yes, there’s pain in the world, but don’t blame the gods —

we’re pussycats!

. . . Maybe not Hera.

Being married to Zeus is hard on the heart.

My uncle Poseidon

is moody: too much salt,

those dreary barnacles,

and all those storms at sea. Hades lives in hell,

so he’s bound to be dismal.

And Ares is worse.

. . . But then there’s laughter-loving Aphrodite!

with her sea-splashed legs

and shapely buttocks —

and look at me!

The kindly god, the bringer of good fortune,

guiding you through this story!

— That reminds me: Remember I told you

about the war?

Athens versus Sparta?

(It wasn’t just Athens versus Sparta, actually:

both sides had allies,

but the allies, like Thessaly,

kept changing sides.

I’m not going to confuse you with that.)

The point is, after twenty-seven years,

the war’s over. Let’s talk about who won:

Athens was beloved by my sister Athena,

the she-dragon, the victory giver,

goddess of wisdom, war, and craft.

She’s a perfectionist, my sister;

she cherished her pet city

and gave it genius. The Athenians are good at

architecture,

sculpture,

philosophy,

democracy,

vase painting,

theatre,

history,

and law.

The Spartans are good at war. Guess who won?

Exactly. It took a long time,

but the Spartans had the backing

of bloodthirsty Ares, father of tears.

(Plus cash from the Persians.)

The Spartans bled Athens

of money, men, and ships.

. . . Oh, those ships,

those naval battles!

The rowers

crammed below decks,

tier upon tier

sweating, doubled over,

working as one

to ram the hulls of the enemy ships,

the splintering wood, and the slaughter.

The ocean seething with blood:

O, the wine-dark sea!

I’m getting away from my point. But those naval battles

were tremendous,

spectacular. The land battles?

Even gorier. The Spartans excelled on land.

They’re not stupid, the Spartans:

Good soldiers, and good dancers.

Not all of their poetry’s bad.

— I’ve wandered off topic again. The next time I go off like that,

just stop me.

Here’s my point:

when Athena saw Athens was losing,

she left: cast off, jumped ship.

Who can blame her?

Who wants to captain the losing team?

Once she was gone,

man-slaughtering Ares

ran amok. His sons

Panic and Fear

circled like vultures

and Athens surrendered. The great Greek experiment,

democracy,

whereby men cast votes

and rule themselves —

gone. Now Thirty Tyrants,

friends of the Spartans,

rule over the city.

Athens the valorous, Athens the free,

is now the home of torture and terror,

and trumped-up charges. Hundreds of citizens

arrested,

questioned,

put to death.

Hundreds more killed in secret.

And Melisto? What does she make of her city in ruins?

What does the child of Arkadios know?

Nothing. She’s stuck in the weaving room.

Wool is the business of women.

War is the business of men.

Whether there are Spartans at the gate

or Athenians killing Athenians,

the wool must be washed and picked

and carded and spun;

the web on the loom

must be strung.

Melisto strums her loom,

her arms above her head

aching —

she counts the patterns under her breath

and beats the weft threads upward.

When the city was besieged, she did not hunger.

Now murder’s afoot, and she doesn’t know.

Except, of course, that she does know.

When something’s deeply wrong, children know.

As fog creeps into a shuttered room,

so does the poison of terror. Melisto smells it.

No one tells her what it is.

Melisto has nightmares. Sometimes she dreams

of the Spartans, her old enemies,

killing her father.

More often she dreams of the weaving room

where the yellow walls are shrinking —

there’s the smell of wool,

and women’s sweat,

and her mother’s voice

sharp with dislike.

Every day, all day,

they spend together.

They are enemies still.

Melisto’s nightmares

come and go. Far worse

are the nights

when she can’t sleep. She lies awake

and frets about dying. Melisto knows what death is.

She’s seen animals sacrificed.

Now she breathes in poison

and imagines death.

The horror of it,

having to be still,

forever

having to lie in the dark

with the damp earth pressing her down

unable to scream.

In her room at night,

she clenches her teeth

and jerks her legs,

kicking away death.

EXHIBIT 7

Fragment of red-figure hydria (water jar) bearing the inscription POLYGNOTOS EGRAPSEN (“Polygnotos painted it”).

Polygnotos was among the greatest of Greek vase painters and most active in Athens between the years 450 and 420 BCE. He seems to have preferred working on large vessels, such as water jars. His paintings are large in scale: the figures are formal, rhythmic, and dynamic.

Only a few pieces of this water jar survive. The artist’s signature is on one of the larger fragments. Two other fragments show the legs of horses and warriors, suggesting that the original painting was a battle scene.

Melisto stood at the foot of the stairs, listening. It was not yet dawn, and the house was dark. She had been awakened by the clink of water jars in the storeroom. Until recently, she had been in the habit of going with Thratta to the fountain house. A month ago, her mother had forbidden it.

Melisto missed the daily outing. Before daybreak, the fountain house was crowded with women: young and old, rich and poor, slave and free. Melisto eavesdropped as they filled their jars and chattered together. She liked the noise of the splashing water and marveled at the lions’ heads on the stone walls: how did the water get into the lions’ mouths, and what made it gush out? She pestered Thratta with questions, but Thratta said that plumbing was the work of men and gods, beyond the understanding of women.

Now Melisto crept to the silent kitchen, brushing the walls with her fingers. Forbidden or not, she would shadow Thratta and visit the fountain house. She swung around the door frame and groped for the three-handled shape of a water jar. Snatching one up, she headed for the courtyard. She shoved open the gate and took to her heels.

When she stopped, she was panting, but her lips stretched in a grin of triumph. She was free, all