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

I did:

a wise part of me

from before I was born.

I was as good as other men, slave or not,

because of my soul.

By now, Menon was bored with the question: What is ἀρετή?

He wanted to skip ahead

and talk about how virtue could be taught.

Sokrates wouldn’t let him. He still wanted to know what it was.

They asked Anytus

and Anytus answered sullenly.

I thought he didn’t like Sokrates —

later I learned I was right.

Sokrates said if there ever were a man

who had ἀρετή himself,

and could teach it to others,

he would be like a living man among ghosts.

That’s not the end of the story.

When we left the gymnasion, I followed Menon.

Athens is crowded

and foot traffic is slow.

There was a narrow passage —

a cluster of men, talking;

we were caught behind them.

I overheard:

“For once, the slave came off better than his master.

He was honest about what he didn’t know.”

“Menon’s not the first to make a fool of himself

in front of Sokrates. And he won’t be the last.”

I stood behind Menon

and watched his neck turn red.

I heard one man scoff: “Thessaly,”

as if Thessaly were a pigsty. The others laughed.

I understood: we were foreigners in Athens.

And Menon had come with his hand out, asking for troops.

He was overconfident,

and they didn’t like him.

When I led Menon home from the banquet that night,

there was no moon, and the streets were a maze;

Menon was reeling, unsteady on his feet.

We came to a blind alley —

I’d counted the streets, but I made a mistake.

Menon asked me what I meant

by leading him all over town

like a bull in a labyrinth. Did I take him for a fool?

I said no and he seized my arm

— I thought he’d jerk it out of the socket —

He slapped my face

and broke my nose. Again.

I screamed. I heard a door open —

and then shut: Only a drunkard, beating his slave,

nothing to worry about.

He hurled me to the ground and kicked me.

I tried to get up. I know I fought back,

but at the end

I curled up in a ball

and gave Menon what he wanted;

I begged him to stop.

He said he’d sell me

the very next day.

We were enemies, Menon and me.

He’d finally caught on.

The next morning, he took me to the slave market

and sold me for ninety-three drachmas.

I pleaded with him. It wasn’t parting from him that I minded;

it was my whole world.

Thessaly, Georgios,

the horses. For the last time

I twisted my face

to look like Lykos.

I shamed myself

trying to find the man

who once loved his brother.

But he never looked back. Not once.

2. THE SLAVE MARKET

No day was ever so long.

I was thirsty. My face felt puffy,

and three of my teeth were loose.

If anyone had offered me food

— nobody did —

I couldn’t have kept it down.

For sale in the Agora:

spices, weapons, wool,

cuttlefish and pastries,

tools and wine and ribbons and toys

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