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

like mine. They’re beautiful,

patterned

like the veins in a leaf. I’ve never seen scars like that.

She showed me a horse, in my dream —

a toy horse. I’ve been practicing . . .”

but I couldn’t keep my mind on all that.

“Are you sure about what you said?

That my tattoos are a sign of noble blood?

You said you’d fought with the Thracians —

but they’re barbarians. They killed those boys at Mycalessus —

they killed everyone, even little boys,

even women and farm animals.

I don’t want to be like that.”

He looked past me so long, I wondered if

his daimon had come back,

but then he spoke.

“Rhaskos, I’ve been to war.

I’ve watched men fight, and I’ve fought myself.

To be a soldier requires a fierce spirit.

A kind of passion comes to a man during battle.

A man fights, his fierce spirit roused,

panic and fear on all sides —

The best soldiers are like dogs;

the fierce spirit obeys reason

as a dog obeys his master. But sometimes

a man tastes blood and becomes a wolf.

I’ve seen men kill brutally and needlessly,

Greeks as well as Thracians.

Until men learn the love of wisdom — ”

He didn’t finish. Or maybe he did;

I’d stopped listening. Looking back,

I hate to think of all the times

when Sokrates spoke and I didn’t listen.

Somehow I was standing in the river.

I cupped a hand of foaming water

and rubbed the dirt from my scars.

They gleamed under the wetness.

“Rhaskos. Be your own master.”

He’d said that before, the day he made me angry.

This time I wasn’t angry. I looked at him.

I felt the air against my teeth;

I must have been grinning like an idiot.

I was Thracian, but I could be a dog, not a wolf;

my scars were not shameful,

and my soul was mine to master.

2. THE AKROPOLIS

Phaistus was in the courtyard when I went back.

He frowned at me as I passed.

“You take your sweet time.”

I didn’t answer back. I unloaded Phoibe,

brushed the dirt from her coat.

I went into the shed

and took out three figures:

the pig,

an owl,

and my best horse so far.

I held them behind my back.

I stood before Phaistus and waited.

“What is it?”

“I made these,” I said. My voice came out strong.

“I thought we could sell them. We’ve never sold toys,

but other potters do.

They wouldn’t do it if they didn’t make money.

You’re always saying times are hard;

and the best pots, the ones made for banquets,

don’t sell. Not because they’re not good,

but because they cost too much.

I thought, if we had cheap things to sell,

we could make money. I even thought of selling beads.

Black beads, with red designs —

I never saw beads like that, but they’d be handsome.

The mistress could paint them. She’s good at fine work.

And I could make toys.

When times are hard, men don’t buy gold or silver,

but they might buy clay beads for their wives . . .

or those women who bare their breasts in the Agora,

they’ve got money. Some of them have children.

Even when times are hard, people buy trinkets,

if the trinkets are cheap enough:

trinkets for women, and toys for children.”

I held out the toys. “I made these.

I know I’m no good at the wheel —

but look at these.”

He took them.

The pig made him smile.

He said under his breath,

“We could make a mold from this . . .”

I almost said, What’s a mold?

That’s how ignorant I was.

I didn’t know what a mold was.

But then he looked at the horse

and frowned. “Pyrrhos —

the neck, the shape of the head —

the horse is good. But it won’t survive the kiln.

It’s too delicate. The ears will break off.

The body’s too thick. There’s moisture and air trapped inside.

It’ll burst. Or crack.

All the same, the modeling’s good —

you must have practiced.

And you’re thinking. You’re thinking about the business.”

He spoke those words as if they were praise.

I made up my mind to defend myself.

“Before, what you said —

I wasn’t wasting time.

I saw Sokrates in the middle of the road;

he was in a trance, and I stopped.

I thought he might be struck down, or dying. He’s my friend.

We talked, but I worked the whole time.”

He was back to looking at the pig.

He said, under his breath,

“He needs friends.”

I was curious about why Sokrates,

the wisest man in Athens, should need friends.

But we were talking, Phaistus and me,

and so far, he wasn’t angry.

“I’ve heard that’s how he acts when his daimon is with him.

Some god talks to him, I don’t know which one.

Half of Athens knows about it. Some people think he’s lying,

but he’s an honest man.

Once Athens was proud of him.”

He was still studying my figures,

stroking them with his thumbs:

“These are good. It’s not true, what you said,

that you can’t throw a pot on the wheel.

The wheel’s difficult. You haven’t caught on to it yet.

I haven’t given you time.

. . . The way you’ve shaped this head,

I’ve never seen a nobler head on a toy horse.

It reminds me of the horses on the Parthenon,

the sun god’s horse . . .”

“I’ve never seen the Parthenon.”

He looked up then. He’d told me

again and again

not to speak unless I was questioned,

but his look was a question: his eyes narrowed.

“I’ve never been up the Akropolis.

The guards would see my hair;

they’d know I wasn’t Greek;

they’d guess I was a slave.

They wouldn’t let me in.”

He spoke to the sky. “Mighty Hephaistos.”

He shuffled the toys against his chest

and stabbed one finger at me. “Stay here.”

Into the house he strode, shouting for Zosima.

He came back in an instant, empty-handed,

Zosima flip-flapping behind him,

Kranaos hobbling after her. “Look after the shop.

I’m taking the boy up the hill. He’s never seen the temples.

By the deathless gods, he’s never seen anything!”

He struck out a hand like an oar,

beckoning, drawing me along in his wake,

and I followed him: through the streets

taking the shortest path upward.

“You have to see this, Pyrrhos.

You like horses; I’ll show you a bronze horse —

gigantic, with life-sized men crawling out of his belly —

I’ll show you a statue of Hermes, carved by your friend Sokrates —

his father was a stonemason.

I’ll show you statues and pictures and pulleys and cranes!

I’ll show you the gods, boy!

It’s a strange thing; I’ve often wondered:

the gods made men, but few of us worth looking