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

Like a stream that zigzags

and dodges the rocks

I fled through the town. I didn’t know where I was going,

but I was as swift as the god of thieves.

Away. That’s where I went

and up. A spasm in my side —

and I slowed

— to catch my breath —

I’d come to that grove of trees

where I once saw Sokrates dancing.

Green blurred around me. I dropped on the grass,

panting,

my shoulder throbbing,

an oozing scrape on one cheek.

I wished he were there: Sokrates.

I stayed there

fuming. Kranaos: that old man,

that dried-up, rotten-tooth, vile old man.

I wished I’d hit him back.

“There you are.” Phaistus —

breathing hard.

“That red hair makes you easy to track.

So now you’re a runaway.

I should beat you black and blue.”

“I’m not a runaway! Kranaos went after me!

Maybe I was the one who broke the pots

and knocked over the slip —

but it wasn’t my fault! Kranaos, he schemes against me!

There was this scorpion — ”

I bit back my words, because what I’d almost said

wasn’t true. Kranaos never threw the scorpion at me.

I threw it at him.

I wanted to say Kranaos started it,

except it wasn’t true.

“Stand up.”

I stood so he could beat me.

Between my teeth, I muttered,

“Go ahead. I don’t care!”

He circled me, taking stock of my wounds.

“You’ll mend. A few scrapes and bruises, that’s all.

He’s an old man. I’m surprised he could hit so hard.”

“He used his stick.”

Phaistus lowered himself to the grass.

He wasn’t going to beat me after all.

He set his feet side by side,

knees bent,

arms resting on them.

“Kranaos is old, and his hands are shaky.

He can’t paint anymore.

He was never as skilled as I am —

or as skilled as you’ll be, one day.

He’s jealous of you, Pyrrhos.”

“He had no right to hit me!

He’s not my master!”

“You show him no respect.

When he shows you how to load the kiln,

you roll your eyes.

He’s an old man. You should remember that.

If I, who am his master,

pay homage to his skill,

who are you?”

I started to speak. He wouldn’t let me.

“I’ve been wanting to ask you that for some time, Pyrrhos.

Who do you think you are?

I’ve treated you well.

I teach you, and I’m patient.

You have enough to eat, and my wife treats you like a son,

but there’s no gratitude in you.

No loyalty. Kindness is wasted on you.

Every time I send you to dig clay,

you linger a little longer

and come back a little later.

You sulk. You don’t speak,

and your silence is pregnant

with disrespect.

That day you came home with Sokrates,

you seemed like a different boy.

I thought, Maybe Zosima’s right.

Maybe there’s something in him.

If there is, you keep it hidden.

It’s been six months since I bought you.

You’re quick to learn, I give you that, but for the rest —

Every day you draw a little better,

but every day you disappoint me.”

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